He had directed Hedges to check the records in the city engineer's office at City Hall. "Look for any abandoned sewer line that might be near the Sweeney Avenue building."

"Bingo," Hedges had said, entering Ness' small office in the Standard Building without knocking. He had blue-prints in his arms; he spread them out on Ness' battered rolltop desk, on top of the other papers there. "Aban-doned sewer-brick construction, with an interior diameter of five feet. Runs right by the place."

Ness looked over the blueprints. "The same sewer runs past Molaska Products, I see."

"I noticed that too," Hedges said and grinned. "That's Mo Horvitz's molasses company."

"It sure as hell is," Ness said, sitting up. "And we know what they're up to, don't we. They're pumping molasses through the old sewer line from their storage tanks to the basement of the Sweeney Avenue building."

"Agreed. But how the hell are they getting the alcohol out?"

Ness reexamined the blueprints. "I don't know. Is there a gas station in the area?"

"It don't show on there," Hedges said, waving at the blueprints, "but yeah, there's a couple. You think they're pumping the booze out of the basement through these old sewer pipes, to a gas station?"

Ness nodded. "Old Chicago trick. Big tank truck comes into the station, supposedly to fill the station's storage tanks. Only the tank trucks come in empty… and go out full."

"But not of gasoline."

"Not hardly," Ness said.

Now they were nearing the padlocked double front doors of the brick warehouse, the truck in second gear. The burly but sleepy guard bundled in an overcoat and sitting on a barrel reading the Police Gazette, suddenly sprang to, his eyes round as poker chips, and yelled, "Hey!", and headed for the hills.

Ness braced himself on the dashboard as the wooden doors grew larger before him, and then with a splintering crunch the steel prow and the truck behind it flattened the doors and rolled right over them, into the big, open-and very empty-warehouse.