Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime; Short stories
Description: Norbert Davis (1909-1949) was a prolific pulp writer with several continuing series, of which the Doan and Carstairs stories are the best known. However his unqiue blend of hard boiled crime and humour didn't quite catch on. This volume, preared for MobileRead Forums, contains 7 stories, all from Internet Archive, including one of the only two Doan and Carstairs short stories, "lost" for many years: "Cry Murder". Other series characters represented are Max Latin, and Bail-Bond Dodd. 1: Watch Me Kill You (Max Latin) 2: Too Many Have Died 3: Take It From Me (Dodd) 4: Charity Begins At Homicide (

WATCH ME KILL YOU
and other stories

Norbert Davis

2020

A MobileReads Original Collection

Contents

1: Watch Me Kill You

2: Too Many Have Died

3: Take It From Me

4: Charity Begins At Homicide

5: Come Up And Kill Me Some Time

6: Death Sings A Torch Song

7: Cry Murder (Doan and Carstairs)

___________________

1: Watch Me Kill You

Dime Detective July 1941

1: Latin in Art

GUITERREZ came out of the kitchen in a cloud of steam and slapped the heavy metal swing door violently shut behind him. He was a tall man with a dark, bitterly disillusioned face. He was wearing a white jacket and a white apron, and he had a chef’s hat crushed down over his right ear. There was a towel wrapped around his neck, and he wiped his forehead with its frayed end, glaring at Latin.

The man in the overcoat fired without the slightest warning.

“What was the matter with it?” he demanded.

Latin was sitting in the last one of the row of narrow high-backed booths.

“Matter with what?” he asked.

“My spaghetti à la creme à la Guiterrez. ”

“Nothing that I know of,” said Latin.

“Then what did you send half of it back for? I suppose it ain’t good enough for you? I suppose they feed you better in the county jail, cell three, north tier?”

“No,” Latin said judiciously. “As a matter of fact, they don’t. You just served me too much. I’m full.”

A waiter wearing a baggy grease-stained coat that was at least three sizes too large for him and an apron that would have served for a circus tent came up and poked Guiterrez in the ribs with his elbow.

“Out of the way, boss.” He was carrying a bottle of brandy and a glass, and he planked them down on the linoleum table-top in front of Latin and went away.

Latin poured himself some brandy. He was a thin man with wide, high shoulders. His features were narrow and carefully expressionless, and his greenish eyes tipped a little, cat-like, at the corners. He had a casual air that was as smooth and polished as an expensive gem.

Guiterrez turned around suddenly and said: “Well, what do you want?”

The pudgy little man who had been trying to edge past him stepped back, startled.

“They— they told me at the door that I’d find Mr. Max Latin in the last booth—”

“That’s him,” said Guiterrez.

The pudgy man ducked his head in an embarrassed nod. “How do you do. Mr. Latin. My name is Bernard Hastings.”

Guiterrez tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you know that Latin is nothing but a crook? Did you know he just today got out of the county jail, cell three, north tier?”

Hastings swallowed. “Why— why, no. I— I thought he was a private inquiry agent.”

“Also a crook,” said Guiterrez. “But probably you are too, and if you want to talk to him sit down in his booth. I don’t allow people to stand in the aisle around here.”

Hastings slid gingerly into the seat opposite Latin.

The waiter in the baggy coat came up and looked over Guiterrez’ shoulder.

“You wanta eat, chum?”

Hastings said: “No, thanks. I don’t—”

“So my food’s not good enough for you?” Guiterrez interrupted.

Hastings was looking scared now. “Oh, no! I mean, it isn’t that. I’ve just eaten and—”

“So I suppose you think you’re gonna sit here and dead-head and take up my table space while you chat with this crook?”

“Why— why, no,” said Hastings quickly. “If I could have a— a drink—”

The waiter produced a glass from under his voluminous apron, reached around Guiterrez and planked it down on the table.

“Drink some of Latin’s brandy,” Guiterrez ordered.

“But— but I don’t like... If I could  have a wine list...” Hastings stopped, staring incredulously at the label on the brandy bottle. “Why! That— that brandy is priceless! You can’t buy it any more! ”

“If you don’t like it, get out,” said  Guiterrez. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“But I do like it! I was just startled at seeing it! It’s the best— the very best—”

“Phooey,” said Guiterrez, and went on up the aisle toward the front of the restaurant.

LATIN poured some of the brandy in Hastings’ glass. Hastings watched him, wide-eyed, and then cleared his throat with a nervous little cough before he spoke.

“Did— did I offend that— ah— gentleman in some manner? I’m sure I had no intention—”

“Guiterrez?” Latin asked. “Oh, he’s always offended. Pay no attention to him. He’s frustrated.”

“Frustrated?” Hastings repeated.

Latin sipped his brandy appreciatively. “Yes. You see, Guiterrez is a very good chef. For twenty years he worked in the topnotch restaurants and hotels, but he didn’t like it. All the time he was saving his money so he could start a small quiet, dignified place of his own where he could serve the absolute best in food cooked just the way he wanted it to a select little group of customers who would appreciate his efforts.”

“Why, that’s very laudable. I can’t see why—”

Latin waved his arm. “Look at this place. ”

It was one long dingy room with dark-stained walls and beams crossing close against the sooty ceiling. High-backed booths were lined along one side and the rest of the floor space was packed with spindly wire-legged tables. It was still early for dinner, but every seat in the place was taken.

The confusion was unbelievable. Crockery clashed and clattered, a juke box howled boogie-woogie from the corner, and the cash register clanged with maddening irregularity. Cigarette smoke floated in eye-smarting layers, and Guiterrez was denouncing a table-full of customers in a bitterly despairing voice while they ignored him and kept right on eating. An incredibly shabby army of waiters dipped and swerved between tables with the breath-taking skill of slack-wire walkers, in the meantime shouting orders, threats, and demands for the rightof-way. Conversational babble throbbed in the thick air like the beat of an immense drum.

Hastings said: “I noticed the atmosphere seemed rather— But certainly Mr. Guiterrez can’t complain about the amount of business—”

“Oh, yes he can. That’s what’s the matter. There’s too much business. Guiterrez insults his customers, gives them terrible service, makes them stand in line outside whenever it's raining, but he still can’t get rid of them. The food he serves is too good. The customers don’t mind putting up with a few discomforts if they are allowed to eat it.”

Hastings shook his head. “It seems very strange. But if he really wanted to get rid of some of his excess customers, he could just stop serving such good food for awhile.”

“He can’t help making it good. He’s an artist.”

“Oh,” said Hastings, nodding as though that explained everything. “An artist. Yes, I see. Artists are indeed incredible people. I can’t understand... But, Mr. Latin, I wanted to talk to you about my wife.”

“Yes,” said Latin. “Five hundred.”

Hastings stared at him. “Eh?”

Latin elaborated: “Yes, I will get evidence that will enable you to divorce her, and it will cost you five hundred dollars unless I have to fake the evidence and then the price is seven-fifty.”

“But— but it isn’t that at all! I mean, I’m very happy. I mean, I don’t want a divorce!”

Latin poured himself more brandy. “Oh. Well then, what do you want?”

HASTINGS took a deep breath and started over again. “Mr. Latin, you were recommended to me by Walker and Crenshaw, my attorneys. They told me that you were very clever and absolutely— ah— unscrupulous. ”

“Right on both counts,” said Latin complacently.

“Yes, I see,” said Hastings in an uncertain tone. “Well, anyway, my wife is Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

Latin put his glass down carefully.

“Who?”

“Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

“The girl with the money bags?”

“My wife is the possessor of an extremely large fortune,” Hastings admitted with dignity.

“Yes, indeed,” Latin agreed. “Fifty million dollars. I thought you said your name was Hastings.”

“I did, and it is. Due to her enormous business interests and to the legal complications in which they result, she thought it best to retain her maiden name after we were married. It is less confusing.”

“Yeah,” Latin said absently. “I heard she had a husband kicking around somewhere. How’d you do it, anyway?”

Hastings’ lips tightened. “I beg your pardon?”

“How’d you hook her? I’ve always wanted a wife with fifty million dollars. How do you go about getting one?”

Hastings’ round face was red with indignation. “Mr. Latin, if you please! My
wife married me because she loved me and I loved her. Her fortune had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I assure you that I am myself by no means a pauper. I have never touched a cent of my wife’s money and never will!”

“Them that has gets,” Latin said gloomily. “All right, what did you want to tell me about your wife?”

“If you’ll let me talk without these constant interruptions. My wife’s father had a brother who, instead of being as honest and energetic and astute as my wife’s father, was nothing but a bum and a loafer all his life. He died years ago of acute alcoholism. He had one son.”

“I’m right with you so far,” Latin said.

“This son’s name is Winston Wentworth Craig. He's an artist. I mean, a real one. He paints pictures.”

“All right,” said Latin.

“My wife collects pictures— modern paintings in particular. She has a most extensive collection— very valuable."

“It would be,” said Latin. “Go on.”

“It seems,” Hastings admitted reluctantly, “that Winston Wentworth Craig is a very good painter. He’s had many exhibits, and his pictures are in all the most famous museums and art galleries and collections. My wife wants some of them in her collection.”

“Why doesn’t she buy some then?”

“Because Winston Wentworth Craig won’t sell her any.”

Latin blinked. “Why won’t he?”

Hastings wiggled on the hard bench.

“Well, you see, Winston Wentworth Craig’s father spent most of his time trying to sponge money oflf my wife’s father. When he managed to get any he dissipated it in riotous living. Winston Wentworth Craig came to my wife several years ago and asked her to finance him while he studied in Paris. She refused to give him any money, and I’m afraid she— ah— laughed rather rudely at his ambition to be an artist.”

“I’m beginning to get the idea,” said Latin.

Hastings made a harassed gesture. “How could she know he was going to turn out to be good ? He has many of his father’s— ah— less desirable characteristics, and she thought naturally that this art study business was just an excuse to get enough money from her to loaf a year or two. But her refusal made him angry, and he’s a very vindictive sort of a person. Now he refuses to sell her any of his pictures.”

“So what?” Latin asked.

HASTINGS leaned forward earnestly. “Don’t you see? My wife, over a space of years, has built up a reputation as an authority on modern paintings and as a sponsor of it. Now this uncouth person, Winston Wentworth Craig, goes around telling everyone who will listen that she is merely a rich ignoramus who knows so little about art that she can’t recognize talent even in her own relations. It’s horribly humiliating. People laugh at her!”

“How too bad,” said Latin.

“Also,” said Hastings, ignoring the comment, “he tells people that she can never acquire any of his work, even with all the money she has, and naturally other collectors— who are envious of her— ridicule her for that reason. It is vital, Mr. Latin— vital— that she acquire some of Winston Wentworth Craig’s pictures!”

“I can see that,” Latin said gravely.

“I want you to get some of those pictures for her.”

“Steal them?” Latin asked in a bland voice.

“No!” Hastings said emphatically. “Of course not! My wife will pay any price he asks. I want you to get him to consent to sell some to her.”

“I hate to do myself out of a job,” Latin said, “but this seems pretty silly to me. All your wife has to do is to buy one of Craig’s pictures from some other collector or dealer or museum. With her money, that shouldn’t be very difficult to accomplish.”

“Please, Mr. Latin!” Hastings snapped. “Do you think my wife is such a fool she didn’t think of that long ago? Craig won’t permit anyone to sell her one of his pictures.”

“After he once sells a picture to someone, the picture belongs to the buyer. The buyer can re-sell it to whom he pleases. Craig couldn’t prevent that.”

“Oh, yes he can!” Hastings said angrily. “You don’t know how maliciously clever he is. He claims that he has a reversionary creative interest in every picture he paints.”

“A what?” Latin asked.

“A reversionary creative interest. There is no such thing. I think he just made it up himself. But he says that the mere thought of one of his pictures being in my wife’s possession would be such a mental torture to him that he couldn’t paint any more and that he would sue her for a million dollars on the grounds that she was robbing him of his talent and means of livelihood.”

“He wouldn’t get very far.”

Hastings tapped the linoleum tabletop. “Far enough, Mr. Latin! Far enough! He couldn’t win any such fantastic suit, of course. But he certainly would file it. He’s just the type. And if he did file it, the newspapers would get hold of it and put it all over the front pages. Can you think of the dreadful humiliation that would mean for my wife? The whole country would laugh at her!”

“Oh,” said Latin.

“So,” Hastings said earnestly, “Winston Wentworth Craig must consent to sell her some of his pictures! Her reputation as an art patron and her peace of mind are at stake! And she must obtain those pictures at once! At once!”

“Why?” Latin asked.

“Because she is having an exhibition of her collection at the Keever Art Gallery in just three days. That exhibition would not be complete without some of Craig’s pictures. All of her enemies will laugh at her if she doesn’t have some of her own cousin’s paintings in her collection. If she doesn’t, they’ll know why. Craig has seen to that.”

“I see,” said Latin.

HASTINGS said impressively: “My wife is willing to pay up to five thousand dollars for each Craig picture you can get him to consent to sell her.”

Latin sat very still. “I thought you said five thousand dollars per picture.”

“I did. They are selling currently for about a thousand dollars apiece.”

“One thousand,” Latin said dreamily. “Five thousand. Mr. Hastings, you’ve made yourself a deal. I’ll get Craig’s consent to sell her some pictures if I have to kill him doing it.”

“Oh, no!” Hastings said, horrified. “Mr. Latin! Please! Nothing like that!”

“Half-kill him, then,” Latin compromised.

Hastings looked very doubtful. “Mr. — ah — Guiterrez said you had just gotten out of jail. He was— ah— joking, no doubt?”

“He never jokes. I did just get out.”

“Oh,” said Hastings uneasily. “And —ah—what were you charged with?”

“Compounding a felony.”

“I’m not familiar with legal terms—”

Latin said: “I was charged with paying some gentlemen to return some jewelry they stole from a client of mine and forgetting to ask the gentlemen what their names were or where the police could find them.”

“Did you— ah— do that?”

“Certainly not,” said Latin. “I merely paid a reward for the return of some jewelry that had been inadvertently lost.”

“Lost,” Hastings repeated vaguely. “Stolen. Reward. Buying back. It doesn’t seem to me there is very much difference ...”

Latin smiled. “Just the difference between sitting here and sitting in the county jail, cell three, north tier, that’s all.”

“Oh,” said Hastings. “Well— please look into this matter at once, Mr. Latin. Time is of the very essence. I can’t overemphasize the importance—”

“I’ll get right on my horse.”

“Winston Wentworth Craig lives at 345 B, Greene Street. You’d best go there now. He works at night, and he’s never there in the daytime. I haven’t mentioned it, but he has an— ah— unpleasant disposition. He can be most insulting—”

“So can I.”

“Then I’ll leave you—”

“Not without paying for that brandy,
you won’t,” said Guiterrez, suddenly appearing beside the booth. “And I know how much you drank, too, because I marked the bottle. It’ll cost you just three bucks.”

“Three dollars!” Hastings exclaimed. “But I only had one very small—”

“So you want an argument, do you?” said Guiterrez. He called to one of the waiters: “Dick, go out in the kitchen and get me my cleaver. The sharp one.”

Hastings swallowed. “Well, on the other hand, rather than make an issue—”

“Three bucks,” said Guiterrez. “Count it out on the table and no back-chat.”

2: Murder for Art’s Sake

GREENE Street had once been a cowpath, and the city fathers had never taken the time or trouble to straighten it out and brush it off and make a modern thoroughfare out of it. Now, as it always had, it wandered in draggling loops between the river and the sullenly massive factories of the industrial section, crossing more conventional streets at any old careless angle, making blocks as weirdly shaped as the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. It was old and lazy and tattered and nobody cared, least of all the people who lived on it.

The cement blocks that made up the narrow sidewalk had risen in some places and sunk in others, and Latin had the impression of climbing up and down a flatly elongated stairway. The dusk hid the soot streaks, and the houses were all the same depressed gray color, squatting close together and silent, down a little from the street level.

Latin found 345 by the process of counting from the corner. It was a thin,
starved-looking building with brilliantly artificial light gleaming through the tall windows on its second floor. There were no lights downstairs, and Latin groped his way down three cement steps and along a narrow brick walk to the front porch.

A cigarette tip made a sudden bright red dot in the black shadow of the front door, and a woman’s hoarsely pleasant voice said: “What do you want, sonny?”

Latin tapped the brim of his hat politely. “Looking for Winston Wentworth Craig.’’

“He doesn’t live here.”

“I’m still looking for him.”

A light switch snapped, and a bulb in the porch ceiling glowed with weary brilliance, revealing the woman who was standing in the doorway. She had brown hair that was cropped carelessly short and tousled like a boy’s. There were blue shadows under her eyes, and her lips were twisted into a cynical half-smile. Her cigarette was in a long ivory holder, and her long fingernails were stained a dark blood-red. She was wearing a cotton hostess coat and open-toed sandals. She regarded Latin with a detached, disinterested air.

“Shall I advance three paces and give the password?” he asked.

“Try it, and I’ll stick this cigarette right in your eye.”

“Which eye?” Latin asked curiously.

“The left one, I think.”

“That’s O.K., then. The left one’s my glass eye.”

Latin came up the steps and on the porch. The woman was lounging against the edge of the door, and she didn’t move, but she did smile a little.

“Hello,” said Latin.

She nodded her cropped head. “Hello. What’s your name?”

“Max Latin.”

“Latin,” she repeated thoughtfully. “There was a Latin in the papers the other day—also in jail.”

“I’m that one.”

“I thought so. Private detective on the shady side, eh?”

“Not shady,” Latin denied. “Black as night. Got any minor crimes you’d like committed? I’m cutting prices these days because I owe my lawyer some money.”

“I’ll think it over. Why do you want to see Craig?”

“Who’s asking?”

THE woman smiled more broadly.

“Nan Carter. You can call me Nan if you want to be formal. The reason I’m curious is that I’m holding off process servers and bill collectors and such vermin until I can pry some back rent out of my distinguished tenant, Mr. Winston Wentworth Craig.”

“You wrong me,” Latin told her. “I’m an earnest student of the arts, and I am here to purchase paintings in large quantities.”

“Who sent you?”

“Remind me to tell you all about it sometime when I’m not busy.”

Nan Carter blew a long plume of smoke at him. “In other words, Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

“That would be about it.”

Nan Carter said: “Craig won’t sell her any of his pictures nor let her buy any. Don’t you know the setup? He’s a genius, or so he claims. Temperamental and like that. He wouldn’t touch any of her money. He scorns it. He’d rather borrow from all his friends and forget to pay them back or let me put his rent on the cuff for six months straight.”

“I’ll change his mind for him.”

“How?” she asked.

“I've got a wonderfully persuasive personality and also a pretty fair left hook.”

Nan Carter watched him thoughtfully. “Rough stuff, huh? I sort of figured you for that sort of a gent.”

“If people get between me and a nice juicy fee, is it my fault if they get trampled in the rush?” Latin asked reasonably.

“No,” Nan Carter admitted, “and I think perhaps our dough-heavy friend has finally figured the right way to approach her dear cousin. He’s nasty, but he’s yellow as a daisy. The stairs are right there. There’s no lock on the studio door. Don’t bother to knock. Just go in and make yourself at home.”

Latin went through the door and along the short length of hall and up the steep, shadowy slant of the narrow stairway. At the top there was another and shorter hall with the black well of back stairs at the far end of it. There was a door midway along the hall, and Latin went to it, turned the knob quietly and pushed it open.

The bright light from inside the studio jumped at him, blinding him momentarily, and then he caught the whole scene in one flashing split-second and stepped quietly into the studio and pushed the door shut behind him.

The partitions had been knocked out and the whole upper story of the house was one enormous room with its ceiling the high, peaked slant of the roof. There was an easel against the far wall with powerful daylight floor lamps set in front of it, their reflectors focused so there would be no slightest shadow on the canvas it held.

The man was lying in front of the easel, crumpled up there, with his blue painter’s smock making a bright pile of color against the dull black of the floor. His face was turned toward Latin, and his eyes were wide and bulging and glassy. There was no blood, but the man was dead.

LATIN stood against the door apparently relaxed, while he turned his head slowly a little at a time, searching the shadows that clung in the corners of the big room. On the other side of the easel there was an open window, and through it Latin could hear the far-away hum of traffic and see the faint glow of lights from the uptown district.

There was no sound and no movement in the studio. After a moment Latin walked quietly across to the limp form in the blue smock and knelt down beside it. He felt one of the man’s bony wrists, and it was warm in his hand, but there was no faintest pulse.

Latin pursed his lips and began to whistle soundlessly to himself. He started to get up and then stopped, staring at an object under the easel.

It was a woman’s shoe. A dancing pump delicately made of thin strips of crisscrossing red leather with a high, stilt-like heel. Latin took a handkerchief from his pocket and, using it to cover his hand, carefully picked the slipper up.

It was an expensive one, hand-made for a short high-arched foot, and Latin was looking inside it for the maker’s name when he heard the hinge on the door squeak softly.

Latin moved with instant, cat-like coordination. He flipped the slipper out the open window, came up to his feet and pivoted, crouching warily.

“Hold it right there,” the man in the doorway whispered.

Latin stayed rigidly immovable.

The man in the doorway was small and slight, and the overcoat he wore made him seem more so. The overcoat was enormous. It looked as though it had been made for someone three feet taller and two feet wider. It hung in shapeless heavy folds, the skirts brushing the floor. The high collar was turned up and fastened with a strap across the front, hiding everything of the man’s face but a pasty white triangle from his chin to the bottoms of the huge dark-lensed glasses he wore. He had a black flopbrimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead.

In his right hand he was holding a thick stubby-barreled automatic. He moved it warningly and then reached behind him with his left hand and carefully closed the door, holding the knob so the latch wouldn’t click.

“What did you throw out of the window?”

“You guess,” Latin invited.

The man watched him in silence for a second, the lenses of the glasses like shiny blacked-out portholes. “Move over to your right a little,” he ordered in the same soft whisper.

Latin moved one step sideways and then another. The other man began to move too, following the opposite rim of the invisible circle that separated them. He moved in light, mincing steps, as gracefully as a dancer.

“Stand still now.”

Latin obeyed. The other man had reached the easel. He stood with one foot on either side of the blue-smocked body on the floor. Still watching Latin, he leaned down and began to grope behind the easel with his left hand.

There was a little scraping clatter, and he brought his hand out holding three small, square canvases.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, and he began to travel sideways on his mincing circle toward the door.

Latin suddenly realized what was getting away from him. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, you don’t. I’ve got first call on those pictures. Put them down.”

The man in the overcoat stopped, and his tongue flicked over the thin red of his lips.

“I mean it,” Latin said. “You’re not walking out of here with those pictures.”

THE man in the overcoat fired at him without the slightest warning. Latin flopped flat on his face on the floor, kicked himself over and rolled frantically for the wall. The automatic whacked three times more, and the bullets dug into the floor on both sides of Latin with sinister little snaps.

Latin banged into the wall and sat up, flipping his own stubby .38 out of the waist-band of his trousers. He was just in time to see the studio door close and hear the latch snap with quiet finality.

Latin heaved himself up and charged across the studio. He was blind, fighting mad, and he jerked the door open again heedlessly and jumped out into the hall.

He could see down the front stairs into the empty front hall, and he whirled around and headed for the rear stairs. He had reached the top when the little man in the overcoat materialized out of the shadow against the banister and extended a leg deftly in front of him.

Latin tried to hurdle it and didn’t quite get over. He caught qpe ankle, and he went head-first down mto the blackness of the stair-well. He managed to'half turn while he was still in the air, and his back smashed against the banister with breath-taking, force.

He hit the stairs, sprawled full length, did two complete forward somersaults, and landed at the bottom of the stairway in an awkward heap. For a while he couldn’t get up and he couldn’t breathe, and red-streaked blackness whirled around inside his head like a pinwheel.

From the front hall the automatic whacked sharply again, and Nan Carter screamed. A door slammed shut.

Latin got up and fell down on the stairs. He started to crawl upward, still clutching his revolver. His legs wouldn’t work properly, and he slipped back two steps for every three he climbed. He kept right on going, clawing himself along by main force and clumsiness.

Finally he poked his head above the last step. Looking at him from the same level on the front stairs was the face of Nan Carter. Her cropped hair was even more tousled now, and her blue shadowed eyes were wide.

“My God!” she said hoarsely. “What— what—”

Latin got up the rest of the steps and leaned against the wall for support. He made three attempts and finally managed to gulp air into his lungs.

“Where’d he go?”

“You’re asking me, are you?” Nan Carter said, also drawing a deep breath. “I don’t know, and I don’t care, and I hope he stays there from now on. I heard the shots up here, and I opened my door to take a look. He was right in front of me. He shot once. That was all the hint I needed. I slammed the door and ducked.”

“Did he— have pictures?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Pictures! Are you punch-drunk ? He might have been carrying battleships on both shoulders for all I know. I just saw that gun. What in the devil were you two doing up here?”

“Call the police,” said Latin. “Craig’s dead.”

Nan Carter gasped. “Dead!”

“Yes. Got a telephone here?”

She was still staring incredulously. “Dead? Telephone? Yes. Downstairs in my apartment.”

LATIN felt his way along the hall and went rubbery-legged down the front stairs. There was a neat round bullet hole in the panel of Nan Carter’s apartment door. She opened it, and Latin went into a small cluttered living-room and plopped himself down on the divan with a sigh of relief.

“The telephone is over there,” Nan Carter told him, pointing to it.

“You call,” Latin said. “I’m out of wind. The number is Madison fifty-fifty. Tell them that Craig’s dead and somebody just tried to use me to make it two of a kind.”

She dialed the number while Latin
held his head in his hands, both palms tight against his temples, trying by main force to dispel the fog that seemed to shroud his brain.

“They’re coming,” Nan Carter said, hanging up the receiver.

Latin looked up, wincing when the light from the floor lamp hit his eyes. “This Craig—did he have an agent? Anyone who sold his pictures for him?"

She nodded blankly. “Yes. Name of Haggerty. You need a drink or a doctor or something.”

“Drink,” said Latin.

She opened a wooden-doored corner cabinet and brought out a flat pint bottle that was half-full of cheap whiskey. Holding it in both hands, Latin upended it and took three big swigs. The whiskey was as fast as it was rough. It went down his throat like a powder train and started a raging fire in his stomach, but it took the shroud off his brain instantly.

“Whew!” he said, catching his breath again.

Nan Carter took the bottle away from him and had a drink out of it herself.

Latin said: “Have you got a directory? I want to look up this Haggerty’s number.”

“Two of them are written on the wall, there above the telephone. Craig was always calling Haggerty, trying to get advances. One is his office and the other is his home. I don’t know which is which.”

Latin found the pencil scrawled numbers and deciphered them. He called the first, and he could hear the buzz of the phone ringing at the other end, but there was no answer. He tried the other, and after the second ring a weary feminine voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Can I speak to Mr. Haggerty, please?” Latin asked.

“He isn’t home.”

“Can you tell me where I can get him?”

“Hah!” said the feminine voice. “That I certainly cannot. He’s out drinking somewhere with his ratty artist clients.”

“When he comes in, please tell him that one of his clients—Winston Wentworth Craig—just died, and that he’d better scamper down to Craig’s studio just as fast as he can.”

“I’ll tell him if he ever comes home and he’s not too drunk to understand  when he does.”

A siren began its eery song somewhere close as Latin hung up the receiver.

3: Latin Explains

DETECTIVE Inspector Walters, Homicide, was a tall, gauntly somber man with a face that was long and lined and cynical. He stood now with his arms folded across the hollow of his chest, gloomily watching the medical examiner work on the sprawled body in the blue smock.

The medical examiner stood up at last and nodded at his two assistants. “O. K., boys. Haul it off.”

“Well, what?” Walters asked, as the assistants rolled the body on a stretcher and covered it with a sheet.

“He’s dead,” said the medical examiner, “or did you know? The reason he’s dead is because someone was unkind enough to break his neck for him by giving him a very nifty rabbit-punch with some instrument with a protuberance on it about so square.”

He held his thumb and forefinger about three-quarters of an inch apart to illustrate.

“A hammer?” Walters hazarded.

The medical examiner scratched his head. “No ... I don’t think so. Maybe a very light tack hammer. It was a very sharp blow with something that wasn’t very heavy. The murderer knew just exactly where to hit to snap a spine. I couldn’t have done a neater job myself.”

“How about that?” Walters asked, pointing to a rusty hammer the fingerprint men had left on a chair.

“No. It’s too big and too heavy.”

“Hell,” said Walters, disappointed. “The boys didn’t find anything else around here... How long has he been dead?”

The medical examiner didn’t even bother to reply. He simply looked disgusted.

Walters sighed. “Well— anything else?”

“He was a junkie.”

“Can you tell what brand?”

“Either morphine or heroin, with the odds on morphine. Call me up after the autopsy and I’ll tell you more.”

Walters nodded, and the medical examiner went out after his assistants and their loaded stretcher. Walters stood in front of the easel staring at the picture it held, rocking back and forth gently. The uniformed patrolman on guard at the door lounged lazily against the wall, exploring his teeth with a sharpened match. The studio was silent except for the gentle squeak-squeak of Walters’ shoe soles.

Finally he turned around and said: “How do you feel now?”

Latin was sitting on the edge of the models’ platform holding his head in his hands. “To be frank,” he said, looking up, “not so hot. I’ve got bees buzzing in my belfry.”

Walters turned back to the picture.

“What do you think of this here?” He tilted the pioture so Latin could see it.

“Pretty good,” Latin said.

It was a portrait, almost completed. It was unmistakably a likeness of the man who had been lying dead in front of it, and it was a startlingly good one. It had a vigor and a sweep that was lifelike. The eyes were half-closed, and the mouth was twisted into a cynical little smile.

Walters observed: “He looks like he was amused because somebody popped him, and I wish he could speak up and tell me who it was, because if the bird that did it sneaked up behind Craig while he was painting, then this Craig in the picture was certainly watching him do it. Kind of a funny thing for a detective to think of, isn’t it? I mean, a guy in a picture watching the guy he’s the picture of get the old socko.”

“Very funny,” said Latin sourly.

“A little confusing, ” Walters admitted. He shrugged. “Oh, well. Off to work
we go. Suppose you start talking, Latin. Don’t lie any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“He,” Latin said, pointing at the picture, “is and was Winston Wentworth Craig, and he’s the first cousin of Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

Walters opened his mouth and shut it.

“Oh-oh! The one with the heavy dough?”

“That one.”

WALTERS sighed. “Then it’s up to ” me to walk soft and talk small, I suppose. Why do I always have to get stuck with the hot ones? It seems like they could put me out to pasture or something in my old age. So what were you doing up here?”

Latin said: “Patricia Wentworth Craig hired me to buy some of Winston WentWorth Craig’s pictures— or rather, her husband did.”

Walters looked skeptical. “Come, come. You’ll have to get a little more speedy than that, Latin.”

“Fact,” said Latin. “Winston hated his dear cousin Patricia because Patricia had refused to lend him dough so he could study art, so he studied it anyway and got to be good. Then he refused to sell her any of his pictures and needled her by telling everyone that the reason he wouldn’t was because she was too dumb to appreciate them.”

Walters looked more skeptical. “I’m listening, but not for much longer.”

“Patricia collects modern art, and she’s giving an exhibit of her collection in a couple of days. She had to have some of cousin Winston’s pictures in the exhibit, because if she didn’t everybody would boob her. She hired me to come down here and talk Winston into selling her some.”

“Nuts,” said Walters. “The crunchy kind. Why didn’t she just—”

“Yes, yes,” Latin interrupted. “She couldn’t buy any of Craig’s pictures from anyone else, because he said that would cause him great mental agony and he’d sue her.”

“He couldn’t—”

“He could start suit, and if he did the newspapers would blow it up big, and that would mean that the general populace would give Patricia the horse laugh along with all the artists and art collectors who were already doing it.”

“Ummm,” said Walters. “This all sounds very much on the corny side to me.”

“Not necessarily. Get the setup. Here’s a dame that has probably always been able to buy anything she wanted in the world and in addition is very proud of herself for being an expert on modern art. This Craig cousin of hers was attacking her on both fronts, and people were giving her the old snicker because of it. People aren’t supposed to laugh at you when you have fifty million dollars.”

“I ain’t laughing at her,” said Walters. “So maybe this is true, and they hired you to get the pictures. But why? You don’t claim to be an art expert, now, do you?”

“I’m crooked. They figured I’d chisel the pictures out of Craig with one of my snide tricks. I would have, too.”

Walters rubbed the lobe of his ear, squinting. “You know, when I was a kid back in Iowa there used to be a banker in town who called himself Honest John. One fine day he went south with about thirty thousand dollars worth of deposits.”

“Very interesting,” Latin commented.

“Yeah. Ever since then I’ve doubted people who go around claiming how honest they are. I think maybe that works backwards sometimes, too.”

“Such as how?” Latin asked.

“You. You talk about bein’ crooked so much, I doubt if you are. I think that’s just your front. I think maybe you’re honest.”

“That’s slander,” Latin said indignantly. “I’ll sue you. I’m as crooked as a swastika.”

“Uh-huh. You may be a trifle speedy on the turns, but I think that’s as far as it goes. But let me tell you that if the boys in the district attorney’s office ever catch you in a corner they’re going to tear your ears off. They’re pretty griped about you slipping out of that compounding a felony rap. So you came up here to buy pictures—then what happened?”

“Craig was lying dead on the floor.”

“See any deadly weapons around?”

“No,” Latin said.

“All right. Go on.”

“Here’s where the story really gets ripe. I’d no more than found out the guy was dead, when in comes a little gent in dark glasses and a big overcoat and sticks me up and grabs some of Craig’s pictures. I tried to argue with him, and he started blowing at me. I know that sounds—”

WALTERS’ eyes looked narrow and shiny. “Little gent in a big overcoat and dark glasses. Did he have a pan that looked like it had just been pushed in a flour barrel and a flop-brimmed hat and sport a Spanish mail order automatic?”

Latin stared at him. “Why, yes.”

“McTeague!” Walters snarled. He paced back and forth across the studio, muttering profanity.

The policeman on guard at the door had straightened up alertly and was watching Latin.

“What’s what?” Latin asked.

"We’re not funning now,” said Walters. “I want that little weasel, and I want him bad. You heard that a cop named Gardner got killed a couple of months ago?”

Latin frowned. “I remember something about it. Trying to stop a store hold-up, wasn’t he?”

“No. That was just for the papers. He was on guard at a school cross-walk on the north side. There’d been reports coming in from that school and others that some of the kids were acting funny. The doctors thought maybe it was dope of some kind, although we couldn’t shake anything loose from any of the kids. So the cops were keeping an eye open. Gardner spotted this funny looking guy with a candy wagon prowling around the school grounds, so he strolls over to take a look. He didn’t even have a chance to say hello. The guy just started shooting. Five times he let go, and the fifth one got Gardner in the stomach. The guy was this McTeague you saw.”

“Five times,” Latin said. “And only one hit. How close was he to Gardner?”

“About ten feet.”

“That’s lousy shooting. I figured that it was a miracle he missed me, but now I’m not so sure.”

“He killed a cop,” said Walters coldly. “A damned good cop. We want that baby. Can you tell me any more about him?”

“No. Except that he talked in a whisper. He did know his way around this studio, though. Probably he was the one who was furnishing Craig with dope. Why don’t you ask the doll downstairs if she knows anything about him?”

Walters nodded at the policeman in the doorway. “Go get her.”

They waited for a moment, and then Nan Carter came in the studio ahead of the policeman. She still wore her cotton house-coat, and she was smoking another cigarette in her long ivory holder. She looked quite cheerful and a little bit intoxicated, and she nodded her cropped head casually at Latin and said: “Hi. Are you pinched?”

“Not yet,” Latin said. “This is Inspector Walters. This is Nan Carter, Walters.”

Walters said: “I’d like to ask you about what happened here tonight.”

“Plenty, ain’t it so?” Nan Carter inquired. “Well, let’s see. Latin came along and asked for Craig, and I stalled him a bit because I figured that girl might have sent him over to put the bite on Craig, and I wanted first chance at any money he might have for his back rent.”

WALTERS asked: “What girl?”

“She used to model for Craig. She got into trouble, and she claimed Craig was the cause of it all. I don’t doubt that he was. He was a trifle on the rat side. She pestered him for weeks, trying to get him to marry her or give, her money. I used to ring his door bell when I saw her coming, and he’d dodge out the back way.”

“She been around lately?”

“No. Not for the last week or so.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mona something or other. She didn’t kill him if that’s what’s worrying you. She was crazy about him, and besides she wouldn’t have nerve enough.”

“I’ll just look her up, anyway,” said Walters. “O.K. Go on with your story.”

“Well, Latin came up here, and he hadn’t been here a minute before the war broke out. I’d gone in to powder my nose, and I heard people stamping around and shots and the house falling down in general, so I opened my door to see what was going on. That little rat of a McTeague was right in front of the door. He shot and I ducked— but fast.”

“McTeague,” Walters repeated casually. “So you know his name?”

Nan Carter looked surprised. "Of course. He came around here every week.”

“Good friend of Craig’s, eh?”

She shrugged. “I guess so. He seems slimy enough to qualify. Anyway, he paid me some of Craig’s back rent once.”

Walters was watching her narrowly. “How did that happen ?”

“I just asked him for it, and he paid.”

“You’re a liar,” said Walters.

“Tut, tut,” said Nan Carter amiably.

“You knew Craig was on the dope, and you also knew McTeague was selling it to him. You shook him down.”

“Did I, now?” Nan Carter said.

“Yes. Instead of reporting McTeague to the police.”

“Shame on me,” said Nan Carter, and blew a long plume of smoke in Walters’ face.

Walters reached out and slapped her hand. The ivory holder and its cigarette flipped through the air. The holder snapped in two when it hit the floor. The policeman stepped forward casually to put his foot on the cigarette.

Walters said: “Don’t get smart with me.”

Nan Carter’s eyes looked heavy-lidded and sleepy. “Just for that I’m not answering any more questions.”

“You will,” Walters promised grimly. “Keenan, take her down to the station.”

The policeman came forward and put his hand on Nan Carter’s arm. “Come on along, now.”

She fell into him. She did it very neatly and so quickly that she slid down to a sitting position on the floor before he could catch her. She sat there and beamed placidly up at Walters.

“Carry her,” he ordered quietly.

Keenan bent down and picked her up without the slightest effort. He carried her across the studio, and as she went out the door she flipped her hand at Latin in a casual farewell salute.

Latin cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Walters’ face was set grimly. “I want McTeague.”

“You haven’t got anything to hold her on. She’ll hang a suit for false arrest on you.”

Walters jerked his shoulders irritably.

“I suppose so. Oh, hell!” He went to the door and whistled shrilly. “Keenan! Bring her back up here.”

4: A Lady Gets a Lift

KEENAN’S feet thudded on the stairs, and he carried Nan Carter back into the studio and stood there holding her.

Latin said: “Nan, Walters is a little on the edgy side. McTeague’s a cop shooter, and Walters is very anxious to get a good grip on him.”

Nan Carter looked at Walters inquiringly.

“All right,” said Walters. “I apologize, and I’ll buy you another holder.”

She smiled. "Never mind. I’ve got a dozen. I just don’t like being slapped around. You can put me down now, mister. Thanks for the lift.”

Keenan stood her on her feet and went indifferently back to his station at the door.

“Well?” said Nan Carter. “Ask me more. I honestly didn’t know Craig was a dope fiend. I thought there was something wrong with him, but that never occurred to me. I really did shake McTeague down, though. Craig used to throw parties all the time, and they were really dillies. I came to one once, and I left fast. I’m not easy to shock,either.

“Craig used to show dirty motion pictures to his lovely guests. I had McTeague tagged for that racket, although I wasn’t sure. I thought it was worth a  throw, though. I was broke. So I put it up to him. I sort of leered like they do in the movies and told him I wanted some of Craig’s rent.”

“What happened?” Walters asked.

She shivered. “He paid. Fifty dollars. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there and looked at me for about five minutes, as though he was measuring me for a coffin. I was good and scared. I kept out of his way after that. I got the idea he could be a very nasty proposition if he wanted to be.”

“He is,” said Walters. “You don’t know how lucky you were that he didn’t do more than look.”

“Oh yes, I do,” said Nan Carter. “I’m getting the chills all over again.”

“Did Patricia Wentworth Craig or her husband, Bernard Hastings, ever come up here?” Latin asked.

“She did— once. She and Craig had a whopper of a row. He threw her out finally. I mean— threw. Hastings came around a dozen times or so. He and Craig got very, very chummy.”

“Chummy?” Latin repeated, puzzled.

“For awhile. It was easy to figure out. Hastings thought he could butter up Craig and get on the good side of him and persuade him to sell some pictures to Patricia. Craig knew that was the idea. He just played Hastings along —drinking his liquor and borrowing money from him and letting him pay for the parties, and then when he got tired, he gave Hastings the razzberry and kicked him out. That Hastings is soft-brained, if you ask me. He should have known Craig would see right through him. Craig was no fool. What killed him, anyway?”

“Someone hit him on the back of the neck and broke his spine,” Walters answered absently.

Nan Carter looked at Latin with raised eyebrows.

Latin shook his head. “Not guilty. He was laid out like a rug when I arrived.”

“Was the back door locked?” Walters asked.

“Never,” said Nan Carter.

Walters nodded. “I want that McTeague. Anything more you can tell me about him?”

"No,” she said. “After the rent incident I didn’t want any part of him. Latin said he was a cop shooter. You mean he killed a policeman?”

“Yeah. I want him.”

“What else do you know about him?” Latin asked curiously. “You just said he downed Gardner.”

Walters was frowning. “He had his reasons. The doctors were right. The kids were getting dope— morphine— and he was selling it to them. He had it fixed up in candy. Very clever fellow. The kids talked fast afterward, because Gardner was very popular with them. McTeague had told them that the candy contained caffeine and that it would pep them up for examinations and stuff but that they shouldn’t let on to anyone because even if the stuff was perfectly harmless, parents would be apt to be sticky about it. You know how kids go for secrets like that, and so did McTeague.”

Nan Carter looked a little sick. “Morphine— to kids—”

“Yes,” said Walters. “Very, very little of it. Not enough to make them goofy— but enough to give them a lift and enough to put them on the habit if they kept at it.”

THEY were silent for a second, and then Walters nodded at Nan Carter.

“If you ever see him again, get behind something solid and start screaming. But be sure what you’re behind will stop a bullet, because he’ll shoot.”

She shivered. “Right-o.”

Someone shouted something from the lower floor, and Keenan, the policeman on guard at the door, put his head out into the hall.

“What?”

The voice below shouted something else and Keenan turned back to Walters.

“There’s a guy down below who says his name is Haggerty. He wants in.”

“He’s Craig’s agent,” Latin explained.

“Send him up,” Walters ordered. Keenan relayed the order, and feet thumped raggedly on the stairs. A fat little man with a red, round face came puffing through the door. He was carrying a cane, and he braced the rubber tip of it on the floor in front of him and leaned the soft bulge of his stomach against it for a support, regarding us all.

“Hah!” he said explosively. “I told him a good many times he was such a louse he ought to go and kill himself, but I never thought he’d do it.”

“He didn’t,” said Walters. “Somebody broke his neck for him. Is this actually Haggerty, and is he actually Winston Wentworth Craig’s manager, Miss Carter?”

“Yes,” she said. “Hello, you greasy blood-sucker.”

Haggerty took off his hat, revealing close-cropped red hair. “Miss Carter. It is delighted I am to see you, even in such sad circumstances.”

“You and your phoney Irish dialect. Will you kindly go to hell with my best regards?”

Haggerty beamed at her. “Your wish is my command, and indeed it surely is, my dear.”

Nan Carter turned to Walters.

“Through with me now? Being in the same room with this fat rat makes me queasy.”

“All through,” said Walters, “for the moment. Stick around down below.”

She sauntered out of the door.

Walters waited until her footsteps had gone down the stairs and then said to Haggerty: “She doesn’t seem to like you.”

“A pity,” said Haggerty. “Indeed, it saddens the heart of me to the point of breaking.”

“Why doesn’t she like you?”

Haggerty smiled benignly. “And your name, sir?”

“Inspector Walters. Homicide. Why doesn’t she like you?”

“It is indeed a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. She does not like me because I won’t act as her agent.”

“Why won’t you?”

Haggerty waggled a fat forefinger at him. “Indeed, my dear Inspector, for the one best reason of all, of course. Her stuff won’t sell, and it won’t sell because it is no good.”

“What does she do— paint?”

“No, no. She’s a sculptress— she says. All impressionistic and very, very lousy.”

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“Someone called me and asked me to.”

“I did,” said Latin.

“What for?” Walters demanded. “Business,” said Latin. “Can I talk to him alone?”

“Ha-ha,” said Walters.

Latin shrugged. “Haggerty, my name is Latin.”

HAGGERTY blinked eyes that were a bright steely blue in spite of being slightly blood-shot at the corners. “Indeed? The gentleman who had some slight—difficulty over some stolen jewels recently ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well,” said Haggerty thoughtfully.

“Do you have any of Craig’s pictures now— on sale?”

Haggerty rubbed his chin. “In a manner of speaking, yes. That is, he had three finished that he was going to deliver to me tomorrow.”

"Deliver to you to sell as his agent?”

“Right, sir.”

“You can’t be an agent for a dead.”

Haggerty grinned. “Ah, yes. The deal was completed before his death. I advanced him money and the title of the pictures passed to me then. I have contracts to prove it. He was just holding the picture temporarily because he wanted to put some finishing touches on them.”

Latin pointed to the easel. “Is that one of them?”

“No. It isn’t completed, and wouldn’t be worth much if it was, as I told him. Who wants to look at an artist’s face? But Craig liked himself, even if no one else did.”

"I want to make a deal with you,” Latin said. “I want you to sell me those three completed pictures for a thousand apiece. That’s the current market value for them.”

“Ah, no,” said Haggerty merrily. “They’ll double in value, now there’s to be no more of them. If you’d like to bid—’’

“No. Take my offer or get nothing.”

“Nothing?” Haggerty inquired. “Now I think not, indeed. I’ll take the pictures, and there’s a strong market—”

“Where are the pictures?” Latin asked.

Haggerty pointed with his cane. “Right over—” He turned around to look at Latin. His smile was strained at the corners now. “They’re supposed to be under that easel. He always kept the completed ones there.”

Latin shrugged complacently. He said nothing.

Haggerty’s smile was completely gone. “And what is this now, please?”

“I’ll be fair about it,” said Latin. “Fifteen hundred apiece and five hundred to you for acting as my agent on the resale. Take it or leave it.”

Haggerty’s blue eyes opened wide. “Indeed, now. But the pictures are really mine, sir. I took title as security for the money I advanced to Craig.”

“All right,” Latin said. “Hunt for the pictures.”

Haggerty puffed out his fat cheeks and sucked them in again. He looked calculatingly from Latin to Walters and back to Latin again.

“They’re not here?”

“No,” said Latin.

“Are they in your possession ?”

“No.”

“I warn you that I can identify them.”

“Go ahead,” Latin invited indifferently.

“And you, sir,” said Haggerty to Walters. “A police officer, do nothing but stand there—”

“I’m doing more than standing,” said Walters, watching Latin narrowly. “I’m listening, and what I hear I don’t like so very well. Where are those pictures, Latin?”

“McTeague took them, like I told you.”

“Yes. And where they are, McTeague will be. I want that McTeague. Where, Latin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Latin,” said Walters very softly, “don’t get in between me and McTeague or I’ll run you down. I mean it. Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

Haggerty cleared his throat. “On due consideration, Mr. Latin, I think I’ll take your kind offer and thank you.”

“Right,” said Latin.

“Latin—” Walters said warningly.

The voice shouted from the hall below, and Keenan put his head out the door again.

“What?” He listened and relayed the information to Walters. “There’s a guy and a dame downstairs. Say they’re related to the stiff.”

Walters groaned. “Send them up— politely, Keenan, very politely. In fact, you may go down and escort them, Keenan. Remember to salute.”

“And remember you’re my agent,” Latin said to Haggerty.

Haggerty put his smile on again. “Ah, yes. And I think matters become slightly clearer.”

“Do you?” Walters asked sourly. “I don’t.”

Bernard Hastings and a woman came in the studio ahead of a suddenly deferential Keenan. Hastings looked really scared now. His plump face was a yellowish white, and he stared right and left with fearful bulging eyes, as though he expected a gory body to leap at him out of any corner. When he saw Latin, his eyes bulged even more, and he flicked a tongue across lips that were suddenly dry and colorless.

The woman with him said in a harsh, high voice: “Who is in charge here ?”

Walters stepped forward. “Inspector Walters, ma’am. Homicide.”

“I am Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

She wouldn’t have needed to identify herself. Her thin, arrogant features were pictured in the papers as often as the most popular movie star’s. She was blond and tall and very erect, high-shouldered, and she walked and talked and looked as though she was sure she was better than anyone else and that everyone knew it.

She was wearing a long chinchilla coat with a black formal dress under it. She had a diamond bracelet a good two inches wide on her left wrist. It was the only jewelry she wore.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Walters.

She looked at Haggerty. “What are you doing here?”

Haggerty bowed. “Endeavoring to help in my humble way, dear lady.”

She shrugged in disgust and pointed at Latin. “Who is he?”

Hastings said in a croak. “That— that is the man—

"What man?” she said impatiently.

Hastings swallowed. “The one— Latin.”

She looked Latin up and down. “I see. Then you’ve apprehended him already, and there’s no need for us to stay. My husband is a fool, Inspector, and you’ll have to excuse him.”

Hastings winced but made no effort to deny the accusation.

“Yes, ma’am?” Walters said cautiously.

“Yes. This man Latin is a criminal. He just got out of jail, as you probably know. My husband, in his stupid way, decided for some reason to hire Latin to purchase some pictures from my cousin. My cousin refused, for reasons that are none of your affair, and Latin killed him, intending to steal some pictures from him, I have no doubt. You will see to it that he is hung, of course. Good evening.”

Walters cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, we’re not so sure Latin killed your cousin.”

She swung back toward him. “What? Nonsense! If he didn’t, who did?”

“Well, we don’t know yet.”

She stared icily. “Don’t be a fool. Of course Latin killed him, and naturally he’d deny it. You police have what you call a third degree, haven’t you? Well, use it. Make him confess. No matter what methods you use, I’ll see to it that no one ever objects to them.”

Latin looked at Haggerty. Haggerty was grinning. Latin’s greenish eyes began to glow slightly.

Patricia Wentworth Craig was examining the portrait on the easel. “I’ll take that one, and Haggerty, you will deliver any other pictures you have to me at once.”

“Indeed?” said Haggerty politely.

“He hasn’t any,” said Latin.

She looked at him. “Did you speak?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I said Haggerty hasn’t any of Craig’s pictures. He did own three of them, but he sold them to me. I’ll sell them to you for five thousand apiece, in accordance with my agreement with your husband.”

She laughed mockingly. “Five thousand! What utter and complete absurdity !”

Hastings said: “But, my dear, I— I did—”

“Be quiet!”

Hastings swallowed hard and remained silent.

“Five thousand,” Latin said blandly.

“You must be a fool as well as a murderer,” said Patricia Wentworth Craig coldly. “You have nothing to show in writing, and in this state a contract involving a sum of more than five hundred dollars is not enforceable unless it is in writing. I can buy all of my cousin’s pictures I want now for a quarter of five thousand dollars.”

“On the other hand, no,” said Latin blandly.

SHE really looked at him, as though she were seeing him as a person for the first time. “Why can’t I?”

"Well, you could. But I’d have to sue you if you did.”

“Sue me for what?”

Latin smiled. “Well, you see Craig’s pictures are unique. They are pictures that Patricia Wentworth Craig— the richest girl in the world— can’t buy. That gives them a special value, which was why I invested in them. Now if you should buy some of his pictures— from someone else— then that would reduce the value of the pictures I have, because they wouldn’t be unique any more. So I’d have to sue you for what I’d lose, and if I did I’d have to explain in my complaint just why you couldn’t buy any of Craig’s pictures while he was alive.”

Haggerty blew out his breath in a long sigh, and Walters began to whistle softly to himself.

Patriciri Wentworth Crug hissed at her husband: “You stupid oaf! Did you have to tell him everything you knew?”

“I—I—” Hastings said miserably.

“Five thousand,” Latin repeated.

She was biting her under lip. “All right. When and where will you deliver them ?”

“I won’t. You’ll come and get them when and where I tell you.”

Patricia Wentworth Craig’s thin face was white now, and the rouge showed up in ragged red patches on her cheekbones.

“All right,” she whispered. “But you— you—” She drew in her breath, turning to Walters. “Is he under arrest?”

“Latin?” Walters asked. “Well—”

“If he is, release him at once.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Walters meekly. “Have you—changed your mind about him killing your cousin ?”

“Of course, you fool. Release him.”

Walters nodded at Latin. “You’re released.”

“Thanks a lot,” Latin said mockingly.

Patricia Wentworth Craig turned on her husband. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take me out of here, you blundering numbskull.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Hastings quickly.

He escorted her to the door as carefully as though she were made of spun glass.

Walters waited until they were gone and then took off his hat and wiped his brow with the palm of his hand. “Whee! Join the police and have more fun! It’s lucky I didn’t have you under arrest, Latin. I wouldn’t want to cross that dame. She’s really as neat a dose of pure poison as I’ve ever seen, and she could probably get me thrown off the force before I could light a cigar. I think you’re going to be a sorry man, Latin, if you play any of your cute tricks on her.”

“Five thousand dollars a picture,” Haggerty said in a dreamy voice.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Latin warned.

“Ah, no,” said Haggerty, beaming. “No, indeed.”

“Do you know a guy by the name of McTeague?” Walters demanded. “Friend of Craig’s?”

“No,” said Haggerty.

“Well, I guess I’ll be running along,” said Latin.

“I wish you would,” Walters informed him. “You’re certainly not much help to

5: McTeague Meets His Maker

IT WAS an hour later when Latin came into Guiterrez’ restaurant again. The
crowd had thinned now, and the place wasn’t quite so noisy or confused, but almost. Latin sat down in his favorite booth, and he hadn’t been there more than five seconds when Guiterrez came through the metal swinging door that led to the kitchen and glowered at him.

“I was hopin’ maybe they tossed you in the jail again,” he said. “I bet you they got cell three, north tier all cleaned and ready for you by this time.”

Latin nodded absently. “Is Pete here?”

“Washin’ dishes.”

“Tell him to go down to 345 Greene Street and wait outside until the police leave. Tell him to telephone you here when they go and also to find out whether they leave anyone on guard. Tell him to keep out of sight.”

“Tell— tell— tell,” said Guiterrez sourly. “Suppose you tell me who’s gonna wash the dishes.”

“You.”

Guiterrez swelled up. “Me! I’ll have you know that I was the master chef—”

“All right. Throw the dishes away and buy new ones. In the meantime, bring me a telephone.”

The little waiter in the baggy, grease-stained coat came up with a bottle of brandy and a glass and put them down on the table in front of Latin.

“Get him the telephone, Dick.” Guiterrez ordered. “He’s pretending like he’s important again.”

Guiterrez stamped back through the swinging door into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Dick brought Latin a portable telephone, and Latin plugged in on a concealed connection behind the chintz curtain at the rear of the booth.

He sat for several moments, staring absently upward at the smoke layers that floated under the stained ceiling. Finally he nodded once to himself and dialed the number of Haggerty’s home.

The phone rang several times, and then the same weary feminine voice said crossly: “Well, hello?”

“Has Mr. Haggerty come home yet?” Latin asked.

“Hah! Twice, no less! You’d think this was the Grand Central Station, the way he comes and goes. He isn’t here now, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“Hah! Your guess is as good as mine. He said he was going to his office, but if you want him you might as well start looking in the nearest gutter.”

“Thanks,” Latin said.

He pressed down on the breaker bar to cut the connection and then dialed Haggerty’s office. The repeated buzz in his ear indicated the phone was ringing at the other end of the line, but there was no answer. After about the tenth ring, there was a click and then, instantly, another. The buzzing ceased, and the line hummed emptily.

Latin pursed his lips thoughtfully. He dialed a third number, and instantly a voice bellowed cheerfully in his ear:

“Hello there! Happy's All Night Garage!”

“This is Latin, Happy.”

“Ah, now! Hooray! You’re out, eh? I knew you'd do it! I told my wife they couldn’t keep Latin in their flea-trap jail on a bum rap like that. Murder or arson or bank robbery or something decent, I said, why sure. That would be all right, I told her. But this compounding a felony stuff, I said, why that’s chicken feed for Latin. He’ll spit right in their eye, I told her. Hooray! I’m glad you’re out!”

“Thanks, Happy. Send the black coupe around.”

“Coming up!”

HAGGERTY’S place was on Claghorn Street, right in the middle of the city’s financial district, and it looked as out of place there as a hobo jungle camp would have. The office buildings and stores around it were pale and austere and dignified, but the whole front of Haggerty’s store was one gaudy splash of blood-red enamel that glistened sinisterly even in the dim light of the street lamps.

There was a wide bronze door in the middle of the enamel. On one side of the door, futuristically cockeyed letters spelled the word Haggerty, and on the other the one word Art.

Latin, drifting past in the black coupe, decided that Haggerty was probably a pretty good salesman. At least, he knew enough to come where the money was and how to advertise himself and his wares in a spectacular manner when he got there.

Latin parked the black coupe midway in the next block and walked back. He stood in front of the brass door for a moment, looking both ways. The street was deserted. There was a bell beside the door, but Latin didn’t ring it. He tried the catch on the bronze door, and it opened with a smooth, soft click.

He pushed the door open and looked into the dim, narrow length of the store. At the back there was the faint glow of light coming through a partially closed door, but there was no slightest sound. Latin stepped inside and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

The darkness was thick now, and soft, heavy with the smell of turpentine. Latin drifted toward the light, his feet soundless on the thick carpeting. There was still no sound, no sound at all.

Latin felt a queer prickling sensation between his shoulder blades, and he stopped and stood still for a full minute, listening. He was frowning in a worried way, and finally he drew his stubby .38 from the waistband of his trousers and balanced it casually in his right hand.

He went forward step by step. The door was just in front of him, and he reached out his left hand, fingers rigid, and pushed it slightly.

It moved on oiled hinges. It moved back like the slow unrolling of a stage curtain and revealed a square, small office with white plaster walls and two narrow blue rugs slantwise in the shape of a lopsided T on the black polished floor and thick blue drapes that covered windows in the far wall.

It revealed Haggerty sitting behind a square desk in the corner. Haggerty’s fat face was like a white, strained moon with the bristly red halo of his hair gleaming above it. He was staring at the door with his bloodshot eyes popped impossibly wide.

“Hello,” Latin said, and stepped inside the office.

Haggerty heaved in his chair. "Gaah!” he screeched in one wordless, breathless sound and fell over backwards into the corner, chair and all.

Latin dropped flat on his face on the blue rug. The drapes blew out as though a gust of wind had caught them, and the smack of the first report blended with the crash of Haggerty’s chair going down.

The bullet hit the door on the near edge and slammed it shut.

McTeague slid out from behind the drapes, as deadly and quick as a cobra. He fired three times more in a blasting stutter of sound. Two of the bullets went wide to Latin’s left and the third tapped his hat and tipped it neatly on the back of his head.

Latin fired once, and the report was a solid bump of sound after the chattering racket of McTeague’s automatic. McTeague made a shrill little sobbing noise. He came one step and then two toward Latin, as mincing and neat as ever, and then he collapsed, and the thick folds of his overcoat seemed to settle and blend into the blue of the rug under him, and he lay very flat and small and motionless there.

THE echoes rang deafeningly in Latin’s ears. He was sitting up now, breathing in short gasps through his mouth.

Very slowly the white moon of Haggerty’s face rose above the horizon of the black desk. His eyes, like jiggling co=ordinated marbles, moved from Latin to McTeague and back to Latin.

“Oh,” said Haggerty in a thin, sick voice.

Latin leveled his revolver. “Don’t try to duck behind that desk again. I’ll shoot through it.”

Haggerty’s voice went up to a hysterical squeak. “No, man! Don’t!”

“How did you know I was coming in here?”

Haggerty gulped. "Bell. Rings in here when the front door opens. He—he heard. He had his gun on me. Said— said he’d shoot if I warned...”

Latin stared at him silently.

There were big beads of perspiration on Haggerty’s forehead. “Man! You— don’t think that I—I would—”

“I guess not,” said Latin.

He got up, and Haggerty did, too. Haggerty moved like a man in the last stages of some wasting disease. He fumbled his chair upright and sat down in it with a thump.

“Is he— is he—”

“Dead,” said Latin.

Haggerty found a big silk handkerchief and began to mop at his brow with it. “And a good thing it is, indeed! I was sitting in here, you understand, as peaceful and innocent as a new-born babe, when in he came like a snake out of the weeds with that gun of his leveled at my head...”

Latin was looking at him, and Haggerty’s voice died away to an unintelligible mumble.

"Liar,” said Latin.

“Now indeed, sir!” Haggerty protested hastily. “Indeed and I may slip slightly from the strict path of truth on occasion but I swear—”

“You were trying to gyp me.”

Haggerty gasped in horror. “I? Haggerty? Gyp you?”

“Yes. McTeague called you up and told you he had three pictures of Craig’s. He described the pictures, and you knew which ones they were. You knew they were the ones you had agreed to sell me. But you thought you could void the sale because it wasn’t in writing and then go and sell them to Patricia Wentworth Craig on the deal I worked out with her and leave me holding the bag.”

Haggerty looked sick. “Oh, my dear sir! Oh, please! That would be unethical, not to say dishonest, and I can assure you indeed that the name of Haggerty is no less than the definition of honesty its very self!”

“Got anything else to say before I shoot you?”

“Shoot?” said Haggerty, gaping. “Me?”

“Yes.” Latin gestured toward McTeague’s still form. “Someone’s got to take the rap for this, and I can’t afford to. I’m hotter than a firecracker in this town. I think maybe he shot you and you shot him with my gun.”

“Gaah!” said Haggerty, suddenly becoming incoherent again.

“Well?” said Latin.

Haggerty gulped. “Please, my dear good kind sir! If you will only allow me to speak for one short second. I assure you I would never think— No! Wait, wait! I admit it! The very thought of fifteen thousand dollars for three pictures was like a worm crawling in my miserable brain, and when this— this called and said he had the three pictures and would sell them for a thousand apiece—”

“You couldn’t resist trying a double-cross.

“Right,” said Haggerty miserably. “But please forgive me, my dear sir. Don’t shoot me in cold blood and leave my poor wife bereaved and destitute—”

“Did McTeague bring the pictures?”

"No!” said Haggerty explosively. “Indeed, and I think the scum had every intention of cheating me by taking my money forcibly and refusing delivery!”

“My, my,” said Latin. “It’s surprising how dishonest people are. I suppose it never occurred to you to turn him over to the cops and get your money back— after you got the pictures.”

“Certainly!” said Haggerty. “It would have been my duty as a citizen, no less! The return of the money I paid, of course, would have been incidental. ”

“I can imagine.”

Haggerty moistened his lips and grinned in a sickeningly shaky way. “What— what—”

“I want to use your telephone.”

Haggerty pushed the desk set gingerly toward him. Latin dialed a number, using the stubby barrel of the revolver. Guiterrez’ voice answered explosively:

“No! I don’t make no reservations over the telephone! ”

“Did Pete call in?” Latin asked.

“Oh, it’s you!” Guiterrez snarled. “Where are you calling from— cell three, north tier, county jail?”

“None of your business. Did Pete call

“Yes. He said the joint was crawling with cops, but they all went away and didn’t leave nobody on guard. Who was the poor fella you knocked off ?”

“Good-bye,” said Latin. He hung up and nodded at Haggerty. “You’re a rat, but you’re still my agent.”

Haggerty grinned more confidently.

“Indeed, it will give me the greatest pleasure—”

“Write out a bill of sale for those three pictures. Describe them, and be sure you describe the right ones.”

“But, my dear sir, I haven’t got—”

“I know where they are. Is there a back door to this place?”

“Yes. On the alley... What— what do you intend...”

“I’m going to wrap McTeague up in your rug and take him away from here.”

“But, my dear man! Suppose the police stop you or— or find out?”

“Then I’ll tell them that you shot him and hired me to hide the body.”

“Huh!” said Haggerty, losing all his breath in one gasp.

“It would be easy,” Latin told him calmly. “Your rug, your office. And this gun isn’t registered. I could probably scare up a couple of people who would swear it was yours, too. Just remember all that before you start throwing any more curves around here.”

Haggerty’s moonlike face was as white as a sheet, and he stared at Latin with a sort of horrified fascination.

6: A Corpse Goes Home

DARKNESS had fallen over Greene Street and left it as shadowy and deserted as it must have been in its earlier days. There were no cars on the street and no pedestrians, and the house at Number 345 looked as somber and black as though it were in mourning for the death that had occurred within it.

Latin parked in front and stayed in the car for several moments, watching the houses nearby. There were no signs of life from any of them, and finally he got out. He maneuvered the slim, light body of McTeague out of the front seat and carried it up the narrow walk and up the steps. He used the keys he had found in McTeague’s pocket to open the front door and used them again to open the door of the lower apartment.

He went through the living-room where he had telephoned Haggerty such a short, violent time ago, along a dark hallway. He tried two other doors and found a bedroom.

He put McTeague down on the bed and carefully folded one side of the high, thick collar of McTeague’s overcoat so that it hid the features.

He stood in the darkness quite awhile, looking down at the bed. Then he shook his head once with a little shivering jerk of his shoulders. He could feel the perspiration wet and cold on his face, and his eyes burned dryly. He drew the shades down carefully, turned on the light. He didn’t look at McTeague again. He began to search the bedroom.

He found the hand-made red dancing pump in the closet, mixed in with a confusing jumble of other shoes. He left the bedroom and went on searching patiently. He found the three Craig paintings tacked to the under-side of the kitchen table.

Carrying the pictures, he went back in the living-room and dialed Madison 5050 on the telephone, and when a voice answered, said: “Tell Inspector Walters that he will find Mr. McTeague in the lower apartment at 345 Greene Street.”

He hung up at once and went hurriedly out of the house, shivering a little.

It took him less than ten minutes to get back to the restaurant. He parked the black coupe in the alley and came in the rear door.

Guiterrez was standing in the middle of the big low-ceilinged kitchen. He opened his mouth, preparing himself for a blast of sarcasm, and then shut it again when he saw Latin’s face.

“Well?” he said mildly.

“Pete,” Latin said.

Pete was a bald, bandy-legged little man with a long drooping mustache. He had been presiding at a long sink piled high with dishes, and he came forward wiping his huge, reddened hands on his apron.

“Yus, Mr. Latin.”

“The black coupe is in the alley. Take it over to Happy’s and tell him to pull off the wheels and start relining the brakes. If anyone asks, it hasn’t been out of the place all day.”

“Yus, sir.”

Guiterrez glared at Pete, said dangerously : “Get it right, dope, or I’ll bounce a cleaver off your thick skull.”

Latin was carrying Haggerty’s blue rug bundled up under his arm. He handed it to Guiterrez and also gave him the stubby .38 revolver.

“Ditch these.”

“O.K.,” said Guiterrez.

"I’ve been here for an hour. When I went out awhile ago, I came right back

Guiterrez went to the kitchen door, opened it slightly and yelled: “Dick. Come here!”

The little waiter in the grease-stained coat slid in through the door. "Yeah?”

“Latin’s been here for over an hour.”

“Absolutely,” said Dick.

"Fix it so he can get in his booth.”

“Yup.”

DICK went out into the main dining-room again. Latin waited next to the swing door. In about ten seconds there was the jangling crash of a tray of crockery breaking. Instantly afterwards two voices began screeching frantically.

Latin pushed the door open. Dick and a tall, bald waiter were face to face at the front end of the restaurant, howling insults at each other. Broken crockery lay in windrows around them. Every patron remaining in the place was staring at the disturbance in open-mouthed amazement, and Latin slipped unseen into the end booth.

The argument stopped as suddenly as it had started. Dick came back to the booth, carrying an ashtray full of snubbed out cigarettes. He put it down in front of Latin and put the clean one that was on the table in his pocket. From under his huge apron he produced a bottle half-full of brandy and a glass. He spilled some brandy on the linoleum table-top, smeared it expertly with the palm of his hand, and made overlapping concentric rings in it with the bottom of the bottle and the bottom of the glass.

He went away without a word. Latin sat quietly, smoking and sipping brandy.

It took Walters about fifteen minutes to get there. His face was tight and hard and savagely strained. He knew where to go. He came hard-heeled down the aisle and stopped in front of the last booth, glowering down at Latin, his shoulders hunched dangerously, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.

“Hello, Walters,” Latin said casually.

Guiterrez came out of the kitchen and said: “I don’t like cops around here. They stink up the place. You gonna pinch Latin again, I hope?”

“Shut up,” said Walters. He was looking at the ashtray and the wet rings the brandy bottle had made. “How long has Latin been here?”

“Too long,” said Guiterrez. “Over an hour.”

Walters jerked around. “An hour!”

"Sure,” said Guiterrez.

“Where’s his waiter?”

"Dick,” said Guiterrez.

Dick came up and squinted insolently at Walters. “Huh! So it’s flat-feet now. Latin sure pals around with crummy characters. What do you want, chum?” he asked.

Walters was breathing noisily through his nose. “Did you serve Latin?”

“Yeah. Me and the other slaves drew lots for him, and I lost. Who wants to know?”

“I do. Let me see your tag.”

Dick produced one. “There. See, there’s his name and the number of the booth and my number. He had the special dinner with the double broiled steak à la Guiterrez and soup and salad—”

“All right.” Walters handed the slip back to him. He nodded to Latin. “Let me see your gun.”

“I left it at home,” Latin said. “If you want to go look, it’s in the top drawer of the desk in the living-room along with my license to carry it.”

“Damn you,” said Walters. “You know you’ve got four or five guns with licenses to fit.”

“Oh, no. I lost all but the one.”

Walters drew a deep breath. “And I suppose you’re having the valves ground on your car?”

“No. I’m getting the brakes relined.”

Walters glared at Guiterrez and Dick.

“Beat it, you two.”

Guiterrez went back into the kitchen, and Dick sauntered toward the front of the restaurant.

WALTERS slid into the seat opposite Latin. He looked both tired and resigned now.

“All right. You win. I wanted to get that McTeague myself, but I should have known I’d trip over you before I got through. I can’t prove anything, and I don’t know what good it would do me if I did. Just tell me— off the record— how you spotted her.”

“McTeague was a very peculiar looking gent,” Latin said absently. “You see a lot of peculiar looking gents here and there, but you seldom see one that paints his finger-nails dark red.”

“Damn!” Walters snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Listen, I’d been shot at point-blank and fallen down stairs on my head. I didn’t notice it at first myself. I just knew there was something wrong with his hands. I didn’t realize what until I saw Nan Carter dialing the telephone when she called the police. Her nails were the same color, but that was no sure sign she was McTeague. That color is popular with women now.”

“Go on,” said Walters gloomily.

“I got to thinking about it, after what you told me, and the whole setup pointed to a woman. I mean, cooking up dope in candy. Would a guy think of that, or know how if he did? She was on her own. She made trips to Mexico, looking for stuff to make statues of, and she probably smuggled the stuff in herself. She didn’t want to risk selling it to regular addicts who might lead the police to her.

“And then the shooting. You know, the ordinary woman thinks all you have to do to kill a guy is point a pistol at his general direction and start blazing away. That’s just what she did. She was lucky with Gardner, but not so lucky with me. Any man as quick on the shoot as all that would have practiced up a little bit. And the costume was a give-away. It covered up too much.”

“Ummm,” said Walters.

“And she could have pulled the job off tonight very easily. She wasn’t wearing anything under that house-coat. All she had to do, after I went upstairs, was to shuck it off, put on the overcoat and hat and some men’s shoes and the glasses, pat some powder on her face, and hike upstairs. She grabbed the pictures, shot at me, and tripped me up on the stairs. Then she ran down the front steps, took a shot at her own door, screamed, and ditched the clothes in the closet. She was back in the house-coat and part way back up the stairs before I could pull myself together.”

“Why?” said Walters.

“The best reason of all. She was broke. Killing Gardner put the kibosh on the dope business. She couldn’t sell any of her work, couldn’t even collect rent or money for the dope from Craig. She knew I’d spot that Craig was on the habit, and she knew if I did, I’d get the pictures away from him. She wanted them, because she knew just as well as I did where she could cash in with them. She figured that I was a crook, and that if she had the pictures she could make a deal with me to split what I got from Patricia Wentworth Craig. She figured I was tough enough to make Craig consent to the sale.”

Walters sat up straight. “What?”

Latin went on casually: “That’s why I made a deal with Haggerty. I figured that McTeague— whether it was Nan Carter or who— would try to deal through him because he had the best excuse for having those pictures. I figured right.”

“Wait a minute,” said Walters. “Are you telling me that McTeague—Nan Carter— didn’t kill Craig?”

“No. She didn’t know he was dead until I told her. She thought I’d just smacked him one.”

“And— who did kill him?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Latin said amiably. “I think maybe I’ll find out pretty quick, though. How about this Mona party?”

Walters’ mouth was open slightly. He shut it and swallowed hard and said: “That was straight stuff. She was Craig’s model, and she did get into trouble. She kept after him until just about a week ago. Then apparently she got a lot of dough somewhere. Her landlady told me Mona was sporting a whopper of a roll. Then she just up and disappeared.”

Latin’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. "A big roll. And Craig was broke. Well, well.”

“Well what?”

“Nothing,” said Latin. He chewed on his lower lip. "Sorry about McTeague,

Walters. But she had eight setup shots at me, and that’s about all I believe in giving anybody— man, woman or child. She was bound to get lucky again if she kept it up long enough, and she didn’t give me much of a chance to sit down and discuss it calmly. I should have told you sooner what I guessed, maybe, but— I wanted those pictures. If they had gotten sucked into Craig’s estate I would never have been able to prove ownership over his other creditors. Fifteen thousand dollars ain’t hay, Walters.”

“No,” said Walters woodenly, watching him.

Latin snubbed out his cigarette. “I’m going to be busy for awhile. Have dinner on me tomorrow night?”

“What time?”

“About eight, I think.”

“All right,” said Walters. "I’m getting a little tired of you, my friend. You better make it good, Latin. Damned good. ”

“The dinner, you mean?”

“No, I don’t mean the dinner.”

7: Revenge Is Sweet

PATRICIA WENTWORTH CRAIG said: “Why, it’s dirty! It’s a horrible place, really!”

"You’re telling me, lady,” said Dick, the waiter, confidentially. “You should work here for a while. Rats in the stew, cockroaches in the salad, and the second cook has a slight case of leprosy. If we didn’t pay off every week, the health department would’ve closed us long ago.”

Patricia Wentworth Craig stared at him in a sort of disbelieving dismay. She and Hastings were sitting in Latin’s booth. It was the dinner hour, and the bedlam was in full swing again.

“You waitin’ for Latin?” Dick inquired, leaning over the back of the booth.

“Yes,” said Hastings. His round face was shiny with nervous prostration, and he tugged at his collar. “He told us to come here tonight...” He hesitated.

“Where is he?” Patricia Wentworth Craig demanded.

Dick took a water glass from under his apron, polished it carefully on the greasy edge of his coat, and set it down in front of her. “Latin? Oh, he’s probably off on a bat. He gets drunk every night that he don’t load himself up on marihuana. A very low character, that Latin.”

“This is absurd!” Patricia Wentworth Craig snapped at her husband. “Why did he ask us to meet him here? Why can’t we see him at his office?”

Hastings shook his head apologetically. “But, my dear, he hasn’t got an office.”

Latin came down the aisle and nodded to them. “Good evening. Sorry to keep you waiting.” He slid into the opposite seat of the booth. “I’ve had quite a lot of running around to do today.” He was carrying a paper-wrapped parcel, and he put it down on the table in front of him.

“This is an impossible place!” Patricia Wentworth Craig snapped. “Mr. Latin, if it is your idea that you can safely humiliate me, I will soon disabuse—”

“No, no,” said Latin, smiling. "It was quite important that I should see you here for several reasons.”

“With this uproar and confusion, no one can talk—”

“You’ll get used to it,” Latin assured her. “Have you the money—in cash?”

Her thin lips tightened savagely. “Let me tell you, Mr. Latin, that this is nothing more nor less than the most brazen sort of blackmail, and if my husband hadn’t been such a stupid fool as to tell you—”

Hastings said uncomfortably: “But, my dear, how could I possibly know?”

“Water under the bridge,” said Latin. “Have you got the money ?”

Patricia Wentworth Craig took some bills out of her purse, wadded them carelessly together and threw them on the table in front of him.

Latin straightened them out and counted them. “Thanks. Give her the pictures, Dick.”

Dick produced the three canvases from under his apron and slid them across the table. “Lousy stuff, if you ask me,” he said judicially. “Now I go for these dames in bathing suits like they put on calendars. Guiterrez has got one in the kitchen that really knocks your eye out.”

Patricia Wentworth Craig looked up from the pictures. “Is it really necessary for this—this greasy person to stand here and gape at us?”

“Oh, I can take a hint,” Dick said. He strolled back into the kitchen.

PATRICIA WENTWORTH CRAIG examined each of the pictures carefully. “These are Winston’s work. All right, Mr. Latin. We’ll leave now. You may think that you have put over something very clever, but you’ll find that I make a bad enemy.”

“Don’t hurry,” Latin said amiably. “I’ve got some things I’d like to show you.”

He unwrapped the package on the table and revealed two red leather dancing pumps with stilt-like heels and a small square of three-quarter inch soft pine board. The piece of wood had a black circle painted in the center of it, and the circle and the wood surrounding it was pockmarked with dozens of sharp little depressions.

Latin pointed at the pumps. “Your shoes,” he said to Patricia Wentworth Craig. “This one I found on the floor beside your cousin’s body. This one was in your shoe rack in your bedroom closet.”

Her thin face was chalk-white. “You— dared to search in my—”

“Sure,” said Latin. “This board was on the top shelf of the same closet. Look at it. Know what I think it is? A target. Somebody has been using it to practice up whacking people with the heel of a slipper. It’s quite a trick. I tried it myself. A slipper is light, you know, and you’d think it was sort of harmless. But if you practice up on your aim a bit and take a real full-arm swing, you can hit damned hard. Hard enough to snap a spine—providing you were an art student before you became an art collector and had studied anatomy and knew just where to hit.”

Patricia Wentworth Craig said: “Why, you— you—”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you and your cousin had come to blows. He threw you out of his studio bodily once and you’ve handed him a few off-hand slaps at art meetings. You told him a couple of times you’d kill him if he didn’t stop telling people you were a dummy about art.”

“You fool,” said Patricia Wentworth Craig.

Hastings stuttered: “Now see here, Mr. Latin. I can’t have—I won’t stand—”

“How did you find out Craig was dead last night?” Latin asked casually.

“Ah?” said Hastings. “Why— why, a person who said he was a reporter called to ask if— if he were Patricia’s cousin, and I thought you— you might...”

Latin nodded at Patricia Wentworth Craig. “You should learn to manage your temper.”

“Do you dare to insinuate—”

A muscle in Hastings’ round face twitched spasmodically, but he had control of his voice. “My dear, please don’t say anything more. He— he is actually accusing you of murdering Winston. Mr. Latin, I warn you solemnly that this has gone too far for any attempts at evasion on your part. You will find yourself in serious trouble unless you can explain just what you mean clearly and at once.”

“You explain,” Latin invited.

Hastings stared incredulously. “Eh?”

“You explain. You cooked it up.”

THE booth seemed like a quiet, still pocket in the midst of the clatter and racket of the restaurant.

Latin nodded at Patricia Wentworth Craig. “You should learn to control your temper and brush up on your manners a bit, too. Things like this are liable to happen if you don’t. Hastings killed Craig, and he had every intention of framing the murder on you. He hates you.”

“Slander!” Hastings gasped. “You can’t... Lies!”

“Why, no,” said Latin. “You hate her because you once loved her and you married her because you did. But everyone thought you married her for her money— even she did. Everyone made fun of you— and she despised you. She thought you were a nincompoop and a milksop and a dimwit, and she never hesitated to tell you so. She wouldn’t even take your name. You were Mr. Patricia Wentworth Craig.”

“Lies,” Hastings whispered hoarsely. “I won’t listen—”

“Yes, you will. You made your own money, and you had a lot of pride in your ability. You didn’t like being her stooge. But you never had a chance to show what you could do. She wouldn’t trust you to buy a postage stamp, let alone consider your advice on any of her business affairs. But this Craig layout gave you a chance. You decided to show her what a smooth worker you were. You would get on the good side of Craig and get him to sell her some of his pictures. Isn’t that true?”

Hastings said: “Well, I— I did.”

“Yes. But Craig was away out of your class. You’d never dealt with anyone like him before. If he had just pretended to be taken in and then given you the horse laugh, you could probably have stood it. You were used to being laughed at, but he did a lot more than that, didn’t he?”

“I— I don’t know what—”

“Mona,” said Latin. “She was in trouble and pestering Craig, and he got one of his nasty ideas. At one of those parties of his, he dipped a little morphine in one of your drinks. You passed out. Later he sent Mona around to see you. She told you that you were responsible. You were horrified. You couldn’t remember what happened. You couldn’t prove you weren’t. You didn’t dare risk the scandal. You paid her off. And then the worst thing of all happened. You went to see Craig again, and he told you the whole dirty scheme and laughed in your face. Not only that, but he threatened to tell his cousin.”

Hastings’ lips moved stiffly and soundlessly.

“So,” said Latin casually, “you killed him. You had read about me in the papers, and you thought I was just smart enough and crooked enough to do a Charlie McCarthy for you. After you left me here, you waited until I started to go to Craig’s, beat it there ahead of me, sneaked in the back and socked him with your wife’s dancing pump.”

Patricia Wentworth Craig laughed suddenly and shrilly. “Why, you poor fool! You’re not seriously trying to tell me that silly, stupid Bernard would have either the nerve or the brains to plan anything as elaborate—”

That did it. Hastings’ round face was livid with rage suddenly, and he seemed to swell up until the booth was too small for him.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “You and your money and your supercilious air and your smirking rat of a cousin. Yes! I killed him! But you can’t prove it— you can never prove it! I’m stupid, am I?  We’ll see. We’ll see what you think about  that when you face a jury. You think it  will make any difference what Latin knows? He’s a jailbird and a crook. His  testimony is worth nothing. I framed you,  and you’re still framed! I’ve got letters,  evidence, witnesses—everything!”

“Bernard,” said Patricia Wentworth Craig in a choked, horrified voice.

Hastings laughed on a cracked, high note. "I’m leaving you—”

“Yeah,” said Inspector Walters, coming out of the kitchen. “With me.”

Hastings gasped and choked. “You— you can’t prove it—”

He stopped, watching with dazed fascination as Latin reached out slowly and pulled the chintz curtain at the back of the booth aside and revealed the round gleam of a microphone.

“Walters and Guiterrez and three or four waiters heard everything you said.”

Hastings seemed to melt inside his clothes until he was a fat pasty-faced little man with stiff lips that moved and made no sound.

Patricia Wentworth Craig said: “I see— now. You don’t have an office because— this is your office. This is your restaurant. You own it. And all these men— they work for you and help you...”

Latin was smiling slightly. “Yes, madam. We have a very nice dinner tonight. Would you like to try it?”

_______________________

2: Too Many Have Died

Dime Detective April 1943

1:Killer Incognito

PETER TRACY stepped out through the arched doorway of the Administration Building and took a big breath of fresh air, because he needed it. He was having hallucinations. He was beginning to see faces, faces and more faces going around in a sort of a nightmare whirlpool. All of them were young faces— awed and eager and anxious to imbibe of the knowledge the said Peter Tracy was supposed to ladle out to them in graduated and digestible doses.

He had been seeing the faces— actually and in person, one at a time— all morning and afternoon. The faces, when properly attached, belonged to students of Boles University, and Peter Tracy was a member of the faculty of same, much to his surprise.

He was chubby and slightly below medium height, and he had a round, ageless face of his own and eyes that peered through rimless octagonal glasses with bland innocence. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his hair was mouse-colored and had a stubborn little clump that jutted out behind like a plume in spite of brushes, barbers, and goose grease.

Now he took a limp and wrinkled pamphlet out of his coat pocket and ran one forefinger down the columns on a page until he came to the following:

Eng. Adv. San. Prac. (Tracy)... MWF 10... 3

This was not Esperanto or even double- talk. It was the University’s way of informing students that they could take Practical Advanced Sanitary Engineering  from a man named Tracy on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 10 o’clock in the morning and get three credits for doing it, if they passed. Tracy turned the page and found another item.

Prefab. Const. Tran. (Tracy)... TTh 10... 2

This one was easy and meant that the same Tracy would tell you all about the construction and transportation of prefabricated units on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10. Tracy sighed and looked on another page.

Dia. Mon. Sys. Mod. As. (Tracy)... MTWThF 11 ... 5

This said that the man Tracy was ready to instruct you in Modern Asiatic dialects and monetary systems every day in the week, except Saturdays and Sundays, at eleven o’clock and that you could have five credits if you could stand it.

Sanitary Engineering, pre-fabricated construction, and Asiatic languages and money do not seem, at first glance, to be very closely related to each other. However, if you were building some barracks in an impenetrable swamp surrounded by impassable jungle in the middle of an ocean full of Japanese submarines, you might find they would all come in pretty handy. At least the United States Army thought so, and hence Peter Tracy was a professor.

He sighed again and put away the pamphlet and then went down the broad steps and strolled jauntily across the twilight quiet of the campus square. The air was fresh and cool against his face, laden with the drowsy tang of burning leaves. Tracy began to whistle loudly and badly. He was one of those people who can’t carry a tune, but he didn’t know it. He believed he had an excellent tonal and rhythmic sense and had often regretted he hadn’t taken up music as a career, particularly when bombs dropped on his construction projects.

HE CROSSED the boundary of the campus and turned into Melrose Avenue, alive with the pallid early-evening glow of neon signs and traffic that squawked and squeaked and moved jerkily. Students of all kinds walked fast alone and talked fast in groups that eddied and swirled along the sidewalks.

Tracy went three blocks and turned again into the shadowy peace of Chaucer Street. The houses were old here, withdrawn in their dignity behind long lawns and thick shrubbery, and Tracy had the impulse to nod at them approvingly. He liked them. They had been here a long time and endured a lot, and they were still going strong.

There was a man standing in front of the fifth house from the corner. He was holding a broom as though he were making up his mind what and where to sweep with it when he got ready to sweep but not right away. He was thin and stooped, and he wore a tweed jacket and khaki pants and a gray hat with a hole in the side of the crown. He had a dour, furrowed face and a ragged brown mustache.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re from China and way-points, and your name is Tracy, ain’t it? I’m Bagby. I’m the fireman and janitor and what-the-hell around the joint here.”

“Glad to know you,” said Tracy.

Bagby nodded. “Sure. Tracy, have you ever been in jail?”

“Oh, from time to time,” Tracy said.

“I mean, seriously. I mean, did you ever serve time in a penitentiary for a felony or like that?”

Tracy shook his head slowly. “Not that I recall.”

Bagby scratched his mustache. “Well, do you know a little slim fella about five feet four with a round face sort of on the greasy side and a black sheik’s mustache and a dimple on his chin? He’s got nice brown eyes and a kind of bashful smile, and he walks real dainty— like a cat with its feet wet.”

“Don’t know him,” said Tracy.

“You could get to know a fella like that very easy in a penitentiary. That’s where them kind of fellas spends lots of their time. That’s why I asked you was you ever in one. He knows you.”

“Could be,” Tracy admitted.

“He don’t know you well enough to suit him, though. He was askin’ me questions about you.”

“Was he?” Tracy asked idly.

“Sure. He didn’t hear nothing that’ll keep him awake nights. You honest don’t know him?”

“No.”

“Then you better find out what he wants before you run across him by accident. He’s a shooter.”

“Shooter?” Tracy repeated.

“Yeah. That don’t necessarily mean he has to have a gun to operate. He’ll use a knife or a lead pipe or anything else that comes handy. He’s on the dope, too. Oh, he don’t go around sniffin’ and twitchin’, but he uses a little bit to steady him when he thinks he needs it.”

“Sounds like a very charming person,” Tracy observed.

Bagby leaned on the broom and eyed him speculatively. “You got me bothered, Tracy. You don’t look to me like you’re speedy enough to play pitty-pat with this bird. He’s a nasty customer, and you walk around with an awful slap-happy expression on your puss. You ain’t by any chance as dumb as you act, are you?’’

Tracy nodded soberly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh,” said Bagby, with a sort of surprised interest. “I see. Well, so I ain’t gonna worry about you no more. You just go ahead and skin your own skunks. Good-bye, Tracy.”

“Good-bye, Bagby.”

Tracy went on up the walk toward the house that lolled squat and gloomily comfortable behind a guard of four oak trees. Leaves tapped and rustled dryly over him as he climbed the steep steps to the porch. The colored glass panel in the door gleamed cheerily orange and blue, and he stepped into the warmth of a narrow, dark-panelel hall. The fluted strips of glass that hung from the old-fashioned chandelier moved and tinkled a soft welcome to him.

STRONGER light came out of the square doorway that led to the study, and as Tracy walked quietly past it, a rounded and sonorously majestic voice said: “Good evening, Mr. Tracy.”

“Good evening, Mr. Montgomery,” Tracy said.

He went up the narrow stairs and along a hall carpeted with a faded red runner. Unlocking the last door on the south side, he went into his room and closed the door again before he turned on the light. He looked slowly around. Everything seemed normal, and there was no-one else in the room now, but someone had been and just recently. The odor of perfume was quite noticeable. It smelled like expensive perfume.

Tracy’s eyes focused suddenly on the heavy walnut dresser. There was a gun lying on top of it in the center of the stiff linen doily that served to cover some of the scars and cigarette burns in the dark wood. The gun belonged to Tracy, but it didn’t belong on the dresser, and he hadn’t put it there.

He walked over and picked it up thoughtfully. It was an automatic pistol, and it looked like a German Luger, but it wasn’t quite. It was a Japanese Nambu 7 millimeter officer’s model. It wasn’t loaded. Holding it in his hand, Tracy opened his flat steamer trunk and looked inside. His clothes were all there and in order, but not in the same order as he had left them.

Tracy dropped the pistol on top of them and closed the trunk. Turning out the light, he left the room. The hall was still empty, but he could hear a radio playing in one of the other rooms. He walked softly down the stairs.

“Do come in and join me,” said the rounded, sonorous voice.

Tracy entered the comforting brightness of the study. It was a square room, vast and high-ceilinged, lined with shelf after shelf of books that looked as though they had been read and liked and read again. There were two deep leather divans with lamps arched over them and matching leather chairs and a thick-legged table piled with neat stacks of magazines.

The man with the voice was lying flat on one of the divans with a newspaper spread over his face. He made a neatly graduated mound there, coming to a gently rounded prominence in the middle and sloping off at either end. He wore black, pointed shoes and gray spats. He blew on the newspaper, and it puffed up with a sudden crackle, floated away like a parachute, and then subsided reluctantly on the floor.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” he said. He had a globular head as hairless and smooth as an egg and blue eyes that looked like lacquered, polished buttons.

Tracy sat down and stared at him in silence.

“Mr. Tracy,” said the fat man, after a long moment, “I sense a certain latent hostility in your manner. Has somethipg displeased you?”

“Yes, Mr. Montgomery,” said Tracy. “Someone searched my room while I was gone.”

Montgomery pursed his lips. “I see. That sort of thing can be very annoying when carried to extremes. Do you think I’m the guilty party?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” said Montgomery. “I don’t claim, you understand, that I would be above such a thing if I thought there’d be any profit in it, but in this case I’m entirely innocent. I give you my word. Are you convinced?”

“No.”

Montgomery sighed. “I see I shall have to resort to logic and deduction. Mr. Tracy, I am the proprietor of this rooming and boarding establishment, and as such I have an interest in maintaining its pure and spotless reputation. That would suffer sadly if I did any unauthorized tampering with the possessions of my paying-guests. Besides, if I had searched your room, you wouldn’t have found it out.”

Tracy merely stared at him.

Montgomery sighed again. “You seem a reasonable person, noticeably lacking in frustrations and complexes, but I fear your residence in the mysterious East has made you unduly suspicious unless you are an international spy or saboteur or some such. Are you?”

“No.”

“Then why should anyone want to search your room?”

“Why should janitors want to tell me fairy tales?”

“Bagby?” Montgomery inquired. “That was no fairy tale he told you. There was a man here inquiring about you in a suspiciously casual manner. Also, Bagby is a very good judge of a certain type of character. He used to be a professional criminal himself. He used to blow safes until as a result of a slight miscalculation he blew himself through a brick wall and retired from business. Bagby says the man inquiring for you was a killer— a man who hires himself out to do murder for a price. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Do you have any enemies?”

“Yes. A couple of hundred million of them.”

Montgomery smiled. “You mean dear Adolf and his various assistant villains? I was referring to personal enemies who would be likely to lay out a couple of hundred dollars to have the pleasure of reading your obituary.”

Tracy shook his head. “No. I’m such a nice fellow that everyone who knows me loves me dearly.”

“You’d better count up again,” Montgomery advised. “Criminals never work for fun.”

“How do you know ?”

“I was a criminal lawyer— I use the adjective advisedly— until the evil machinations of my jealous rivals in business resulted in my disbarment. It was a lamentable miscarriage of justice. I had not, as was alleged, bribed the jury in this particular case. I had no need to. I had bribed the witnesses for the prosecution, but you can understand why I couldn’t enter that fact as a defense.... Won’t you come in and join us, Miss LaTru? It’s rather drafty out there in the hall.”

A GIRL lounged into sight and leaned in a lazily graceful way against the doorway. Her mouth was very red and moist-looking, and she held a cigarette with an inch-long ash expertly in one corner of it, squinting one heavily mascaraed eye against the smoke. She was slim and quite tall for a girl, and she wasn’t more than twenty-one or twenty-two. She had brassily golden hair that hung to her shoulders in a long sleek bob. In spite of all the camouflage, she was really very pretty.

“Hi, Counsellor,” she said. Her voice was low and hoarse.

“Good evening,” Montgomery said. “This gentleman is Mr. Peter Tracy. This is Miss Gloria LaTru, Mr. Tracy.”

“Hello,” said Tracy thoughtfully. Gloria LaTru was wearing perfume— a lot of it. It was the same kind of perfume the person who had searched Tracy’s room used.

Gloria LaTru took the cigarette out of her mouth and snapped the ash on the rug. “This ain’t so good, Counsellor. This bird looks pretty young and spry, and he ain’t exactly repulsive, either.”

“Thanks,” said Tracy. “Shall I take a bow?”

“Never mind,” said Montgomery. “Miss LaTru, I don’t like to appear unduly dense, but just what has Mr. Tracy’s appearance or lack of it got to do with either you or me?”

“Pappy picked this joint because it was a faculty boarding house and supposed to be full of old fuddie-duddies,” Gloria LaTru explained. “He ain’t gonna like it when he finds out Pete flops here.”

“I suppose by Pete you mean Mr. Tracy,” Montgomery said. “But who is Pappy?”

“My li’l ole sugar-daddy.”

“Oh,” said Montgomery.

Gloria LaTru nodded at Tracy. “It ain’t that I got anything against you, Pete. In fact, I think you’re kinda cute in a negative way, but li’l ole Pappy is awful jealous. He gets himself all in a dither if I just smile at anybody that ain’t at least a hundred years old.”

Montgomery said: “This Pappy has some— ah— control over your actions?”

“Well, sure. I told you he’s my li’l ole sugar-daddy. He’s putting up the dough for me to go to college with.”

“Why?” Tracy asked, interested.

“To learn me to be an actress. Ain’t that a sketch, kids? Can you picture me as an actress? Man, I’d sure panic the populace. But ever since Pappy dug me out of the pickle factory, he’s been at me to get refined, and I guess maybe this is about the least painful way to do it. I think maybe I’m even going to like it around here.”

“I’m sure you will,” Montgomery told her, “if Pappy allows you to stay. If he does, I’m afraid he’ll have to put up with Mr. Tracy’s presence on the premises. You may inform him that appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, Mr. Tracy is a bonafide member of the University’s faculty.”

“Yeah?” said Gloria LaTru. “What brand of bilge do you give out with, Pete?”

“Just junk and stuff,” said Tracy.

“Hardly that,” Montgomery denied. “Have you ever heard of the American Volunteer Group, Miss LaTru?”’

“Nope.”

Montgomery sighed. “Have you ever heard of the Flying Tigers?”

“Oh, you mean those babies that used to fly against the Japs before Pearl Harbor? Sure! You mean, Pete is a flier with that outfit?”

“It no longer exists,” said Montgomery. “It is now part of the United States Army Air Force. But there were other people besides fliers in the Group  Mr. Tracy was one of them. He is an engineer— a specialist in construction and transportation and sanitation and such matters. He is now instructing would-be officers in the University under the sponsorship of the War Department.”

“Gee,” said Gloria LaTru. “He don’t look smart enough for all that, does he? Did you ever kill any Japs, Pete?”

“I never saw any,” Tracy answered, “closer than two miles away— straight up.”

“You got bombed, huh?”

Tracy nodded. “Every afternoon at two sharp.”

“Were you scared?”

“You’re damned right,” said Tracy.

A thin, small, discouraged-looking youth looked in the doorway and stated sadly: “Dinner’s ready about now.”

“Mr. Penfield has not come down yet, Samson,” Montgomery told him. “Will you call him, please?”

“Is Penfield the bald little guy who tip-toes through the halls?” Gloria LaTru asked. “Looks something like a mouse?”

“He is small,” Montgomery said.

“Also screwy,” said Gloria LaTru. “He squeaked at me.”

“Mr. Penfield is very shy,” Montgomery told her.

“He sure shied at me. Let’s feed. Give me your flipper like in society, Pete.”

She took Tracy’s arm in a warmly possessive grasp and pulled him toward the door.

2: Glamorous Gloria

THE TABLE was long and narrow under a huge chandelier that dripped a cascade of dusty crystal pendants. Gloria LaTru and Tracy sat opposite each other in the middle, and Montgomery and Penfield sat at either end.

“It seems a little lonesome now,” Montgomery said. “Things will liven up when Treat and Totten and the rest return from their vacation and the semester starts.”

“Who are Treat and Totten?” Tracy asked.

“They are research assistants in anatomy.”

“In what?” Gloria LaTru demanded.

“Anatomy.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” she promised. “They won’t get away with any home work around me. Say, Benny, what do you do for a living?”

Penfield was caught with a mouthful of potatoes and pork chop, and he made pitiful little choking noises and blushed fiery red. He was a small, squeamish man, bald except for a kewpie-like spiral of colorless hair on top of his head.

Montgomery came to his rescue. “Mr. Penfield is an assistant professor in the history department. He’s a noted authority on early Grecian folk-lore. He has written several texts that are used extensively.”

“Gee, an author!” said Gloria LaTru. “Will you autograph me a book, Penny?”

“Gl-gladly,” said Penfield, regarding her with a sort of dread fascination.

Samson, the discouraged-looking youth, came in to remove the dishes. He wore thick glasses, and his trips back and forth from the kitchen had fogged the lenses until they looked like twin blacked-out portholes.

“Hey, Goliath,” Gloria LaTru said. "Can you see through those cheaters when they’re gummed up that way?”

“No,” Samson answered.

“Then why don’t you clean ’em off?”

“There’s nothing around here I care to look at,” said Samson, returning to the kitchen.

“Wheel” said Gloria LaTru. “I got snubbed, I bet.”

“Samson is a student at the University,” Montgomery explained. “He earns his meals by waiting on table here. He is studying political trends and world economics now, and it depresses him.”

“Do you expect any other roomers besides Treat and Totten?” Tracy inquired.

Montgomery nodded. “Two more, that I know of. Miss Andrew— she’s an associate professor in bio-chemistry— and a Mr. Brazil.”

“What does he do?” Tracy asked.

“I really don’t know. He sent me a telegram the other day and asked me to reserve a room for him. He gave some very excellent references— financial ones. I suspect he’s interested in some sort of graduate work.”

The swing-door into the kitchen squeaked open, but instead of Samson a plump, gray-haired woman appeared and smiled at them in a welcoming way. She wore a crisp white apron over a black dress that rustled slightly when she moved.

“This is Mrs. Harkness,” Montgomery said. “She is our chef. The chops were delightful, Mrs. Harkness, and the custard was really superb.”

Gloria LaTru said: “Swell. I’m full as a goat.”

Mrs. Harkness bobbed her head, beaming. “Thank you. I do so want you all to enjoy your food. If there’s anything special any of you like, I wish you’d tell me. I’ll try my best to please you.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen.

“She’s nice,” said Gloria LaTru.

“Yes,” Montgomery agreed casually. “She’s really the most charming murderess I’ve ever met, I think.”

“The most charming what?” Tracy asked.

“Murderess. She split her husband’s head with an axe. He really deserved it, though. He had a wart on his nose, and besides he beat her.”

“Why didn’t she just leave him?”

Montgomery shook his head. “Oh, no. If she had done that, he would certainly have divorced her, and divorce is against Mrs. Harkness’ principles.”

“Oh,” said Tracy. “Did you defend her?”

“Yes,” said Montgomery. “And a very nice job I did, too.”

“Did you bribe the jury?” Tracy inquired.

“No.”

“The witnesses?”

Montgomery winked at him. “Guess again.”

“The judge?”

“Right,” said Montgomery.

“You must have been a handy man to know in your time,” Tracy observed, standing up. “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll run along. I have an appointment downtown at eight.”

“Aw, Pete!” said Gloria LaTru. “Stick around, kid. I’m’lonesome, and there’s a swell little beer joint down on Melrose where they have a juke box and a place to dance.”

Tracy shook his head. "Sorry. Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow night, then. Huh, Pete?”

“O.K.,” said Tracy.

“Mr. Tracy,” said Montgomery, “you may leave in confidence that certain— ah— occurrences will not— ah— recur. And, if I might be so bold as to advise you, I would suggest that you proceed at reduced speed and with all due caution and on lighted streets.”

“I’ll make out,” said Tracy. “Goodbye, all.”

TRACY pushed through the heavy bronze doors of the Exchange Club and entered the hushed quiet of its small lobby. An attendant in a white coat trimmed with gold braid came forward and bowed deftly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I had an appointment with Mr. Stillson,” Tracy told him. “Mr. Bartholomew Stillson. Is he here?”

“Yes, sir. He’s in the lounge. Down the hall— the second door on your right. May I take your coat and hat?”

Tracy gave them to him and walked down the hall on a carpet so thick and springy it had a luxurious life of its own. The lounge was a long, dim cavern with flames sputtering greedily around the huge log in the fireplace at the far end of the room.

Bartholomew Stillson was hunched forward in a chair, staring gloomily into the fire. He bulked heavily in the shadows— thick and broad-shouldered and tall— and his hair glistened silvery-white. His face had a grim, determined strength in it, even now in repose. His jaw was massively wide, and his blue eyes were hard and wary and determined.

“Hello,” said Tracy.

Stillson jerked around to look at him. “Who are you?”

“The name is Tracy.”

Stillson stared at him blankly for a second and then reared upright in his chair and bellowed: “Elmer! El-mer!”

Elmer was an older and more suave replica of the attendant in the lobby. He materialized noiselessly in-the service door at the side of the room.

“Yes, Mr. Stillson.”

Stillson pointed a thick forefinger at Tracy. “Look! Why didn’t you remind me he was coming tonight ? What’s the matter with you, anyway? Why don’t I get some service around this mausoleum?”

"You didn’t tell me to remind you.”

“I did so!” Stillson bellowed fiercely.

“You did not,” Elmer contradicted in a calm but positive way.

“When shall I come back?” Tracy asked.

“Come back nothing!” Stillson shouted. “Come in here! I’m getting old and senile. I can’t keep my appointments straight any more. I promised to go over to some damned director’s meeting at the Seaforth National tonight, but that can wait for awhile. Elmer, go bring some of my brandy. Tracy, my boy, come over here and sit down and get warm. How are you? I’m glad to meet you. You look enough like your old man to be his twin brother.”

“That’s a compliment,” Tracy said.

“It is, son, and don’t you forget it. When your old man died, this country lost one of the finest scholars and teachers it will ever have. I loved the old rascal even if he did flunk me and get me bounced out of college. I owe everything to him. Why, if I’d stayed in college I might have got a degree and become a professor or some damned thing! As it is, do you know what I am, Tracy ?”

“What?” Tracy asked.

“I’m a millionaire. It’s a fact. I’m a real, honest-to-God millionaire. Would you believe it?”

“Yes,” said Tracy.

Stillson shook his head groggily. “Well, it sure baffles me at times. I never thought I’d be worth a damn. But anyway, what’s all this I hear about you taking a job teaching in Boles University?”

“Just for a semester, I think.”

“Well, that’s not as bad as it could be. But what did you want to take a job like that for? I wrote you seventeen times to every place I could imagine you might be stationed when I heard you were with the A.V.G., and when I heard the Group was going to be taken into the Army and you might be coming back here, I cabled you a dozen times. I’ve got a job for you, son. I’ve got a hell of a fine job for you. What’re you doing at Boles University?”

Tracy said: "I’m a civilian employee of the Army at the moment. I was assigned to teach there.”

“What’re you going to do after you get through?”

“Go into the Army as an officer.”

“What kind of an officer?”

“A First Lieutenant in the Engineers.”

“Well, why?” Stillson demanded.

“I want to go back to China.”

“He wants to go back....” Stillson repeated, stunned. “After dodging bombs for three solid years, you want to go back and do it some more? Are you crazy? You need a rest! You’ve got to take a job with me! I’m building air fields and Army barracks and hospitals and training camps from Halifax to Hell, and I got to have some expert help!”

“I’d rather be in the Army, thanks.”

Elmer came back with a decanter of brandy and served it in shimmering crystal goblets and disappeared again.

STILLSON held his goblet out toward the fire and swirled the brandy in it. “I can see that this is going to take some thought. I can see that you are as screwy as your old man, if not more so. This is very valuable work I’m doing, son. I’m right in there punching with the old war effort, and a lot of it is all new to me. I know something about construction, but not about this kind. You do. How long is a semester?”

“About four and a half months.”

“And this one starts next week? O.K., then. I’ve got that long to make you sensible. I’ll get you to work for me if I have to slam you over the head with your own slide-rule. You aren’t married, are you?”

“No,” said Tracy.

“That’s it!” said Stillson triumphantly. “You need a wife, Tracy. I can see that. A wife would soon talk you out of any nutty notions about going to China. I’ll start looking for one for you right away. I’ve got some fine prospects in mind. I know! I'll have a party, by God! I’ll invite them all and let you take your pick!”

“Maybe the one I picked wouldn’t like me.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Stillson ordered. “Any girl would jump at you like a shot. Now, when are you going to move in?”

“Move in where?” Tracy asked.

“Into my joint, of course. I’ve got a whole damned castle up on a hill north of town. It’s so big I rattle around in it like a peanut in a hogshead. I have to come down here to the Club all the time to keep from going loony. You move in and keep me company.”

“I appreciate it,” Tracy told him. “And thanks a lot. But I’d rather stay down near the University. I’ve taken a room in a boarding-house at 1212 Chaucer Street. It’s under the name of Montgomery in the directory.”

“You’re a hard guy to do business with,” Stillson said gloomily. “You don’t co-operate worth a damn. But I’ll persuade you. I’ll put my mind on it. And wait until you see the girls I’m going to dig up and the party I’m going to throw for you! You’ll fall like a busted elevator. Now look, Tracy, I’m sorry as all get out, but I’ve got to go over and listen to those bankers mumble in their beards. It was an awful thing— forgetting our appointment— and I apologize a thousand times.”

“It’s all right,” said Tracy. “I didn’t have anything to do, anyway.”

“Elmer!” Stillson shouted. “El-mer!”

“Yes, Mr. Stillson,” said Elmer quietly-

“Fix Tracy up with a club guest-card. Peter Tracy, Boles University. You stick around here now, Tracy. There’s everything you want to amuse yourself— billiards, bowling, gym, swimming pool— I’ll give you a ring tomorrow or the next day. 1212 Chaucer—Montgomery. Yeah, I’ll remember it. See that he’s amused, Elmer. Good-bye, Tracy. It was a hell of a pleasure to meet you. I’ve got to run. Good-bye.”

His feet thumped hurriedly down the hall for about twenty paces and then thumped back again.

“Tracy,” he said from the doorway, “I want to ask you a personal question.”

“Go ahead,” Tracy invited.

“Is that your best suit?”

“Why, yes,” Tracy admitted, looking down at his sober blue serge.

“I thought so. I didn’t imagine you’d find many places to buy good clothes in China. So far you’ve refused everything I wanted to do for you, and you can’t turn me down on this. I insist. Here.” Stillson snapped a card across the room. “That’s my tailor. He’s a wizard. You go to him and get fixed up. I want you to look your prettiest when your future wife sees you for the first time. And don’t forget my party, either. I’ll call you. Good-bye.”

His feet thumped away.

“Mr. Stillson is a very busy man,” Elmer said. “He’s the director of more than a dozen companies, and the war has added tremendously to his responsibilities.”

“I know,” Tracy said, picking up the tailor’s card and putting it in his pocket. “I’m going to take him up on the clothes offer. This suit is five years old if I remember rightly. I had to leave most of my stuff in China.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” said Elmer. “The tailor is very good. Mr. Stillson even sent me there to get a suit. My wife says it is the best-looking one I ever had. Is there anything I can get you now, Mr. Tracy?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to go along home in a minute.”

“Please wait until I make out your guest-card. It will take just a short time. Have another glass of Mr. Stillson’s brandy. It’s really excellent. I find that it is especially soothing when consumed in front of an open fire.”

Tracy smiled. “All right. I’ll have another.”

3: Nocturnal Attack

TRACY dismissed his taxi at the corner of Melrose and Chaucer and strolled along through the moving shadows toward the Montgomery house. He felt warm and relaxed and comfortable, and he was humming slightly off-key when he turned in the front walk. He stopped humming abruptly when a man stepped out of the darkness under the four oak trees.

“Peter Tracy,” said the man, as though he were checking a name off a list.

Tracy had felt this same frozen horror once before, when he had opened the front door of his bungalow and found a king cobra coiled in the middle of the living-room floor. He could not see this man’s face, but he had a quick and daintily precise way of moving that was chillingly reminiscent of the snake, and now an automatic made a darting, dark gleam in his right hand.

Bagby’s voice said suddenly: “Drop that gun, fancy-pants, and stick up your hands!”

The man with the gun whirled to face the sound, and Tracy jumped for him. He got a double-grip on the wrist of the hand with the gun in it. He whirled himself, then, and bent forward, trying to throw the other man over his shoulder.

The other man had cat-like agility. He didn’t throw. He tripped Tracy instead, and the two of them slammed down hard on the ground and rolled over and over again with Tracy still holding onto the wrist, and then the other man kneed him in the stomach with his full weight behind it.

Tracy doubled up with a soundless cry of agony. The wrist and hand slid out of his grasp, but they left the automatic behind. Tracy threshed and groaned on the ground, trying to get hold of the gun, trying to get up.

There was a flat, spatting sound and a thud on the ground, and then feet ran away in a hurrying, quick whisper that faded instantly. Somebody put an arm under Tracy and heaved him up to his feet.

“Did he knife you?” Bagby asked.

"No,” Tracy gasped. “Knee... stomach.”

“You’re lucky,” Bagby told him. “He popped me one right in the mouth.” He made a sucking sound and then spat something white. “That was one of my best teeth. Hey! Where you going?”

“Chase....”

“Come back here, you dope. You couldn’t run ten feet in the shape you’re in, and anyway you might as well try to catch moonbeams as that guy. He had it all laid out. He blew around the house and through the gate in the back fence and down the alley. He’s two blocks from here by now.”

Tracy straightened up slowly and painfully. “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“Me?” said Bagby. “Say, I didn’t have no gun. I don’t dare carry one. I’m on parole. They catch me with a gun, and I’d be slapped away in the sneezer for the rest of my natural life as a habitual criminal.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“How do you like that?” said Bagby. “I save the guy’s life, and he wants to give me an argument about how I did it! I didn’t know whether to believe what you told me this afternoon or not. I thought maybe you might actually know the guy and not want to admit it. I spotted him hanging around here waiting for you, so I waited, too. When I saw he really meant to blast you, I yelled.”

Tracy kneaded his stomach gingerly. “Thanks.”

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Was this the same man who was asking about me?”

“Yeah,” Bagby answered. “Say, what’s this all about, Tracy? Who’s out to put the twitch on you?”

Tracy drew a deep, exploratory breath. “It’s just crazy. It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t got any personal enemies that I know of. I haven’t even been in the United States for three years. I’m just exactly what I claim to be— a civilian employee of the Army assigned to teach here at Boles University.”

“You ain’t got any military secrets tattooed on your toe nails, have you?”

“No!” said Tracy. “I wouldn’t know a military secret if it bit me!”

“Something almost did,” Bagby observed. “Is that his gun? Let me see.”

Tracy handed him the automatic.

“Yeah,” said Bagby. “Like I thought. It’s one of those Spanish mail order babies. Lots of shooters use them. After they knock you off, they just drop the gun beside you and scram. There’s no way to trace the gun, and if they catch the guy even ten feet from your body they can’t prove he shot you unless somebody saw him doin’ it.”

“I didn’t believe there were actually any people like that.”

“Where you been all your life?” Bagby demanded. “There’s plenty of ’em. It don’t take no brains to be a killer. You just have to be cold-blooded and fast on your feet. These here professionals, they don’t go in for fancy-work. They don’t put poison on pins or ground glass in your soup or any dream stuff like that. They just shoot you and run. You’d be surprised how few of ’em get caught at it, too. Here, take this gun back. I don’t want it.”

TRACY put the automatic in his pocket.

“The whole business is still insane. Maybe the man who is after me is a maniac.”

“Not him,” Bagby said flatly. “He was a little hopped up on marijuana tonight— did you smell his breath? But he ain’t by no means nuts. He was after you in person. He knows who you are. He knows you come from China. He told me that when he was tryin’ to pump me this afternoon.”

“What did he want to know about me?”

“He was just scouting. He wanted to be sure you lived here, and if you ate here, and did I know if you went out at night much, and did you have a dame, and all such like that. I answered him with a lot of double-talk.”

“But why should anyone want to kill me?”

Bagby regarded him thoughtfully in the darkness. “Do you wanta find out?”

“Well, certainly!”

“I can locate this guy for you, but I ain’t gonna do it if you’re gonna turn him over to the cops. I’m no squeaker.” “How can you locate him?”

“I got ways. I can find anybody in this burg that’s on the wire.”

“On the wire?” Tracy repeated.

“Crooked,” Bagby explained. “I mean, any professional. Amateurs I don’t fool with. But this guy ain’t. He’s an old hand.”

“Well....” Tracy said doubtfully. “What good would it do to locate him? I’m not one of these brave and bold boys who like to set themselves up as targets for people.”

“Oh, we’ll fix that. You got any dough?”

“A little.”

“Two or three hundred bucks you can spare?”

“Yes.”

“O.K.,” said Bagby. “We’ll just offer the guy more for talking than the guy that’s hirin’ him is offerin’ him for shooting you. He’ll talk. That’s the trouble with them killers. They’re dishonest. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. I got to go now and put a hot water bottle on this tooth of mine.”

“Well— thanks again.”

“You can buy me a beer for Christmas,” Bagby said. He went around the comer of the house, heading for the back door.

Tracy went up the steps to the porch and groped in the gloom for the front door knob. The light inside was not burning now, and he opened the door and stepped into the warm, thick blackness of the hall. He felt along the wall beside the door, seeking the switch, and then he stiffened warily, turning his head a little.

Very quietly he took the automatic out of his pocket and then took two long steps forward in the darkness and thrust the gun out straight ahead of him. The muzzle prodded into something soft and yielding, and there was a sudden painful gasp.

“Stand still,” said Tracy.

“Puh-Pete,” said Gloria LaTru. “It’s just— just me.”

“You’re just about enough, too,” said Tracy. “What are you doing sneaking around here?”

“I wasn’t! I heard something... Pete, what happened outside?”

“Bagby and I were just playing fun.”

“You— you poked me right in the stomach. It hurt. What did you poke me with?”

“A gun.”

“Oh! The same... I mean, is it loaded?”

“It is,” Tracy answered. “And it’s not the same one you found in my trunk. What were you looking for in the trunk ?”

“I didn’t! I never—”

“Do you want me to poke you again?”

“No! Pete, I— I lied to you kind of.”

“Am I surprised,” said Tracy.

“Well, I did work in a pickle factory once, but that isn’t where Pappy found me. He found me in court. I was— was charged with shop-lifting. Pappy got me released on probation and— and—”

“And,” Tracy finished. “This is all very interesting, but what about my trunk?”

“Well, Pappy doesn’t give me any money at all. He lets me buy anything I want, when he’s with me, but he never gives me any money of my own. I thought you were an old dopey professor, and that there might be something in your trunk that you’d be so absent-minded you would not miss, and that I could— could—”

“Steal it and pawn it,” said Tracy.

“Yes, Pete. I’m awful sorry. I’m scared of guns. I lifted that one out of your trunk all right, but I was afraid to put it back in again for fear it might shoot or something. I didn’t steal anything, Pete. Honest. And I won’t bother any of your stuff again. Aw, don’t get mad and go tell on me, please.”

“O.K.,” said Tracy wearily. “But I don’t want to hear of anyone else around here missing things.”

“They won’t. Honest, Pete. I promise. You ain’t mad at me now, are you?”

“No,” said Tracy.

“Do you— you like me, Pete?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Pete.”

“What?” said Tracy.

“You’re still gonna take me to the beer hall tomorrow night, ain’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Pete.”

“What?”

“Would you like— to kiss me?”

"Not right now,” said Tracy. “Run along.”

Gloria LaTru said: “You’re sure a surprising character, Petesey. You look dumb, but you ain’t. I think you’re pretty sharp, myself.”

“Go away,” said Tracy.

HIGH heels made suddenly sharp taps on the front porch, and someone came in the hall and said in a disgusted voice: “Saving electricity again!”

The light switch snapped, and the chandelier jumped into sudden brilliance.

“Well!” said the woman in the doorway. “In fact—well, well, well! Can this be true? Things and stuff going on in dear old Montgomery’s respectable boarding house?”

She was tall and bony and gray-haired, and the skin on her face was tanned to the shade of new saddle-leather. She wore a tailored blue suit, and she was carrying a black traveling case in her right hand.

“We live here,” said Gloria LaTru.

“So do I,” said the woman. “My dear, if I had as nice an anatomy as you have, I’d wear a lace nightgown like that, too, but not in public under a bright light.”

“Oh!” said Gloria LaTru, suddenly remembering. “Oh!” She whirled around and ran headlong up the stairs.

“My, my,” said the bony woman, watching her. “How did she ever get into this home for the aged and decrepit ?”

There was a shrill, startled squeak from the hallway upstairs. Feet pattered along it, and then Penfield appeared at the top of the stairs. He was bundled up in a moth-eaten blue bathrobe, and his face was white and stiff with shock.

“A woman!” he said. “In the hall! In— in a nightgown! At least, I think it was a nightgown! I never saw anything like—” He saw the bony woman and ducked back out of sight.

“Penfield!” she called.

Penfield’s head protruded cautiously around the newel post.

“Introduce us,” the woman ordered.

“Miss Andrew, may I present Mr. Tracy?” Penfield said hastily. “Mr. Tracy — Miss Andrew.” He ducked back out of sight again.

Miss Andrew nodded to Tracy. “I’m bio-chemistry. What are you?”

“I’m sort of spraddled around between engineering and modern languages.”

“You’re one of the new War Department boys, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Miss Andrew. “You’re what we need around here. The University was accumulating too much old ivy on the walls and too much old ivory in the professors’ heads. I’m sorry I interrupted your little jam session. You should hang out a warning sign.”

“I was trying to get rid of her,” Tracy said.

“Then you must be even dumber than you look,” said Miss Andrew.

“You don’t know her.”

“I’ve got eyes, though,” said Miss Andrew. “I didn’t notice you hiding your head when she ran upstairs, either. I’ll bet she’s going to liven things up around this imitation of a tomb.”

“If she only stops there,” Tracy observed, “everything will be dandy. Goodnight.”

4: Chinaman’s Cunning

IT WAS dusk the next day when Tracy came dragging his heels up Chaucer Street, too tired even to whistle. During the day he had interviewed another couple of hundred students anxious to enroll in his proposed classes. It seemed that there was no end of them. As a matter of fact this was worrying the University authorities, too. They hadn’t anticipated that so many people would be so anxious to pick up the pearls of wisdom that fell from Tracy’s ruby lips. Tracy had experience and practical knowledge. The students wanted to hear about that. They were tired of theory, no matter how high-flown and brass-bound it might be.

Tracy was turning into the walk of the Montgomery house when a voice from across the street called: “Hey! Hey, son!”

Tracy turned around warily. A mailman humped under a bulging leather bag, limped across the pavement toward him.

“Are you goin’ into Montgomery’s, son?”

“Yes,” said Tracy.

“Take these two letters, will you? They are for Treat and Totten.”

“I don’t think they’re here yet,” Tracy said.

“Just leave ’em inside the door on the table, then. It’ll save me a few steps, son, and my feet are awful sore. Will you?”

“Sure,” said Tracy, accepting the two long manila envelopes.

“Thanks, son. What’s your name?”

“Peter Tracy.”

“Tracy,” said the mailman. “Tracy at Montgomery’s. Nothing for you today, but I’ll remember who and where you are. So long.”

He went limping on down the street, and Tracy went up the front walk toward the house. He looked around, but he couldn’t see Bagby anywhere, and he went up on the porch and through into the front hall. There was a loud burst of laughter, dominated by Gloria LaTru’s contralto giggle, from the study. Tracy looked in

“Pete!” Gloria LaTru greeted enthusiastically. “Look what I found! These are Teeter and Totter!”

She was sitting on one of the leather divans, like a queen holding an audience, and two men had pulled up chairs close in front of her.

One of the men jumped up now and stood at exaggeratedly rigid attention. He was very tall and thin, and he wore horn-rimmed spectacles balanced precariously on the end millimeter of his nose. He thrust a skinny right arm out straight, palm-down.

“The name is Treat,” he barked. “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler,” Tracy answered. “Here is a letter for you.”

The second man got up and bowed six times rapidly. He was short and round and he had a pudgily pink face.

“The name is Totten,” he said. “Oh, so-o-o. Banzai Hirohito, prease!”

“The accent is on the second syllable,” Tracy informed him. “Here’s a letter for you, too.”

“Of course their names are really Treat and Totten,” Gloria LaTru said. “But I think Teeter and Totter are more fun, don’t you, Pete?”

“Sure,” said Tracy. “Do I get introduced to your other admirer?”

The man was sitting back in the corner in the shadow, and he was smiling in a politely amused way. He had a round, smoothly olive face and black, lacquered hair. His teeth were very white and even.

“Oh, yes,” said Gloria LaTru. “This is Mr. Brazil. This is Pete Tracy, Mr. Brazil.”

Tracy nodded. “Mr. Brazil—of Brazil, I presume?”

“Peru,” said Mr. Brazil.

“Mr. Brazil of Peru,” Tracy corrected. “I’m very glad to know you.”

“I assure you that it is mutual,” said Mr. Brazil.

“AH-HAH!” Treat exclaimed, waving the envelope in the air. “Ah-hah! I made it! I enter our armed forces as a sergeant as of next month! Totten, you worm, just wait until I get you in my awkward squad! Squads right! Shoulder arms!”

"In the future,” said Totten loftily, “when you find it necessary to address me, Sergeant, kindly say ‘sir’.”

“What!” Treat shouted, outraged. He snatched the envelope out of Totten’s hand. “A commission as a Second Lieutenant! Conspiracy! Fraud! Tracy! What is our Army coming to? Can you imagine making a drooling moron like this an officer?”

“You forget,” said Totten, “that I have had four years of advanced military training.”

“Advanced military horse-radish,” Treat said rudely. “Let me see... Ho! Infantry! No wonder! Anybody can be an officer in the Infantry! All they do is run around and sleep in ditches! I’m in the Air Force!”

“Gnats,” said Totten. “Flies. Buzzards. The Infantry is the Queen of Battle.”

“Pooey! Tracy, give this idiot a lecture on the rudiments of modern military strategy!”

“You two fight it out,” Tracy advised. “Personally I prefer the Engineers.”

“The man is mad, Totten,” said Treat.

“Obviously,” Totten agreed. “An advanced mental case. He should be confined.”

Montgomery appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Tracy, you are wanted on the telephone. You’ll find it right under the stairs, there.”

Tracy wormed himself into a tiny, slant-roofed closet lined with plasterboard that was decorated with pencil- written telephone numbers and appropriate comments on same and picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” he said.

“Bartholomew Stillson speaking. Tomorrow night.”

“What’s tomorrow night?” Tracy asked.

“The party I’m giving for you! Up at my place on the hill. Come any time after eight. I’m sorry for such short notice, but I couldn’t have it over the weekend because there’s a big USO blow-out coming off, and everybody is going to that. You can make it tomorrow night, can’t you?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you’ve got to come, Tracy! You should see the girls I’ve collected for you! I told them all you were a war hero, and they’re waiting with bated breath and starry eyes! You’ll have a dozen to pick from!”

“I’ll be there,” said Tracy.

“O.K. Good-bye, Tracy.”

Tracy hung up and squirmed out of the closet. Gloria LaTru was waiting just outside the door.

“Who was that, Pete?” she asked.

“A guy,” said Tracy.

“Where you going tomorrow night?”

“Out.”

“With another dame, huh?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Tracy inquired.

“Aw, Pete. Don’t be mean. You’re going to take me to the beer parlor tonight, remember ?”

“Yes,” said Tracy wearily.

Montgomery came out of the dining room. “Dinner is served now, if you’re ready.”

“Where’s Bagby?” Tracy asked him.

Montgomery shook his smooth head. “I don’t know, really. Probably lying in the gutter somewhere dead drunk. I haven’t seen him all day. Shall we eat?”

“Come on, Pete,” said Gloria LaTru. “You sit by me.”

THE BULL and BOAR was a beer hall with collegiate variations. It was a narrow, noisy room devoid of all pretense at decoration with a short service bar at one end, a juke box in the middle, and rows of heavy-topped tables along each wall. The waitresses wore white starched uniforms, and they were all co-eds working their way through the University. If you tried to tip one of them you were liable to get your face slapped, and if you attempted to make what are known as advances you were lucky if you escaped with some minor injury like a fractured skull. The management had no objections if you wanted to get drunk in the place, but the customers did. At the first wobble, you got the heave-ho from such assorted football players and shot putters as happened to be present.

The place was crowded and the juke box was tearing away at a tune when Tracy followed Gloria LaTru in through the front door. The noise was deafening. “Cute, huh?” said Gloria LaTru

“Wait until I see which tables Etta is serving. I met her when we were registering. Etta!”

A small, dark girl in a waitress’ uniform slid through the squirming press of dancers around the juke box.

“Hello, Gloria. Sit over at this table.”

They sat down at a table near the door, and Etta said: “Is this he, Gloria?”

“Yeah,” said Gloria LaTru. “This is

“What’ll you have?” Etta asked. "A couple of beers?”

“Whatever is right,” Tracy answered, a little dazed by all the sound and fury.

Etta went away and came back again with two quart bottles of beer and two tall glasses. “Sixty cents,” she said. She took the change from Tracy and hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Gloria LaTru urged.

“Mr. Tracy,” said Etta, “I want to get in that class of yours in Modern Asiatic dialects.”

“Oh,” said Tracy vaguely. “Do you?”

“Yes. I’m a language major, and I’m sure I can handle it, and I want to take the course. But they won’t let me.”

“Why not?” Tracy asked, surprised.

“They say it’s just for men who are going into the Army. They won’t admit any girls.”

“Oh,” said Tracy. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, won’t you make an exception for me, Mr. Tracy? It won’t make any difference, really. You’ve got too big a class already for recitations.”

“Have I?” Tracy inquired.

“Why, yes. You’ve got a hundred and fifty-three registrants for the course now. If you called on students to recite, you wouldn’t get through the class roll twice in a semester. You’ll have to lecture.”

“Lecture?” Tracy echoed, horrified. “Me?”

“Yes. I’ll sit in the back of the room, and I won’t bother anyone. It certainly can’t do any harm if I just listen, can it?”

“No,” Tracy admitted. “I really don’t know much about this business, Etta, but I tell you what you do. You fill out a class card and leave it on my desk— I’m in 203 in the Administration Building. I’ll just slip it into my files and register you in the class. Nobody’s told me anything about not admitting girls. If they do. I’ll say I’ve already promised to let you in. If anyone asks you about it, you say the same thing. We’ll edge you in some way.”

“Oh, thanks!” said Etta.

“I told you Pete was a good guy,” Gloria said.

“Call me if you want me,” Etta said. “I’ll be in your class on Monday, Mr. Tracy.”

GLORIA LaTRU poured beer expertly into her glass. “Have a beer, Petesey, and stop looking so sad.”

“Lecture,” Tracy said numbly. “That means I have to stand up there and talk for an hour every day.”

“You’ll do O.K.,” said Gloria LaTru. “You’re sharp like a razor, Pete. You’ll slay ’em. Drink some beer now, and then we’ll have us a dance. I want to see—”

An automobile horn blasted lengthily once and then again from the street outside. It was a heavy, expensive, commanding sound that penetrated clearly through the din of the juke box.

“Oh!” said Gloria LaTru, staring wide-eyed at Tracy. “That’s Pappy!”

The horn blew twice more.

Gloria LaTru stood up. “I— I’ve got to go, Pete! He’s gonna be mad.... Don’t come out with me!”

She ran quickly to the door and went out. Tracy sat frowning for a second and then got up and followed her. He didn’t go out into the street. He stopped in the shadow of the doorway and stared with one hand up to shield his eyes.

The car looked like its horn sounded. It was a big club coupe— long and sleek and black, gleaming with chrome. Gloria LaTru was getting into it, and Tracy caught just a glimpse of the driver’s face. It was thin and lined, tightly aristocratic, with a precise gray mustache. Then the door thumped behind Gloria LaTru, and the car rolled smoothly away down the street.

Tracy watched it until it turned a corner and disappeared. He was still frowning, and after a moment he went back into the beer hall and to his table. Mr. Brazil was now sitting where Gloria LaTru had been. He showed his white teeth in a smile and said: “Good evening, Mr. Tracy. Please sit down.”

Tracy lowered himself slowly into his chair. He picked up his glass of beer and sipped at it in a thoughtful way, watching Mr. Brazil.

“I wanted to talk to you,” said Mr. Brazil, “and I think this is a very nice place to do it. There is so much noise it would be impossible for anyone to eavesdrop on us. I don’t think you believed me when I said I was from Peru, did you?”

“No,” said Tracy.

“I’m not, really, although I am a South American by adoption. I’m a member of the Japanese colony on the coast just below the bulge of Brazil.”

“I can’t buy that, either,” said Tracy.

“No? Where do you think I'm from?”

“Wu-Chei Province in China.”

“You are very observant,” Mr. Brazil complimented. “And quite correct, too. So it won’t be necessary for me to waste time establishing my identity. I will proceed at once with the business at hand. You remember a town called Lao-Tsu?”

“No,” said Tracy.

“You are also discreet, I see. You know the town. You designed and supervised the construction of a secondary base hospital and rest camp for walking-wounded there.”

“Did I?” said Tracy.

“Yes. You finished it in June of 1940. I had occasion to purchase some medical supplies for that hospital. I bought some anti-tetanus vaccine for use there. That is, it was sold to me as anti-tetanus vaccine. Actually it was a concentrated solution of tetanus bacilli.”

“What?” said Tracy, startled.

Mr. Brazil smiled thinly. “Yes. Anyone who was given that supposed vaccine was virtually certain to die horribly with lock-jaw. Over five hundred slightly wounded soldiers died just that way before we found the source of the infection. Lock-jaw, you know, has quite a long period of incubation, and the wounded were coming in very fast.”

Tracy’s lips twisted. “Who would....”

“Who would do such a thing?” Mr. Brazil said. “The Japanese, of course. It was one of their horror tricks— to make Chinese soldiers distrustful of their doctors and their hospitals and also to eliminate numbers of veterans who were only slightly wounded and would be back fighting soon. I want to repeat: I was the one who purchased that supposed vaccine.”

"I see,” Tracy said slowly.

“If I were Japanese,” said Mr. Brazil, "I would commit suicide. But I am Chinese and hence a little more intelligent. I am looking for the man who sold me that vaccine. The Japanese, of course, paid him to substitute the tetanus virus for the genuine vaccine.”

“Yes,” said Tracy.

“I bought it from a man named Kars. Do you remember him?”

“Why, yes,” Tracy said. “He’s dead. He was killed in an accident on the Burma Road just before I came back to this country. I was there when it happened. We were going into Lashio. He was riding in the truck just ahead of the one I was riding in. His truck went off the road and rolled down into a canyon. He was killed instantly.”

“I know. That was before the Road was closed. You took Kars’ body into Lashio and saw that he was buried there. You took his papers and personal effects and sent them back here to the United States. You sent them to a post office box in this city which had been rented under the name of William Carter.”

Tracy nodded. “That’s right. Kars had an identification card that said to notify this Carter in case of any accident, so I wrote him a letter and sent Kars’ stuff to the address given. Have you located Carter?”

“No. There is no such person. It’s a false name. But someone collected Kars’ effects from the post office before I could get here.”

TRACY said slowly: “Well, if Kars is dead....”

“He was only an agent. Ostensibly he was hired by the Chu Sing Importing Company. That is a firm of two Chinese partners which operated in Singapore before the invasion. The partners are dead now.”

“Did the Japs kill them?” Tracy asked.

“No,” said Mr. Brazil. “I did. They were traitors. Before they died they told me that this vaccine deal had been made through a man named Ras Deu in Calcutta. He is supposed to be some sort of a broker. I went to see him. He did not wish to talk to me, but he changed his mind after I cut off two of his fingers.”

Tracy swallowed. “I can understand that.”

“However, what he told me was worth nothing. It led me back to where I started. Kars was furnishing Ras Deu with capital to act as purchasing agent. You see that three-cornered set-up— Kars and the Chu Sing Company and Ras Deu— was designed to confuse any legal investigation and to conceal the identity of Kars’ principal. Neither Ras Deu nor the Chu Sing partners knew the principal’s identity. He is the man who took Kars’ effects from the post office box, and I am very sure that he must be in this city somewhere. Now I wish to ask you some questions.”

"I’ll tell you anything I can,” said Tracy.

“Thank you. What did you find when you searched Kars’ body?”

"Nothing but a few personal effects— and very few, at that. I remember thinking about it at the time. He had a watch and a pen-knife and a good ruby ring, and he was carrying quite a lot of money. But he had no papers or letters at all—not any. I thought that was strange. He had an American passport with British and Chinese visas. He had a couple of check books— one from a bank in Singapore and the other from a bank in Delhi, I think. He had no business cards or anything else but money in his wallet— except that identity card saying to notify Carter.”

“I was afraid that would be the case,” Mr. Brazil said slowly. “Men like he was are very careful not to carry anything that would get them into trouble if they are arrested and searched. But I was hoping there might be something you saw that would give me a hint.”

Tracy shook his head. “No.”

“I wish you would try to remember everything— anything. You need not hurry about it. I will be here for some time, I think. You see, until I find another, you are my best clue.”

“I am?” said Tracy.

“Yes. You wrote to this man who sometimes calls himself Carter. He knows you were there when Kars died. I happen to know that Kars was horribly mangled in the truck wreck and died instantly, but this fake Carter can’t be sure of that. He can’t be positive that Kars didn’t talk to you before he died— confess something, rave something in delirium. Knowing the kind of a man this fake Carter must be, I think he will take steps to see that you don’t reveal anything you might have heard.”

“Yes,” said Tracy. “He might do that.”

Mr. Brazil stood up. “I would be careful if I were you, Mr. Tracy. If you recall anything that might be of help in my search, please tell me. I bid you goodnight.”

“Good-night,” said Tracy.

He sat still for a long time after Mr. Brazil had gone, frowning down at his glass of beer, ignoring the tumult that went on around him. He understood now a great many things that he hadn’t before, but understanding them didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, he felt worse. He fumbled around in his pocket and found a grimy briar pipe. He had found long since that smoking this pipe indoors made him unpopular, but he needed its comfort now. He inhaled lungs full of acrid smoke and studied the situation.

“Hi,” said Bagby. He slid into Gloria LaTru’s chair, picked up her bottle of beer, and took a long, thirsty drink out of it. “I found him. Name is Joel Winters. He’s home now. You wanta go see him ?”

“Very much so,” said Tracy.

“Got any dough on you?”

“No, but I’ve got about three hundred dollars in traveler’s checks.”

“They’re O.K. I can get 'em cashed if we need to. Come on.”

Bagby up-ended the beer bottle again and then led the way out of the beer hall and up the street to the corner of Third. There was a taxi stand there, and Bagby and Tracy got into one of the waiting cabs.

“Kester and Call,” Bagby directed.

The driver looked back over his shoulder. “They roll pretty rough down there this time of night.”

“We’re rough people,” said Bagby.

The driver shrugged. “O.K. It’s your funeral.”

5: Death Deals Double

THE DISTRICT around Kester and Call was one place that was completely enthusiastic about dim-out regulations. People in those parts liked it dark. There were no outside neon signs, and the cafe windows had been painted over until they looked like bleary, blank eyes. The street was a narrow, steep-walled trench full of shadows that moved and muttered or were suggestively silent. The police patrolled in radio cars here— four to each car— and there was a reinforced riot squad on duty at the East Station two blocks off Kester twenty-four hours a day. There were no soldiers or sailors on leave anywhere around. The neighborhood was out-of-bounds.

“Don’t think I’m gonna wait here for you,” said the taxi driver. “I got some sense.”

“Run home to momma,” Bagby advised, paying him. “That’s a buck eighty- four you owe me, Tracy. Come on.”

They walked on into the dimness of Call Street. The door of a beer parlor opened and erupted riotous music and two drunks who fought in a squalling, furious tangle in the middle of the sidewalk. Bagby stepped over and around them without a second glance.

“Reminds me a little of Port Said,” he remarked.

“Have you been there?” Tracy asked, surprised.

“Oh, sure. You got your gun, ain’t you?”

“The one I took from this bird we’re going to see.”

Bagby stopped. “What did you bring that one for? You couldn’t hit a barrage balloon at ten paces with it. Why didn’t you bring yours?”

“I haven’t got any cartridges for it— and what do you know about it, anyway?”

Bagby shrugged and walked on. “After you beefed to Montgomery, I thought maybe I better look around myself. I wouldn’t want you to be nailed with a trunkful of hashish in the joint— not while I’m livin’ there. That gun of yours is a Jap pistol, ain’t it?”

“Yes. One of the A. V. G. pilots gave it to me. It belonged to a Jap bomber pilot he shot down.”

“You know now who first searched your room, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Bagby walked on in silence, and Tracy finally said: “Well?”

“I ain’t got a thing to say,” Bagby affirmed.

Tracy hesitated. “Do you think she and this Winters...”

“Nope. He’s a cheapie. He never bought anybody— including himself—the kind of clothes she’s got. What I mean, they cost dough. Hold still a minute, now. I’m going to light a match.”

The match head snapped on his thumbnail, and he cupped his hands around the spurting yellow flame and held it up in front of his face for a second and then blew it out.

“Yeah,” a voice whispered out of the shadows.

“You sure?” Bagby asked.

The man’s face was a pallidly furtive smear. “Yeah. He’s havin’ a bit of tea. I smelled them reefers.”

“Is he alone?”

“I ain’t seen nobody.”

“O. K. Here.” Bagby reached out in the darkness. “Now blow.”

The pallid face drifted away and was gone.

Bagby said: “This Winters is touching himself up a bit with marijuana, so you better sort of get that gun ready. He might be jumpy. In this way. Watch your step. That’s six eighty-three you owe me, now.”

“Who was that you talked to ?”

“Name of Weepy Walters. Used to be a touch-off— a fire-bug— before he got the jumps. I told him to watch. Don’t talk any more.”

They went back through a narrow passageway in swimming blackness.

“Door here,” Bagby whispered. “Stairs beyond it. Our guy is sittin’ behind the second door on the right in the hall upstairs. Be quiet.”

Door hinges made a small sliding sound. Tracy brushed against Bagby’s back and then found the first step with his foot. They went up silently, stepping together, and light began to make a faint glow ahead. They came up to the level of the hall floor, and the light turned into a small, dusty bulb over a curtain-masked window at the end of the short hall.

“Back way out,” Bagby murmured. “About a twelve foot jump into another alley. Here.” He touched the pistol in Tracy’s hand meaningly and then pointed to a closed door.

Tracy stepped sideways, raising the gun. Bagby nodded approvingly and then scratched gently on the door panel with his finger-nail.

THERE was no sound from within.

“Maybe he’s passed out,” Bagby whispered. “I hope.”

He knocked once, sharply, on the door. There was still no answer. Bagby touched the door knob gently. He looked at Tracy and formed the word “unlocked” with his lips. He was frowning. He made a little motion with his hand, and Tracy stepped further to one side.

Bagby nodded, looking worried. He stepped sideways himself, against the wall, and then reached over and turned the knob and kicked the door with his heel. The door swung clear open and thumped lightly against the wall inside the room. There was no light.

“Winters,” Bagby said quietly.

No one answered. Bagby wiped some perspiration from his forehead and then took a match from his pocket and held it up for Tracy to see. He snapped the match on his thumb and flipped it around the door jamb into the room. It painted a quick streak in the darkness and then snuffed out.

“Uh!” said Bagby breathlessly.

“What?” Tracy asked.

“He’s dog meat,” Bagby said. “Inside— quick.”

He slid inside the room himself and closed the door as soon as Tracy had cleared it. He fumbled in the blackness, and then the electric light switch snapped under his hand.

The man called Winters was lying on his back on top of the narrow, rumpled bed. He had taken his coat and tie off, but he was fully dressed except for them. He was staring in mild, sightless surprise at the ceiling, and his mouth was open just a little. There was a triangular rip in his shirt-front over his heart, and blood had made a rust-colored stain around it.

“Right through the ticker,” said Bagby. “It was a friend of his. Somebody that come in and talked to him all nice and cozy until he was relaxed and then let him have it with a knife.”

“Somebody who thought the same thing you did,” Tracy said. “That he’d talk to me— if he was paid.”

“Maybe,” said Bagby. “Guys like him— they got lots of people who don’t like ’em. You take it all nice and calm, I must say.”

“I’ve seen dead people in car-load lots.”

“Oh. Well look, Tracy. I can’t report this. The cops will slam me into the sneezer even if they know I didn’t do it on account of they don’t like me.”

“How about the man outside— Weepy?”

“He won’t talk. I know some things about him that would surprise you—and the cops, too.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Where?” Bagby asked cautiously.

“Back home. I’ve got an idea—”

“Don’t tell me!” Bagby urged. “I don’t want to know what it is. From now on, I’m an innocent bystander. Falling over corpses sort of spoils my sleep. Just wait until I wipe my prints off the door and the light switch.”

IT WAS five minutes of eight the next morning when Gloria LaTru ran down the stairs into the front hall of Montgomery house and stooped with a little gasp when she saw Tracy waiting for her in the doorway of the study.

“Pete!” she said breathlessly. “You made me jump! You ain’t mad, are you? About last night?”

“No,” Tracy answered. “I want to talk to you.”

“Well, I can’t now, Pete. I’ve got an eight o’clock class, and I overslept, and if I’m late the first morning it meets it’ll make a bad impression—”

“Just a second. Who is Pappy?”

“What, Pete?”

“Who is Pappy?”

“Aw, Pete. You wouldn’t go and say anything to him or— or anything—” “Tell me his name.”

“Well, it’s Oliver Johnson. Pete, he’s awful jealous. Please don’t— don’t—”

“You’ll be late to class,” Tracy said.

Gloria LaTru stared at him for a moment, chewing on her soft under-lip, and then ran on out the front door.

Tracy looked over his shoulder. “Mr. Montgomery, have you a city directory?”

“Right here,” said Montgomery. “I just located it for you. Would you like me to give you a bit of advice?”

“No,” said Tracy.

Montgomery sighed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t very good advice anyway.”

There was only one Oliver Johnson in the directory. He was listed as the owner of a wholesale plumbing supply business on the west side. Tracy wrote down the address in his notebook, tore out the page, and took it upstairs. He knocked on the second door along the hall.

Mr. Brazil opened the door. “Yes, Mr. Tracy?”

“Will you do a favor for me?” Tracy asked. He extended the page from the notebook. “I’d like to know a little something about this man— his description, his finances, the kind of a car he drives. Can you find out?”

“Surely,” said Mr. Brazil.

Tracy went back downstairs, and Samson served him his breakfast. Fifteen minutes later, when he came out into the hall, he found Mr. Brazil waiting for him.

“Oliver Johnson,” said Mr. Brazil, “is in precarious financial circumstances at the moment because of priority difficulties in his business. He has been seeking a position in a defense factory. He is about five feet four inches tall, bald and fat, and he wears thick glasses. He drives a '36 Ford sedan.”

Tracy stared at him blankly.

Mr. Brazil smiled. “There is no magic involved. I merely made inquiries of certain people over the telephone while you were eating.”

“Thank you,” Tracy said thoughtfully.

“Not at all. Mr. Tracy, would you like to have me find out who Pappy is?”

Tracy looked at him. “Yes, I would.”

“All right,” said Mr. Brazil. “It may take a little time. Please don’t let these other matters distract your mind too much from the man, Kars, and his tetanus vaccine.”

“No,” said Tracy.

He went out on the front porch. Bagby was sitting on the steps, hunched dejectedly forward with his coat collar turned up around his ears.

“Seen the paper?” he asked.

“No,” Tracy answered.

“If you should look at it— in the right place— you would see that the police found a party named Winters in a joint off Call Street last night and that he was kind of dead. You would also see that this Winters was wanted in six states, and by the F.B.I., for various stunts he had pulled here and there. I just mention this in passing. I never seen the guy, myself. I never even heard of him. Nice day, ain’t it?”

“Very nice,” Tracy admitted.

THERE was a long curving drive up to the house that sprawled awkward and massive over the top of the hill. The curtains were drawn across the windows, but occasional little twinkles of light gleamed through like the distant sparkle of jewels, and there was a medley of voices and laughter and the smooth rhythm of a dance orchestra.

“The joint is jumping,” said Tracy’s taxi driver, pulling in front of a line of parked cars and stopping beside the front entrance. “What they celebratin’?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tracy said, getting out and paying him.

Tracy went up the steps, and the massive front door opened before he could touch the chime bell. A terrifically tall butler peered down at him over the bulge of an enormous starched shirt front. “Your name, sir?”

“Peter Tracy. I’m the cause of all the fuss here.”

The butler permitted himself to smile. “Mr. Tracy! We’re so happy you’ve arrived. We’ve been waiting for you. If you will just step into the bar— that door— I’ll locate Mr. Stillson.”

Tracy hesitated in the doorway he had pointed out. Bartholomew Stillson really believed in doing things up in first-class style. This was no temporary party bar. It looked like a high-powered cocktail salon, and it was nearly as large. It had a full size bar with stacks of glasses and bottles, and it also had a lot of customers at the moment. Men and women shoved and shouted cheerfully at each other and the three busy bartenders. Noise and billows of cigarette smoke thrust against the ceiling.

Tracy didn’t know anyone and didn’t know just what to do, so he stood there, watching. And then he did see someone he knew. On the far side of the room, standing alone against the wall. A tall, very thin man with a lined, aristocratic face and a precise gray mustache. It was Pappy. And not any Oliver Johnson of the defunct plumbing business, either. This was the genuine article. This was the man who had picked up Gloria LaTru at the Bull and Boar.

He was looking bored in a well-bred way, and then he noticed Tracy. He stared full at him, unwinking, for ten seconds, and then the skin seemed to whiten slightly across his high cheekbones. He began to move unobtrusively along the wall toward the door opposite Tracy.

Tracy began to move, too, edging through the crowd to head him off. The orchestra in the other room suddenly hit a couple of clashing chords and then galloped full-tilt into a conga. The crowd shoved and swirled away from the bar eagerly, and Tracy was caught in it and pushed along willy-nilly. He lost sight of Pappy, and then in the doorway of what was evidently the ballroom he shook free of the crowd and started back into the bar.

“Tracy! Here! Wait!”

It was Bartholomew Stillson. He was cornered over behind the orchestra in a group of women, and he waved his thick arms in wildly beckoning gestures.

Tracy flipped a hand in reply and went on into the bar. A few thirsty guests were gulping the last of their drinks, but Pappy wasn’t among them. Tracy saw another door and went through it and along a hall into a lounge.

The lounge was empty, but one of the drapes against the end wall moved and swished slightly.

Tracy went over to it and pulled it aside. The tall french window in back of it was ajar, and he stepped through it into a formal, sunken garden. White gravel walks radiated in geometrical precision, and Tracy stared down the nearest one, squinting his eyes to see in the dim, diffused shadows.

A shot made a sudden dull thump in the night. Tracy stopped short, turning his head first one way and then the other, trying to locate the sound. Running feet skittered along one of the graveled paths near him.

Tracy started to run himself. He turned one right-angled curve, pounded down another stretch of empty path, turned sharply again. He stopped, then, skidding his heels with a little grating sound in the gravel.

Pappy was sprawled out on his face, across the path, all limply awkward now. Blood made a darkly spreading pool under his head, and the faint light reflected dimly from the revolver beside the relaxed fingers of his right hand.

TRACY knelt down slowly beside him. “Is he dead?” a voice asked softly. Tracy jerked his head up, startled.

Mr. Brazil smiled at him and nodded. “I see you found him without my help. Was it necessary to shoot him?”

Tracy said: “I didn’t....” He stood up. “What are you doing here?”

“I came seeking you,” said Mr. Brazil. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Brazil sighed. “I was afraid so when I saw him. His name, aside from Pappy, is Patrick Moore— in case you didn’t know. It is also sometimes Carter.”

“What?” said Tracy blankly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Brazil. “He is the owner and founder of the Borneo-Blasu Export Company. He is the man who hired Kars. He is the man who arranged the deal with the Japanese to sell me that fake vaccine.”

Tracy stared at him, unbelieving. “Yes,” repeated Mr. Brazil. “He is the one. I verified his connections once I started on his trail at your request. He was well-hidden, but I have quite extraordinary powers when I wish to use them. Did you know he was Carter?”

“No!” Tracy exclaimed.

“I really didn’t think you did. That’s why I came here seeking you. I was afraid that if he recognized you and you started questioning him or following him he would take some— ah— steps.”

Tracy shook his head groggily. “I was trying to get hold of him tonight, but just because I wanted to talk to him about Gloria LaTru.”

“He didn’t know that, you see. He thought you wanted to talk to him about vaccine and Kars and China. He was very frightened. He thought he was caught.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Tracy said, still numb with the shock of the knowledge he had so suddenly acquired.

“No. That was just my way of speaking. The wound is a contact wound, and there is powder-burn on his forehead and temple. He shot himself.”

Tracy stared at him narrowly.

Mr. Brazil’s white teeth gleamed. “No. I did not shoot him. I would not be so kind as that.”

Stillson’s voice bellowed from the lounge: “Tracy! Tracy! Where the hell are you ?”

“Here,” Tracy said.

Stillson’s big form came blundering through the darkness. “What? Where... Oh, there you are! What are you hiding out here for? I don’t blame you for dodging the rat-race I cooked up inside, but I’ve got a gross of girls... Tracy! What— what’s that?”

“A man named Moore,” said Tracy. “He shot himself.”

“Moore! Pat Moore! Shot....”

“Do you know him?” Tracy asked.

“Know him! Hell, yes! Known him for years! Shot himself! Good God! I heard he was having some money trouble, but he was always such a cold, superior sort of a guy I never thought... Shot himself! Tracy, what— what’ll I do now?”

Mr. Brazil said: “Perhaps you’d better make some arrangement so none of the guests come out here.”

Stillson stared at him. “Who are you?”

“A friend of mine,” Tracy said.

Stillson wiped a big hand across his face in a harassed way. "Oh. Friend of Tracy’s is a friend of mine, but... Good Lord! Committing suicide in my garden! And this damned party! Yes, yes. I’ll go and stop them— say something— Stay here, Tracy, will you?”

“Yes,” Tracy said.

Stillson blundered away, mumbling to himself in an undertone.

6: Murder Showdown

THE HOUSE on Chaucer Street loomed dark and still in the shadows, and Tracy went slowly and quietly up the front steps and into the entrance hall. A bulb glowed faintly in the chandelier, and Tracy went on quietly up the stairs.

He went on past his own door and stopped in front of another. He turned the knob noiselessly. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open and stepped into the bedroom beyond. The furniture made vague shadows in the darkness, and the bed loomed white under the windows. There was a sudden quick rustle of covers, and then Gloria LaTru said breathlessly: “What—who—”

“It’s just your pal,” said Tracy. “It’s just little old me.”

“Puh-Pete! What— what are you—”

“Don’t get excited,” Tracy advised. “I just want to tell you something—quite a few somethings.” He moved closer to the bed, felt for and found the night-light and snapped it on.

Gloria LaTru was sitting bolt upright in the bed, her hair swirling around her shoulders, her eyes enormously wide in the white tautness of her face.

Tracy said: “Maybe your name is Gloria LaTru, and maybe Pappy picked you up in a police court, but he didn’t send you here to get cultured or to learn to be an actress. He sent you here to spy on me— to get me to fall for you if you could— so I’d keep my mouth shut about a certain deal in China. How are you, you little rat?”

“I don’t— don’t know what—”

“Don’t bother to lie. You’re out of a job as of about an hour ago. Your pal, Pappy, thought I was catching up on him. so he blew his brains out.”

Gloria LaTru screamed. Her eyes rolled back hideously, and her head fell back against the pillows and rolled loosely against the gleaming gold of her hair.

“Skip the act,” said' Tracy. “You can’t....”

He stared at her with a queer, sick numbness creeping inside his brain. “Gloria,” he whispered.

There was a sudden patter of feet along the hall, and Miss Andrew, bony and tall and ferocious in a white cotton night gown, burst in the door.

“What goes on here?” she demanded.

Tracy pointed. “She— she—”

Miss Andrew leaned over the bed. “I should think she is! What did you do to her?”

“I— I said—”

“Don’t stand there and mumble! Get down on the telephone! Get a doctor!”

Tracy turned and ran out of the room.

Penfield popped out of another room and shrilled at him: “What? What is it? I heard a scream!”

Treat and Totten appeared simultaneously at the head of the stairs.

“What’s cooking?”

“Who yelled?”

Tracy brushed past them and ran down the stairs. He squeezed into the telephone booth and dialed the operator.

“Emergency hospital,” he said when she answered.

Another voice answered at once: “Emergency hospital.”

Tracy said: “Send an ambulance to 1212 Chaucer Street. It’s very urgent. 1212 Chaucer Street.”

“All right.”

Tracy hung up the receiver. He could still feel the numbed pain in his brain. It was as though he were two different people— one watching the other with a sort of amazed curiosity. He fumbled at the telephone directory, and opened it to the S pages. The type blurred and swam before his eyes, but he found Bartholomew Stillson’s number and dialed it.

“Yes?” said a voice.

“I must speak to Mr. Stillson,” Tracy said. “This is Peter Tracy. It’s very urgent.”

There was a pause, and then Stillson said wearily: “Hello, Tracy. What is it?”

Tracy said: “Does— did Patrick Moore have any family? A wife....”

“No. His wife’s dead. He’s got a daughter. Named after him. I mean, named Patricia. She’s in the east at a dramatic school or something. I’m trying to get in touch with her. Why? What’s the matter with you, Tracy?”

Tracy didn’t even attempt to answer

In a haze, he hung up the receiver and squirmed out of the booth. Treat and Totten were waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“What gives here?” Treat demanded.

Penfield shrieked from the top of the stairs: “I’m going to leave this house! I won’t stay here and—”

“Shut up, pipsqueak!” said Miss Andrew, appearing suddenly beside him. “That bum of a Tracy said something to Gloria that made her faint and gave her hysterics and I don’t know what else!”

“It was a mistake!” Tracy said. “If I could just speak to her and—”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Andrew. “You’ve done enough! Don’t you come up here!”

“He isn’t going anywhere,” said Totten menacingly.

“Except maybe to the morgue,” Treat seconded. “Just step into the study here, Tracy, and sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

“Or would you rather we carried you in?” Totten inquired coldly. “Just start up these stairs and see how quick it happens.”

THE TAXI ground up the long graveled drive in second gear and stopped in front of the wide steps. The taxi driver looked over his shoulder at Tracy.

“Say, ain’t you the same guy I drove up here earlier, when there was a party goin’ on?”

“I guess so,” said Tracy, getting out. “Well, the party’s over now, chum.”

“I know,” Tracy said absently.

He went up on the porch and pushed the bell beside the big door. Inside chimes sang softly and smoothly. Tracy waited, and then finally the door opened slightly, and Stillson peered out at him.

“Tracy! What....”

“Can I come in?” Tracy asked.

“Well, sure. But what are you doing... I mean, come on in! There’s nobody around. I let the servants go. I never did like this dive, and now I’m good and sick of it. I’m going to live at the club. This way.”

It was a small study with a businesslike flat desk against one wall.

“Sit down,” said Stillson. “You look like hell. What’s the matter with you?”

Tracy sat down slowly. “Did you locate Patrick Moore’s daughter?”

“No,” Stillson said. “I called that school back east, and they said she’d left for home two weeks ago. But she’s not at Moore’s apartment.”

“She’s in the hospital,” Tracy said dully. “Under the name of Gloria LaTru.”

Stillson’s mouth opened. “What?”

“Yes. She won’t see me. Would you tell her when you see her how sorry I am?”

“What?” Stillson said blankly. “Sorry... What’re you talking about, Tracy?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just tell her.”

“Well, sure. But... Are you sure you are all right, Tracy? You’d better have a drink, maybe.”

“No,” said Tracy. “I’ll just smoke my pipe, if you don’t mind....”

He pulled it out of his pocket, and a white card came out with it and fluttered to the floor. Tracy picked the card up and looked at it indifferently. It said: SMITHKIN STYLED SUITS. Tracy moistened his lips, staring at the three words. With an enormous effort he pulled himself together.

“I’ve got to run along....”

“Sit still,” Stillson ordered. He was holding a blunt, ugly revolver in his right hand. “You’re awfully damned dumb, aren’t you, Tracy?”

“Yes,” said Tracy.

“What finally put you wise?”

“I never looked at this card when you gave it to me,” Tracy said. “Kars didn’t have any papers on him, but he was wearing a Smithkin Styled Suit, and you make a habit of playing big-shot by sending your friends and employees and whatnot to that tailor. Of course, it could be a coincidence, but....”

“No coincidence,” said Stillson. “Kars was my man. And Ras Deu. And the Chu Sing boys. They all danced when I pulled the strings.”

“And Patrick Moore, too,” said Tracy.

“Sure. I own the Borneo-Blasu Company. Moore was just a well-bred dimwit who acted as my front-man. I pulled that Jap vaccine deal through the Borneo Company, and Moore nearly went screwy when he found out what it was. I didn’t like it too well myself, but I was spread out too thin, and I needed a lot of cash right away, and the Japs had it.”

“That’s why you tried to hire me— why you were so fond of me. You wanted me under your thumb in case I knew something or guessed something.”

“You didn’t think it was because of your big blue eyes, did you?” StiUsoh asked contemptuously.

“You hired Joel Winters, in case I didn’t bite on any of your helpful offers. You killed him when he failed to finish me off.”

“Sure.”

“You killed Patrick Moore, too. He was in a panic, and you spotted it and guessed why. You just stepped out of the ballroom and intercepted him when he came out of the lounge. Then you ducked back into the ballroom and went around and out the lounge again. It was very simple.”

“It’s always simple,” said Stillson, “if you’re smart. Got anything more to say?”

Tracy stared at him. “You can’t— get away—”

Stillson was smiling. “Sure, I can. I’ve got a million bucks. Two suicides in one evening will be going a little heavy, but the police will gag it down, because they have to. They, can’t buck me. They don’t dare. Too many men have died for me to stop now, Tracy.”

A TELEPHONE bell buzzed softly.

Stillson backed to the desk, holding the gun on Tracy, and picked the instrument up with his left hand.

“Yes?”

He was holding the receiver a little ways away from his ear, and in the dead silence Mr. Brazil’s voice sounded thin and tinny and diabolical.

“Mr. Stillson, I am the man you talked to in your garden tonight after you killed Patrick Moore. I am also the man to whom you sold some fake tetanus vaccine.”

Stillson went rigid, and a thick, wordless sound issued from his mouth.

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Brazil’s small voice. “You see, I investigated Mr. Moore for Mr. Tracy, and then I kept on investigating the Bomeo-Blasu Company— not in person, of course, but through my agents— and I found many strange things, including you. I have the proof. It is being forwarded by special courier to the Chinese Ambassador in Washington. He will present it to your State Department. Doubtless the War Department and the Department of Justice will also be interested. I really meant to kill you, Mr. Stillson, in a most unpleasant manner by giving you some of your own vaccine, but I think this is so much better. You are so proud of your power and wealth and position. You are so happy when people speak of you as the rough and ready millionaire with the heart of gold. I wonder what they will call you tomorrow? I wonder if you will have the courage to face that? It will be so interesting for me to see what you do. Now give the telephone to Mr. Tracy.”

Stillson moved like a mechanical man. His arm straightened out limply and lifelessly, and Tracy took the telephone.

“Yes?”

“I am at the Montgomery house, Mr. Tracy, and there is a friend of yours with me. I have told her many things she did not know. Her father told her that you had asked for a bribe when her father tried to sell you some construction materials for my country and that you had threatened to involve her father in some scandal when he refused to bribe you. She was going to spy on you— to try and find out what you planned. That is why she pretended to be a crook. She thought you were one and that she would gain your confidence easier if you thought she was. She is still very sad and very shocked and very angry about what you said, and you will have to tell her many times that you are sorry and that you love her before she will forgive you, but I do not think that you will find that too difficult. Leave Mr. Stillson now. I do not think he wishes any company at this time.”

Stillson was still standing rigid, but his face was queerly gray and dead now, and his eyes bulged horribly. His lips were moving, and there was a little shiny thread of saliva on his chin. Tracy watched him for a long moment and then put the telephone down and walked quietly out the door.

_______________________

3: Take It From Me

Dime Detective December, 1943

1: Meekins Guesses Wrong

DODD’S eyes were wide open, and so was his mouth. He stood there on the terrace and took it all in, and it was really quite something. The lawn was as big as a polo field, carpeted luxuriously with a very high grade of grass and spotted here, there and everywhere with white-legged glass-topped tables and beach umbrellas that bloomed like giant pink toadstools.

And then there were the people, although you could hardly let it go by just calling them that. These were persons. They were the types who got their names in the gossip columns and the cold cream ads, and they were assembled here in all their glory at a lawn fete that marked the end of the society Summer season.

Dodd was all dolled up, too, in a new gray suit with matching accessories. He had even mended his glasses with a clean piece of adhesive tape. He was tall and a little gawky, and his face showed a lot of wear and tear and a sort of hard, cynical alertness that was slightly out of place among all this frothy frolic, but he looked very presentable, nevertheless.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?”

Dodd jumped. “Eh?”

A bald, beefy man in a white mess- jacket had wheeled up a chrome counter laden with matched crystal decanters and parked it behind him.

“Something to drink, sir?” he repeated.

“What is it?” Dodd asked.

The bald man looked slightly pained. “Anything you wish, sir.”

“Oh,” said Dodd. “Sure. Give me a rye and soda.”

The bald man chose a glass very nearly the size of a quart beer bottle, selected a decanter and poured about six ounces of its contents into the glass. Dodd blinked. The bald man added ice and a shot of fizz-water and handed it to him.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What?” said Dodd. “Oh, not at all. Don’t mention it.”

The bald man leaned against the chrome handle and pushed the counter on down the lawn. Dodd took a sip of his drink, frowning a little. He was wondering how he was going to edge in on the refined gaiety that was going on.

“What’s that?”

DODD looked down. A man had come up silently and was gazing at Dodd’s drink with longingly thoughtful eyes. He was small and tubby, and he wore a double-breasted blue coat and cream- colored trousers and spotless white shoes. His face was very tanned, and his scant hair was dyed a shiny blue-black. His eyes were round and solemn and sad.

“What’s what?” Dodd asked.

“This drink, you mean? It’s rye and soda.”

“Is it good?”

“Swell. Why don’t you have one?”

“Ulcers,” said the tubby man gloomily.

“Too bad,” said Dodd.

“All I can drink is milk. Did you ever drink milk?”

“Not recently,” Dodd admitted.

“Don’t. It's horrible stuff.” The tubby man sighed deeply and stared .down the sweep of the lawn. "Did you ever in your life see such a group of sickening people?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dodd said. “They probably aren’t so bad when you get to know them.”

“They’re worse.”

Dodd stared at him. “What’d you come to this party for, anyway?”

“I didn’t. I’m giving it.”

“What?” said Dodd, startled.

“I’m the host. Just call me sucker.”

“Oh,” said Dodd. “Then you’re J. Stuart Grant.”

“That’s right. Who’re you?”

"William Dodd.”

"Did you crash this party, or did I invite you to it?”

"Hey!” said Dodd indignantly. “What do you think—”

“Don’t get excited,” Grant said. "It doesn’t matter a bit to me either way.”

“It does to me, though. I paid out twenty bucks to get my name put down on your mailing list.”

Grant looked up at him. "You actually paid money to come here? Why?”

“I wanted to sneak up on a guy.”

“Who?”

“A fella by the name of Boyd Harkness. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for two months, but he’s a very elusive gent. It said in the papers that he was going to be here, so I got myself invited.”

“Harkness is a louse,” Grant said indifferently. “What did you want to see him about?”

"His pappy just died, and his pappy owned the Commercial Trust Company. Harkness has been appointed the president of the board of directors of the trust company.”

"I know. What of it?”

“The Commercial Trust has about seven hundred bonded employees. I’d like to collar that business.”

“Are you in the fiduciary bonding business?” Grant asked.

“No. But I’d like to be.”

“What business are you in?”

“Bail bonds,” said Dodd. “I’d like to branch out a bit and work my way up in the world and what-not.”

“I see. That’s Harkness over there at the far comer of the swimming pool.”

THE man had his back toward them.

He was tall and flat-hipped, and he had very wide shoulders that didn’t look padded. He had his head tilted back, looking up at the girl on the diving board above him. She was well worth looking at, and her white satin bathing suit had been designed to prove it. She was slim and beautifully rounded, and she had a pert, tip-tilted nose and a dazzling smile.

“I don’t think I’d better break up that conference,” Dodd observed. “I haven’t got any figures on hand that could compete with the one he’s looking at.”

“My daughter,” Grant said.

“Oh,” said Dodd. “Beautiful girl.”

“She’s a louse.”

“Your daughter is a louse?” Dodd said.

“Yes. I don’t like her. I hope she marries Harkness. It’ll be good enough for both of them, only I suppose then I’d get presented with a litter of little lice for grandchildren. I guess I’ll disinherit her, instead.”

“What?” said Dodd blankly.

“I said I was going to disinherit her. I'm going to leave my money to found a dog pound or something. I’ve just made up my mind about that. I think I’ll go and tell her right now.”

“Hadn’t you better wait a bit?” Dodd suggested. “Sort of cool off and sleep on it and all that?”

“Nope,” said Grant. “Right this minute. Don’t go away, Dodd. I’ll be back.”

He marched down the slope toward the swimming pool, his paunch pushed out belligerently ahead of him. Dodd watched him go, feeling a little confused by it all.

“Mr. Willyam Dahd,” a voice called sonorously. “Mr. Willyam Dahd.”

“Huh?” said Dodd. “Oh. Over here. I mean, I’m William Dodd.”

A tall, very thin man came across the lawn toward him with precise, scissorlike steps. “You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Dahd. Will you follow me, please?”

Dodd followed him across the terrace and through glistening glass doors into a small study lined from ceiling to floor with shelves of books that looked as though they had been washed and polished.

“There, sir,” said the tall man, pointing to the scroll-legged period desk in the corner. He bowed stiffly and went out.

Dodd picked up the telephone. “Yes?”

“Are you having a good time, Dodd?”

“I was,” Dodd said. “Until just a minute ago. Who is this speaking?”

“This is Sergeant Hennessey from Central Police Headquarters. Is there a lot of them pretty society debutrumps kicking around the place, Dodd? I bet the joint is jumping with blondes and brunettes. How’s for getting me a couple of fancy phone numbers, Dodd, old pal?”

“Listen, lame-brain,” Dodd said. ‘Just who told you I was coming to a party here?”

“Well...”

“It was Meekins, huh? A fine confidential assistant he is! I can’t leave him in charge of the business for a half-hour before he gets crocked and starts blabbing all he knows, which certainly wouldn’t take him long.”

“He ain’t drunk, Dodd. Honest. He just thought I’d better maybe speak to you so you’d be good-humored and not blow a gasket or anything.”

“All right. So now I’m good-humored. Where do we go from here?”

“Well, Meekins wants to talk to you.”

“Put him on.”

“Hello, boss,” said Meekins. “I didn’t want to call you up.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

“This is important.”

“LISTEN,” said Dodd. “This is im portant. I’m breaking out in high society here in a big way. I’m trying to close a deal that will net me plenty. I was even thinking of raising your salary. Now why don’t you go sit down somewhere and let me alone ? A financial matter like this takes a lot of profound concentration.”

“Sure. Boss, do you know a guy by the name of Hots Hickey?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be too sure. Do you know a character by the name of Boris?”

“You mean that snide loan shark? Yes.”

“Hots Hickey works for Boris. He hangs around dice houses and bookie joints and high-class gambling dives and grog shops and all such places and whenever he sees or hears of somebody that has got the financial shorts, he ups to this
girty and tells him how pleased and happy oris would be to make him a small loan.” “So what?”

“Don’t rush me,” Meekins advised. “So, like I say, Hots Hickey ropes the suckers for Boris. When they come to get this loan from Boris, he charges them seven hundred per cent compound interest. That ain’t legal, of course, but it don’t seem to bother Boris any. I can never figure out how these parties will fall for such a sharp deal, but I think it’s because they’re afraid their husbands or wives or bosses will find out they are borrowing money for no good reason if they should try to get a loan through a bank or somebody halfway honest.”

“Remember me?” Dodd asked. “I’m the guy who came here to go to a party. Just what the hell are you gabbling about, anyway?”

“It’s coming. Well, I was sitting around here at headquarters, and there wasn’t nothing doing. So I think I will chase out and buy me a beer, and then I think, no, I can’t do that because Dodd is trusting me to handle things while he is out making his fortune, so I think I will have a game of pinochle with Hennessey even though he cheats all the time.”

“That’s a dirty lie, you dirty liar,” Hennessey said, breaking in suddenly.

“Come on, come on, come on,” said Dodd. “Get to the point.”

“I am,” said Meekins. “So I was here when they brought in Hots Hickey. It seems that he got mad at the guy that lives in the next apartment to him. So Hots busts the guy’s door down and tosses the guy through his own window. The guy fell about twenty feet and lit on a garbage can and gashed himself up and fractured his skull and is like to die from it all. Hots Hickey was real mad with him, I guess.”

“I’m going to get real mad with you in a minute.”

“O.K., O.K. So they was gonna charge Hots with assault with intent to kill, but he gave me the wave so I yammered and yelled around here until I got it reduced to assault with the means and intent to do great bodily injury, and I got his bail set for twenty-five hundred fish.” “That’s a lot of dough.”

"I know it, but it was an aggravated
case. It was the best I could do, and there was a lot of beefing about even that. So I put the bail up because I knew Hots worked for Boris, and Boris has got a billion or more socked away and will have to put out for Hots because Hots knows a thing or two that Boris wouldn’t want talked around the town. But it seems that I was wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” Dodd demanded.

“Because Hots had no sooner blown out of here than Boris blew in. It seems he heard Hots was in the pokey and wanted to find him. He said he was going to mangle Hots and mash him into small bits. He was pretty griped when he heard we’d bailed Hots out. In fact, if Hennessey hadn’t given him the old cold-eye I think he woulda bashed me a couple.”

“It’s too bad he didn’t,” Dodd said. “Wait a minute! Do you mean that Boris refuses to pay the bail bond fee on that twenty-five hundred we put up for Hots ?”

“Yup.”

DODD took a deep breath. “How about Hots? Is he good for it? Is there any way we can squeeze it out of him?”

“Nope.”

“You gnat-head! Where is Hots now?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, find him! Get the charge jumped. Throw him back in jail. Get us off that bond. He’s liable to skip if Boris is out after him.”

“That ain’t worryin’ me so much.” “Oh, it isn’t! Well, it’s worrying me plenty! Do you think I like to hold the sack for twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“Dodd, this Boris is sort of a large and rugged guy. He’s got a mean temper. I hear that he’s got a habit of seeing guys who don’t pay back their loans on time and smacking these guys around something terrible.”

“What of it?”

“He’s mad at you now. He mentioned that he intended to have a chat with you, but I don’t think he meant he was just gonna talk.”

“Why should he be mad at me?” Dodd inquired.

“I told him you told me to bail Hots out.”

“What did you do that for?”

"Well,” said Meekins, “like I said, he acted like he was gonna bash me when Hennessey gave him the cold-eye, but I thought it might go further than that. I think if Boris had really bashed me, Hennessey wouldn’t have done a damn thing about it.”

“Yes, I would have,” said Hennessey. “I’d have laughed and laughed.”

“Get off the wire,” Meekins ordered. “This here is a private conversation.”

“Then why don’t you spend a nickel once in a while instead of chiseling in on the police department phones?”

“Pipe down,” Dodd said. “Let me get this straight. Not only am I out twenty- five hundred if 1 can’t locate Hots, but I’m in for some lumps if Boris finds me. Is that it?”

“I guess so,” Meekins admitted. “What had I better do, boss?”

“You’d better keep out of my way until you find Hots. Do you understand that? Find him. Get at it right now. I’ll take care of Boris.”

“Be careful, boss. He goes in for brass knuckles and blackjacks and sawed-off billiard cues.”

"This is a fine time to start worrying about that! You should have thought about it before you opened your big mouth. Right now, you go find Hots.”

“Okey-doke, boss.”

2: Death Has a Dust-Screen

DODD slammed the telephone back on its standard, muttering to himself. He pulled the fancy dark blue handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his brow absently.

“Do you know a gentleman by the name of Hots Hickey?”

Dodd jumped a foot. “Does everyone in this house sneak around like a bunch of Jap snipers? And what’s the idea of listening to my telephone conversations?”

It was the tall, rigid man who had shown him into the study. He raised his eyebrows and his nose in a haughtily disdainful way.

"I’m not interested in the slightest in your conversations, telephonic or otherwise. I was about to inform you that there is a person at the gate who calls himself Hots Hickey who is inquiring for you.”

“At the gate?” Dodd repeated blankly.

“Yes. The guard there refused, quite properly, to let him enter the grounds. He— the Hickey person— then demanded to see you.”

“What for?” Dodd asked warily.

“He wants you to pay his taxi fare.”

“Pay his— I should pay his taxi fare! Tell him to go and— No! Wait a minute! I don’t want him going anywhere.” Dodd picked the telephone up again and dialed rapidly.

“Police department,” a voice answered.

“Give me the booking desk,” Dodd requested.

Hennessey’s voice said: “Booking desk here.”

“Is Meekins there?” Dodd asked.

“Oh, no. He beat it outta here like a bat outta hell right after you quit talkin’ to him, Dodd.”

"Nuts to that noise,” Dodd said. “I know he’s sitting around there somewhere. Tell him that Hots Hickey is out here at the J. Stuart Grant place, at the front gate. Tell him to start the wheels so we can get off that bond, and to have a squad car pick Hickey up right away.”

“All right, Dodd. I’ll tell him.”

Dodd hung up again and turned to the tall man. “Lead the way. I want to engage this Hickey in conversation and keep him happy until some friends of mine arrive.”

He finished his rye and soda in two hasty gulps, discarded the empty glass, and trailed the tall man out along the terrace again. The party was livening up a bit now, and fluttery dresses and peek-a-boo hats and sporty flannels twirled and milled and paraded among the pink umbrellas and around the bar counter. Water gurgled and splashed in the swimming pool around the guests who had the best figures and deepest tans. It was all very gay and bright and cheerful, and Dodd wondered why there had to be people like Hots Hickey.

He followed the tall man down the side slope of the lawn on a walk of mathematically place white-washed rocks and along a high, thickly impenetrable hedge backed up against a close-mesh wire fence with some ugly looking barbed wire strung along the top. J. Stuart Grant evidently liked his privacy and intended to have it.

They turned through a little bushy arbor, and the tall man said: “There is the gate. If you’ll excuse me...”

“Oh, sure.” said Dodd. “Good-by.”

HE WENT on alone around a hedge-lined curve in the walk and out on the crunchy gravel of the drive. The gate was big and thick and high, and it looked as though it could be not only ornamental but useful as well. One side was slightly ajar now, and there was a man in a spic-and-span brown uniform and shiny puttees standing in the opening, watching another man who was standing forlornly outside peering in through the bars.

“Hi!” he yelled hoarsely. “Hi, Dodd! Do you remember me? I’m Hots Hickey and—”

There was the sudden blasting roar of an automobile motor throttled up high in second gear. It was a heavy black sedan, and it went past the gate so fast that Dodd caught no more than a blurred glimpse of the flick and gleam of its sleek body, and then the cloud of white dust pulled up from the road by its passage billowed over everything in a choking, thick cloud.

Tires wailed in a thick scream of agony, and instantly shots slapped out—three of them in a string, very close together. Dodd heard the eerie sing of one of the bullets that ricocheted from the iron gate, but before he had time to realize what it was, the car motor picked up a higher driving roar, and the dust billowed heavier.

Hots Hickey was a dimly outlined shadow, turning around slowly and stumbling on bowed legs, and then he went down head-first in a lunging, awkward sprawl. The sound of the car motor thrummed away and was gone as suddenly as it had come.

Dodd ran for the gate, feeling the dust settle on his face in sticky, sharp mites. The guard gaped at him, rubbing his eyes dazedly.

“Dust,” he muttered. “This road. Mr. Grant has asked them and asked them, but they say there’s a war and there’s no oil for laying dust. I watered it down this morning, but the sun...”

Dodd shoved him aside and slid through the gate. The dust was settling down now, slowly and reluctantly, and Hots Hickey lay flat and shrunken on it and under it. His face was turned to one side and his mouth was open. Blood spread and scummed and glittered under his head. Dodd knelt down beside him.

He made no attempt to touch Hots. It wasn’t necessary. One of the bullets had caught him in the back of the head and the other lower down in the middle of his back. He was as dead as he would ever be.

“Gee,” said the guard, looking over Dodd’s shoulder. “Them—them was shots I heard! I thought all the time they was backfires. Gee. He’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Yes,” said Dodd. He was staring down the long curve of the road, empty now and peaceful between its border of precisely trimmed, dust-laden trees.

“Gee,” said the guard. “Dead.”

“Did you see who was in the car?”

“Huh? That damned dust. I couldn’t hardly open my eyes. It come so quick, and the dust was all over me before I even knew it was there. It was a black car— one of the big Buick sedans, or maybe a small Cad. But I didn’t even see the guy that was drivin’ it.”

“HERE!” a voice said suddenly.

“Here, here, now! What’s the meaning of this disturbance?” It was the tall, rigid man who had guided Dodd, and he stared disapprovingly at them through the opening in the gate.

“This man was murdered,” Dodd said.

“Murdered?” the tall man repeated disapprovingly. “Here? In front of Mr. Grant’s gate?”

“Yes,” said Dodd.

“Are you sure?”

“He looks pretty dead to me,” said Dodd.

“Oh,” said the tall man. “I’ll inform Mr. Grant at once, but he’ll be very angry if his party is spoiled.” He ran back up the drive, his tall body very erect, arms pumping precisely at his sides.

“Gee,” said the guard. “Hadn’t we better sort of haul him out of the way? It don’t look right— him lyin’ right in the road here.”

“Better leave him until the police get here,” Dodd said. “He won’t mind.’

Feet crunched on the gravel of the drive, and the tall man’s voice sounded breathlessly: “It was a person to see that person with the glasses, sir. The uncouth person you were talking to on the terrace.”

Grant peered through the gate. “Now, what’s this? Who is murdered? I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Here’s a body to account for,” Dodd said.

“Hmm,” said Grant. He came through the gate and leaned over Hickey and poked him gingerly with a forefinger. “Hmm. Yes. He’s dead. Who did it? You?”

“No,” said Dodd.

"Oh, no,” said the guard. “Not him. It was a car. In the dust.”

Grant looked at him. “This man has obviously been struck by bullets, not a car.”

“I mean bullets from a car. I mean, it was all covered up in it—the dust.”

“Try to make sense,” Grant ordered, frowning.

The guard swallowed. “This guy was standing here, and there was a car come along in a lot of dust, and there was shots, and he fell down.”

“Whose car?” Grant demanded. “What car?”

The guard shook his head. "I dunno. Just a car. It came and—and it went. In the dust.”

“It sounds very unreasonable to me,” Grant said. “People shooting other people in broad daylight in front of my gate. I don’t like it.” He scowled at Dodd. “Are you sure you didn’t have something to do with it?”

“Now, look here,” said Dodd. “I don’t—”

Grant held up his hand soothingly. “Don’t misunderstand me. I have no objections to murder as long as it doesn’t take place practically on my doorstep. No doubt if you had some of your—ah— clients eliminate this gentleman, you had very good reasons. But I don’t think it’s a very nice way to repay my hospitality. Now honestly, do you?”

Dodd was saved the necessity of answering. A decrepit pink and green taxicab came puttering along the road toward them. A policeman was riding on the running board, and he dropped off when the cab pulled to a stop. He was redfaced and perspiring, and he waved his hand indignantly at the choking swirl of dust the taxi’s passage had raised.

“All right now,” he said. “All right. Now which is the guy that won’t pay his fare?”

The taxi driver leaned out and pointed down. “That one.”

“Passed out, huh?” said the policeman in disgust. “O.K. Pick him up and see if he’s got—Hey! That guy ain’t drunk!”

“He’s dead,” said Dodd. “Murdered.”

4600!” said the policeman, whirling toward the taxi driver. "So you had a beef with him about the fare, huh? But you didn’t say nothin’ about killin’ him, did you? No! You forgot to mention that!”

“Hey!” the driver squalled. “I never even touched—I never did it!”

“Hah!” said the policeman. “Wanna act innocent, do you? We’ll see about that.”

“You lay offa me!” the driver yelled. "I’ll have the company lawyer on you! I’ll sue you for a million dollars if you lay one finger—”

“Get outta that cab!”

“He didn’t have anything to do with it,” Dodd said.

The policeman whirled again. “Who’re you?”

“The name is Dodd.”

“Bail-Bond Dodd?”

Dodd nodded. “Yes. This guy on the ground is Hots Hickey. He was waiting at the gate here when a car went by and someone in it let blast at him.”

“I better call in,” the policeman said.

Dodd pointed. “Here comes some help.”

A squad car with dust coated thickly over its top and fenders rolled up and parked behind the taxi. There was a uniformed policeman driving, and now Detectives Limes and Lillicott climbed laboriously out of the back seat. They were square-faced, square-shouldered men, and they looked enough alike to be brothers, but they weren’t. They weren’t even friends. They were partners from necessity, not from choice. No one else would work with either of them.

“Hello, Dodd,” Limes said. “Where’s your bail-skip?”

“There,” said Dodd.

Lillicott stirred Hickey with the toe of his broad shoe. “Hell, he’s deader than a salted smelt.”

“You’re gonna go too far one of these days, Dodd,” Limes told him. “You wanta get yourself off a bail bond, that’s all right. But killin’ a guy to do it is against the rules.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

Lillicott looked at Limes. “He’s innocent.”

Limes nodded. “He’s been framed.”

“He wants his lawyer,” Lillicott added.

"Oh, drop it,” Dodd said wearily. “He was shot by a guy who drove past in a car.”

“What kind of a car?”

“A big black one."

“That’s a dandy description,” Limes said.

“Did it have four wheels, too?” Lillicott asked.

“There’s dust on the road,” Dodd explained. “Look closely and you’ll see it. The car went by like a streak and kicked up a cloud of it and then skidded and kicked up more, and then the guy shot. I couldn’t see anything. This bird was right here, too.”

“It was a Buick,” said the guard. “Or a Cadillac. Or maybe a Packard.”

“That helps,” said Limes. “You sure it wasn’t a General Lee tank?”

“I don’t think so,” said the guard seriously.

“Boy, do we get the breaks,” Lillicott observed.

“I BEG your pardon,” said J. Stuart Grant. “Just what do you intend to do about this body?”

“Oh, we’ll just clown around for a while and then go home and bake mud- pies,” Limes told him.

“Who wants to know?” Lillicott inquired.

“I’m J. Stuart Grant. I own this estate.”

“Gee,” said Limes, in an awed tone. “All of it?”

“Is it paid for?” Lillicott asked.

Grant made motions like a rooster about to crow. “You—you insolent, incompetent... I’ll— I’ll—”

“He’ll have our badges,” Limes said helpfully.

“He’ll have us fired,” Lillicott added. “Limes, what do you hear about that job guarding an aircraft factory?”

“Looks good.”

“I’d take it if I were you. You’d meet a decent class of people then. Dodd, what was Hickey doing out here?”

“I don’t know,” said Dodd. “This tall bird came around and told me Hots wanted to see me down at the gate. He said Hots wanted me to pay his taxi fare.”

“That right?” Limes asked.

The tall man shrugged. “The guard so informed me.”

“You ?” asked Lillicott.

The guard nodded. “He came in the taxi, and I wouldn’t let him in because he had no guest card and the taxi looked like it was gonna fall apart on the lawn.”

“What was that crack?” the driver demanded.

“Shut up,” Limes said.

“Who’s gonna pay what’s on the meter?”

“Dodd will,” said Limes. “He’s lousy with dough. How’d you chisel your way into the fracas inside, Dodd?”

“I had an invitation.”

“You must be hard up for guests,” Lillicott told Grant. “What’s the matter— don’t you serve good liquor? You better give us a sample and let us test it.”

“I— I wouldn’t give you—”

“Now, now,” said Limes. “Don’t tell us. Let us guess. In the meantime, let’s use your telephone.”

“What about me?” the taxi driver demanded. “I can’t sit here all day.”

Lillicott nodded at the policeman. “Get his number and name. If he didn’t commit this murder, he’s probably committed some other crimes we can pin on him. Dodd, you can go, but stay near your telephone.”

“I’ve got a party I want to see inside.”

“Oh, I’ll take care of that, Mr. Dodd,” Grant said. “I’ll see Mr. Harkness and recommend you very highly. I’ll tell him you’re a personal friend of mine.”

“Thanks,” said Dodd.

Grant entered the gate and leered back through the bars. “That will make it very certain that he never does any business with you. He despises me.”

Grant turned around and marched up the drive with the tall, rigid man ju9t a step behind him and Limes and Lillicott trailing aimlessly along at the rear.

"How about my meter?” the driver asked.

“You know what you can do with it,” Dodd said, staring bitterly after Grant.

“Yeah,” said the driver, “but I ain’t gonna. And you ain’t gonna get another taxi to come clear out here after you until three years from next Christmas. So you gonna walk, or you gonna cough up?”

“All right,” Dodd said drearily, climbing in.

3: “You’re Gonna Stay Alive, You Hear?”

DODD lived in an apartment building on top of the Courtland Street hill. He had picked the place because it had a view. That’s about all it had to offer. It was a scabrous-looking building built of red brick, towering up skinny and dejected above its even lowlier neighbors.

The taxi pulled up at the curb in front, and the driver said: “Just pay me the meter, doc. You don’t have to worry about a tip.”

"Thanks a lot,” said Dodd.

He paid and then went up the tilted stone steps into the gloom of the narrow, bare entrance hall. There were rows of brass-bound mail boxes along the wall, and Dodd was peering through the slotted front of his when a voice behind him said in a throaty rumble:

"I wanna see you, Dodd.”

Dodd turned around slowly. Boris had come in the door behind him. He was a barrel-bodied man with long, sloping shoulders and bowed legs, and arms that hung heavy and thick and loose at his sides. He had a derby hat tilted down over his eyes.

“Why, hello, Boris,” Dodd said pleasantly. “This is a surprise. How’ve you been, anyway?”

He held out his hand cordially. Boris reached for it, and Dodd clenched it into a fist suddenly and clipped Boris on the side of the jaw with his weight behind the blow. Boris’ head joggled on his thick neck, and his derby slipped down over one ear.

“You,” he said, and slid forward with his heavy arms reaching out.

Dodd was pinned in against the wall. He swung three times more with everything he had. His fists made sharp, quick splats landing on Boris’ face, but they didn’t stop Boris, didn’t even seem to jar him.

He slid in closer, and then his arms gathered Dodd in and his hands locked in the small of Dodd’s back. Dodd tried to knee him, but he twisted away from that, and then he gave a little satisfied grunt and began to apply pressure.

Dodd felt like his ribs had suddenly been dosed in a vise. He tried to hold his breath and arch his back against the intolerable pressure. He tried to jab Boris in the eye with his thumb, but Boris rolled his head down and sideways and ground his chin into Dodd’s shoulder. Lurid purple lights exploded in front of Dodd’s eyes, and his breath left his lungs with an agonized hiss.

His ribs creaked, and then there was a sodden, hard clunk. Abruptly Boris’ arms had no more squeeze in them. They loosened and slid away. Boris stared at Dodd with bulging, incredulous eyes, and then he took a step back and went down all at once. His derby rolled around in a circle and pattered to a stop.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said the taxi driver, glaring at Dodd. He had a short, tape-wrapped jack-handle in his hand, and he wiggled it meaningly under Dodd’s nose. “Not again, you don’t.”

Dodd tried to speak and coughed. He coughed again, bending over, and then managed to pull air into his lungs. The driver’s face swam hazily in front of him.

“What don’t I?” he asked hoarsely.

“You don’t get killed, that’s what,” said the driver angrily. “Not after you just got out of my cab. It don’t happen twice in one day to me. You heard what that cop said out there. I give a guy a ride, and the guy gets killed, so right away the cop says I did it. So he didn’t follow it up that time, but don’t think he’s forgot it. Oh, no! Just let it happen again, and they’d have me hung before I could  turn around. That’s the way them cops are.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Dodd said.

“I don’t want no thanks. I see this bird hidin’ across the alley, and I see him sneak in here after you, and right away I see myself slung in the hopper and gettin’ slammed over the dome with a telephone book just because I don’t confess I killed you. No, sir! You’re gonna stay alive long enough for me to get away from here and get me an alibi, you hear?”

“O.K.,” said Dodd. “I’ll do my best. Give me that jack-handle a minute, will you?”

“What for?” the driver demanded suspiciously.

“I just don’t want our friend to jump up and take another fall out of me before I catch my breath. I feel like someone has used my ribs for a washboard.”

“He ain’t gonna get up. Not for about a half-hour. Not even if he’s got a cement skull. What you gonna do with him?”

Dodd took out his wallet. “Here,” he said, handing the driver a five-dollar bill. “Take him this far and then dump him out. Want me to help you carry him?”

“Why should I carry him?” the driver asked. “I don’t give no luxury service.”

He took hold of Boris by one foot and dragged him toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” said Dodd. “Give me your name. If I can ever do anything...”

“Oh, no,” said the driver. “I don’t want to know you any better than I already do. The kind of friends you got, I don’t like. Good-by.”

HE WENT down the steps backwards, and Boris thud-thudded loosely after him. Dodd sighed and felt his ribs tenderly. He went over and got in the self- service elevator, punched the button and waited while the elevator dragged its dreary, creeping way up to his floor. The hall was dim and shadowy, and he went down it to his apartment, unlocked the door and went inside.

He stood in front of the living room window for awhile, staring out at the view and scowling darkly. So far the day certainly hadn’t been an unqualified success. Dodd added up the total and didn’t like it a bit.

He took off his coat and shirt and tested his ribs again. They didn’t feel good, and Dodd knew they were going to feel much worse before they felt better. Boris had a grip like a gorilla.

Dodd took off the rest of his clothes and padded into the bathroom. The apartment building was too old-fashioned to go in for stall showers. It featured an ersatz affair of pipes and a nozzle bolted to the wall at the end of the bathtub. A canvas curtain on a chrome rod extended around it to catch the splashes.

Getting inside it, Dodd adjusted the temperature of the water to suit him and stood there and soaked, staring gloomily at nothing until a bare, brown, slim arm slid through the opening in the curtains and turned off the faucets.

“Hey!” said Dodd in a strangled gasp. “What—”

The arm slid out of sight and then came back again with a towel draped over it. “Wrap this around you and come out of there.”

“Here!” Dodd shouted. “What do you think—”

“I have a gun,” said the voice. “I couldn’t very well miss if I shot through the curtains, could I?”

“No,” Dodd admitted. “Hold everything.”

He swathed himself hurriedly in the towel and then parted the shower curtain and peered cautiously through the opening.

“You!” he said blankly. “What are you doing in my bathroom?”

It was J. Stuart Grant’s daughter. She was wearing a sleeveless white sharkskin dress now, with a broad red leather belt and a bright red turban wound around her head. She looked cool and slim and beautiful and very determined. She had a stubby little automatic in her right hand.

“I want to talk to you,” she said. “I’m Caroline Grant.”

“Well, all right,” said Dodd. “But I mean, there’s a time and place—”

The automatic moved up a little. “Are you going to get out of there?”

“Sure,” Dodd agreed. “Don’t get excited.”

He inched up the towel tighter and stepped gingerly over the edge of the tub.

Caroline Grant backed toward the bathroom door, holding the automatic leveled steadily. “Come into the living room.”

“Sure,” said Dodd. “Just be careful of that gun.”

“I’m a very good shot.”

“You don’t have to prove it to me,” Dodd assured her. “I believe you.”

SHE backed through the door and into the living room with Dodd following her. Lillicott was standing in the center of the room. Limes was back of him, standing against the wall beside the front door. Dodd blinked once when he saw them, but he made no other acknowledgement of their presence and his expression didn’t change.

“Sit there,” said Caroline Grant.

“Wait until I get my glasses,” Dodd said. “I’m blind as a bat without them. They’re on the table. If you’ll just back up a couple of steps more...”

Caroline Grant backed up the two steps, and Lillicott reached silently forward and pinched her elbow between his thumb and forefinger. She gave a startled gasp of pain and the automatic slid out of her numbed fingers and thudded on the floor.

She tried to whirl around then, her eyes wide and dark with fright, but Lillicott caught her other elbow and held her effortlessly.

“Easy does it,” he said soothingly. Limes strolled forward and bent down to pick up the automatic. Caroline tried to kick him in the head, but he dodged it easily.

“Bad, bad,” Lillicott chided. “Mustn’t kick the nice policemans. Sit down over here.”

He picked her up and carried her forward and then twirled her around and dropped her on the chesterfield. She bounced hard, making a furious little hissing sound between her teeth. Then she subsided, sitting rigidly erect, her full lips pinched into a straight, hard line.

Limes had pulled the clip out of the automatic and was counting the cartridges in it. “Full,” he observed. He jacked the slide and ejected the cartridge in the chamber and squinted through the bore. “Dusty. Ain’t been fired for months. Where’d you put the gun you shot Hots with, honey?”

“You big fool,” said Caroline hotly.

“Oh, he ain’t really foolish,” Lillicott told her. “He’s just ignorant, like me. But we’re awful anxious to learn things. What did you want to shoot Dodd for? I mean, I know he’s a rat and shoulda been murdered years ago, but what particular thing did he do this time that you didn’t like?”

“I’ve only seen her once before in my life,” Dodd told him.

“That was probably enough,” said Limes. “It’s your personality, I think. You’re so repulsive you make a very bad first impression on people.”

“Especially wrapped in a bath-towel,” Lillicott added. “Come on, Caroline. Tell us what Dodd did.”

“He stole something that— that belonged to me.”

“Well, well,” said Limes. "You’re kinda branchin’ out, ain’t you, Dodd? What was it, sweetie?”

“A snuff-box.”

“That’s damned nonsense!” Dodd exploded. “What would I want with a snuff-box ?”

“I dunno,” Lillicott admitted. “Bail- bond brokers are peculiar people. What did he want with it, Caroline?”

“It’s very valuable. It’s a Cellini.”

“That’s a new brand on me,” Limes stated.

Caroline’s lips curled. “It’s not a brand. Cellini was an artist—a Renaissance artist in Rome. The snuff box is made of porcelain and gold and ivory, beautifully carved and inlaid. It has a very great historical value.”

“Where did Dodd steal it from?” Limes asked. “Did he pick your pocket?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Lillicott assured her. “Did he happen to steal it from a gent named Bazooka?”

CAROLINE’S tanned throat moved convulsively, and her eyes grew wide and dark again. She shook her head mutely, pressing her lips together.

“Oh, come on, now,” said Limes. "Bazooka isn’t his name. It’s Bazadalin.”

“Say, what is this?” Dodd demanded.

“You should know!” Caroline spat at him. “It was your fault!”

“What was?” Dodd asked blankly.

“You hurt him! You— you crippled him! You beast, you! He’d never done anything to you! Why couldn’t you leave him alone? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“Hey!” said Dodd. “Whoa! I don’t know anything about any snuff-boxes or bazookas or Romans or what-the-hell. I just peddle bail bonds. I’m not a crime wave.”

Caroline looked at Limes and Lillicott. “Do you intend to arrest me?”

“That’s what we had in mind,” Limes admitted.

“Well, then, do it! I’m not going to stay here any longer looking at— at that! He nauseates me!”

“I understand how you feel,” Lillicott told her. “He affects us that way too, sometimes. Let’s away.”

“Now wait a minute here,” Dodd said. “I’ve had enough of you and your corny wisecracks. I want to know what’s going on! You can’t come in here and stick me up and accuse me of every crime on the calendar and then just walk out laughing!”

“Yes, we can,” said Limes, taking Caroline by the arm and propelling her toward the door.

“Ha-ha-ha,” said Lillicott, proving it by walking out of the apartment after them and closing the door.

Dodd swore in a bitter rush of words and dove for the telephone. He dialed violently, still swearing to himself.

“Police department,” a voice answered.

“Give me the booking desk,” Dodd requested.

“Booking desk,” said Hennessey.

“Where’s Meekins?”

“Huh ? Oh, he’s here. Meekins! Here’s Dodd again.”

“Hello, boss,” said Meekins. “Where are you? Don’t show up around here.”

“Why not?” Dodd snarled.

“Say, there’s a guy lookin’ for you. A bird named Boyd Harkness, and is he burning! He’s got blood in his eye, what I mean!”

“Just hold on to him, and I’ll give him a fist in the eye! Now, listen. Find out the dope on a guy named Bazadalin.”

“How do you spell it?”

“I don’t know! Find out that, too. And look up the matter of a Cellini snuffbox.”

“What was that again?”

“A snuff-box!”

“You mean the stuff that makes you sneeze?” Meekins asked, puzzled.

"Yes!”

“Dodd,” said Meekins, “are you sure you feel all right?”

“Just dandy!” Dodd said thinly. “You get me that information and don’t give me any arguments!”

He slammed the telephone back on the stand and started for the door. He had it open before he realized his current lack of costume. He banged the door shut again and began hauling his clothes on every which way.

4: “Grief, Grief, Grief!”

THIS was business, and Dodd drove downtown in his own battered coupe instead of waiting for a taxi. The setting sun was throwing spindly black shadows ahead of it and reflecting greasy-red from the courthouse windows as he bounced up over the curb and rolled the coupe to a stop in the parking lot behind the jail building. He got out and started for the side door.

“Say, you!” a voice said suddenly and harshly.

Boyd Harkness was coming around the next line of parked cars. He looked even taller and wider in the shoulders than he had at the lawn party. He was scowling grimly, and he went for Dodd as though he meant to walk right over him.

“I want a word with you!” he said.

“Why, hello, Mr. Harkness,” Dodd said cordially. “I was just thinking about you. How are you?”

He extended his right hand. Harkness didn’t attempt to take it. Instead he slapped at it, but that was just as good for Dodd’s purposes. He doubled his fist and hit Harkness neatly on the point of the jaw.

This time it worked. The blow caught Harkness with one foot raised, off-balance, and spun him around and knocked him head-on into the side of a car. He rolled loosely off the fender and hit the ground full-length in a sudden flurry and spatter of gravel.

“Very neat,” said J. Stuart Grant. He leaned over the hood of the car Harkness had collided with and looked down at him. “Knocked him cold, eh? Although, as a matter of fact, he’s so stupid I always have trouble telling whether he’s conscious or unconscious. Was that a sample of your regular sales-talk or something special?”

“I’m getting a little tired of people pushing me around,” Dodd said. “What are you doing here?”

“I came down to get my daughter out of jail,” Grant said. “With her, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Grief, grief, grief! That’s all she ever gives me.”

“What’s this Harkness mad at me for?”

“That’s something else Caroline— my daughter— is to blame for,” Grant explained. “At least, so I judge from what Harkness told me. Caroline won’t speak to me any more since I disinherited her. Caroline told Harkness that someone named Hots Hickey had beaten up a friend of hers and that Hots Hickey was not a free agent but was employed by someone else to do the job. When Hots Hickey showed up at the place this afternoon asking after you, she immediately assumed that you had hired him.”

“There are too many people making assumptions around here,” Dodd stated. “What friend did she think I hired Hots to beat up?”

Grant sighed. “That’s another thing. Another burden I have to bear. Now it’s refugees. Caroline is interested in helping refugees. She was sponsoring a man named Bazadalin. He was the one who was beaten up.”

“Why?” Dodd demanded.

Grant shrugged. “I know nothing of Caroline’s affairs. I’m only her father, after all. Anyway, she told Harkness that you were to blame for it all, and then when she got arrested she called him up and told him you’d done that, too.”

Dodd started for the jail again. “I’m going to have a chat with her.”

“Oh, she’s not in jail now. She was bailed out.”

Dodd stopped short. “Who put up the bail?”

“You did.”

“I was afraid of that,” Dodd said.

“You’d better run along,” Grant advised. “Our mutual friend is showing signs of life. If you should meet him in the near future, it wouldn’t be wise to try that commando trick of yours again. He’ll be watching for it, and he’s an amateur light heavyweight boxing champion.”

“I’ll remember,” Dodd said absently.

HE WENT along the alley and in through the side door of the jail building. Meekins was coming toward him, halfway down the long hall that led to the booking room. He stopped short when he saw Dodd and started to backpedal warily.

“Now wait a minute, Dodd,” he said. “Take it easy. I can explain everything.” He was a thin, wiry, nondescript little man, neither tall nor short, and he could have been almost any age from seventeen to seventy-two. In any event, he was old enough to be bald and young enough to be sensitive about it. He never removed his hat unless the rules required it.

“What did you put up Caroline Grant’s bail for?” Dodd demanded dangerously.

“Now, look,” Meekins said. “Limes and Lillicott brought her in, and they were going to charge her with assault with a deadly weapon, but they said that they didn’t think they could make it stick, because you were the guy it happened to and you were griped with them because they had been needling you. So they just made it disturbing the peace. Then Caroline’s old man and her boy-friend came in and started to holler. Now you know disturbing the peace is a charge with a set bail. Putting it up is just a formality, and you’re a licensed broker, and you can’t turn down business when it’s backed up with a credit rating like Grant and Harkness sport. And anyway, if I hadn’t done it they’d have put it up in cash.”

“All right, all right,” Dodd said wearily. “Turn it off. What about this guy Bazadalin ?”

“That’s the bird Hots Hickey worked over.”

“I know it. Why?”

Meekins shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Anyway, it don’t look like it’s a very safe thing for a person to do, because Hots didn’t last long after he did it. I called up the hospital, and this Bazadalin party is still unconscious from falling in the garbage can, so it must be he has friends. Did you see Boris?”

“Yes,” Dodd answered absently.

“What did he do?"

“Fell down,” said Dodd. “Haven’t you got any more dope on Bazadalin?”

“Yeah. He’s a refugee. I got Hennessey to get the dope on him from the F.B.I. He was an Austrian, and Hitler chased him out of Austria, so he went to France. Then when Hitler tackled France, he quick enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. Then Hitler captured him and slung him in a concentration camp, but he escaped and came over here. He’s the genuine article with no cards up his sleeve. The F.B.I. gave him a clean bill of health. He’s an artist, and he’s got quite a big reputation in them circles in Europe. He’s been trying to get started again over here, and Caroline Grant has been helping him.”

“What kind of an artist?”

“I dunno. Just an artist.”

“What about that snuff-box?”

“Say, you don’t want much for your money, do you? It’s lucky I’m so smart. I thought you were a little crazy when you were talking to me about it, but I called up Benny the Second-Hand Man, because he knows something about anything you want to name. Benny says some snuff-boxes are valuable. People collect ’em, even. Can you imagine—”

Dodd said: “Never mind that. What about this one?”

“I remembered you said it was a Cellini, so I told that to Benny, and he says to call the art museum. So I do, and a guy says ...” Meekins fumbled in his pocket and found a piece of paper. “...says that this Cellini was an artist that hung out in ancient Italy and made all kinds of junk like salt-shakers and silverware, aside from statues and—”

“Tell me about the snuff-box, stupid!”

“Well, I am,” Meekins said in an injured tone. “This guy said he made some snuff-boxes, too, and if this was the genuine article it was worth one hell of a lot of dough, because Cellini worked with all kinds of precious metals and was a real ring-dinger when it came to turning out stuff that was strictly class. He said people paid almost anything for samples of his work, depending on who he made them for and what out of, because of the historical associations and all like that.”

“O.K.,” said Dodd, frowning absently.

“What do you want a snuff-box for, Dodd?” Meekins asked curiously. “You don’t use the stuff.”

“Don’t bother me.”

“Well, look. If you really want one, Benny says he’s got some nice antiques made out of buffalo horn and stuff like that, and he’ll sell you any one you choose wholesale. Hey! Where are you going?”

“For a ride,” said Dodd.

5: The Joker in the Pack

IN THE dusk the double line of trees looked like shadowy, tired sentinels drooping wearily under the weight of dust that weighed their dry leaves. Dodd drove along slowly past the front gate of the Grant estate, on along the high, wire-backed hedge to where it made a right-angled turn. He kept on going and turned into a narrower road.

The hedge was at his right now, further away, looking as solid and sturdy as a stone wall. A lane turned off the side road. Dodd stopped the car and got out. He walked up the lane and came to another gate, a slightly shoddy duplicate of the front one. It was open.

Dodd went through into a wide, cinder- paved courtyard. The garage was a long, peak-roofed building ahead of him. There were spaces for five cars. Two of the doors were open, showing empty stalls behind him. Evidently the servants’ quarters were in the second story of the garage, but no lights showed through any of the windows there.

No one was in sight anywhere. The courtyard was uncannily still with that breathless, distorted silence that dusk can bring to empty places. Dodd found himself walking on tiptoe and he grunted in disgust at his caution. He walked more normally on around the end of the long garage and found a graveled path that wound through a thicket of ornamentally weird bushes.

Suddenly, right ahead of him, there was a gurgling splash. Dodd dodged around the last turn of the path and came out on the tiled edge of the swimming pool.

“Hey!” he shouted, and his voice seemed to tear the silence into jagged pieces.

J. Stuart Grant was down on his knees at the deep end of the pool. He was threshing frantically at the surface of the water with a long pole he had in his hands.

“Help me!” he said breathlessly. “I can’t swim. He’s down here...”

Dodd’s heels smacked hard on the tile. He ducked under the diving board and around the corner of the pool.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“A man,” Grant gasped. “He fell... I think he hit his head on the edge...”

The pole had a heavy, rigid piece of bailing wire bent in the shape of an oval attached to its end. It was a tool commonly used by lifeguards to pull swimmers who were in trouble toward the edge of the pool.

Dodd jerked it out of Grant’s hands and knelt and pushed the wire loop deep into the blue-greenish depths of the pool. The wire touched something and dragged on it. Then it caught solidly, and Dodd heaved up and back.

The object was heavy, and it came slowly up from under the water and broke the surface in a rolling splash. It was Boris, and his heavy face stared at Dodd with the same incredulous surprise it had had when the taxi driver had hit him in the lobby of Dodd’s apartment. But now there was a gash, purple and jagged-looking, on Boris’ low forehead, and his mouth was open in a soundless shriek with the water gurgling frothily in it.

His thick body rolled loosely, slipped out of the wire loop and slid down again toward the distorted, shimmering tile bottom. Boris’ long arms were spraddled out, and his passage in the water moved them slowly and languidly, and he turned with a horrible, inert grace as he sank.

“He’s dead,” Dodd said numbly. “His head’s smashed wide open.”

“He fell,” Grant said. “He was running along the edge of the pool, and his feet slipped, and his head hit the sharp edge. He never struggled after he hit the water.”

Dodd looked at him. “What was he running for?”

“He was chasing me,” Grant said, staring down into the pool with fascinated distaste. “Now I’ll have to drain all the water out of this.”

"Why was he chasing you?” Dodd asked.

“What? Oh, because he didn’t want me to telephone the police.”

“What were you going to do that for?”

GRANT looked up. “To have him ejected, of course. I was going to have him arrested for trespassing, too. All the servants are gone, you see. I had to let them have time off after the party. There was no one to deal with him except me, and he was very violent.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Grant nodded. “Yes. His name is Boris. He’s a money-lender of the more predatory variety. He’s been here several times, but this is the first time he succeeded in getting into the grounds. The servants must have left the back gate unlocked again. They always do that. They’re too lazy to get out and close it when they leave.”

“Who did he come to see?”

Grant sighed. “My daughter— wouldn’t you know it? I suppose she’s been gambling again and borrowed some money from him. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl. She’s always been terrible, and lately she’s been getting worse. I can’t understand it.”

“If she was,” Dodd said, "I could.”

“What?” said Grant.

“If she was terrible, I’d know where she got it. She would have inherited it.”

“You’re talking a little foolishly, aren’t you?” Grant asked.

“No,” Dodd said, taking a firm grip on the end of the rescue pole and watching Grant’s face. “No. You’re the little joker in this pack. You shot Hots Hickey, and you just now slammed Boris over the ead with a crow-bar or something and dumped him in the drink.”

“Why?” Grant inquired politely.

“You’re broke,” Dodd said.

Grant smiled and made a delicate little gesture indicating their surroundings.

Dodd said: “The joint is mortgaged to the hilt, if not more so. You’re a smooth little guy, but when Limes and Lillicott pulled those stupid cracks of theirs about you not owning the place and serving bum liquor, you nearly jumped out of your slan. And I know who has the mortgage. Boyd Harkness’ Commercial Trust Company. You thought the only way you could skin out of that was to have Boyd Harkness marry your daughter.”

“You know,” Grant said reflectively, “you look very stupid, but you do have a sort of animal cleverness, don’t you?”

“I can count on my fingers,” Dodd answered. “Your daughter didn’t want any part of Boyd Harkness, and that’s why you’ve been beefing with her. She was interested in a refugee artist— very interested. You decided to put him out of the running for a while.”

“Did I?” Grant asked absently.

“Yes. You went to him. You were Caroline’s father, and he was anxious to do anything for you that would put him in good with you and with her. You confided that you were short of cash— just temporarily, just a little. It was very hush-hush. You couldn’t tell anybody, so you said, or it would ruin your credit. The poor guy didn’t have any dough to lend you, but he did have some sort of a snuff-box that was very valuable.”

“A Cellini snuff-box?” Grant inquired.

Dodd tightened his grip on the pole. “Yes. You got him to borrow dough on the strength of that from Boris through Hots Hickey. Then you turned right around and told them that the box was a fake. You’re certainly a twister. You knew they’d bounce him around if they thought they’d been chiseled, and they’re the type that would just think so off-hand without investigating.”

“Indeed,” Grant said vaguely.

“Yes” said Dodd, “Hots Hickey did bounce the artist guy around, but he began to get smart right afterwards. Evidently the guy didn’t react like he ought to. He knew the snuff box was genuine. He must have put some doubts in Hots’ mind even if Hots did slam him around. Hots came right out here to see you— not me. He knew I was here because Meekins, my runner, had told him. He asked for me to get him inside the grounds because he had an idea you wouldn’t let him in. But your butler— that tall guy—told you he was there before he told me. You went out back here and got one of your cars and drove around front, shot Hots and drove right around back again.

“It was cute, but you gave yourself away. The first thing you asked the guard was whose car had gone past. You were afraid he had recognized it even in the dust. You’re a fast worker, but you skid on the corners.”

“Very interesting,” said Grant. “By the way, do you think I’m going to let you hit me with that pole?”

Dodd swung it up and back.

“You can drop it now,” Grant said. He had a shiny, thin-barreled revolver in his hand. “I’m a very good shot. I have cups to prove it.”

Dodd let the pole slide out of his hands. “Do you think this will get you anywhere?”

“Yes,” said Grant. “I seem to remember you had an altercation with Boris earlier today. You must have met him here and finished it. I think he must have shot you, and then in your death agony you hit him on the head and he fell into the pool. Don’t you think so?”

Dodd’s tongue was suddenly dry and thick in his mouth, and the barrel of the revolver gleamed a little as it leveled at him.

“Uh!” said Grant in a startled gasp.

His head jerked, and his body thrust itself violently forward, and then he was teetering, twirling helplessly off balance on the edge of the pool. He yelled, and then he went over and the water swallowed him in a sullen, resounding gulp.

Caroline Grant was standing right where he had been, glaring at Dodd. “I heard every word he said! Oh, I don’t ever want to see— Oh!”

She whirled and ran up the slope of the lawn toward the big house. She was staggering a little, and Dodd could hear the thin, bitter sound of her sobbing.

Grant broke the water of the pool, threshing with frantic fury. “Help! I can’t— can’t—”

He went down again. Dodd seized the rescue pole and extended the loop out over the water. Grant came up, still threshing, and Dodd hooked the wire over one of his arms.

“Dodd!” a voice yelled.

Limes and Lillicott came pounding down the slope of the lawn.

“Dodd!” Limes said. “What’d you do to that gal to make her cry?”

“What the hell are you doin’ there?” Lillicott demanded. “Why, that’s Grant in the water! Pull him out, Dodd! Quit this clowning around and go sell a bond. We solved your murder for you.”

“Sure,” said Limes. “It’s easy when you know how. The guy is in jail already. Case closed.”

“Who is in jail?” Dodd asked.

“Boyd Harkness. He did it. He was nuts for this Caroline Grant and this here refugee artist, Bazooka, was cutting him out, so he hired Hots Hickey to beat the guy up. Then Hots put the squeeze on Harkness for more dough or something, so Harkness shot him. He just pulled a car out of the garage here and drove around in front and did it and then drove back around again. Give me that pole, stupid!”

Dodd gave it to him. “Pull it in carefully and you’ll get a prize. A nice, slightly worn murderer. You dimwits, Harkness had nothing to do with any of this. Grant did it. He can’t swim. Just push him under a couple of times, and he’ll tell you why.”

Grant cried out in a gurgling, despairing wail.

“What?” Limes said. “Who?”

“Hey!” said Lillicott. “Dodd! Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To sell a bond,” said Dodd. “To sell lots of bonds. To Mr. Harkness before he gets out of jail.”

______________________

4: Charity Begins At Homicide

Dime Detective Oct 1943

1: Charity Begins at Channel Island

GUITERREZ was waiting. He was not waiting patiently, but then he never did anything very patiently. He was walking up and down on the sidewalk in front of his restaurant with his tall chef’s hat pushed down over one eye, his hands clasped behind him and his long, slightly soiled apron swishing snakily around his ankles. . In the dimmed lights that came through the restaurant windows he looked like a shadowy Satan with the stomach-ache.

“Hello,” said Max Latin.

Guiterrez jumped a foot. “You!” he yelled. “Haven’t you got any regard for my health? Do you want to scare me to death? Would you like to see me drop dead here in the gutter ?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” said Latin. “Why don’t you?”

“Just to please you?” Guiterrez sneered. “Hah! I can see myself. Listen, you crook. I’ve been waiting for you. I want to ask you a question— and no lies. Did you get to England while you were in the Army?”

Latin was wearing a tailored blue topcoat and a dark blue rolled brim hat, and he blended into the shadows as though he belonged to them. He was thin and a little above medium height, and he had a blandly confidential smile that didn’t mean any more than the ones they paint on kewpie dolls. His eyes were greenish and tipped a little at the corners, and they never smiled at all.

“No,” he answered. “I told you I never got further than the basic training camp. They found out there I was as color blind as Grant’s Tomb and shipped me home.”

“Were you ever in England before you got in the Army, then?”

“No.”

“Latin, did you commit any crimes in New Zealand or Australia or South Africa?”

“No,” said Latin, “but I recall a little matter of some jewels smuggled across from Canada if that will help you any.”

Guiterrez slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh-oh'l”

“It was all a mistake,” Latin soothed. “The customs authorities made an error.”

“Well, the error has caught up with you.”

“So?” said Latin. “How do you figure?”

Guiterrez tapped him on the chest impressively. “Sherlock Holmes’ younger brother is sitting in your booth right this minute. I didn’t like the looks of this baby when he came in, and when he asked for you, both Dick and I tried to give him the brush-off. Latin, you couldn’t brush this number off with an anti-tank gun. He just sits. I think you better take a powder.”

“Let’s see what he wants first.”

“Latin,” said Guiterrez, “I don’t think you’re gonna like English jails. They’re damp, and you catch cold easy.”

“I’ll take a chance. Come on.”

HE OPENED the door, and the noise rolled out like the overflow from a jam session in a boiler factory. Guiterrez’ place was never noted for its air of quiet refinement. The customers were hardy souls who took what came and thrived on it as long as it included substantial portions of Guiterrez’ cooking, which was really almost as good as he thought it was.

Latin and Guiterrez worked their way expertly through the uproar and the writhing, close-packed tables to the last of the row of booths that ran along the side wall.

“Well, I found him for you,” said Guiterrez. “The service you get in this dump is amazing. Even crooks we serve for supper.”

“I’m Max Latin. Did you want to see me?” Latin said.

The man in the booth was so typically upper-class British that he looked faintly unreal. He had a long bony face burned brick-red by the sun and a close-clipped gray, military-style mustache and gray shaggy eyebrows. His eyes were a light blue, and he looked pained when he smiled.

“Ah, yes,” he said. He got up, awkward and bony in the narrow booth, and extended his hand. “Carter-Heason, here. Will you sit down?”

Latin slid into the seat across the table. A small and wizened waiter in an apron so big that it could have, and apparently had, been used for a tent, skidded to a stop beside the booth and said: “You want to give him the good brandy, Latin?”

“Certainly,” said Latin.

The waiter produced a bottle from under his apron.

Latin looked at Guiterrez. “Is there anything keeping you here?”

“I just wanted one last look at you before you got that prison pallor,” Guiterrez told him. “Good-by, Latin, you louse. It was nice knowing you.” He slammed through the swing door into the steamy bedlam of the kitchen.

CARTER-HEASON raised his shaggy eyebrows at Latin. “Were you planning on going somewhere?”

“Guiterrez thinks you’re going to arrest me.”

“Arrest you?” Carter-Heason said blankly. “But why?”

Latin shrugged. “Lots of people do.”

Carter-Heason looked vague. “Oh, I see. No, I assure you the thought hadn’t entered my mind. I came here to do business with you. I was told that this was your office. That was some of your American humor, I imagine.”

“No. It is my office.”

Carter-Heason made a little flustered gesture. “I meant no offense, really. Entirely your affair where you conduct your business, of course. But this establishment is rather—ah—confusing...”

“Sometimes that helps in my business,” Latin said. “Now what can I do for you?”

“Oh, yes. Now I’ve heard that you have a reputation for engaging in certain — all— sharp practices. Please don’t be offended, old chap. My information might be entirely wrong.”

“It’s not wrong,” Latin said.

“I see. And I’ve heard, on very good authority, that you have been remarkably successful at engaging in these practices.”

“Yes,” said Latin.

“I’ve been told that although you've been arrested innumerable times, you’ve never been convicted.”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” said Carter-Heason. He sipped his brandy, smiled weakly. “Well...”

Latin chuckled. “Come right out with it. Do you want to hire me?”

“Ah!” said Carter-Heason, relieved. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. You see, it’s not exactly...”

“Honest,” Latin finished.

“Well...”

“Is it, or isn’t it?” Latin asked. “After all, you should know.”

“That’s just the trouble, old chap. I don’t.”

“I’ll soon tell you,” Latin said. “Just tell me all about it.”

“THAT would be best, wouldn’t it? Right. Have you ever heard of the Channel Islands?”

“Channel Islands,” Latin repeated. “They’re small islands in the English Channel, aren’t they? Close to the French coast?”

“Right. They were occupied by the Germans in the early part of the war.”

“What about them?”

“There’s a chap by the name of Fortwyn going about here and there in America collecting funds for the relief and rehabilitation and re-establishment of the interned residents of these islands after the war. Very good thing. Very admirable. The people of the islands have a cultural background that is their own and unique and well worth preserving, and there’s no doubt but what they’ve been battered about considerably by the German occupying forces.”

“What’s the beef, then?”

“Eh? Oh, I see. Fortwyn is a British citizen.” Carter-Heason added as an afterthought: “So am I, you know.”

“Never would have guessed it,” Latin said. “I gather you don’t like this Fortwyn character.”

“No,” said Carter-Heason judicially. “I don’t. In fact, I don’t completely trust him.”

“Ah,” said Latin. “Now we’re coming to pay-dirt.”

“Yes. As you say. Now the funds that Fortwyn is collecting are to be administered after the war.”

“Maybe,” Latin suggested.

“That’s the crux of the matter,” Carter-Heason admitted. “He has a small group of his own. He is not connected with any other organized charity or war relief society. That does not, of course, mean that his methods or motives are in any way questionable.”

“Does he keep books?” Latin asked.

“Yes. Very excellent ones. I’ve inspected them. Several times.”

“Did he squawk?”

“Eh? Object, you mean? Well, in a way. I mean, the first time he seemed cordial enough, but he grew distinctly cooler when I came back.”

Latin nodded. “Yeah. Did the books seem to be on the square?”

“Oh, yes. Administrative expenses were very small— investments excellent. The idea is that the funds are to be kept in trust for use on the islands after the conclusion of the war.”

“In whose trust?” Latin asked.

Carter-Heason sighed. “An incorporated trust company, of which Fortwyn is the president of the board of directors. There are two other directors. One is his secretary, the other is the accompanist of his singer— a piano player.”

“Oh-oh,” said Latin.

“That was my impression,” Carter-Heason said ruefully. “There’s nothing obviously wrong with the arrangement. Fortwyn makes no effort to conceal it It has the advantage of keeping down administrative expenses.”

“It also has the advantage,” Latin observed, “of allowing Fortwyn to vote to do any damned thing he pleases with those funds any time he pleases. His two stooges would naturally back him up. He could walk off with the treasury the day peace was declared or any day before that he happened to think was convenient. And then you could have fun chasing him.” “Right,” said Carter-Heason.

“How about the F.B.I.?”

Carter-Heason shook his head gently. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with Fortwyn. He is not committing any crime. On the contrary, he is engaged in a very praiseworthy task. He is a valid British citizen, and he has no record whatsoever of any business chicanery. There can be no question here of any governmental interference. There are no grounds for official action.”

“So you came to me.”

“Right,” said Carter-Heason.

“Here I am.”

2: Top Hat, White Tie and—Fraud

CARTER-HEASON grunted uncomfortably. “Well, I’d like you to— ah —chisel at him. Is that the correct word?”

"Close enough,” Latin said absently. “You mean you want me to put the bite on Fortwyn in a heavy way. If he pays off rather than risk a beef with me and the authorities in opposite corners, then you’ll know there’s something smelly about his charity deal. Is that it?”

"Yes. I think that covers the ground very succinctly.”

Latin frowned down at his brandy. “This could be a little dangerous. You picked me because I’ve got a reputation that Fortwyn could check on easily. The cops and people like that keep an eye on me for the same reason, you know.”

Carter-Heason nodded. “Frankly, old chap, I think it’s damned dangerous. I don’t see how you’re going to avoid being jailed for one reason or another. I wouldn’t have asked you to do it if I could have thought of any other plan. Of course, I can offer you a considerable financial remuneration.”

Latin looked up. “Who’s paying?”

“I am.”

“I can easily find out.”

“I know it. You are welcome to make any inquiries you wish. I really am paying.”

“Why?” Latin asked.

Carter-Heason looked embarrassed. "Well, you see they won’t accept me for service— not any service anywhere. Had a little trouble with fever years ago. Bad heart and that sort of silly stuff. So I’ve been doing my best to promote friendly feeling between this country and Britain. Not connected with any official organization or any of that. Just bungle around in my clumsy fashion and try to act amiable.”

“I see,” said Latin.

“This chap Fortwyn may be all right, but if he’s not it’s a very nasty thing he’s doing. Cheating Americans who are generous enough to give to his charity is bad enough in itself, but if he should turn out to be a crook it would certainly not make the Americans involved feel very friendly toward the British in general. Sort of biting the hand that feeds you and all that.”

“I see,” Latin repeated. “How heavy can you go with the cash?”

“I have two hundred pounds on hand. That surely will do for a retainer, won’t it? I don’t mean that to be all, of course, but it will take me a little time to raise the remainder, whatever that is.”

“How will you raise it?”

“I was going to mortgage my pension.”

“Pension?” Latin said.

“Yes. For Colonial Service.”

“Skip it,” said Latin. "I’ll handle it. Maybe I can pick up a penny or two as I go along, and anyway I’m not very busy at this point.”

“Well, old chap, I can’t really—”

“You can send me cigarettes while I’m in jail. Tell me more about Fortwyn. How does he operate?”

“Very cleverly. I mean that whether he’s honest or not he’s quite efficient. He has this small group which travels with him from one city to the next. It consists of the secretary I spoke of— Isabel Grey— and the accompanist who is her fellow director, named Perwinkle, and Maxine Lufor, who is a singer. Fortwyn’s idea is to contact some top-drawer social clique in each city and make them the more-or-less exclusive sponsors of his island charity.”

Latin nodded. “You have to have a top hat and tails before you can contribute, eh?”

"Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. Fortwyn doesn’t solicit gifts from the general public. In fact, he hardly solicits at all in the general understanding of the word. Things are so arranged that people are very glad to contribute for the social prestige as well as for the future of the Channel Islanders. He puts on a dinner at the home of some socially prominent person. The socially prominent person invites the guests he— or usually she— selects. They make such contributions as they wish. The expenses of the dinner and what-not are deducted, and the charity gets what remains.”

“Sounds good,” Latin commented.

“IT IS. Fortwyn does the thing up well. Aside from the dinner, he furnishes entertainment. Maxine Lufor sings folk songs indigent to the islands and some early English folk songs. She’s very good. Perwinkle plays their folk dances and, of course, accompanies Maxine Lufor. Isabel Grey exhibits handiwork and other goods produced on the islands. She is a native of the islands and can answer any questions as to how the inhabitants live and work. Fortwyn gives a little lecture illustrated with some first-rate lantern slides.”

“Where have they landed in this town?”

“With a Mr. and Mrs. Jeffers Hayes. I understand that his is an old and rich banking family, and that they are very prominent socially among the older and more conservative people. The dinner and entertainment is scheduled for their Manxton Park estate tomorrow night. I’m really sorry not to give you more warning than that, but I hesitated a long time before I could nerve myself up to come at all.”

“I’ll make out,” said Latin. “Is the Fortwyn party staying out at Manxton Park?”

“No. At the Hanford-Plaza Hotel. I’m staying there too, incidentally.”

“Are you haunting them?” Latin inquired.

Carter-Heason chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I imagine that is their impression. I’m even going to the entertainment at the Hayes’ tomorrow night. They didn’t wish to invite me, or rather, Fortwyn didn’t wish to have them. But I have— ah—social connections myself.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Carter-Heason looked surprised. “You mean... I mean... Well, is that all?”

“For now. Unless you want another brandy.”

“No, thanks, really. I do wish I could offer you something for your time and trouble, not to mention the risk. After all, you don’t even know that I’m telling you the truth about all his.”

“I’ll find out,” said Latin. “Won’t I?”

“Well, yes. I imagine so.” Carter-Heason stood up. “This has really been most interesting. I had no idea—”

Dick, the waiter, popped up beside the booth. “You want something, chum?”

“Eh?” said Carter-Heason, startled. “Oh, no, thanks. I was just leaving.

“Cheer-o,” said Dick. “Toodle-oo.”

“Yes,” said Carter-Heason. “Good night, all.”

VERY stiff, very straight, withdrawn into his own dignity and ignoring all the uproar, he made his way to the front door and went out.

Guiterrez came through the swing door and leaned over the back of the booth, wiping the sweat off his face with the end of a towel he had wrapped muffler-style around his neck.

“Well?” he demanded. “What kind of a down-payment did you shake him for?”

“Nothing,” said Latin.

“A fine businessman you are,” said Guiterrez. “If he didn’t come to pinch you, he must have come to hire you. There sure as hell ain’t anybody silly enough to pay social calls on a sharpy like you. So why’d you let him waltz out of here just on a promise to pay?”

“I didn’t. He didn’t promise.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Guiterrez stated.

“Me, neither,” Dick seconded. “Hold it up and let us see it, Latin.”

“This is a charity job.”

“Charity!” Guiterrez shouted. "Charity begins at home, don’t you know that? What about us ? Look at poor Dick, here. He’s hungry, he’s sick, and he ain’t got no soles on his shoes!”

Latin nodded at Dick. “Run over on your bare feet and get me the telephone.” He nodded at Guiterrez. “You go out and get me something to eat.”

“I wonder why I put up with this,” said Guiterrez, slamming back into the kitchen.

Dick came back with the portable telephone, and Latin plugged it in at the concealed switch behind the drapes against the back wall of the booth.

“Want anything else?” Dick asked.

“Yes. I want to be alone.”

“Swish,” said Dick. “That was the noise I made disappearing.”

Latin thought for a moment and then lifted the hand-set and dialed a number. The telephone at the other end didn’t have time to complete its first ring before there was a snap on the line, and a voice said breathlessly: “Yes? Yes? Yes?”

Latin said: “Is Toots Carr there?”

“Oh, yes! Hold the wire, he’s right here. Toots— Toots! It’s for you... This is it! Hurry!”

Latin looked mildly surprised. Through the receiver he could hear a faint banging and then the crash of some furniture overturning and then the hurried stamp of footsteps. A hoarse masculine voice said eagerly: “Yes, sir! Yes, your honor! This is him— I mean, me. I mean, this is Toots Carr.”

“THIS is Latin, Toots. What’s all the business?”

“Who— Latin? Oh! Get off the wire, Latin. I’m expecting a vital call. Quick! Good-by.”

“Hold it,” said Latin. “Who’s going to call you?”

“The President of the United States, that’s who! Now go away, Latin. This is serious!”

“Why is the President going to call you?”

“Because I sent him a telegram and asked him to. Now, Latin, please. He might be tryin’ to get me this very minute. Hang up!”

“Why did you send him a telegram, Toots?”

“Because I’m gonna have him burn the ears off of my damned draft board, that’s why! I’ll show them guys! I got no time to talk, Latin. Good-by.”

“Wait now, Toots. Be reasonable. It’s after one o’clock in Washington. Do you think the President works all night as well as all day?”

“Huh ? Oh, yeah. That’s right. I guess he’ll call me up first thing in the morning, then.”

“No doubt,” said Latin. “What’s the matter with your draft board?”

“Why, them guys is criminals, that’s what. They’re a set of fifth columnists! You know me. You know who I am. I am positively the best safe-puffer in the business, that’s who. I can take a vault door off and lay it down as gentle as a baby in a cradle. You know that yourself, Latin. Am I right?”

“Sure,” said Latin.

“O. K., O. K. So that’s what I tell them dim bulbs on the draft board. I tell them I see some of these Nazi tanks in the newsreel. You think if I can open up a Class A bank vault I can’t top off them tin cans? I say to these dopes: ‘Let me in, and I will strew the insides of them zinc tubs from here to Calcutta.’ That’s what I say.”

“What did they say?” Latin asked.

“Them criminals! They say I am 4F, and that I can’t get in.”

“You look pretty healthy,” Latin observed. “Why the 4F— are you sick?”

“I ain’t no sicker than Superman! They got that on me, them rats, because they claim I am morally unfit for duty. How do you like that? So maybe the cops do claim I done a few tricks here and there. So maybe I was in Leavenworth and Alcatraz and a couple other boffs. So what ? How about that guy they’re fightin’, huh? How about Hitler? I suppose he was never in jail!”

“You’ve got something there,” Latin admitted.

“Wait until I tell the President what them guys is doin’ to me! He’ll fix them babies. Oh, just wait! I’d like to see their faces when he gets through.”

“Sure,” said Latin. “In the meantime, can you tell me where Tatsy Stevens is?”

“He’s stashed away in some cow country tank for fifty years or more.”

“Where’s Bill Lutz?”

“He got himself hung, the dope.”

“How about Clarence Carlson?”

“Aw now there’s a sad case, Latin. You know how he used to worry about the Feds always steppin’ around behind him and givin’ him dirty looks if they even caught him at a dime store jewelry counter? I say to him: ‘Clarence, you should out to turn honest like me and get yourself right with all them laws.’ But, no. Clarence just when on worryin’ until he caught himself stomach ulcers and croaked. Why are you asking about these characters, Latin?”

“Well, Toots,” said Latin, “this is confidential.”

“Oh, sure. Absolute. You know me, Latin. ”

“Yes. Well, there’s some big stuff being buzzed off lately. Jewelry mostly. All strictly hush-hush. The guy doesn’t fence it. He goes around behind and sells it back for a percentage. He’s smarter than fire. I’ve got a tip he’s on the loose and close. I want to put out a wire to let me negotiate for him, but I don’t know who he is.”

“Gee,” said Toots.

“It would be money in the bank. He’s a fancy man at his business. I checked all the high-flyers, and it’s not one of them if your dope on Tatsy and Bill Lutz and Clarence is straight.”

“It sure is, Latin. Gee. I wonder who it is?”

“The only one I can think of is Maurice Peters.”

“Who was that, Latin?”

“Maurice Peters. You’ve heard of him. He’s from across.”

“Oh,” said Toots vaguely. “Yeah.”

“He’s been doing damned well in London. You know, when there were a lot of bombs dropping sometimes there’d be an extra bang— only that one wouldn’t be a bomb. It would be Maurice knocking a safe around.”

“Gee!” said Toots. “Yeah, I remember him now. Sure! He’s something. You think he’s over here now, Latin? Do you really?”

“Must be, I guess. Listen around, will you?”

“Sure. You bet!”

“And don’t cough any of this. It’s strictly under the bed. That Maurice Peters is quick and nasty. I don’t want a guy like him thinking I’m trying to smear him."

“I won’t breathe it, Latin. No, sir! Anything I hear. I’ll give you a ring.”

“Good night,” said Latin. “Give my regards to the President.”

3: S.O.S. From 18R

HE HUNG up and poured himself another brandy. He looked just slightly amused.

Dick stopped beside the booth. “You ready to eat yet, or do you figure on drinkin' yourself into a stupor first?”

“Get me the telephone directory.”

Dick went out into the kitchen and came back with the directory.

Latin looked up a number and dialed it. The telephone at the other end rang several times, and then a nasal, insolently superior voice said: “This is the Jeffers Hayes’ residence.”

Latin said: “Let me speak to Mr. Hayes, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Max Latin.”

“One moment.”

Latin waited. After awhile the superior voice came back and said: “Mr. Hayes doesn’t know any Max Latin. May I ask what your business is with Mr. Hayes?”

“Tell him it’s a matter of some stolen jewelry and that he’d better come to the phone because I’m much easier to talk to than the police.”

“Stolen jewelry?” the superior voice said, startled. “Police? One moment, please.”

Latin waited some more, and then a wheezily impatient voice said suddenly: “What? What, what? What’s this?”

“This is Max Latin. Have you ever heard of me?”

“No!”

“You should read the crime news. I specialize in— ah— recovering stolen jewelry for people. For a suitable reward, of course.”

“What nonsense! I haven’t had any jewelry stolen.”

“No,” Latin agreed. “Not yet.”

“Eh? What, what? What do you mean, sir?”

“You’re having a party tomorrow night,” Latin said. “There’ll be quite a lot of important people there, wearing important jewelry. If their jewelry was stolen at your home, you’d feel pretty mortified, wouldn’t you? You’d want to do everything you could to ensure its return, isn’t that right?”

“Stolen... My home... What? No one would dare! Just what are you talking about?”

“I’m putting in my bid ahead of time,” Latin explained. “After the jewelry is stolen, just give me a buzz, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“After...” the wheezy voice said, stunned. “After the jewelry is stolen... Here! The insolence! Why, I’ll have you arrested. I’ll have you put in jail. Calling me up and telling me... Why, why, this is fantastic! I’m going to inform the police at once. I’ll have you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“You do that,” Latin said. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

He broke the connection before the wheezy voice could work up another head of steam.

GUITERREZ opened the kitchen door.

“Are you gonna eat this stuff, or am I gonna throw it away?”

“Bring it on,” said Latin.

Dick appeared with an armful of napkins, silverware, plates, coffee, salad and soup and dumped them all helter-skelter on the table-top. Latin arranged them in the proper sequence and started eating.

The telephone buzzed softly, and Latin picked it up and said: “Yes?”

The voice was a faint, broken murmur. “Is this— is this Max Latin?”

"Yes,” said Latin.

“Did you talk to a man named Carter-Heason?”

“Yes. Can you speak a little louder? I can’t hear.”

"No. I’m afraid. If they heard... Oh, you’ve got to help me! Please, please!”

“Sure,” said Latin. “Who are you, and where are you ?”

“Isabel Grey. At the Hanford-Plaza.”

“I remember. You’re Fortwyn’s secretary. What’s the matter?”

“I spoke— I spoke about the funds... The money we’re collecting ... I didn’t know—didn’t realize... Oh, I’m so afraid! Oh, please come! I can’t talk any more.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. Latin listened for a moment more and then put the telephone back on its stand slowly. Absently he pushed away the remains of his soup and salad and picked up his glass of brandy.. He looked at it thoughtfully and then put it down untouched and picked up the cup of coffee instead.

“Trouble?” Guiterrez asked.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Latin. He finished the coffee and stood up. “Keep the home fires burning.”

IN ITS brief but bawdy history the Hanford-Plaza Hotel had seen some spectacular goings-on. It had been in receivership since the day it opened, and it had never failed to default on its bonds. But this present crisis was something no one could possibly have foreseen. The place was making money.

The lobby was stacked three-deep with people who had rooms and people who didn’t have rooms but wanted them and people who didn’t have rooms but had given up hope and gone to sleep any handy place. The clerk huddled behind his desk and watched it all with awed and helpless dismay.

"Hey,” said Latin. “Have you a party by the name of Fortwyn staying here?”

“I don’t know,” said the clerk.

“How’s for looking it up ?”

"Oh, yes,” said the clerk numbly. “Yes, I could do that, couldn’t I?” He consulted the file of registry cards. “There’s a Reginald Fortwyn and party in Suite 18R. That’s on the eighteenth floor.”

“O. K. How about a party named Carter-Heason?”

The clerk looked again. “In 1751. That’s the seventeenth floor. You— you don’t live here, do you?”

“No.”

"Oh, you’re lucky! You can’t imagine.”

Latin left him and went over to the elevator bank. He eased himself inside, and the cage ground wearily upward.

“Eighteen,” he said, when the operator looked at him out of bleary red-rimmed eyes.

“I’ll take you up,” said the operator, “but you may have to walk down. I’m gonna quit any minute now.”

"Having trouble?” Latin asked.

“Hah!” said the operator. “I don’t mind ’em swearin’ at me and stickin’ their elbows in my back and their fingers in my eyes, but I’m gettin’ damned sick of having to run this thing with people sittin’ in my lap. Here’s your floor.”

“Happy landings,” said Latin.

HE WALKED along on silent deep blue carpeting until he came to the door numbered 18R. Latin rapped a small bronze knocker sharply. There was no answer. He rapped again and then tried the knob. It turned easily and smoothly under his hand, and the door opened quietly in front of him.

Latin stepped through it into a small, formal foyer. He went on through an arched doorway into a combination reception and living room. The Fortwyn party evidently did themselves well. The lights were on, and everything was bright and clean and glistening, but the room was empty.

There were closed doors to Latin’s right and to his left. He picked the left and walked over and opened that door. “Oh,” he said. “Pardon me.”

It was a small room, hardly larger than a hall closet, and it had been fixed up as a temporary office with a tall steel filing case and a small desk-table with a typewriter on it. There was a woman sitting behind the desk. Her head was down, resting on her folded arms beside the typewriter. She was a small woman, dressed in a black tailored suit, and her gray hair had been clipped short.

“Pardon me,” said Latin, more loudly. The woman’s body sagged dejectedly, and her shoulders slumped as though-she were crying. In spite of the gray hair she looked remarkably like a school girl who had just been scolded by teacher. She didn’t move or raise her head.

Latin took a silent step closer and touched her gently on the shoulder. He stood rigidly still then, looking down, for about five seconds. After that he let out his breath in a long sigh and slid his hand under the woman’s chin and lifted her head. Her eyes were gray and glassily dilated. She wasn’t breathing, and the blood had soaked through and made a glossy purplish sheen on the front of her dress.

Latin let her head fall back on her arms again. He glanced carefully around the little office and then stepped quietly backward out into the reception room and closed the door. He took out his handkerchief and polished the knob carefully. Just as carefully and quietly he went back across the reception room, through the foyer, and out into the hall.

He considered for a moment. The door had an automatic night-latch on it. Latin snapped that into the lock position and then closed the door, staying outside. Then he hammered loudly with the knocker.

“Fortwyn!” he shouted.

He waited for a moment and then pounded on the door panels with both fists and threw in a couple of kicks for good measure and then waited again. The door opened suddenly and violently.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“Well,” said Latin mildly. “Goodness me. Hello.”

4: Life— and Death at the Hanford-Plaza

SHE was sultry and sensational. She was wearing a greenish padded housecoat that matched her eyes, and golden strap slippers that matched her hair. She was just about the right height, and there was nothing wrong with the rest of her proportions. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or -three at the best, and her best was something.

“What’s the idea of making all the noise?” she demanded.

“I wanted to get in,” said Latin.

“Well, where’s Miss Grey? She’s supposed to answer the door. Miss Grey!”

“Never mind,” said Latin. “I’d rather talk to you, anyway. I bet you’re Maxine Lufor, aren’t you?”

“How did you know? Who are you?”

“I guessed,” said Latin, “and I’m Max Latin. Let’s you and I call each other Maxie, shall we?”

“No! What do you want, anyway?”

“Just business,” Latin said. “But it’s not important at all. It can wait if you’d like to invite me in to have a dish of tea or something.”

“I wouldn’t invite you to have a dish of dog food. Go away!” She tried to slam the door. “Take your foot out of that door. Go away!”

“Maxine!” another voice said. “Maxine, dear! What on earth is the matter?”

The door opened wider, and a man looked out over Maxine Lufor’s shoulder. He had a face as round and flat as a pie tin and a rosy red complexion and popped eyes that were blue and wide and bloodshot. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and his chest ballooned out pouter-pigeon style under a glistening expanse of starched white shirt-front. His voice boomed and raised modulated oratorical echoes.

“Eh! What is this?”

“He was beating on the door,” Maxine Lufor explained. “So I came to see what he wanted.”

“Well, what does he want?”

“To get funny,” said Maxine Lufor.

“Now, fellow,” said the fat man. “I’m Reginald Fortwyn. Who are you, eh?”

“I’m Max Latin.”

“Well, what is it that you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“Why?”

“Business,” said Latin.

“Oh,” said Fortwyn. “Well, you’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary. Where is she? Miss Grey! Oh, Miss Grey!”

“Maybe she went to the little girl’s room,” Maxine Lufor suggested.

Fortwyn said: “Miss Grey never... I mean, I told her specifically to stay here and see that I wasn’t disturbed. I’m sorry, my man, but I’m frightfully busy now and—”

“It won’t take long,” Latin said. “I hear there’s going to be a robbery at the Hayes’ place tomorrow night.”

“You hear... What?”

Latin nodded. “Robbery. Jewel robbery. You know, that’d be bad. I mean, people might not think it was just a coincidence. You know how people are when they get robbed. Unreasonable. Since the party is being given for your benefit, they might dream up some sort of connection between you and the robbery.”

Fortwyn stared with his mouth open. “Do I understand you to say... Are you from the police?”

“On the contrary,” said Latin.

“Well, how do you know there’s going to be a robbery?”

“I don’t,” said Latin. “I’ve just got a hunch, but my hunches are generally pretty accurate. I’d count on this one if I were you.”

FORTWYN goggled at him incredulously. “I believe you are insinuating that you have some secret information. If" you know anything about a proposed robbery and don’t inform the police, you are an accessory!”

“Oh, sure,” said Latin. “Being an accessory is one of my hobbies, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

“Eh?”

“I’m trying to explain that if a robbery took place the rumor might get around that you were an accessory. That would have a bad effect on your reputation— and your receipts the next time you put on a shindig.”

“What— what are you suggesting I do?” Fortwyn asked groggily.

“Pay me,” said Latin.

“Pay you?”

“Sure. For a reasonable fee I will guarantee that there won’t be a robbery.”

“Won’t be...? See here! Why, that’s nothing more than blackmail!”

“No,” Latin denied. "Insurance.”

“Oh, no!” Fortwyn shouted. “Oh, no, indeed! You are threatening to arrange a robbery and implicate me in it unless I pay you money not to. Why, I’ve never heard of such monstrous insolence: I’ll have you arrested. Maxine! You heard his proposal. Look at him closely so you can identify him. I want another witness. Find Miss Grey! Hurry up. Look for her!”

Maxine Lufor stepped back inside the suite. “I’ll see if she left a note in the office.”

Fortwyn pointed a pudgy finger at Lat-, in. “Don’t you try to get away, fellow! I’m going to see that you answer to the authorities—”

Maxine Lufor screamed horribly. Fortwyn swung around, the rosy red of his complexion fading suddenly. “What is it? Maxine! What—”

She screamed again.

“Good-by, now,” Latin said pleasantly. Fortwyn ignored him. He lumbered back inside the suite, calling anxiously: “Maxine! What is it? What did you see?”

Latin turned a corner in the corridor and walked out along to the stairs and went down them to the seventeenth floor. He was whistling softly and thoughtfully to himself. He went along the hall on the seventeenth floor until he came to the room numbered 1751. He rapped with the bronze knocker.

THE door opened at once, and Carter-Heason said: “Well, old chap. This is a surprise. Come right in.”

The room was small and narrow, and it had none of the shiny luxury of the Fortwyn suite. There was a man sitting in the chair that was crowded in between the bed and the one window. He was a thin man with narrow shoulders and hair that looked startlingly black in contrast to the smooth pallor of his face. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and a blue suit that was shiny at the seams.

“This is Mr. Perwinkle,” Carter-Heason said. “He is employed by Fortwyn. If you’ll remember, I spoke to you about him. This is Max Latin, Perwinkle. He is helping me investigate Fortwyn.”

"You’re the accompanist,” Latin said.

Perwinkle looked up gloomily. “Piano player,” he corrected. “General all-around stooge and patsy.”

Mr. Perwinkle is— ah— dissatisfied with his job and his employer,” Carter-Heason explained. “He shares my suspicions of Fortwyn’s honesty.”

“The guy is a crook,” said Perwinkle. “He is also a rat, if that matters.”

“Can you prove it?” Latin asked.

“No.”

“We were having a conference on that matter,” Carter-Heason said. “Mr. Perwinkle indicated that he would cooperate with me in investigating Fortwyn, but we are in a quandary as to just where to start.”

“That old blow-belly is as smooth as they come,” Perwinkle stated. “I know he’s crooked, but he never makes a misstep, and he carries more oil than a tanker. He can explain anything.”

"I was just up talking to him,” Latin said. “We didn’t get anywhere. That’s quite a nifty number he has singing for him.”

“You should try to play the piano for her,” Perwinkle said. “The last time she got off the beat she crowned me with a vase and claimed it was my fault. Of course, the old boy took her part.”

“Is he that way about her?”

“Yeah, man. She snaps her fingers, and he hops. It’s the only thing he is silly about, but if I were she I’d take it pretty easy. I bet the old guy would really blow his top if he thought she was taking him for a ride, and believe me he can be rough and tough when he gets a mad on.”

“Do you think he’s a crook because you don’t like him,” Latin asked, “or have you got any good reasons?”

Perwinkle moved his narrow shoulders disconsolately. “I just know. He’s not doin’ this for fun. He's taken in plenty. It’s all nicely invested now, but I’m damned sure it isn’t going to stay there. I could quit, but if I do, I automatically get myself fired from the board of directors of that phony trust company of his, and then I never would find out what goes on.”

“How about Isabel Grey? Is she in it with Fortwyn?”

“Aw, no. Izzy’s straight. She’s got all kinds of relatives hanging out in those islands, and besides that she’s a nice old gal. She’s smoothed old Fortwyn down lots of times when he’s been on my tail. She’s kind of dumb, though. She thinks Fortwyn is the greatest man alive— on account of him claiming to collect all this money to help her relatives and friends and all. I’ve tried to talk to her about this and that, but she won’t hear a word against him. She just looks shocked that I could even think—”

THE door in back of Latin opened suddenly, bumping him forward.

“Here, now!” said Carter-Heason indignantly. “This is a private room! What do you mean, breaking in this way ? Who are you ?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Walters,” said the man in the doorway. “Homicide. And if you keep people like Latin in your room, you’ve got to expect people like me to come in after them.”

“Hello, Walters,” said Latin. “You’re not looking very well these days.”

“I’m not feeling well, either,” said Walters. He was a tall, thin, gauntly bitter man with the sourly disillusioned air of a person who has been disappointed in human nature so regularly that he lias become insulated. “So just tell me what you know about that murder on the eighteenth floor and don’t waste my time trying to act innocent.”

“Murder?” Latin repeated. “On the eighteenth floor? This is very surprising, Walters. Are you absolutely sure of your facts?”

“I can generally tell a corpse when I see one. Start talking, Latin.”

“Who was murdered?” Latin asked.

“A dame named Isabel Grey, as if you didn’t know.”

“What?” Perwinkle gasped. “Did you say Isabel Grey? Izzy?”

Walters looked at him. "Yes. Who are you?”

“Perwinkle,” he said numbly. “I play the piano... Izzy— dead? Murdered? Who— who would do a thing like that?”

“If you’ll shut up,” Walters told him, “I’ll go ahead trying to find out. What did the dame want when she called you on the telephone, Latin?”

“Called me?” Latin said blandly.

Walters eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you denying that she did?”

“Oh, no,” Latin answered. “Come to think of it, she did. It slipped my mind. She just asked me to drop around and see her sometime.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I expect she wanted me to make a slight contribution to the Channel Island charity.”

“And you were so anxious to do it that you whipped right up there in the middle of the night?”

Latin nodded. “I’m hell-bent on charity.”

“Ha-ha,” Walters said sourly. “Now, look here. That wasn’t any ordinary call she made to you. How do I know? Because she didn’t want to take a chance on making it from the suite upstairs. Instead, she went down to the lobby and called from one of the booths. The clerk noticed it. Now what did she have to say that was so important?”

“That’s all,” said Latin. “Just asked me to drop around.”

“You liar. You were right outside the door when her body was discovered.”

“Yes,” Latin agreed, and repeated with emphasis: “Outside.”

WALTERS pounced. “How did you know when the body was discovered?”

“Deduction,” Latin said. “Maxine Lufor let loose with a loud halloo while I was standing in the hall talking to Fortwyn. I mean, people scream for no end of reasons, but when you mentioned a murder, I sort of tied it up with that. But just remember I was outside in the hall the whole time I was there, and incidentally the door was locked.”

“I don’t think it was incidentally,” said Walters. “I think it was on purpose— your purpose.”

“Oh, now, Walters,” Latin said. “You’re just being silly. You know you couldn’t prove a thing like that.”

Walters leaned forward. “You were inside that suite!”

“Shame,” said Latin. “Do you think I’m the sort of person who would enter people’s rooms uninvited?”

“I know damned well you are!”

“Let’s not bicker,” said Latin. “You’ll get all excited and give yourself indigestion. Let’s talk about something pleasant for a change.”

“Blaah!” said Walters explosively. “Who is this skinny bird here?”

“This is Carter-Heason. He’s British.”

“What are you doing in his room?”

“He’s a stranger to the city, and I just thought I’d drop in with a word of welcome. Make him feel at home and all that.”

“Is that true?” Waiters demanded.

“Certainly,” said Carter-Heason. “Look here, old chap. I don’t know a great about your legal procedure in this country, but I think you’re going a little too far when you barge into my room in this impolite manner and treat my guests as though they were some sort of criminals.”

“Criminals!” Walters echoed. “Some sort! Latin is all sorts of a criminal! If there’s any crime in the books that he hasn’t committed its just because he’s been too busy to get around to it. Hey, wait a minute. You with the cheaters. What’d you say your name was?”

“Perwinkle.”

“You belong to the outfit upstairs, don’t you? Aren’t you the guy that plays the piano for the dame with the streamlines?”

"Yes,” Perwinkle admitted.

"What are you doing here?”

"Just visiting Carter-Heason.”

“What for?”

"We were just talking about music.”

Walters looked at Carter-Heason. “What do you play?”

“I don’t. I’m a student of the Art.”

“Nuts,” said Walters. He turned back to Perwinkle. “Where were you for the last hour?”

“Right here,” said Perwinkle. His eyes bulged suddenly behind the glasses. “You don’t think I— I...”

“I don’t know,” Walters answered grimly, “but don’t think I won’t find out. Now, Latin. Get a grip on this and remember it. I just got on this case. Not five minutes after I arrive, I hear your name. So I checked up with the desk clerk and came here to find you. I don’t know what it’s all about yet, but if you’re in it, it’s bound to be sour. You stick around where I can find you.” He pointed a finger at Carter-Heason. “As for you, you’re in bad company. People that play with Latin end up behind the eight ball if not in a coffin. Four-Eyes, you trot along with me.”

“Me?” Perwinkle wailed. “But I don’t know anything about... I haven’t seen Izzy since dinner! I went to the picture show and came right up here and stayed here. I can prove—”

"Less noise,” Walters ordered. “Out. Get going back upstairs. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

He grabbed Perwinkle’s skinny arm and shoved him through the door. He turned back to nod grimly at Latin and Carter-Heason.

"I’ll see both of you— later.”

He slammed the door.

“Extraordinarily unpleasant character,” Carter-Heason commented. “I don’t believe I approve of the American police.”

“They get in my hair, too,” said Latin.

Carter-Heason frowned in a worried way. “I’m confused. In America, violence happens so— so violently. This murder, so unexpected... I fear I might have some responsibility. You see, I’ve spoken several times to Miss Grey as well as Perwinkle. She couldn’t help but know that I was suspicious of Fortwyn and have been for some time. She wouldn’t, as Perwinkle said, hear a word against Fortwyn, but do you suppose she found out something or said something to him?”

“Maybe,” said Latin. “I’ve got to run along.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” said Latin. “To get some sleep. I have an idea we’ll have a big night tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

5: Murder Goes High Class

YOU don’t see the really big limousines very much any more— the Cunningham and the Rolls and the Mercedes-Benz— all glitter and weight, with an insatiable thirst for gas. Their owners save them for special occasions. But this was one, and here they were, parked in a sleek gleaming line up the curve of the long drive. Latin walked along, admiring them, until a man stepped suddenly out of the shadow and said: “That’s far enough.”

“Hello, Walters,” Latin said. "How’s murder?”

“Looking up,” said Walters, “now that you’ve arrived. What are you doing here?”

“I’m expected at the party.”

“Let me see your invitation.”

“I didn’t say I was invited,” Latin told him. “Just expected. What have you found out about Isabel Grey’s death?”

“Plenty. Where is Maurice Peters?” “Who?” Latin asked.

“Don’t act dumb,” Walters ordered. “I want to know where Maurice Peters is.”

“Don’t know him,” said Latin.

Walters breathed deeply. “Look, smarty. You’re not the only one who gets around. I know all about Maurice Peters. He’s a hot-shot from London, and you’ve got a tip that he’s going to pick off some jewelry at this party. This Carter-Heason with his dopey suspicions of Fortwyn gave you just the chance you needed to poke your nose in. You put the bell on Jeffers Hayes so that if Maurice Peters walks off with something you’d get the chance to negotiate to get it back. Then you turned right around and put the shake on Fortwyn, so if Maurice Peters should change his mind then you’d take credit for preventing a robbery and get some dough on that angle. Both ends against the middle. That’s you all over, Latin.”

“I never heard such nonsense in all my life,” said Latin. “I don’t believe there is any such person as Maurice Peters. ”

“Well, I believe there is. And what’s more, I believe you’re going to point him out to me. Because if you don’t, you know what’s going to happen.”

“What?” Latin inquired.

“I’m going to personally escort you to jail. And you won’t slide out with any accessory charge this time. You laid yourself wide open. If any jewelry is missing from this party tonight, you’re going to be charged with stealing it. You’re a principal, and I can prove it by the testimony of Hayes and Fortwyn.”

“In that case,” said Latin, “I’d be only too glad to help you in any way I can, but I don’t really think I can point out Maurice Peters to you.”

“I really think you’d better,” Walters said, taking a firm grip on his arm. “Come on.”

THE house was white and austere and imposing, spread majestically across the top of its private knoll. The curtains were drawn tight across its many windows, and only a few stray gleams of light escaped, but the place was alive with the shadowy, busy bustle of people. As Latin and Walters came up the drive and up the wide front steps to the veranda, they could hear the faintly nasal whine of a string orchestra and the muffled bnmble-bumble-bumble of many mixed conversations. There were about eighteen resentful-looking chauffeurs standing in a row beside the front door in the custody of an even more resentful-looking uniformed policeman. Walters marched Latin up and down in front of the row.

“Well?” he said inquiringly.

“Well, what?” Latin asked.

Walters gave his arm a jerk. “I told you to drop that stupid act! Is any of these birds Maurice Peters or any relation to him ?”

“Not that I know of,” said Latin. “Come on inside, then.”

Walters opened the front door and hauled Latin into a big, spectacularly shiny hall. A tall, darkly sinister butler bowed to them in icy greeting.

“How about this number?” Walters demanded. “Is he Maurice Peters?”

“Nope,” said Latin.

“The name,” said the butler, “is Hoggins, in case the information remotely concerns you. May I have your invitations, if you please?”

“No,” said Walters. “We’ll blow our own horn.”

He pulled Latin on down the hall and through a wide, curtained archway. The drawing room and dining room and reception room extended before them like a luxurious movie set in triplicate crowded with fat women under full sail in evening dresses and fat men in tails and with well-bred hauteur clustered around so thickly you could spread it with a putty knife.

“Just take your time,” Walters ordered.

Latin looked. “That bloated bird in the corner is a crook if I ever saw one.”

“I know it,” said Walters. “But his name is not Maurice Peters, and he’s not here to steal jewelry. He’s the president of the Chamber of Commerce. Look again.”

“There’s a bar over there—”

“I know that, too, but you’re not going to get any closer to it. Quit stalling.”

A tall, lath-like man with a sun-reddened bald head and fishy gray eyes moved out of the crowd and said: “Ah, Inspector. Glad to see you paying such close attention to your duties. Anything I can do for you?”

“No, thanks,” Walters said. “Mr. Jeffers Hayes, I’d like you to meet Max Latin.”

Hayes said absently: “Pleasure, I’m sure—” His voice deepened to a croak. “What? What, what? Who?”

“Max Latin,” said Latin. “Hi.”

Hayes recoiled. “You— here! In my house... Inspector Walters! What do you mean by bringing this— this person here? What, what? Explain yourself, sir!”

“He’s looking over the people,” Walters said. “He’s going to point out Maurice Peters to me. Peters is the thief we expect is here.”

Hayes swallowed hard. “Looking over... Expect... What? Thief! Inspector, these people are my guests. My guests! Do you think I’d invite a thief to my home? What utter nonsense! Take this man away from the premises.”

Carter-Heason came up to them and said: “What-o? Having trouble?”

“No!” Hayes snarled. He glared haughtily at Carter-Heason and then spun on his heel and stalked rigidly away.

CARTER-HEASON smiled pleasantly.

“Sour sort of a chap, isn’t he? Very resentful that he had to issue me an invitation to this affair. Boring, isn’t it ?”

“Why did he have to issue you an invitation?” Walters asked suspiciously.

Carter-Heason shrugged. “Oh, I imagine the British Consul put in a word for me. Charming fellow, Rodney. Known him for years. Have a spot to drink?”

“Yes,” said Latin.

“No,” said Walters. “And I’m keeping an eye on you, Carter-Heason. Ever hear of a man named Maurice Peters?”

“Don’t believe so,” said Carter-Heason. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“No!”

“I see. Aren’t you a homicide detective, by the way? Expecting a murder?”

“It could happen,” Walters answered grimly. “Come on, Latin.”

They went back into the hall and down the length of it and through another door into the gleaming, narrow butler’s pantry and the restaurant-size kitchen beyond. There was a policeman sitting and eating an apple in front of the kitchen door.

“Stand here,” Walters said. “Just watch them as they go back and forth. Everybody here, Kelly?”

“Yup,” said Kelly, eating more apple.

“I don’t see any familiar faces,” Latin said.

“O.K.,” said Walters. “Upstairs, next.”

They went back through the butler’s pantry and up the servants’ stairs to the second floor. There was a wide hall that branched back both ways from the main stairway, and Walters chose one of the doors along it and knocked.

“This is the ladies’ dressing room.”

A cute, pert blond maid looked out at them. “You can’t come in here!”

“I don’t want to,” said Walters. “I just want Latin to look at you.”

“And am I glad to,” said Latin. “My name is Latin, and if you should drop into Guiterrez’ restaurant some night—”

“Come on!” Walters snarled. “I’ve got better things to do than clown around with you. This is the gent’s dressing room. Take a look at the valet and—”

There was a shrill, throbbing scream. “I know that voice,” Latin said. “It belongs to Maxine Lufor.”

“Stay here!” Walters snapped.

HE POUNDED on down the hall, and Latin ran right after him. They turned a corner, and the hall ended ahead of them in a glass-paneled door that gave out on to a sun deck with a high white plaster wall. There was a second door to the right of the glass door, and it snapped open now, and two struggling figures caromed out of it and bounced against the wall opposite.

“Here!” Walters yelled. “Stop that! What’s going on here?”

The larger of the two figures swung two awkwardly chopping blows at the smaller and knocked him back across the hall. This one was Perwinkle, and he tripped and went down in a sprawl.

“Get him!” the larger man shouted. “He murdered Maxine! I saw him! I saw him!” He pointed a rigid, shaking finger. “He murdered her— stabbed her!”

"Here you!” Walters barked. “Fortwyn! Hold it, now! What’s all this?”

Fortwyn’s round face was reddishly bloated. He made choking sounds in his throat and then ripped away the starched collar of his dress shirt. His eyes bulged.

“Look at him!” Perwinkle shrieked. “Look! Her blood is on his shirt!”

There was a dark smear across the white front of Fortwyn’s shirt. He looked down at it, still making those animal choking sounds in his throat, and then kicked savagely at Perwinkle. Perwinkle got him by the leg, and the two of them slammed back into the glass door and knocked it open with a thunderous clatter of broken glass.

“Fortwyn!” Walters bawled. “Stop that! Put up your hands!”

The two men rolled out on the porch floor over the crunching glass, and Walters dove through the shattered door after them.

Latin stopped to peer through the door in which they had first appeared. Beyond it was a dressing room, evidently half of a bedroom suite. There was a small piano in the corner, and the chair in front of it had been tipped over on its back. Maxine Lufor was lying face down half-way between the piano and the door. Her hands, with their long predatory-red nails, were reached out ahead of her clutching the carpet like agonized claws. Her face was hidden in the sleekly tumbled gold of her hair, but nothing could conceal the deep and ugly wounds between her smooth, bare shoulder-blades. Blood was smeared wet and thick in the silk of her evening gown and more of it clotted the blade of the slim hunting knife lying on the rug by her feet.

6: Charity Remains at Home

THERE was a rumbling thump from the sun deck and the rattle and slap of a chair going over. Latin ducked back into the hall and through the glass door in time to stumble over Walters.

“Knocked me down!” Walters panted thickly. “Smacked me. Why, the guy’s nuttier than a fruit-cake! Get him, Latin. Down those stairs!”

Latin ran the length of the sun deck. Stairs went down steeply here into the pattered formality of a small, closed garden. Fortwyn was running headlong across it toward the thick, iron-studded door in the wall at the far side. Perwinkle was right behind him.

Latin was half way down the stairs when Fortwyn reached the big door. He grabbed the wrought iron catch and wrenched at it, but the door didn’t open. Fortwyn swung around, his face shiny and twisted with desperation, and Perwinkle tried to tackle him.

Fortwyn picked him up and threw him a good ten feet into a close-trimmed privet hedge and then followed it up, trying to kick him. Perwinkle rolled frantically to get out of the way and came up to his knees grasping one of the border stones in both his hands. It was a smooth, white-painted boulder half the size of a man’s head. Perwinkle swung it up at full arm’s length, squarely into the middle of Fortwyn’s face.

It made an ugly chucking sound like the blade of an axe cutting into hard wood. Fortwyn bounced back and hit the wooden door with the length of his body. He bounced forward again and went down flat on the rolled white gravel of the path. He squirmed a little there and then was still.

Perwinkle had lost his balance when he swung with the boulder. He hitched frantically backward now, half-sitting, half on his knees.

“Look out!” he panted. “He— he’s crazy as a mad dog! He’ll get up and— and...”

“He won’t get up,” said Latin.

Perwinkle began to shake all over. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean... I rolled on that stone, and when he came for me, I just— just—”

“You just gave him what he ought to have had,” said Walters grimly, coming up to them. “Now just what the hell started him off, anyway? What’s this about a murder?”

Perwinkle fought for control. “We— Maxine and I— were practicing a new number. They put a piano in that room up there for us. He, Fortwyn, came in all of a sudden. He looked funny, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. He was always griping about something. He said he wanted to talk to Maxine alone, so they went into the bedroom that’s attached to the room where the piano is. I could hear them yelling at each other in there.”

“Yelling about what?” Walters asked.

“Same thing as usual. Money. Some things she had charged to Fortwyn’s account. I didn’t get all they were saying, because I wasn’t paying much attention. I just figured it was another of their rows. They kept shouting louder and louder, and then all of a sudden she yelled for me. I jumped up, and then she ran out of the bedroom with him right after her.”

“Well?” Walters said sharply. Perwinkle gulped. “It was like a— a nightmare. He had a knife in his hand, and he stabbed— and stabbed...” Perwinkle’s face was greenish, and he shook his head mutely, unable to finish.

“Why would he kill her for charging stuff to his account?” Walters inquired. “You should ask me,” Latin told him.

“I should,” Walters agreed dangerously, “and I am. Why?”

“IT’S simple,” said Latin. “Carter- Heason thought Fortwyn was a crook. Carter-Heason was right. He doesn’t know how to investigate things like that, and all he could do was poke around, but that was plenty to make Fortwyn nervous. He didn’t know when Carter-Heason might accidentally stumble across something. Fortwyn was doing his dirty work with some fancy double bookkeeping. He had sold Isabel Grey on the idea that what he was doing was the right thing to do. I don’t know what line he gave her, but from all accounts she was a sort of believing soul and he was a smooth talker.

“That was O.K. until Carter-Heason let them know that he was hiring me. Isabel Grey thought that the thing to do was to explain to me just why the double bookkeeping was necessary. I’d understand, since I had nothing against Fortwyn personally, and everything would be smooth. When Fortwyn found out she meant to do that he went into one of his tantrums and stabbed her.”

“Fine,” said Walters. “But what about Maxine Lufor, or have you forgotten that?”

“No. Carter-Heason had scared Fortwyn. Fortwyn didn’t dare take a chance on stealing a penny of that charity fund while Carter-Heason was watching him. He didn’t have any money to give Maxine Lufor. They fought about it, and finally she got mad and up and charged stuff that he couldn’t pay for without dipping into the charity fund. That really set him off. I imagine she added to it tonight by refusing to return the stuff she had charged.”

“Yes,” said Perwinkle. “Yes. She did say she wouldn't take anything back. I didn’t know what she was talking about then.”

“O.K.,” said Walters. “Just one more thing. Let’s hear you talk your way around this. Where is Maurice Peters?”

“In your imagination.”

“Huh?” said Walters blankly.

Latin said: “I know Toots Carr is not only stir-crazy but punch-drunk from having too many safes drop on his head. I also know he’s a stool-pigeon. I knew that if I called him up and talked about Maurice Peters, the terrific safe artist from London, Toots would talk himself into believing there actually was such a person and that Toots knew him. Then he would run around and tell you.”

Walters made a strangling sound. “Why, you— you— What in hell did you do that for?”

“I wanted to have some sort of a proposition to talk to Hayes and Fortwyn about. I wanted to get in here tonight. I did. And thanks a lot for your personally conducted tour of the premises. I’ll make out alone from now on. I know where the bar is.”

IT WAS nine o’clock the next night when Latin threaded his way through the close-packed tables in the restaurant and stopped beside his personal booth.

“Sorry if I’m late,” he said. He slid into the seat next to Carter-Heason. “How do you feel now?” he asked Perwinkle.

“Oh, all right,” Perwinkle answered glumly. “I was just bruised a little. But I can’t get the whole damned dirty business out of my head.”

“No wonder,” Carter-Heason told him. “Ghastly affair. Fortwyn never recovered consciousness. Died on the way to the hospital. Good thing.”

Perwinkle shivered. “Not for me to think about.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” Carter- Heason said. “Only thing you could possibly have done. Good job.”

“What have you decided to do about Fortwyn’s Channel Island charity?” Latin asked.

Carter-Heason said: “I can settle it up with Perwinkle’s help. We’ll turn the funds over to some British or United Nations charity and let them administer the thing.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do after that,” Perwinkle said.

Latin said pleasantly: “I think you’ll hang. ”

THE noise in the restaurant seemed to A ebb and flow around the sudden silence in the booth.

“What was that?” Carter-Heason said slowly.

“Perwinkle killed Isabel Grey and Maxine Lufor as well as Fortwyn,” Latin said. “Perwinkle saw a good thing, and he edged in on the party. Hasn’t it occurred to you that he was a director of Fortwyn’s trust company— the only one left? When you and he added up the funds, you’d have found about ninety per cent of them missing. You’d have blamed that on Fortwyn. Actually Perwinkle would have had the dough in his pocket. That’s exactly what he meant to do the whole time.”

“You’re a damned liar,” said Perwinkle evenly.

“Not this time,” said Latin. “Fortwyn was just what he appeared to be— a big fat blow-hard. You played him like you play your piano. Maybe he meant to run out with those funds and maybe he didn’t. Anyway, you got there first. Isabel Grey suspected you. She was afraid of you, too. It was you she meant to tell me about, not Fortwyn. You were in the lobby when Isabel Grey made her call to me. She saw you. That’s why she was afraid to say any more. She beat it back upstairs, but you got there ahead of her. You stabbed her and ran down to see Carter-Heason. ”

“You make me laugh,” said Perwinkle contemptuously..

“O.K. Go ahead. You stabbed Maxine Lufor because you knew you’d never get away with a dime without giving her a big part of it. Then you called in that poor boob of a Fortwyn and accused him of doing it. You even wiped some blood from the knife blade on his shirt front. You had evidence that he and Maxine had quarreled violently. Naturally the shock and the accusation and the evidence against him scared Fortwyn green. All he could think of was to shut you up and run. You saw that he didn’t run far. I think you had a gun on you all the time. I think you’d have shot him if you hadn’t been able to nail him with that rock.”

“I had a gun on me all the time,” Perwinkle said. “I have one now. It’s under the table. If either one of you makes a move. I’ll kill you. You can’t prove any of this stuff, but you could get me held for investigation. I wouldn’t like that because those funds have already been transferred to a place when I can get hold of them. All I need is the time to do that. You’re going to give me that.”

Latin shrugged indifferently. “I pass.”

“Well, you can’t do this, you know,” said Carter-Heason.

“I thought I might have trouble with you,” said Perwinkle. “I have a small bottle of a private preparation of my own in my pocket. I think you’re going to drink it and become violently ill and go to the hospital. That would be a good reason for you mot attending to settling up the charity funds. I’ll do it for you. I’ll take care of Latin in some other manner.”

“Do you want that poison served with a glass of water?” Guiterrez asked, leaning over the back of Perwinkle’s seat.

Perwinkle’s breath hissed through his teeth. He jerked his head back, looking up and over his shoulder. In the same split-second Dick stepped around the end of the booth and swung expertly with the bottle he was holding by the neck.

The bottle hit Perwinkle on the temple and shattered in a wet, glittering spray. Perwinkle’s thin body uncoiled slowly, and he rolled out of his seat and collapsed full-length on the floor.

Latin nodded at Carter-Heason. “There’s a dictaphone behind the drape at the end of the booth. They could hear everything he said in the kitchen. Get the telephone, Dick. I’ll call up Walters and give him a thrill.”

“Oh, no!” Guiterrez snarled. “Just wait a minute, now. Dick, you search this bird on the floor first. He ain’t gonna get out of this dive without payin’ for the bottle of brandy you smashed over his dome. Latin can take jobs for charity, but I’m a businessman!”

___________________

5: Come Up And Kill Me Some Time

Dime Detective Magazine, October 1941

1: Sadie Gets Socked

DODD had both arms wound around his middle. He was sure that if he didn’t keep a strangle-hold on his stomach it would fall out and bounce on the floor in front of him.

He came wavering down the hall toward his office, bent nearly double, wincing at each step. He was a tall man with wide shoulders and a long homely face. He wore horn-rimmed glasses patched on the bridge with a piece of white adhesive tape.

Reaching his office door, he fumbled back-handed for his keys, moaning in a minor tone to himself. He got the door unlocked finally, went headlong through the anteroom and plopped himself down in the chair behind his desk.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, oh, oh.”

His head felt as big and unwieldy as a barrage balloon, and the mere thought of the taste in his mouth made him shudder. It was all the fault of a character by the name of Henry Rally. Rally was a bookmaker, and the night before he had celebrated his twenty-fifth arrest and acquittal on that charge. Dodd, being Rally’s bondsman, had been included in the party that followed.

Rally’s tastes ran to brandy with beer for a chaser and blondes with big breasts. Dodd moaned at the memory and put his head down on the desk and abandoned himself to despair and suffering.

The telephone on the desk rang shrilly. It felt exactly as though someone had slugged him on the ear with a sledge hammer. He yelped in agony and fumbled hastily to get the phone off its cradle before it could ring again.

“Dodd,” he said feebly. “Bail bonds.”

“Hart speaking. Take this down.”

Dodd found a pencil. “Right, Lieutenant.”

“Grass Shack on Dorado. Two for ten nineteen and one for ten twenty. Judge Mizner in Department 12. Vice squad from Central. Rolling now.”

Dodd scribbled busily. “Thanks, Lieutenant.” He put the telephone back on its cradle and touched his throbbing temples gingerly with his finger tips.

“Brandy,” he muttered to himself. “Beer for a chaser. Ugh!”

He picked up the telephone again and dialed a number. After a moment a polite voice said into his ear: “Police department.”

“Sergeant Henessey,” Dodd requested. “Booking desk.”

The line clicked, and another voice said: “Sergeant Henessey speaking.”

“This is Dodd, Henessey. Is Meekins there?”

“Naw, Dodd. He went out to get a beer. Say, what about that drawing?”

“Drawing?” Dodd repeated.

“Sure. On the lottery.”

“Lottery?” Dodd said vaguely.

“You know. That there Luxembourg lottery. I got three tickets. When they gonna have the drawing?”

Dodd’s bloodshot eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Any day now,” he answered. “See you later.”

He depressed the breaker bar on the phone, let it up and dialed another number. He waited quite awhile, and then a voice answered shortly: “Well, what?”

“This is Dodd. Is Meekins there?”

“Yeah, he’s here. Hold it.”

DODD waited again, and after a moment Meekins said: “Hello, boss. How you feel?”

“Lovely. Listen, you rat. Did you sell Henessey some of those Luxembourg lottery tickets you bummed off Pottsey Hanks the last time we bailed him out?”

“Well, not exactly. You see, I owed him some dough, and I give him three tickets, and he canceled—”

“You brainless louse!”

“Well, what’s the matter with that?” Meekins demanded in an aggrieved tone. “Them tickets is genuine, and Henessey’s got as good a chance to pull the grand prize—”

“Do you know where Luxembourg is?”

“It’s in Africa, ain’t it?”

“No!” Dodd said explosively. “It was between France and Germany.”

“Oh!” said Meekins. “I see what... Say! You don’t think that guy Hitler grabbed off the grand prize for himself, do you? Why hell, that’s illegal! He can’t do that!”

“Write him a letter,” Dodd advised. “But in the meantime, you give Henessey his money. You know damned well we can’t afford to get him griped at us. And there’s something else for you to do. Do you know anything about a place called the Grass Shack?”

“Sure. That’s the name of Sadie Wade’s new kootch show down on Dorado Road at the beach.”

“I thought that was it. The vice squad is going to pull the joint, and I want you—”

“Oh, no,” Meekins interrupted.

“What?” Dodd said.

“They ain’t gonna pull Sadie.”

“And why not?”

“Because it ain’t her turn yet.”

“What do you mean, stupid?”

"She ain’t supposed to be knocked over any more than once a season, and they got her once already.”

“Never mind that. Lieutenant Hart just called and said the vice squad was on its way out there now.”

“Sadie’s gonna be mad,” Meekins warned.

“I don’t care whether she’s mad or not. You get over to Judge Mizner’s court and bail her out when they bring her in. She and her barker will be booked on violation of Section 1019. One dancer will be booked on violation of Section 1020. You know what the bail will be, so get the papers fixed up and give her some snappy service.”

“All right. Say listen, boss. The last time I had a hangover a guy told me—”

“Shut up!”

Dodd slammed the phone back in its cradle. He put his head down on his desk again, and the smooth varnished wood felt luxuriously cool and soothing against his cheek. After a while he began to snore in muted little flutters.

The telephone went off and slammed him in the ear. Dodd jumped a foot in the air and came down so hard he cracked his neck. He sputtered profanity, grabbing for the instrument with both hands.

“Hello! Dodd speaking.”

“This is Sadie Wade, Dodd. Have you got a sawed-off little monkey with a bald knob working for you?”

“Sure,” Dodd said. “That’s Meekins. He’s my runner.”

“Did you tell him to bail me out?”

“Certainly. I hope everything—”

“Well, why don’t he do it? You think I’ve got nothing to do with my time but sit around in this damned rat-trap of a jail?”

“What?” said Dodd. “What’s this? Didn’t Meekins bail you out?”

“He did not. He won’t do it.”

“Well, why not? I told him to. Where is he?”

“Right here. Tell him again. And make it plain this time. I want bail, and I want it right now!”

Meekins’ voice said: “Listen here, boss—”

“You scum! Didn’t I tell you to bail Sadie out?”

“Sure you did. But listen—”

“I don’t want to listen! Put— up— that—bail!”

There was a crash and a crackling sound from the other end of the line. Meekins protested incoherently: “Here! You can’t— Quit shovin’!”

Sadie Wade’s harsh voice snapped in Dodd’s ear. “Did you tell him?”

“Yes,” said Dodd. “And when I get hold of him I’ll do more than tell him. I’m sorry, Sadie. He’s a dope, and I guess he probably didn’t understand. I’m always ready to give you service any time of the day or night—”

“All right, Dodd. I’m in a hurry now. See you later.”

DODD hung up and sighed in a sad, dreary way. He put his elbows on his desk and braced his head in the palms of his hands. In a few moments he dozed off again.

The sun, slanting through the half- closed shutters on the window, woke him. He straightened up cautiously. His head felt better, and he grinned with relief. He went to the cooler and took a leisurely drink of water.

He was filling the glass for the second time when the telephone buzzed com- mandingly. Dodd picked it up and said cheerfully: “William Dodd speaking.”

It was Meekins. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

“All right. Say listen, I want to tell you—”

“Wait a minute,” Meekins interrupted. “Go in the front room and look under the leather lounge chair in the northeast corner. The one I usually sit in.”

Dodd put the telephone down and obeyed. He felt around awkwardly under the low chair and finally brought his hand out holding a flat pint bottle half-full of bourbon. Carrying it, he went back to the telephone.

“What’s the idea of this?”

“It’s for you,” Meekins told him.

“You’re gonna need that pretty quick.”

Dodd felt a queer chill of apprehension. He sat down carefully behind his desk.

“What, Meekins?”

“You’re in soak for fifty thousand smackers.”

“Fifty thousand...” Dodd said numbly. “What? What?”

“Yeah.”

“But I haven’t got fifty thousand!”

“You’re telling me?” Meekins asked. “But that was the amount of Sadie Wade’s bail, and you’re signed up for it.”

Dodd’s face was gray. “Why— why— That can’t be!”

“Yes, if can.”

Dodd swallowed hard. “What—happened ?”

“Sadie had a comedian named Tracy workin’ for her. A little guy that wore big pants and big shoes and a clown makeup and went around slappin’ the gals on the fanny between shakes. You know, anything for a laugh.”

“Go on,” Dodd said tensely.

“So when the boys rumbled the joint, this Tracy pulls a gun and cracks one of the detectives—Jake Holden—with a slug in the chest and scrams out the back way.”

“Oh, oh!” Dodd said in a sick voice.

“Jake ain’t dead— yet. But the boys are really mad. They were holding Sadie as a material witness and for aiding and abetting. That’s the why of the heavy bail. We didn’t do ourselves any good with the cops by puttin’ it up.”

Dodd exploded. “Why, you— you— What’d you do it for?”

“Ha!” said Meekins. “I tried to tell you, but you were too busy with your hangover and your snappy service. I couldn’t argue while Sadie was pushin’ me around. You told me to do it, and she knew you did. What was I supposed to answer to that?”

“O.K.,” Dodd said slowly. “It’s in my lap. I’m sorry I popped off to you.”

“That's all right, boss. I know how you felt. But you bought yourself a baby. The cops are griped, and you’ve signed up for more bail than you can cover, and Sadie’s actin’ funny.”

“What?” Dodd barked. “Funny how?”

“She’s worth fifty thousand dollars to us, and I been walkin’ around a step-and-a-half behind her. She’s steamin’ mad, just like I said. I tailed her down to her joint, and I’m across the street in a dog stand now. She’s got the itch. I think she’s gonna blow on us, boss.”

“My God!” Dodd exclaimed. “If she does, and I can’t cover that bail...”

“Maybe you’ll like it in jail,” Meekins said comfortingly.

“Stay right there!” Dodd ordered. “Wait for me! Don’t let her get away from that joint of hers!”

He jumped up and started for the door. Halfway there he stopped short, turned around and went back for the whiskey. He slammed out of the office, fumbling with the metal cap on the bottle.

2: Socked by Sadie

THE bay was a great flat blue semicircle that cut into the smooth green of the hills beyond the beach. There was some wind, and the waves wore ruffled white collars of foam as they traveled up to roll themselves over in ponderous playfulness on the sand.

Automobiles shuttled back and forth in squawking lines on the speedway that was divided in the middle by a green parkway. Dodd wormed his battered coupe through the traffic lanes and parked it slantwise at the curb.

It was late Saturday afternoon now, and Dorado Road was winding up for its weekly hoopla. A ferris wheel, already lighted, traveled its endless futile way up and down again, and loudspeakers blared their hoarse invitations everywhere. The sidewalks were thronged with people with pink sunburned faces and peeling noses, and a car went by on the high lattice-work of the roller coaster with a sudden smack-bang and thin trailing whoops from its riders.

Dodd ignored it all. He elbowed his way along, hat crushed down on his head, spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose.

He found the Grass Shack without any trouble. It was a flat-roofed dingy building with colored life-size photographs of its entertainers plastered all over the front of it. The red curtains across the doorway were closed now, and the spangled ticket box was empty. The place looked battered and rundown and sorry for itself.

Dodd made a right turn and headed across the street toward a glistening white stand with an enormous red sign over it that said:

COME IN AND COOL YOUR DOGS

WHILE YOU EAT OURS—

ONE FOOT OF SUCCULENT

SAUSAGE FOR ONE DIME.

Dodd dodged around a vendor who was selling candy that looked like pink puffballs and ducked through the door of the stand.

Aside from the white-uniformed counterman, Meekins had the place all to himself. He was a nondescript little man with a tired, disillusioned air. He was sensitive about his baldness, and he never took his hat off unless the rules required it. He was sitting at the end of the long counter holding a raw pat of hamburg over his right eye. He turned and stared glumly at Dodd with the other.

“Where’s Sadie?” Dodd demanded.

“Where’s my whiskey?” Meekins countered.

Dodd produced the pint bottle. There was now only about an inch of liquor left in it.

“You must feel a lot better,” Meekins said, eyeing it. He removed the cap and took care of the remaining whiskey in one big gulp.

“Where’s Sadie?” Dodd demanded again. “Is she still over in her place?”

“No,” said Meekins sourly.

“Well, where is she? What happened?”

Meekins removed the hamburg and showed the foundation for a beautiful black eye. The lid had already swollen shut.

“That happened,” Meekins said, putting the hamburg back carefully. “Right after I phoned you, she came tearing out of her joint like the place was on fire. I was sitting here, so I hopped out and trailed along— but not far.”

“Why not?”

"She turned into that alley down the road, and I put on a big spurt and turned in right after her. She was waitin’ for me. She didn’t even say hello. She just handed me this mouse.”

“She hit you?” Dodd asked.

“And how! She tagged me with an overhand right and knocked me end-over end. When I picked myself up she was gone, so I came back here. I don’t feel so good.” Meekins sighed and then added casually: “She had a bag with her.”

"A what?”

“A traveling bag. One of them dressing cases.”

Dodd said: “She’s blowing on us! Come on!”

“Where?” Meekins groaned.

“Over to the Grass Shack. We’ll see what we can uncover.”

Meekins put the hamburg down on the plate in front of him and signaled to the counterman. “Put this back in the icebox. Probably I'll need it again pretty soon.”

“Hurry up!” Dodd ordered.

THEY went back across the crowded street and pushed through the faded red curtains that masked the entrance of the Grass Shack. There was a narrow wooden door behind the curtains, and Dodd led the way through it into the shadowed dusty dimness of the big room beyond. It was full of long rows of bare wooden benches that faced a small, low stage.

A man was sitting on the edge of the stage swinging his long thin legs dejectedly. He had a hugely swollen red- veined nose and watery-weak little eyes under fiercely bushy brows. He was wearing a checked suit and a double-breasted white vest that had an enormous gold watch chain stretched across it.

“That’s Smedley,” Meekins told Dodd. “He’s Sadie’s barker and ticket man. Smedley, this is Dodd. He’s my boss.”

“All right,” said Smedley. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead and what?” Dodd asked.

“Curse me,” Smedley said lifelessly. “Insult me. Call me names.”

“Why?” Dodd asked blankly.

“Why not?” Smedley inquired. “You might as well. Everybody else does. Nobody has a kind word for me. Everything that happens in the world is my fault personally. I’m to blame no matter what it is.”

A woman’s voice said shrilly: “You dirty old whiskey-bum!”

Smedley closed his eyes with a martyred air. “Sure. That’s right. Go ahead.”

The woman came down the aisle between the benches, brushing past Dodd and Meekins as though they didn’t exist. She was a big woman with wide, high shoulders and a thickly-set strong-looking body. Her hair was a brassy red and swung loose in a long bob.

“Are you blind?” she demanded of Smedley. “Can’t you spot a copper before he shoves his buzzer in your pan?”

“It’s my fault.” Smedley said. “Sure. Everything is my fault

“You drooling rum-pot! Why didn’t you signal us? You could at least have yelled when they put the arm on you. But, no! Not you!”

“Go ahead,” Smedley invited drearily. "I’m to blame.”

“You’re damned right you are! So just because you didn’t tip us off I have to get pinched and dragged through the streets in this outfit! Look at it! Just look!”

Smedley opened his eyes cautiously. She took off an old, stained slicker.

“Go ahead,” Smedley said sadly. “Hit me. Knock me down.”

“I’ll do worse than that! Look at me!”

Smedley peered under one protective arm. She was wearing nothing but a very scanty gilt brassiere and an even scantier gilt G-string.

“What do you think of this for a street costume?” she demanded. “How do you like it for a court appearance? Maybe you think it’s just the thing, but I don’t!”

Expertly she hurled the slicker in Smedley’s face.

“Now!” she said, doubling her fists on her wide hips and glaring at him. “I’m through! I’m through with this one-horse show and with this one-horse town and everybody in it!”

She opened a door at the side of the stage and slammed it violently shut behind her.

“Whee!” said Meekins, tugging at his collar.

Smedley sighed drearily. “That’s the way it goes. Everybody kicks me around all the time.”

“Who is she? ” Dodd asked.

“That’s Loretta. She’s our star dancer. That is, she would be if she was working for us and we had a show for her to dance in. She’s temperamental.”

“Is that what you call it now?” Meekins inquired. “Say boss, I think I better take a look around backstage—”

“You stay here,” Dodd ordered. “What’s this about having no show to work in, Smedley?”

SMEDLEY gestured tragically at the empty benches. “We’re closed. It’d be bad enough— just havin’ Loretta walk out. She’s something special. See, the yaps like big dolls, but most big dolls are fat and they sort of droop when you put ’em in a rig like that. But Loretta’s solid. She don’t sag.”

“I noticed that,” Meekins said dreamily.

“She’s a great artist,” said Smedley. “But now she’s quit, and the cops are mad at us, and Sadie’s gone wacky.”

“What’s the matter with Sadie?” Dodd inquired.

Smedley moved his thin shoulders. “I’d think she was gonna do the old dutch, except that she don’t act to me like a person who is gonna do that.”

“Kill herself?” Dodd said. “What do you mean? What did she say?”

“Nothing much,” Smedley explained. "Except she was swearing a little bit more than usual. But she had a mean look in her eye, and I can’t figure out what she wanted that gun for.”

Dodd jumped. “Gun?”

“Yeah. The .45 Colt she kept in her dresser. It’s a regular elephant gun. Got a barrel a foot long. So she comes in here and swears at me for awhile and puts that gun in her dressing case and sails out again.”

“Where’d she go?” Dodd demanded tensely.

“I dunno. She said she was goin’ snake huntin’.”

Meekins said: “Boss, if she gets in any more trouble, she’ll sure jump her bail.”

Dodd chewed his under-lip. “You’re telling me. Hell! I certainly did manage to hide myself right behind the eight ball! Fifty thousand dollars!” He shook his head sharply. “Listen, Smedley. What happened here, anyway?”

“I don’t know much about it,” Smedley said, “on account of the cops had me on a leash out front at the time. They rolled in just like it was a routine pinch. Sadie was griped because it was out of her turn to get it. She’s been payin’ off regular, and she ain’t supposed to be pinched only once a season when she does that. So she beefed with them backstage. She wanted to call Captain Boris and squawk.”

“Captain Boris?” Dodd repeated.

Meekins said: “Head of the beach precinct.”

Dodd nodded. “O.K. Go ahead, Smedley.”

"So Sadie says these payoffs are getting too damned complicated. Too many people got their hand out, and a person can’t make an honest living with a hide show any more. But the cops wouldn’t let her call, and she swung on this guy Holden, and he slapped her back, which was no more than right, and then this little bum of an Edgar Tracy popped out from behind the fire barrel where he’d been hidin’ and let fly at Holden and bored him through the chest. There was hell to pay around here for awhile.”

“Edgar Tracy is the comedian?” Dodd asked.

“That’s what he claimed. He never made me laugh.”

“Was he Sadie’s boy-friend?” Dodd asked.

“He had notions in that direction, but when I showed him this he changed his mind.” Smedley took a razor out of his coat pocket and snapped the long blade open and shut again. “I’m a patient man, and everybody picks on me, but there’s limits to what I’ll take.”

“Tracy got away?” Dodd said.

“Yeah. He lammed out the back. The little rat.”

“Who is he? Where’d he come from?”

“I got my own ideas about that,” Smedley said darkly. “Guys like him ain’t born. They crawl out from under stones. I don’t know who he is— aside from his name. He ain’t never worked the carny circuits or the fairs or the burleycue stands.”

“What does he look like?”

“Nothin’ much. Sort of fat and sort of middle-aged and sort of dopey. You can find guys who look just like him on any street corner.”

“Where does Sadie live?” Dodd asked.

“At the Langley Apartments on Keener Street.”

THERE was a sudden crash from back-stage. Loretta screamed and then screamed again. There was another crash, and the whole small stage shook.

A man ducked out under the curtains and jumped down off the stage into the aisle. He ran three lumbering steps and then stopped, peering cautiously back over his shoulder.

Loretta batted the curtains aside and came to the edge of the stage and pointed her finger at him warningly. She was dressed in a green street costume now.

“Scram, you bum!”

The man in the aisle wore a wrinkled blue suit and a black derby with a dent in the side. He had a beefy red face and enormously thick, heavy shoulders. He spoke protestingly to Loretta in a high, whining voice: “Now, honey-bee. Don’t get mad like that...”

Loretta kicked Smedley hard. "And there’s one thing more I’m through with around here! I’m through brushing off cow-footed fly-cops!”

Smedley winced. “Go ahead. He’s my fault, too, I suppose.”

“Now, honey-bee,” said the beefy man.

“Shut up!” Loretta screeched. "Scram!”

She ducked back through the curtains. The beefy man cleared his throat with a belligerent cough and peered suspiciously at Dodd and Meekins.

“Who are these two guys, Smedley?”

“Who?” Smedley asked. “Oh, them. They’re just a couple of would-be customers that dropped in.”

“I’m Ludwig,” said the beefy man to Dodd. “First class detective. Beach precinct. You got business here?”

“No,” said Dodd. “We were just leaving.”

“O.K.,” said Ludwig. He turned importantly to Smedley. “You see anything of that guy Dodd yet?”

“Dodd?” Smedley repeated vaguely. “Oh, you mean the bail bond guy. No. Haven’t seen him.”

“Well, if you do, remember to tell him what I said.”

“What was that?” Smedley asked, still vague.

“You dope! Can’t you remember nothing? Captain Boris wants to see this bird Dodd, and he wants to see him right now.”

“What for?” Smedley inquired.

“How should I know? But Captain Boris is plenty mad, and when he’s mad he raises pure hell. He’ll tear this guy Dodd to pieces and put him back together again wrong-side out. If he can’t find Dodd he wants a guy by the name of Meekins. This Meekins is Dodd’s stooge.”

Meekins muttered under his breath. Dodd jabbed him warningly in the side with his elbow and said: “Well, we’ll be moving along, Mr. Smedley. We’re sure sorry your show is closed. Me and my cousin left our plowing and drove thirty miles just to see it.”

“Come again, boys,” Smedley said kindly. “Some other time.”

3: Boris Burns Up

THE Langley Apartments were housed in a thin, anemic-looking building covered in an off-shade of pink stucco that hadn’t weathered the salt-sea air very successfully. Weeds grew high and rank in front of it, lapping over the curb into which Dodd cramped the wheels of the old coupe.

Here, up on the hillside, the wind had a sharper, colder tang. To the west the clouds were a rolled pile of red-gold that masked the setting sun, and shadows stretched long and thin ahead of Dodd and Meekins as they went up the chipped cement steps.

The front door was half ajar, and they went into the narrow, dark hallway that served as a lobby. Rows of mail boxes lined the left wall, and Dodd ran his finger down the name cards until he found Sadie Wade’s.

“One twelve,” he said. “That’ll probably be in back— What was that?” “What was what?” Meekins asked. “Come on!” Dodd ordered.

Odors of meals long past swirled in the dim hallway, and the carpet was scuffed and ragged under Dodd’s feet. Somewhere a radio and a baby squalled in off-key unison.

One twelve was the last door at the right at the end of the hall. It was closed, soiled-looking from the smears groping palms had left on it, and there was no sound from the apartment behind it.

Dodd stopped short about ten feet away, and Meekins ran into him from behind.

“Are you drunk again?” he complained. “What—”

“Shut up. I thought I heard a shot.” “I didn’t hear—”

“It was muffled. Just a thud.”

Dodd stepped cautiously up to the door and reached for the knob. He turned it very carefully and slowly, holding it so the latch wouldn’t click. The door wasn’t locked. Carefully Dodd pushed it open an inch and then another.

From behind him Meekins said: “There ain’t no light. She ain’t—”

Dodd flipped his arm back and hit Meekins hard in the chest, knocking him sideways. At the same second, he pivoted himself and swung flat against the wall.

The shots weren’t muffled this time. They were sharp, whip-like cracks, and three little holes like splintered, sinister periods appeared magically in the door panel just above the knob.

From inside the apartment feet scuffled hurriedly on the floor. A screen door slammed flatly.

“The back way!” Dodd shouted. “Go around—”

Meekins was huddled against the wall, his face pasty-white. “Oh, no! Not if she feels that way about it. A black eye is bad enough. I got no desire to spend the summer pickin’ lead out of my plumbing.”

Dodd ran for the end of the hall, but there was no door or window there— no way to get out the back of the building. He started for the front of the hall and then stopped, realizing that whoever had shot would be blocks away before he could get around the building. He approached the bullet-scarred door with wary hesitant steps, keeping against the wall.

“Boss,” said Meekins, “let’s just fold our tents and steal silently away. This is gettin’ kind of out of hand.”

Dodd ignored him. He kicked the door suddenly, knocking it wide open. The apartment was a gloomy cave, and the sharp acrid smell of powder drifted into the hallway.

Dodd waited for a long, silent minute and then put his head cautiously around the door jamb. The furniture in the boxlike living-room resembled grotesque animals crouched and waiting in the shadows, and there was something else that moved and wavered and mumbled.

“Oh!” said Meekins in a choked gasp.

THE wavering thing took a sodden, slumping step toward the door and then folded down gently on itself into a lumpy pile that kept on mumbling

Dodd reached a long arm around the door, found a light switch on the wall and flicked it. Light jumped brilliantly out of the brass chandelier that hung on a chain from the low ceiling.

“It’s Sadie!” Meekins whispered.

She was a tall, heavily powerful woman of better than middle age. She was still wearing her street coat, and her flat pancake hat was tipped down drunkenly over one ear. Her face was a square- jawed stubborn mask, lined deeply with wrinkles, and the rouge stood out on her hard-muscled cheeks in raw patches.

She was sitting down on the floor, leaned back against a chair. She was holding a big .45 revolver in her lap. She had it in both hands, and she was trying to lift it. Her lips were drawn back rigidly from her square, white teeth with the effort she was making. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

“Take it easy, Sadie,” Dodd said. “It’s Dodd.”

Sadie relaxed so suddenly her head jerked forward on the thick column of her neck. “Aw! Dodd!” She panted hoarsely, taking her breath in strangled gasps. “That— fat— smiling—little devil! I’ll— kill him! You hear me, Dodd? I’ll — kill— him...”

Dodd was kneeling beside her. “Sure, Sadie. Who?”

“Tracy. Wait ’til— I— get— my— hands...”

Her head slumped forward. Her hands relaxed, and the big revolver slid to the floor with a soft thump.

“Is she— dead?” Meekins asked uneasily.

“No,” Dodd said. “She’s hit in the left side— up high here. Call an ambulance. I’ll go—”

“Nowhere,” a voice finished for him. A man stepped through the door from the hall. He was short and thick-set, with a round darkly saturnine face, and he carried himself with an air of lazy confidence. He was holding a revolver casually in his right hand.

Dodd nodded. “Hello, Fesitti,” he said calmly.

“Ta-da-ta-da!” Meekins said in a mock trumpet call. He had recovered himself completely. Policemen didn’t frighten him a bit. “The cops arrive with a fanfare— late as usual. Where were you hiding, Fesitti? In the garbage can?”

“I wasn’t hiding anywhere,” said Fesitti. “I was staked out in front— watching the joint. I followed you two in here. Which one of you shot Sadie?”

“Pass the cocaine, Watson,” Meekins commented. “The master-mind has just made a startling deduction.”

“You’ll talk too much one of these days,” Fesitti said coldly.

Dodd said: “If you’d gone around in back you’d have nailed the guy that did this.”

“That would have taken some brains,” Meekins said. “Don’t expect miracles, boss.”

“How’d you like to fall down and hurt yourself?” Fesitti asked.

Dodd said shortly: “Stop fooling around and call an ambulance. Sadie’s bleeding a lot.”

“Too bad,” Fesitti said. He walked leisurely over to the telephone stand and picked up the instrument. “Police department,” he said into the mouthpiece. He nodded at Dodd. “Captain Boris wants to see you— but bad.”

“I’ll go down pretty quick.”

“No,” Fesitti cofrected. “You’ll go now. With me.” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Fesitti. Give me Captain Boris.”

“Do you want Meekins too?” Dodd asked.

“I wouldn’t take him as a gift.”

Dodd nodded at Meekins. “You stay here with Sadie. When the ambulance comes, you go with her to the hospital. Stay there and watch her.”

“O.K.,” Meekins agreed.

“I got Dodd, Captain,” Fesitti said into the telephone.

CAPTAIN BORIS looked exactly like the motion picture version of a Prussian army officer. He had a round, bullet-like head covered with a close-clipped blond stubble of hair and no neck at all. His eyes were sinister blood-shot slits almost hidden in pink rolls of fat.

He even had what would pass as a saber scar on his cheek. It wasn’t. He had acquired it years ago when he had tried to stop a drunk from beating up his wife. The wife tagged him with a flatiron.

He looked up from the tangled mass of papers on his desk when Fesitti pushed Dodd into the cubbyhole office. He waggled one blunt finger, and Fesitti went out and shut the door carefully behind him.

“Sit,” said Boris, pointing. He had a grin which was like something out of a nightmare.

Dodd lowered himself gingerly into the braced, straight-backed chair in front of the desk.

“Mr. William Dodd,” said Boris. "The big shot from uptown. So you think you’re going to play fun in my precinct, do you?”

“Am I pinched?” Dodd inquired. “Because if I am, I want to call—”

“Shut up. Do you know that Jake Holden died?”

Dodd’s face lengthened. “No.”

“Yeah. An hour ago. Jake was a friend of mine. He joined up with the cops the same year I did. He never did get past a first-class detective grade because he was honest, but I liked him in spite of that.”

“So did I,” Dodd said.

“Shut up. So Sadie Wade hired this guy Tracy, who popped Jake off. She didn’t hire him on account he was a comedian, because he wasn’t any funnier than a time-bomb. He was hidin’ out, and he must have been hotter than a firecracker or he wouldn’t have shot a cop just to keep from bein’ dragged in on a routine vice raid. Sadie must know what he’s hidin’ from, but before I can question her you get her out on bail.”

“That was a mistake.”

Boris nodded grimly. “I’ll bet you’ll think so before I get through with you. But you ain’t even satisfied with bailin’ her out. You’re afraid I’ll pick her up again, so you take a bang at her to keep her quiet. Listen, sonny, let me tell you something. This precinct is a damned good thing, and I’ve held it for ten years. If you think you can push in with those row-de-dow tactics of yours, you’re crazier than hell. And shut up!”

“Shut up yourself!” Dodd snarled. "I didn’t shoot Sadie. Tracy did. She told me so. If that lunk-headed Fesitti had been a little smarter, he’d have nabbed Tracy when he was getting away. If you don’t believe me, ask Sadie.”

“I can’t— yet,” Boris said mildly. “I just called the hospital. She’s still unconscious.”

“Ask her when she comes out of it, then. She knew Tracy would be hiding out at her place—or had a good idea he would. She got her gun from the Grass Shack and headed right for home. She bopped my man, Meekins, when he tried to tail her. She spotted Fesitti and sneaked in the back way. She and Tracy must have had an accident. He had a gun wrapped up in a towel, and he let her have it and then blasted through the door at me.”

“So you say,” said Boris.

“And I can prove it!”

“Probably you can,” Boris admitted. “I’ve heard tell that you’re a guy who can prove the moon’s made of limburger if you set your mind to it.”

“Not only that,” said Dodd, “but I told you the truth a minute ago. I bailed Sadie out by mistake, and if she runs out on me I can’t cover her bail.”

BORIS stared at him out of slitted eyes.

“You know you’re sittin’ there wide open for a felony charge?”

Dodd leaned forward. “Sure, I know it! That’s what I’m yelling about!"

“Oh,” said Boris. He rubbed the scar on his cheek with the back of his thumb contemplatively. “This sort of puts a different slant on things. Who tipped you off to the raid on the Grass Shack?”

“Lieutenant Hart at headquarters. He’s a friend of mine, and he knew I’d been trying to get some business from this precinct.”

“You sure it was Hart?”

“Call him up and ask him.”

“Ummm,” said Boris. “Did you know it wasn’t a routine raid?”

“Meekins said it wasn’t Sadie’s turn, but I thought he was just blowing off as usual.”

“He was right,” Boris said. He sighed lengthily. “It’s gettin’ so I’m losing my faith in human nature. The mayor has got to make a speech before a women’s club tomorrow, and he wanted something to talk about. So he wanted a vice raid. So I said they could raid down here if they were nice about it. I told ’em to take Sadie because she’s a good pal of mine, and I figured I’d make it up to her later.  But I come to find out she’s hiding a red- hot in her show— and without even telling me! How do you like that?”

“It’s not so good,” Dodd commented.

Boris nodded gloomily. “You’d think she’d at least tip me off—her being a friend and all that. She knows I’m reasonable. I wouldn’t have bothered the guy as long as he behaved, if there wasn’t too big a reward on him. But the main thing is, I wouldn’t have run the vice squad in on her if I’d known about this Tracy.”

“Have you been shaking her down heavy?”

“Sadie?” Boris asked. “Why, no. I told you she was a pal of mine. A place like hers always makes extra trouble for the cops, and I expect her to pay for it, but that’s all.”

“Having any trouble in your precinct ?”

Boris’ lips moved in a gargoyle grin. “If I found any trouble around here, I’d shoot it and mount it and hang it on the wall. Just keep that in mind, pal.”

The inter-office communicator buzzed, and Boris flipped the switch. “Yeah?”

The desk sergeant's voice said: “That guy Emil Poulson is here again. Says he’s got to see you right now. Very important. He says if you don’t see him he’s going to see Kranz and get us all fired.”

“Send him in,” Boris ordered. He flipped the switch and looked at Dodd. “I hate lawyers— even worse than I do bail bondsmen. Do you know this guy Poulson ?”

Dodd shook his head. “No. Never heard the name.”

“You’re lucky. He’s a pest.”

4: Respectability Rears Up

FESITTI opened the door and let in a small, plump man with a neatly pointed white goatee and a round, smiling, dough-like face. He wore thick-lensed nose-glasses attached to his coat lapel with a broad black ribbon.

“Captain Boris?” he inquired.

“That’s right,” Boris said.

“My name is Emil Poulson, as you are very well aware. I’m an attorney representing the Agatha Drinkwater Estate.”

“O.K.,” Boris said wearily.

Poulson cleared his throat with the air of a professional lecturer and said: “The Agatha Drinkwater Estate consists of a trust of a great number of miscellaneous pieces of property. The beneficiary is, of course, Agatha Drinkwater, who is a widowed lady of advanced years.”

“So what?” Boris asked.

Poulson continued in his precise informative way: “One of the pieces of property owned by the Estate and leased by its accredited agents— of which I am one— consists of Blocks 12, 14, 18, and 19 of the southeast quarter of the north section of Silvester’s addition to White’s quarter section of the suburb—”

“Hold it,” Boris requested. “If this is a tax beef, you’ve got the wrong party.”

“It is not a tax— ah— beef. As I say, the Estate owns Block 19—”

“Yeah, I know. Go on from there.”

"The third lot of Block 19 is occupied by an amusement concession known as the Grass Shack.”

Boris pulled his beefy body upright. “Is that a fact?”

“It is. Now the rental agreement, or lease, between the Agatha Drinkwater Estate and the— ah— Grass Shack contains certain provisions and covenants to be fulfilled on the part of the lessee.”

"The who?”

“The Grass Shack. The owners of said concession agreed that they would operate a lawful business on the property.”

"Well, they are,” said Boris. "It’s a hide show.”

Poulson took off his glasses and tapped them on his forefinger. .“But not a lawful one— not according to the legal definition of such outlined in Brass Ring vs. Greeley, 113 General Sessions 304. According to my reports, the Grass Shack has twice been raided already this current season by the Vice and Morality Squad of the police department.”

“Oh, those were just routine raids,” Boris explained.

“Routine?” Poulson repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure. Those guys on the vice squad have to do something to justify their existence. If the show wasn’t lawful, I wouldn’t let it run in my precinct.”

“The proprietor of the show— one Sadie Wade— pleaded guilty to the charges of operating an indecent show the first time she was arrested.”

“Oh, sure,” said Boris. “That keeps the reformers happy, gives the papers something to print, and gets Sadie some free advertising. Just a matter of business.”

“Not the kind of business the Agatha Drinkwater Estate prefers to be associated with,” said Poulson. “It is my intention to cancel the lease held by the Grass Shack.”

"I wouldn’t do that.”

Poulson nodded his head slowly and meaningly. “Ah. I suspected you had an —ah—interest in the place. That’s why you’ve been trying to avoid seeing me.”

“Let’s get this straight, chum,” said Boris. “If you mean, do I own a piece of the show— I don’t. If you mean is Sadie paying me protection money— sure.”

“Graft,” said Poulson.

"Nuts,” said Boris. “What do you think I live on— my salary?”

“Graft,” Poulson said solemnly. “My suspicions— as trustee— have been justified. Good day.” He made a smart about- face and headed for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Dodd requested. He looked at Boris. “You going to let him throw Sadie out?”

“I fail to see how he could prevent it,” said Poulson, frowning at Dodd in a dignified rebuke.

Boris shrugged. “Why not?” he said to Dodd. “Sadie crossed me up— hiding that Tracy.”

“You haven’t talked to her. Maybe she has an explanation. Give her a chance. Besides, she owes me dough for bail bond fees. ”

BORIS squinted thoughtfully. "O.K., Poulson, don’t cancel that lease. If you do, I’ll put the joint on the black list and nobody will dare rent it.”

Poulson took off his glasses and stared at Boris incredulously. “Graft,” he said in a dazed voice. “And now threats.”

“That’s right,” Boris agreed.

“Why— why, I’ll have your job, sir! I’ll see the mayor— the police commissioner. You haven’t heard the last of this!” He went out, slamming the door.

Boris shrugged amiably. “Acts screwy,” he commented. “He oughta be in with the old lady.”

“Old lady?” Dodd repeated.

“Yeah. This Agatha Drinkwater. She's in the state asylum. Cuckoo as they come. She chopped her old man up with a hand- axe and was tryin’ to run the pieces through a meat-grinder when they nailed her.”

Dodd stared at him unbelievingly.

“Fact,” Boris said. “Oh, you meet all kinds of people in the police business. The guy I’d like to meet right now, though, is that Tracy.”

“What do you know about him?” inquired Dodd.

“Nothing, damn it,” said Boris. “We haven’t got any pictures of him except in costume, and he put enough paint on his pan so he might be Hitler under it and nobody the wiser. His description fits one out of every three guys that go by the front door. Lived in a hotel. No papers or letters in his room. Had no friends. Nobody knows where he came from or why. We couldn’t even get any prints that we were sure were his. Maybe he’s a phantom for all I know. I guess I better call up the hospital and see if Sadie can talk yet.”

He picked up the telephone from his desk. “Get me the receiving hospital,” he said into the mouthpiece.

Outside in the hallway a voice said wearily: “Aw, why don’t you go drown yourself, drip?”

Dodd’s head jerked up, and he looked at the closed door of the office.

Captain Boris spoke into the telephone: “This is Captain Boris. About Sadie Wade, the patient— What? What?... Escaped? What the hell do you mean, escaped ? You just got through telling me she was unconscious... Oh, you think she was faking, do you ? When you make up your mind about it, let me know. And in the meantime, you find her! You hear me ? You find her or I’ll come down there and tear you up like confetti! And shut up!”

He slammed the telephone back on its stand. “She got away! Scrammed out of the joint! I’m gonna kill somebody! I feel it cornin’ on!”

Dodd got up and jerked the office door open. Meekins was leaning against the wall outside, while Fesitti glowered at him dangerously, blocking the way to the office. Meekins was holding an ice cube wrapped in a paper napkin. He was running the ice tenderly back and forth along the line of his jaw.

“You!” Dodd snapped. “I thought I told you to stay at the hospital and watch Sadie!”

“You did, and I did. Until she left.”

“Come in here!” Dodd ordered.

Meekins slid past Fesitti. “All right. So this is how it was. I was sitting in the corridor not ten feet from the door of her room, talking to this cop by the name of Bromski.”

“That’s the guy I assigned to watch her,” Captain Boris put in.

“Sure. So Bromski had to go to the john. He went to look for it. Sadie must have been watchin’ through the keyhole, because right away she popped out of her room. The nurse just got through tellin' me she was unconscious, so I think maybe she is delirious or something. So I take hold of her nice and gentle and try to lead her back inside the room. She tagged me with that same overhand right. On the jaw this time. Knocked me cold. I’m telling you, I didn’t hire out for a punching-bag—”

“Shut up,” said Boris gloomily, holding his head. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill somebody now. Any minute.”

“Was Sadie dressed?” Dodd asked.

“Nope,” said Meekins. “She had on one of them long hospital nightgowns. Looked like a circus tent on the prowl.”

“She can’t get far in that outfit,” Dodd said. “She’ll be picked up right away.”

“You don’t know them guys I got working for me,” Boris told him. “There ain’t any of them could find his own mouth with a spoon. Why do things like this have to happen? As if I ain’t got troubles enough—”

THE inter-office communicator buzzed, and Boris snapped the switch. “What now?”

The desk sergeant’s voice said: “Ludwig is here.”

“So he’s here. So what?”

“He’s got Smedley with him. Smedley’s drunker than an owl. Ludwig says he can’t watch him and the Grass Shack both at the same time and what should he do?”

“My God,” Boris said, disgusted. “Tell the gravy-brain to throw Smedley in the drunk tank and to go back to the Grass Shack and stay there and to keep away from that ten-ton fanny shaker of a Loretta while he’s at it.”

Meekins nudged Dodd. Dodd looked at him inquiringly. Meekins had discarded his ice cube and now he made motions with his fingers as though he were counting money and jerked his head in the direction of the booking-room outside.

Dodd frowned. Meekins nodded his head in a positive emphatic manner.

Dodd said slowly to Boris: “I’ll go Smedley’s bail on the drunk charge.”

“Sure,” Meekins said quickly. “Smedley’s our pal, and he’s a good guy. He’s probably just upset about all his troubles and about Sadie.”

Boris said into the communicator: “Give Smedley to Dodd and Meekins.” He nodded to Dodd. “You can have him without any bail, if you want him.”

“Right!” said Meekins gratefully. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Want us any more?” Dodd asked.

“I don’t want anything but a long vacation,” Boris answered. “Get out. Go away. Don’t bother me. Wait a minute. I mean that last. Get the hell out of my precinct and stay out. I’ve had enough of you.”

Dodd and Meekins went out into the hall. Meekins was all for heading right for the booking desk, but Dodd seized him by one thin arm and jerked him up short.

“If this is another of your crack- brained ideas—” he hissed dangerously. “What do you want to be pestered with a drunk for? Haven’t we got enough trouble?”

“Smedley ain’t drunk,” Meekins whispered.

“How do you know?”

"He can’t get drunk.”

“Listen, stupid,” Dodd said, “anybody can get drunk.”

“Nope. Not Smedley.”

"And why not, may I ask?”

Meekins said: “Look. I know he can’t I know a guy who runs a cartoon in the papers about strange facts and odd characters and such. He told me about Smedley on account he wanted me to persuade Smedley to let the guy run a picture and some dope about him in his cartoon. Smedley’s got something wrong with him. This guy give me a lot of big words on it— but the idea is that alcohol don’t absorb into Smedley's blood. Liquor don’t have any effect on him. It’s a fact. Smedley wouldn’t let the guy run his picture in the cartoon because Smedley picks up a lot of side money bettin’ guys in bars he can drink a quart of whiskey down and then walk a straight line or stand on his head or whatnot. He can do it, too. A quart of whiskey don’t mean any more to him than a quart of water would to you.”

“Ummm,” said Dodd, staring at him skeptically.

“It’s true!” Meekins said. “And if he ain’t drunk and is pretendin’ he is, then he must have a reason for it. Come on.”

Dodd followed him into the booking- room. Smedley was parked in a corner on the floor, legs and arms trailing limply rubber-like in all directions, head tilted forward on his chest. His eyes were closed, and he was muttering unintelligibly to himself.

Ludwig, the beefy detective with the dented derby, was standing at the booking desk.

“You can have him,” he said. “You’re sure welcome— Say! You’re the two guys that was at the Grass Shack! Why didn’t you tell me you was Dodd and Meekins?”

“We were incognito,” Dodd answered absently.

Ludwig stared. “In what?”

“Disguise. We’re so good at it we don’t even recognize ourselves sometimes. Give a hand, Meekins.”

They took hold of Smedley’s limp arms.

“Upsi-daisy!” Meekins said, heaving.

SMEDLEY came up to his feet. He wavered back and forth loosely, eyes still tightly shut. Meekins and Dodd started him toward the door. He dragged his feet, but they hauled him along willy-nilly.

“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t,” Ludwig warned. “He’s out like a light. Don’t go droppin’ him in some gutter and leavin’ him there, neither!”

“Oh, we wouldn’t do that,” Meekins answered. “Smedley’s our pal.”

“Sure,” said Dodd. “We love Smedley dearly.”

They half-carried Smedley down the cement steps and along the crowded sidewalk to the nearest corner. They turned on to a narrow residential street lined with slatternly little cottages. Scattered street lights made feeble blobs in the growing darkness, and halfway along the first block they came to a narrow alley-way that had high hedges on either side.

Dodd looked at Meekins over Smedley’s drooping head. Meekins winked in answer and said conversationally: “Hold him up a minute, boss. I got to tie my shoe.”

He let go of Smedley and crouched down. Dodd shoved Smedley hard. Smedley went headlong over Meekins and sprawled full length into the alley with a grunt of agonized surprise.

Meekins jumped on his chest, putting a knee on each of Smedley’s arms

“Get that razor!” he said breathlessly.

Dodd found it tucked neatly away in the cuff of Smedley’s baggy trousers. He put it in his own pocket. Meekins got up, and the two of them stared thoughtfully down at Smedley. He was still playing his part. He lay sprawled out lifelessly limp.

“Come on, Smedley,” Dodd said.

“It’s a good act,” Meekins added. “But we don’t like it any more.”

Smedley breathed in and then out again in a long, melancholy sigh. He sat up and poked at his chest experimentally, wincing.

“Why didn’t you just kill me while you were at it?” he asked wearily. “Why didn’t you drop me out of a ten-story window? What did I ever do to you two?”

“Nothing,” said Dodd. “But you’re going to. You’re going to tell us what’s the idea of this little song-and-dance.”

“I wanted to get in jail, you dopes,” said Smedley.

“Why?”

“I got an appointment with a guy that’s in there.”

Dodd crouched down beside him. “Who, Smedley? Come on and tell us all about it. We’re your pals. We like you.”

Smedley kneaded his biceps where Meekins had landed on them. “A guy by the name of Charley Blue. He’s in the drunk tank. I want to see him about something.”

“What, Smedley?”

“He was sellin’ Sadie protection. I want to ask him why she didn’t get it.”

Dodd stood up and looked at Meekins. “Do you know this Charley Blue gent?”

Meekins nodded. “A drunk. A souse. He’s a tout and a shill for floating crap games. Works uptown. I think maybe he pimps a little in his spare time. Strictly no good and a cheapie.”

“Would he be working for Boris?”

“Hell, no. He was just shaking Sadie down a little on his own.”

“Oh, no,” Dodd denied. "Not Sadie. She wouldn’t fall for any fake protection gag. She’d investigate. Who is he working for, Smedley?”

“I dunno,” Smedley answered gloomily. “That’s what I was gonna ask him. Sadie never told me. She don't pop off much about such matters. But I know he’s workin’ for somebody heavy. Sadie wouldn’t pay out unless he was. She’s gettin’ a hell of a rough shake around here, and I think it’s that little punk’s fault. I’m gonna slice him up like balogna. Give me my razor.”

Dodd handed it back to him. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this sort of ties in with some other stuff. I think somebody is muscling in on Captain Boris. He accused me of it at first, and he was pretty anxious to find out who tipped me off to the raid on the Grass Shack. Of course, he wouldn’t admit he was having any trouble, but I think he is.”

“Somebody is nuts, then,” Meekins observed. “Captain Boris is smart and tougher than hell, and he’s got this district solidly behind him because he never gouges on anybody and he keeps things in line. Somebody is going to fall right on their face with an awful jangle.”

“I think Smedley’s got something,” Dodd said. “I think maybe we better go talk to this Charley Blue. You sure he’s in the drunk tank, Smedley?”

“Sure,” Smedley said sadly.

“All right,” said Dodd. “Be drunk again, and we’ll pack you back to the jail.”

5: The Drunk Tank

WHEN Meekins and Dodd came back into the police station dragging Smedley between them, Ludwig was gone, and the sergeant was alone behind the booking desk.

“What’s the matter now?” he demanded.

“Our playmate is a little too drunk for us to handle,” Dodd explained. “Can we park him in the drunk tank?”

The sergeant tossed him a ring of keys. “Sure. There’s nobody in there yet but Charley Blue. Lock the door when you come out. ”

Dodd and Meekins steered Smedley toward the door into the cell block. “Is Charley Blue in here often?” Dodd asked the sergeant.

“Every week. It takes him about five days to wind up, and then he falls flat on his face and stays there. The first cop that happens along totes him in to sleep it off. He’s been out for about eighteen hours now. It’s about time he should be waking up.”

Dodd said in an undertone to Meekins: "Go get a pint of whiskey. He’s going to need it.”

Meekins went out the front door. Dodd half-carried the limp Smedley down the cement-floored aisle to the big cell at the back.

“All right,” he said. “Stand up now. Nobody’s looking.”

He unlocked the cell door, and Smedley followed him inside. There were half a dozen narrow iron cots with bare mattresses placed side by side with about a foot of space between them. A man lay on his back on the one under the window. His face, pitilessly revealed by the glow of the unshaded bulb in the ceiling, was red and swollen and puffy. There was a ragged stubble of blond beard on his cheeks. His mouth was open, and he snored in a fluttering, choked way. His scanty hair stood up in a sweat-sticky clumps.

“Is this our party?” Dodd asked.

“That’s Charley,” said Smedley. “Don’t he look pretty?”

“Like a week-old corpse,” Dodd agreed.

He shook Charley Blue’s slack shoulder. There was no resistance in the man at all. His head rolled a little bit. He mumbled brokenly, and a thread of saliva slid down over his chin and spread on the soiled collar of his shirt.

Meekins came in the cell with a pint bottle of whiskey in his hand. Watching Charley Blue thoughtfully, Dodd took the seal off the cap of the bottle and had a drink.

“I’m the guy that bought that whiskey, you know,” Meekins hinted.

Dodd handed him the bottle. Meekins drank and offered it to Smedley.

“I never drink except for business reasons,” Smedley said. “You wanta bet I can’t drink all that pint and then—”

“No,” said Dodd. “Give me your hat. You’re not going to need it in here.”

Smedley handed him the hat. Dodd punched out the crease in the crown, turned the hat upside down and held it under the tap in the water basin. When it was fall, he held it carefully over Charley Blue’s head and tipped it.

The water splashed noisily, soaking into the mattress. Charley Blue spluttered. His head rolled violently, and he made mumbling protests.

Dodd and Meekins and Smedley sat down in a row on the nearest cot and watched him.

CHARLEY BLUE’S eyes opened.

They were red, burned holes in the puffiness of his face. He moaned as the light hit them. Slowly and cautiously he groped around him until he found the edge of the cot. He took hold of it and pulled himself up, hand over hand, to a sitting position.

He was facing Dodd, Meekins and Smedley now. He stared at them uncom- prehendingly. They stared back. Charley Blue began to shake. He shook all over in spasmodic shuddering lunges that made the cot legs rattle like castanets against the cement floor. His eyes rolled glassily.

“Wow!” Meekins said softly. “This . guy is one step away from the horrors.”

“Hold his head,” Dodd ordered. Meekins braced Charley Blue’s head against his chest, tilting it back. Dodd tipped the whiskey bottle up to his chattering teeth and poured a little in his mouth. Charley Blue gulped and shuddered and gulped again in a raging fever of anxiety. He grabbed for the bottle, and Dodd batted his hands away.

“That’s enough, now. Take it easy.”

Charley Blue took deep, whistling breaths. Gradually the awful shuddering stopped and some faint shadow of intelligence came in his reddened eyes.

“More,” he said hoarsely.

Dodd gave him another drink, keeping a firm hold on the whiskey bottle. He pulled it away after Charley Blue had gulped down two big slugs.

“More,” Charley Blue begged.

“Nope,” said Dodd.

“You’d better,” Meekins warned. “He’ll throw a fit.”

“In a minute,” Dodd answered. “Listen, Charley. We want to ask you some questions.”

Charley Blue tore his fascinated gaze from the whiskey and really looked at his three visitors for the first time. He evidently didn’t care for what he saw. He moved back on the cot uneasily.

“Who’re you guys?” he demanded.

“I’m Dodd— bail bonds. This is Meekins. He works for me. You know Smedley, don’t you?”

Charley Blue nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so. How are you, Smedley?”

“I’m alive,” said Smedley gloomily. “I think.”

“I don’t want no bail,” Charley Blue told Dodd. “Give me another drink.”

“Not just now. First you give some answers. Smedley says you’ve been shaking down Sadie Wade.”

“That’s a lie!” said Charley Blue.

Smedley took out his razor and opened it. He moved the blade so that it shimmered dangerously in the light.

Charley Blue gulped. “Here, now! Get away from me with that, or I’ll yell—”

“Not more than once, you won’t,” Smedley told him.

Charley Blue pulled his feet up and crawled to the head of the cot and huddled against the wall shaking.

“What you guys doin’ here?”

“Asking you questions,” Dodd informed him. “You want us to get mad and go away with our whiskey?”

“No!” Charley Blue said frantically.

“Keep your voice down. Who’re you working for?”

“Nobody!”

“You’re running a shakedown racket on your own?”

“Sure. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” said Dodd. “But suppose I tell Captain Boris about it?”

Charley Blue sneered shakily. “Go ahead. He don’t dare lay a finger on me.”

DODD looked at Meekins inquiringly.

Meekins said. “The guy is punch-drunk.”

“You think so?” said Charley Blue. “I can close any joint at the beach, whether it’s legitimate or what, and I don’t care what Boris says about it. I can get anybody down here raided any time.”

Smedley said softly. “Could you get Sadie raided?”

“Sure! And you better remember— Wh-what?”

Smedley was creeping up on him with the razor. “So you’re the weasel that was responsible for her gettin’ pulled today, huh? Just like I thought!”

"No!” Charley Blue said shrilly, losing all his bluster. “I am not! I never did! Get away from me! ”

Dodd stood up. “Come on, Meekins. We’re in the way here. Charley and Smedley want to be alone.”

“Wait!” Charley Blue pleaded. “Wait, now! You guys will be sorry! I’m tellin’ you! You deal in bail bonds, huh? All right, my brother-in-law will get your license—”

Dodd sat down again. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Your brother-in-law, eh? Who’s he?”

“Kranz,” Charley Blue muttered sullenly.

Dodd looked at Meekins questioningly. Meekins was staring at Charley Blue in blank amazement.

“Kranz is the councilman for this district.”

“You bet he is!” Charley Blue seconded emphatically. “And you better just watch your step how you treat me!”

“Kranz,” Smedley muttered dangerously. “So he’s the guy Sadie’s been payin’ off.”

“I don’t like this,” Meekins said, worried. “We’re getting in away over our heads.”

“I know,” Dodd agreed. He entended the whiskey bottle cordially. “Well, if you’re Kranz’s brother-in-law, Charley, why that makes everything look different. Yes, indeed. Have yourself a snort.”

Charley Blue tipped up the bottle and drank greedily.

Dodd jerked his head. “Come on, Meekins. You, too, Smedley. You’ll have to be sober again.”

The three of them went out in the corridor, and Dodd locked the cell door.

“He’ll put that whiskey down and pass himself out— I hope,” Dodd told them. “I want him out of the picture until I can locate Sadie.”

“I don't like this,” Meekins repeated. “Something is screwy around here.”

“Everything is,” Dodd said.

“Yeah. But I mean with what Charley said. Kranz is honest.”

“An honest councilman?”

“It’s true,” Meekins insisted. “He’s got a good law practice— civil stuff. He don’t chisel. If he did, I’d know about it. Something’s wacky.”

“He might skid a few corners for his brother-in-law.”

“Not Kranz,” Meekins said stubbornly. “I mean, the guy is really honest. He makes a point of it. He doesn’t even handle legitimate graft.”

Charley Blue’s bubbling voice sounded behind them. “Don’ believe, huh?” He was leaning forward with his head pressed against one of the bars on the door, peering at them owlishly cross-eyed around it. The pint bottle in his hand was half-empty. The liquor, on his empty stomach, had hit with the force of a ten-ton truck. He was slobberingly drunk again.

“Think I’m lyin’, huh? All righ’. All righ’. Kranz my brother-in-law, see? Backs me up. Always. You wanna know? You wan’ proof, huh? All righ’. All righ’. You phone. You phone yourself and see. You ask he don’ back me up. Number’s Ashway 6626, see? Private number, see? You phone. Go ahead. Dare you phone. All righ’.”

He lost his grip on the bars and went staggering back and fell headlong on his cot.

"Come on, you two,” Dodd said.

HE led the way down the corridor and out into the booking office again. The desk sergeant stared at them in amazement.

“Smedley decided he didn’t like your jail,” Dodd said, handing over the keys.

Captain Boris came out of the doorway of the hall that led to his office. He rolled himself to a halt, his bullet head thrust forward.

“I thought I told you two to get the hell out of this precinct and stay out,” he growled.

“We’re on our way,” Dodd said hastily.

Emil Poulson stepped daintily through the front door. He blinked a moment through his thick-lensed spectacles, getting used to the bright lights, and then he pointed a plump, precise finger at Boris and said: “I have been in communication with Richard Kranz, the representative of this district on the city council. He informs me that you have no right whatsoever to blacklist any property belonging to the Agatha Drinkwater Estate, and that if you do so or attempt to do so he will take steps.”

“What steps?” Boris asked, mildly curious.

“He did not inform me, sir. But, as I warned you, I allow neither graft nor threats to sway me in the slightest from my sworn duties as a trustee, and if I hear any more from you on either of those subjects, I shall appeal to even higher authorities than the members of the city council. I bid you good day.”

Poulson made his abrupt, military about-face and whisked out the door.

“So long,” said Boris. “Now listen, Dodd. I’m getting a little tired of talking—”

Detective Ludwig lumbered in the front door and said, “Hey, Captain,” in his high complaining voice.

“What?” Boris inquired in a dangerously quiet tone.

“Well, listen, I’m gettin’ tired of sittin’ in that Grass Shack. There ain’t nobody around there to talk to or look at, and I think I could do better if I—”

“So you’ve started to think now, have you?” Boris inquired. “What are you using for a brain?” Suddenly his voice rose to an outraged bull-like bellow. “Let me tell you something! I’m the guy who thinks in this precinct! I don’t want any competition from numb-wits like you! Get the hell back there to the Grass Shack before I kill you right here in cold blood!”

“Yes, sir,” said Ludwig, heading for the door so quickly he stumbled over his own feet.

“Wait a minute!” Boris yelled. “Take Dodd and Meekins with you and escort them out of this district— clear out! And if I see you two around here again...”

“We’re leaving,” Dodd said. “But what about this Poulson-Kranz business?”

“Nothing about it,” Boris answered. “Like Poulson said, the Agatha Drinkwater Estate owns a lot of property around town— apartments, office buildings and such. Kranz can’t brush off such a heavy taxpayer. He had to give Poulson some sort of a song-and-dance to quiet him.”

“Kranz doesn’t interfere with you?”

“Of course not,” said Boris. “He realizes I know my business. He never bothers me. What’s it to you?”

“Just wondering,” said Dodd. “Did you know that you had Kranz’s brother- in-law in the drunk tank?”

“Sure,” Boris answered. “You don’t think I let every drunk in town use my jail for a hotel, do you? Kranz is a good guy, and Charley Blue is a hell of a burden to him. Always in trouble. We lock him up whenever we find him crocked, and when we get tired of that we ship him off to the funny house for a cure. Now, scram.”

SMEDLEY and Meekins and Dodd marched out of the station, with Ludwig lumbering along behind them like a clumsy shepherd dog. At the corner a half-block above the station, Dodd stopped short, frowning in a dramatically worried way at Meekins.

“I just thought of something,” he said. Meekins picked up his cue instantly. “What, boss?” he asked in a gravely concerned tone.

“This guy Tracy is a killer.”

“That’s right,” Meekins agreed. “A desperate character.”

Dodd said: “Do you realize, Meekins, that he shot Sadie because he thought she could identify him?”

“It must be true.”

“Certainly,” Dodd told him. “And there’s another poor defenseless girl who is in danger while this fiend is at large.”

“Who?” Meekins asked breathlessly.

“Loretta. You remember Loretta?”

“I certainly do,” Meekins said emphatically.

Ludwig jerked to attention. “Huh? What’s that?”

“If I was a friend of Loretta’s, I’d be pretty worried about her,” Dodd stated.

“I would, too,” Meekins seconded.

“Say!” Ludwig exclaimed shakily. “Do you think Tracy might— might harm Loretta, huh?”

“There’s a chance,” Dodd said.

“A big one,” Meekins added.

“Maybe he’s even found her already,” Dodd said. “Maybe even now she’s lying in a pool of blood...”

Meekins put his hands over his eyes.“Terrible, terrible! Don’t even mention—”

“Here!” Ludwig said, alarmed. “Stop that! I— I never thought. I’m gonna call her and see if she’s safe! You guys wait right here!”

“We won’t move,” Dodd promised.

Ludwig lumbered toward the drug store across the street.

Smedley stared at Dodd. “Say, what’re you tryin’ to pull off now? That rat of a Tracy didn’t shoot Sadie because she could identify him. I could do that just as well as her. He shot her because she was going to toss him to the cops or beat his ears off or perhaps both. Sadie hates shooters.”

“Smedley,” Dodd said, “how’d you like to take a walk for yourself?”

“What?” Smedley asked blankly.

“Beat it,” Meekins ordered. “Scram.”

“All right,” Smedley said in a martyred tone. “Use me and then discard me. That’s the way I get treated. Nobody has any gratitude or any human feeling...”

He slouched away down the street, his narrow shoulders hunched over disconsolately.

“I hope he don’t go too far,” Meekins observed. “We’re still on him for some bail. Now what?”

“I just got a hunch. Sadie needs some clothes— needs them bad and quick. She wouldn’t dare go back to her own place and just anybody’s clothes wouldn’t half fit her. But Loretta is as big as she is, and Loretta is a pal of hers.”

“Sure,” Meekins said eagerly. “Let’s go.”

“No. Wait for Ludwig. We can tell by what Loretta tells him whether Sadie is there or not. If she is, Ludwig is the last guy Loretta would want hanging around right now.”

Ludwig came back across the street, wringing his hands. “She don’t answer. I rung and rung and rung. You don’t think— think she might be...”

“No,” said Dodd, chewing on his under-lip. “But I think I know where she went. And I think we’d better get there, too— and soon. This mess begins to make sense now, and I don’t like the looks of it at all.”

“You and me,” said Meekins.

6: Tracing Tracy

MEEKINS was pleading. “Dodd,” said Meekins, “why do you want to act like this? As it is now, they’ll probably only put you in prison for four or five years. If you keep it up, they’re gonna hang you just as sure as hell, unless somebody murders you first.”

Meekins was scrounged down in the center of the coupe’s seat, packed between Dodd and Ludwig's beefy hulk. Dodd ignored him. He dropped the grumbling coupe into second gear, steered it up over the rise of the hill, and parked.

“Hey,” said Ludwig. “This here is Councilman Kranz’s joint. What would Loretta be doin’ here, hey?”

“Tell me, too,” Meekins put in. "If it ain’t a state secret.”

Dodd said: “I’m playing a hunch. Sadie’s mad. The reason she’s mad is because she thinks somebody crossed her up. She’s looking for that person, and I think this is the place she’d look. I’m guessing that Loretta will be with her.”

“Kranz is honest,” said Meekins.

“Come on,” Dodd ordered shortly.

The three of them got out of the car and walked between two square cement pillars, their feet crunching on the gravel of the drive. The lawn went up ahead of them in a long, easy sweep that ended against the brightly peering squares of the windows in the house at the top.

They were halfway up the hill when brilliant light seemed to jump at them from every direction. Arc-lamps hidden in stunted ornamental shrubs and in little clumps of flowers all over the lawn blazed in their eyes. They stood frozen rigidly in surprise, like three queer bugs pinned on a bright green carpet.

"Somebody turned on the lights,” said Ludwig.

“That thought occurred to me, too,” Meekins agreed shakily.

Dodd was marching steadily forward.

Some of the lights were turned to reflect on the house itself, and it was like a stage setting with its walls gleaming white and the blue of a drape moving slightly in an open window.

Dodd tried the latch, and the front door swung ponderously and silently back.

“Dodd!” Meekins wailed in protest.

Dodd walked into the hallway and looked around him. He nodded toward the wall at the right of the door.

“That must be the switch that controls the arc-lights on the lawn,” he said.

Under the switch there was a long, broad smear of blood that glistened brightly against the immaculate white plaster.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Meekins whispered.

Dodd walked toward the graceful sweep of the stairs. He touched the ornamental banister and then looked at his finger. There was blood on it.

Dodd climbed the stairs slowly and quietly. After a moment of uneasy hesitation, Meekins and Ludwig tiptoed after him. At the top, Dodd paused, staring at a red hand-print on the white wall.

“Somebody around here got hurt, I bet,” said Ludwig.

DODD was looking down the hall toward an open door with a light showing through it. He went quietly in that direction, keeping against the wall, and Meekins and Ludwig followed after him, single-file.

From behind him, Meekins said, “Oh, my God,” in an awed whisper.

It was a bedroom, furnished by and for a woman, all white and gold and blue.

Loretta lay doubled up on the floor under the windows on the far side of the room, one bloodied raw fist flung out in front of her, the other arm doubled under her twisted body.

Sadie Wade lay face down just inside the doorway, breathing in low labored groans, the muscles of her square jaw rigid and protruding, her eyes closed tightly.

A third woman was in a tumbled pile in the corner of the wall behind the bed. She had crouched there, trying to hide, and someone had beaten her until her features were a formless smear. She was dead.

Ludwig shoved Dodd and Meekins aside and dropped clumsily on his knees beside Loretta. He was breathing in little sobbing gasps, and he turned her over with infinite gentleness and cradled her head against his chest'.'

A siren began to wail in the distance.

“That’s all we need,” Meekins whispered.

Dodd swallowed against the cold, hard knot in his throat. “Sadie phoned for an ambulance. Then she went down and turned on the lawn lights to guide them. She just made it back and then fainted.”

He stepped over her and leaned down toward the telephone lying on the floor. The little cardboard slip on it listed its number as Ashway 6626. It had a long cord on it, and he followed it with his eyes to the point where it disappeared into one of the spaces that had been occupied by a drawer in the bureau.

“That’s it," he said to himself.

The siren was closer. Dodd picked up the telephone and dialed. “Captain Boris,” he said when the sergeant at the beach precinct station answered him.

“Well?” Boris said.

“This is Dodd, Captain. I’m at Kranz’s house. Kranz’s wife has been murdered.”

Boris didn’t answer, but Dodd could hear him breathing noisily.

“Loretta’s in a bad way,” he went on slowly. “And Sadie Wade is here, too. She’s fainted from loss of blood.”

“Got anything more to report?” Boris asked thickly.

“Do you dare arrest Kranz?”

“I dare arrest anybody.”

“Do it, then. And pick up Smedley. And see if you can sober up Charley Blue. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“You’re damned right you will,” said Boris. “And you’re gonna grow a long gray beard before you get out again!”

Dodd depressed the breaker bar on the telephone, let it up again, and dialed long distance. When the operator answered, he said: “Give me the State Insane Asylum at Carterville.”

“While you’re at it, reserve a room there for me, too,” Meekins requested shakily.

CAPTAIN BORIS was smiling his nightmare smile, and his eyes were narrowed down to menacing slits.

“Dodd,” he said. “Don’t worry about going to jail or any little thing like that. Don’t let it cross your mind. Have you made any payments on your life insurance lately ?”

Dodd was sitting glumly in the chair in front of the desk. He was not happy. Perspiration kept gathering on his forehead and rolling down his cheeks.

Meekins was sitting in a chair in the corner, trying to be inconspicuous.

Ludwig came in the office, his feet clumping heavily. “You want I should go back to the Grass Shack, Captain?”

“No,” Boris said in a kindlier tone. “Go out and sit by Duffy at the desk. I left orders for the hospital to call as soon as they learn anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Ludwig said in a dazed, dull voice.

Dodd wiped some more sweat from his forehead.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Dodd?” Boris asked. “That is very surprising to me.” He flipped the switch on the inter-office communicator. “Duffy, what about Charley Blue?”

The desk sergeant’s voice said: “Nope. The doc says he can’t be brung around. He is due for another cure or maybe a coffin.”

“How about Smedley?” Boris asked.

“No word. The boys can’t locate him.”

Through the communicator they could hear the telephone on the sergeant’s desk ring. His voice answered it.

“Police, beach precinct... Oh, yeah... Yeah... Yeah.”

Ludwig’s voice begged hoarsely: “What about Loretta?”

The sergeant said: “And the other— the red-head?... Yeah... Yeah. I see. Thanks.” The receiver of the telephone clunked. “Cheer up, Ludwig. Hey, Captain.”

“Yes?” Boris answered.

“That was the hospital. They gave Sadie a transfusion and it looks like maybe she’ll come around. Loretta’s got two badly busted mitts. They figure she put her hands up over her head to prevent whoever it was from beatin’ out her brains. She’s got an even chance.”

Boris looked at Dodd. “Two murders— Jake Holden and Mrs. Kranz. Two assaults with intent to commit murder— Sadie and Loretta. That’s quite a score, Dodd.”

"Here’s Fesitti, Captain,” said the sergeant’s voice through the communicator.

“Send him in.”

Fesitti ushered two men ahead of him into the office. "This guy was with Kranz,” he said. “Right away he started to holler about the Constitution and stuff, so I brought him along.”

Emil Poulson took his nose glasses off and waved them warningly under Boris’ nose. “This is the most outrageous violation of civil-rights that I have ever encountered in all my years of practice! I warn you that I shall see to it that—”

“Shut up,” said Boris.

“Never mind, Mr. Poulson,” Kranz said wearily. He was a tall man, very thin, stoop-shouldered, and he looked unutterably tired. “Captain Boris is an old friend. He wouldn’t have sent for me unless it was important.”

“I’m sorry I had to, Councilman,” Boris said uneasily. “This is bad—all around. I can’t tell yeu how I sympathize...”

KRANZ made a wearily futile gesture. “Don’t, please.”

“All right,” said Boris, drawing a deep breath. “The dope sitting in front of the desk is named Dodd. He’s in this up to his ears, and he wants to say something now. Go right ahead, Dodd. We ain’t waiting any longer— for Smedley or Napoleon. Speak your piece and make it good— awful good.”

Dodd said: “I know who Tracy is. Up to about five years ago he toured through the sticks playing the leading man in tent shows. His name was mostly Shane— sometimes Shelley and sometimes Sands. He worked a racket along with his acting. Those tent shows stayed a week or so in each town they touched. He’d pick up some likely widow with a little dough and get her to invest some in him for one reason or another.”

“Go ahead,” Boris told him.

“He was pretty successful,” Dodd said. “He had the line— being an actor and all. Very romantic. But this tent show stayed too long in one town, and the widow he picked was tougher than average. He got the dough, but she insisted that he marry her or she’d call copper on him. He wasn’t having any. He shot her.”

“Uh!” said Boris, startled.

Dodd went on: “He must have been a good actor, at that. He sold the jury on the idea that he was nuts. Instead of hanging him, they put him in the state asylum at Carterville. He escaped a couple of months back.”

“Well, well,” Boris said slowly. “He must have thought the vice squad was the boys from the booby hatch cornin’ to take him back.”

Dodd nodded. “Probably. He knew it wasn’t a regular raid because of Sadie squawking. He thought the cops had been tipped off to him.”

“By who?” Boris demanded.

"The fellow that got him the job— Charley Blue. Charley has spent quite a lot of his spare time in the asylum—taking cures for chronic alcoholism— and this Shane got to know him there. Charley is a great one for running off at the mouth. He boasts about his brother-in-law— Kranz, here— being a councilman. Shane came to Charley and got Charley to hide him by making Sadie Wade give Shane a job.”

“How?” Boris asked.

Dodd sighed. “Now we come to the tough part. I figured out what I just said as soon as I talked to the asylum. Now I’ll have to do a little guessing. Charley Blue is a dope. I don’t think it ever occurred to him to use his brother-in-law, Kranz, for anything but to get him out of jams now and again. Shane gave him a new idea. Shane told him how to threaten Sadie. Charley did, and Sadie gave Shane the job. That was easy, and Charley began to think he’d been passing up a good thing here. I’ll bet it was right about then that he went to see Kranz.”

Kranz nodded wearily. “Yes. He wanted to act as my agent. He wanted to shake down people in my district— call it collecting campaign funds or something like that— and split what he got with me.”

“What did you say?” Dodd asked.

“I threw him out of my office.”

“All right,” Dodd answered. “But Charley didn’t quit. He went to Mrs. Kranz— his sister. She did what he asked. She put in a private telephone— hid it in her bureau with the bell silenced to a buzz so Kranz wouldn’t hear it if it rang while he was around.

“Charley went right ahead with his scheme. He shook people down in this district— protection, campaign funds, everything. Some of them wanted proof that he was fronting for Kranz. All right, says Charley. Call Ashway 6626. If the person did, Mrs. Kranz answered. She made an appointment to see the doubtful person. What more proof could he ask? After all, she was Kranz’s wife.”

Boris swore quietly. “And that souse used my drunk tank for an office!”

Dodd sighed again. “So that was the setup when this raid was pulled. Tracy-Shane got into a panic and shot Holden. Sadie was plenty mad at both him and Charley Blue. Tracy, having great confidence in his abilities as a woo-pitcher, hid in her apartment and thought he could talk her into keeping him under cover. No sale. Sadie was going to turn him up to the cops. He shot her.

"Then Sadie was really mad. She sent Smedley to get after Charley Blue in the drunk tank and started after Kranz herself. She figured Kranz was responsible for the jam she was in and it was up to him to get her out of it. She was pretty weak, and Loretta went along with her to help her.

“In the meantime, Tracy-Shane was in mighty warm water. He needed some protection— right now. He went to see Kranz on his own. There he found out that Kranz wasn’t back of Charley Blue at all. It didn’t take him long to pump the whole story out of Kranz’s wife. He thought Mrs. Kranz must have some of the money Charley had been collecting. He tried to find it. He didn’t. That enraged him and he beat her....”

Kranz made a little moaning noise.

“Sorry,” Dodd murmured. “Loretta and Sadie walked in right afterwards, while he was still searching. Sadie, being weak, stayed downstairs. Loretta went up to look around. She ran into Tracy-Shane, and he smacked her down and got away.”

“Where to?” Boris inquired.

“Right here,” said Dodd. He turned around and took the small, pointed beard of Emil Poulson in his hand and jerked. The beard came away in his hand, and Emil Poulson’s round, pink face looked nude and different suddenly.

"He’s got a wig, too,” Dodd said. “And false eyebrows and pads in his cheeks and plugs in his nose.”

“Quite,” said Emil Poulson, smiling pleasantly. “Good make-up job, eh? You didn’t have to be so dramatically rude, Mr. Dodd. I would have admitted my identity, had you asked me.”

THE room seemed small and tight and hot, and the breathing of the men in it was plainly audible.

Dodd said slowly: “You learned about Agatha Drinkwater in the asylum. One of her lawyers— a guy who lives in New York— is actually named Poulson. You figured you could prowl around and raise a little money for yourself by telling the people who were leasing property she owned that you were going to cancel their leases for this and that if they didn’t pay off to you. It didn’t work very well, because everyone hereabouts depends on Boris to see that things like that don’t happen to them.”

“Oh, quite,” said Emil Poulson. “Very clever of you to figure it out.”

“You admit— this?” Boris said. “The murders, too?”

“Surely. Why not?”

“Why not?” Boris repeated blankly.

Poulson was patient with him. “I have been adjudged insane. Legally insane. I cannot be held responsible for any of my actions. All you can do now is send me back to the asylum. I don’t mind that much, really.”

“Take him out,” Boris said to Fesitti. Fesitti took Poulson’s arm and led him toward the door. Poulson smiled over his shoulder at Dodd.

“You know, you’re the only one who figured this out. You’re solely responsible. I’ll give you something to think about. If you’re clever— as I am— it isn’t very difficult to escape from the asylum. I will again. And I’ll come and see you when I do. Remember that. ”

He nodded amiably and went out of the office, Fesitti fumbling along behind him.

“Oh,” said Meekins in a sick voice. “Did you hear? And he means it! It don’t make no difference to him, as long as he’s legally goofy, if he murders everybody in the state!”

“Oh, no,” said Boris. He jerked his thumb toward the inter-office communicator. “This thing was open all the time we were talking. They could hear us out at the desk—”

Ludwig’s voice bellowed through the communicator: “Hey, he’s tryin’ to escape! Halt! Stop! I’ll shoot!”

“No!” Poulson’s voice screamed faintly. “I’m not! Don’t—”

Shots sounded fuzzily ragged, echoing outside the walls and through the communicator at the same time.

“Ludwig is dumb,” said Boris, snapping the switch on the communicator, “but he can take a hint. I’m afraid Mr. Poulson-Shane-Tracy tried to escape a little bit too soon.”

_______________________

6: Death Sings a Torch Song

Dime Detective Magazine, July 1937

THE THREE of them were standing close together against the brick wall, blurred and vague in the blue of the neon sign. Dennis Lee paid no particular attention to them until he saw that one of them was Harvey Lake, that he was drunk and that he had a gun.

Lee closed the door of his roadster softly, then, and stood still, watching. The thick-set man was facing Harvey Lake. The set of his square shoulders told that he wasn’t afraid of the gun and that he was angry. The thin little man was half behind Harvey Lake, holding on to his left arm. He was talking, and the words came only as a smooth, cajoling blur against the thickly sputtered incoherence of Harvey Lake’s voice.

“Sister,” said Harvey Lake, and his voice started rising to a shout. “Damned—”

The thick-set man hit him. He moved forward lightly one step and hit Harvey Lake on the jaw with his right fist.

Harvey Lake’s long, smoothly muscled body bent a little in the middle, and his feet scraped on the gravel. He turned around and fell forward into the thin man’s arms. The long-barreled "revolver went skittering along the ground. .The thin little man sagged under Harvey Lake’s weight.

“Take care of him,” said the thick-set man. He was breathing hard and trying to make his voice sound casual. “Take him home, sober him up and tell him what a damned fool he is.” He watched the white blur of the thin man’s face. “I don’t know just how you fit in this, Crail. I’ve got a feeling someone has been putting ideas in Harvey’s head. I hope I don’t find out that you’re the one who’s been doing it.”

He waited a moment, but the thin little man didn’t say anything. The thick-set man turned on his heel and walked along the wall toward the front of the building. The thin little man slowly lowered Harvey Lake’s limp weight to the ground. He straightened up and brushed mechanically at the front of his dark coat. He stood there, motionless and watching, until the thick-set man turned the corner of the building and went out of sight. Then he leaned over and said, “Come on, Harvey.”

Harvey Lake made a thick, muttering sound, but didn’t move. The thin little man picked up the long-barreled revolver and put it in Harvey Lake’s pocket. He put his hands under Lake’s arms, lifted him and started to drag him across the lot toward a dusty touring-car. Lake’s heels scraped laxly on the gravel. Dennis Lee watched until the thin little man Reached the touring-car, opened the door, and started to shove Harvey Lake into the front seat. Then he turned and walked in the direction the thick-set man had gone.

THE blue doors of the club had criss-crossed polo mallets painted on them in gilt. Lee went up the three steps, nodded to the doorman and went into the oblong entrance-hall. He gave his coat to the cloakroom girl, and then the woman standing at the entrance of the bar said one word, a little uncertainly. It made him step back.

“Dennis.”

She was small, and still very slim. The ten years hadn’t aged her face at all, and her eyes were clear, sparkling, youthful. She was smiling at him now, just as she used to smile, as if it came from pleasure deep inside her. Her hair was that ash blond that gleamed like sleek gold in a spotlight.

“Joan!” Lee said incredulously. He came forward and caught both her extended hands. He remembered again how her quick, vital smallness had always made him feel clumsily huge and awkward.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me.”

“Remember you!” Lee said.

“It’s been ten years, and you’ve gone a long way.”

“Not far enough to forget you,” Lee said. “No, not that far, Joan. And you—”

“Still married,” she said. “And still happy. Very happy, Dennis.”

“I’m glad,” Dennis said, and meant it. “I’ve often wondered—”

There was a little cough, and the thickset man was standing beside them, looking at Joan in a way that was half apologetic and half inquiring.

“This is my husband, Dennis,” she said. “Martin Field. Martin, this is an old and very dear friend of mine, Dennis Lee. He leads the band here. A long time ago I sang, and he played for the same orchestra.”

Field’s grip was quick and firmly hearty. “Hello, Lee. Anyone who is a friend of my wife is a friend of mine, whether they like it or not.”

“Thanks,” Lee said. He kept his grip on Field’s hand and turned it a little until the cut across the square, hard knuckles was visible. “I saw you a moment ago, outside, talking to Harvey Lake.”

Blood darkened the tan on Field’s heavy-jowled face. “You know Lake?”

Lee nodded. “He comes here often. I’ve met him.”

Joan Field was staring at the cut on her husband’s knuckles, and her eyes were darkly worried. “Martin, you promised.”

“I know,” Field said uncomfortably. “I know I did, dear. And I meant it, too. But the damned young fool—”

“I’m sorry,” Lee said.

Field smiled at his wife ruefully. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference. She’d have found it out in five minutes. She always does. I think she reads my mind. But I’m glad you’re here to vouch for my story. Really, my dear, I tried my best to pacify the young fool. I argued with him until I was tired. But then when he started waving a gun around—”

“That’s true,” said Lee.

“A gun?” Joan Field said, and put out her hand to touch her husband’s arm.

“Oh, it didn’t mean a thing,” Field said hastily. “Honestly, it didn’t. I don’t think he even meant to threaten me with it. He was just feeling exuberant. He was a cowboy, you know, and uses a gun to express his feelings. But it put the top on things, as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to have him waving a gun in my face. So I hit him. Only once, though. Honestly.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

FIELD patted her on the shoulder.

“Come on, now. Don’t let anything worry you. Young love, you know, and all the rest of it. He’ll get over it. He’ll come around tomorrow and apologize. You see if he doesn’t. Harvey’s a good kid. Lee, do you know this fellow Crail who was with Harvey?”

“No. I’ve seen him with Lake several times, but I’ve never met him anywhere.”

“Know what he does?”

“No.”

Field squinted his eyes slightly. “I don’t, either. Can’t figure out just why he wants to pal around with Harvey. They’re not the same type. Harvey’s a clean kid even if he is a little light on brains. Crail looks pretty slimy to me. I wish Patricia hadn’t dropped Harvey in such a pile.” He stopped and looked at his wife uneasily.

She smiled in a drawn, worried way. “You didn’t let any secrets slip, dear. Everybody in the whole country knows the story, and besides Dennis has long been noted for his ability to keep his own counsel. You’ve always been a rather dark and somber person, haven’t you, Dennis ?”

“I don’t mean to be,” Lee said.

“I know, but don’t change. It’s nice, I think. I suppose you know, Patricia, Martin’s sister?”

Lee nodded. “Yes. She and Lake used to come here often.”

“They were engaged. They had a quarrel. We’ve been in Bermuda for the last three months, and we didn’t know about it until we got home yesterday. It’s a rather serious quarrel, I think, and I’m sorry we weren’t here when if happened. There’s a matter of money.”

“Yes,” Field said gloomily. “Patricia and I have a lot of it. We inherited it from our father. He stole it.” He looked at his wife. “Well, you know he did, dear. He gyped people on stock-promotion deals. He was a big crook. Had a very charming personality, though. Too bad I didn’t inherit that instead of his money. But Harvey’s a young fool. Just because he hasn’t much— as if anyone who can play polo like he can needs money— he stalks around and poses like a dictator and talks about husbands who are kept by their wives. No wonder Patricia finally got tired of it, although she hasn’t very many brains, either.” He shook his head over it.

“Now that you’ve settled the question of your family’s mental and moral status,” Joan Field said, “don’t you suppose we could change the subject?”

“Oh, sure,” said Field. “Sorry, Dennis. My sister and the Viscount Leslie Aubudon are dining with us. Won’t you come and join us at our table?”

“Glad to,” Lee said. “A little later. I’ll have to start the band off, first. I’d like to ask a favor of you, Joan. You remember your old song— Love is Dead?”

“Of course, Dennis. I haven’t heard it played for years.”

“I’ve always kept an arrangement of it. I like it. Will you sing it with us sometime tonight?”

“Dennis, I can’t! My voice—”

“Sure you can,” Field said. “What’s the matter with your voice? It’s swell. It’s marvelous. I love it. I want to hear you sing with Dennis Lee’s band.”

She was looking at Lee. “Do you mean it, Dennis ?”

“Yes. I’d be very grateful if you would, Joan.”

BINNIE had the band set up when Lee came across the dance floor, and he nodded absently, fingering one of the valves of his trumpet. Lee said: “Find the arrangement for Love is Dead. I’ve asked an old friend of mine to sing it with us.”

Binnie plopped the trumpet-valve and looked at Lee out of the comers of his eyes.

“Her name used to be Joan Carr,” Lee said. “She introduced the song at the Rose Garden.”

“The hell!” said Binnie. “She here?”

“She’s married to Martin Field.”

“Oh,” said Binnie. “Well, I saw his yacht come in yesterday, so I guess that’s all right, too. She used to sing, that girl. I’ve heard her take that Love is Dead. Man, when she got through, you felt like the only thing left was to go home and turn on the gas. It was a honey of a song, anyway, but most of the gals couldn’t hit it. I knew old ‘Bugs’ Blue when he wrote that. Know where he got it ? He took the melody out of two funeral songs. That’s a fact. He told me so, himself.”

"Let’s get started,” Lee said.

Binnie played the trumpet-break just as Bugs Blue wrote it. He played it lovingly, and the notes were soft, round drops of sound that stirred ripples quietly in the corners of the room. Lee heard the rustling of movement, and knew they were crowding close in the doorway of the bar. The trumpet went up and up and stayed there. It came down in a dipping slur that muted itself to a lingering whisper, and then, when her voice came, it seemed that there was no sound anywhere else but that.

It was haunting and low, and left a thick ache in Lee’s throat. The spotlight had cut away the last ten years, removed it as it removed the darkness of the rest of the room, and she was singing with him dim, shadowy and tall beside her. Lee was listening to nothing but her voice, yet instinctively he heard the accompaniment of the orchestra and knew they were not following the arrangement now. They were playing with her, for her— and it was something more than music. It was a long, slow dream full of sadness.

Somewhere in the darkness around the bright tunnel of the spotlight glass made a brittle slash of sound breaking, and then thunder seemed to blow in and hammer at the walls. There was nothing for a second but the rolling echo of that blast.

Lee saw Joan Field’s slight body jerk, and her voice stopped in the middle of a bar. She turned to look at him. There was faint, incredulous horror on her face. She took one step toward him, put out her hand.

Lee caught her, held her close against him. He could feel her growing heavier in his arms. His voice was a harsh groan. “Play— play it loud!”

Binnie’s trumpet shrieked in commanding sound, and the rest of the band caught it with a flare. Lee could feel her sliding down against him and swung her up in his arms as he stepped off the platform. He thrust his shoulder against the door and was in the narrow, gray-carpeted hall. Vague forms crowded in around him.

“Call a doctor!” he said. “Quick!”

He took her in through the open door of the dressing-room and put her down on the couch. There was light here, but he couldn’t see the other people in the room or hear what they were saying. He could see the paleness of Joan Field’s face against the flowered chintz of the couch- cover. He could see the shadowed blue of her eyelids, and the pinched white look around her mouth. He could see the bullet hole, ugly and blue-edged, just above the deep-cut line of her dress.

He made a pad of his handkerchief and pressed it over the hole to stop the welling red blood. But he knew from the touch of his fingers that he wouldn’t have to stop it, that it would stop itself, that Joan Field was dead.

HE looked up into the tortured, twisted face of Martin Field. Martin Field knew, too, that she was dead. He was staring down at her, trying to realize the truth. He put his hand up to his lips. His fingers were trembling.

“Dead,” he said. “Somebody shot her there while she was singing. They shot through the window of the bar that looks out on the parking-lot. I turned my head when I heard them smash out the glass, and I saw the gun flash. I saw it.” He shook his head slowly. “Someone killed her. But that can’t be true, can it, Dennis? No one would kill her. Not Joan. No one could do that.”

Lee didn’t answer, because there were no words that he could say. He watched Martin Field breaking right there before his eyes. Grayish pallor was working up under the tan of his square-cut face, and his thick body sagged a little as if he were crumbling inside.

A tall, thin man with smoothly white hair pushed through the people in the doorway and said, “Doctor,” curtly. He knelt down beside Joan Field, moved Lee’s folded handkerchief and touched her gently. He looked up at Lee, shook his head and made a little fatalistic movement with his shoulders.

Martin Field said, “I know she’s dead.” He moistened his lips. “That stops it for me, Dennis. That’s all of me that meant anything lying there. There isn’t anything left now. It’s all gone— everything.”

Lee’s voice was low and thick. “She got me my first job. She didn’t know me, but she saw me standing outside and persuaded the band leader to give me a try-out. I was hungry that day.”

A voice was calling, “Martin! Martin!” frantically, and Patricia Field came in the room. The red on her lips stood out dark and vivid. Her hair was sleekly black, and she had the square-cut jaw of her brother. “We were just coming in, and I heard— they said— Oh, Joan— Joan!”

“Dead,” said Martin Field.

She put her arms around him, but he didn’t seem to see her or know who she was. He stood there swaying a little. “Dead,” he said.

The Viscount Leslie Aubudon squeezed his high, wide shoulders through the press of people at the door saying, “Please, please,” in a flustered, flatly nasal voice. His blue eyes were anxiously worried, and as soon as he got into the room he stood still uncertainly and said: “Now, Patricia. Don’t. Some silly fool in the bar said— a beastly kind of a joke to play— Oh, good God, then it was true. I mean, you don’t do— it isn’t—”

“Dead,” said Martin Field.

He turned out of his sister’s arms, walked toward the door, and the people there backed away. He staggered slightly, and his shoulder hit the wall. Then he went through the door into the hall.

Patricia Field looked at the-Viscount Leslie Aubudon. “Go with him, please. Help him.”

Aubudon said: “But, my dear, I can’t! You here— I can’t leave you—”

“I’ll go,” Lee said.

THE white gravel made the parking-lot a vfigue gray square in the darkness outlined by the shadowed loom of cars parked along its borders. Lee stopped in the doorway, looking out with his eyes squinted against the fizzing blue of the neon sign.

There was a close little group of figures under the bar window, and Lee could hear the doorman saying loudly: “I heard that glass break, and I started around this way. I tell you it wasn’t two seconds after that shot was fired when I turned the comer, and there wasn’t anybody around anywhere!”

Lee saw the stumbling figure of Martin Field at the far corner of the lot. Lee started to run toward him, and then he saw Field stop beside a long, shiny coupe and fumble with the door-catch.

“Field!” Lee called sharply.

Field had the door open, and he dragged himself inside the coupe. Lee was halfway across the lot when the engine caught with a sudden sputtering roar, and the coupe lurched straight forward, bounced oflf the curbing. It swung erratically into the road, straightened out, gathered speed.

Lee turned and started for his own roadster. Then he remembered that the keys were in his overcoat pocket, turned again and ran toward the entrance of the club. Splinters of glass caught his eye, lying on the gravel under the small window at the end of the bar, sparkling like slick bits of ice. Lee went through the doors and into the narrow hall. The cloak room girl was gone, and Lee went inside the narrow cubicle and fumbled along the row of coats until he found his own.

The keys were cold, grasped tight in his fingers, as he ran out the front door and back across the lot. The roadster’s engine sounded a thin hum of power. He bumped down over the curb, turned to the left and then to the left again. Now, he was out on the North Post Road that lifted in a smooth, white sweep ahead of him.

The top was down, and the wind was like the push of a soft, cool hand against his face. His foot was flat against the floor-board, and the voice of the motor ascended to a scream. Far ahead, he caught the wink of double red lights. They disappeared. A moment later, he fought the wheel going around a curve, and the double lights were ahead again, but no closer.

Lee leaned forward, unconsciously trying to urge the roadster to greater speed with the strength of his own body. The double red lights pulled away from him. They grew fainter and fuzzy, and then they were gone again. Lee came up over the brow of a hill and down with a breathless rush. He didn’t see the side-road, until he was past it. His foot came down hard on the brake. The tires screamed on the pavement, swaying the car back and forth in a long, whirling skid.

Lee backed and turned: The side-road was narrow. There was a thick green hedge bordering it on both sides that slid by like a smooth wall in the glare of the headlights. The road turned sharply back on itself, went up a steep little hill. Lee stopped the roadster with a jar just behind the shiny coupe that Martin Field had driven away from the club. Lee got out and noticed that the coupe had only one taillight. It was not the car he had been following.

The house was square and white, looming on the crest of the hill, and far below it was the flat, smooth sheen of Lost Bay. Harvey Lake came around from behind the shiny coupe. He was swaying, bent-kneed, and he held his head tilted to one side, staring at Lee.

“No, you don’t, now,” he said thickly. “You stand still.”

“Put it down,” said Lee.

Harvey Lake raised the long-barreled revolver, and his thumb was. curled familiarly around the big hammer. “I’m going to shoot—”

The hammer clicked, and Lee hit the barrel with the flat of his hand, knocking it away from his chest. The thundering report was an echo of the one he had heard in the club, and he smashed his fist into Harvey Lake’s face. Harvey Lake fell straight backward, and his head hit dully against the fender of the coupe. He slid down, half sitting, crumpled over.

The headlights of a car swung in a great, bright arc and outlined Lee and Harvey Lake, as an engine made a throbbing gasp that choked off short. There was the sound of quick feet running. Patricia Field went blindly past Lee and knelt down on the gravel beside Harvey Lake, holding him close against her.

“Harvey!” she said in a moaning, breathless voice.

HE turned away from them and went slowly up the long steep flight of cement steps, and onto the long porch of the house. He walked slowly along the porch with his footsteps sounding hollow and cold under him and looked in through the open windows. The study was small and dimly lighted, and Martin Field was lying face down on the floor under the gleaming steel eye of a wall-safe. He was dead, and blood that was slow, red and deep was gathering into a pool beside him.

There were a pair of French doors diagonally across the room, standing ajar. Lee slid in through the window and walked toward the doors, going carefully around Martin Field’s body. He looked out and down onto a flat garden court ghostly with the loom of graceful marble benches. A privet-hedge closed off the far end, and Lee saw the shadowy figure, black against a black background, run along the hedge and disappear through it with a faint snap of breaking twigs.

Lee ran that way, his feet noiseless on the springy, close-clipped turf. He worked through the hedge, and the ends of broken branches whipped at his face. On the other side was the curve of the white drive where it circled around in back of the house. There was a car, and now the shadowy figure was leaning inside it. The brake made a sudden series of sharp snaps, releasing. The shadowy figure started to push against the car, and then Lee’s feet scraped lightly on the gravel.

The shadowy figure turned, and it was Crail. His black overcoat was buttoned up tightly around his throat, and he wore a derby hat. The black of the overcoat cloth made his face thinly pallid. He said something to himself in a whisper and whirled to run. Lee tackled him in a long, driving lunge, smashed his small body hard into the side of the car.

HE came down the steep flight of steps that led up to the front of the house. He was pushing Crail ahead of him, and had Crail’s arm locked behind his back. Patricia Field was still kneeling beside Harvey Lake, holding his head in her lap and saying things to him in a soft, murmuring voice broken by sobs.

Feet thudded hard running in the drive, and then the Viscount Leslie Aubudon crossed the path of the headlights and leaned down over Patricia. He was breathing in long gasps. “My dear! I couldn’t find the road— up here. Lost completely. No sense of direction at night. Had to park car— down by the bay and climb the hill on foot. Is that— is that the Lake fellow? What’s the matter with him?”

Lee walked Crail forward. Patricia and Aubudon turned to look at them, and there was no sound for a long, tense moment, until Crail screamed suddenly: “He did it! He killed them both! He made me help him!”

“You filth,” said Aubudon.

“He did it!” Crail screamed. “I gave him Harvey Lake’s gun outside the club, and he went into the bar with this girl. Then, when the lights were out, he knocked the glass out of the window to make it look like someone outside did it, and then he shot Mrs. Field. We had it all figured out. There’s a little alcove in front of the window, and you can’t see anyone in it from either side. He was going to shoot Mrs. Field while she was sitting at her table, but she was singing, and the lights were all dimmed, so he did it then. After that, he came up here to get in the safe, and Mr. Field caught him at it. He killed Mr. Field.”

Patricia made a sudden, agonized sound.

“It’s a damned lie,” said Aubudon.

“He made me help him! He was going to pay me for making it look like Harvey Lake did it. I’ll tell you why he did it. Because he’s married, that’s why. He was married secretly to a girl that danced in the same club that Mrs. Field did a long time ago. I know because I’m the girl’s manager. Mrs. Field told him to get out and stop going around with Patricia or she’d expose him and his marriage. She had letters from his wife. They were in the safe. That’s why he killed her.”

"The man’s mad,” said Aubudon. “You can see he’s mad.”

“He wanted to marry this girl. He had to have money. He owes everybody in England— even me!”

“I thought you did it,” Lee said to Aubudon. “You drove here ahead of me. You found the road all right. I thought it must be you because your car is the only one around here that can go away from my roadster. Just now I found Crail trying to push your car down the road— the back one so he could park it down by the bay where you said you parked it. The proof will be those letters Crail spoke of. They’ll be in your pocket. You shot both Martin and Joan Field with Harvey Lake’s gun.”

“I have another one,” said Aubudon, and he drew a stubby automatic out of his coat pocket.

Harvey Lake moved very quietly on the ground. He hooked the toe of his left foot in front of one of Aubudon’s ankles and kicked Aubudon just behind the knee with his right foot. Aubudon made a quick, gasping sound and fell, trying to turn himself in the air, almost on top of Harvey Lake. Harvey Lake sat up and hit him once as he was falling, Aubudon rolled over on his back and lay quite still.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” Lake said and put his arm around Patricia.

Lee watched them. He felt old now. It seemed that somewhere he could hear Joan Field’s voice singing softly.

________________

7: Cry Murder

Flynn's Detective Fiction July 1944

1: Canine Copper

THE STATION WAGON trundled around the corner into the narrow, deeply shaded street, idled down the block with scarcely a whisper from its motor and parked in at the curb. This was no ordinary station wagon. It was a custom job, and in the good old days when you could buy such things it had set its owner back just $3987.92 F.O.B. Michigan plus tax.

It looked something like a sportily streamlined combination of a limousine and a high class hearse.

Doan was driving it. He was plump and not very tall, neatly and soberly dressed in a grey business suit, and he had a round, unlined face and a complexion like a baby on a supervised diet. He was a very innocent and nice and harmless appearing person, but that was all strictly camouflage. He was innocent and nice only when it paid him, and he was as harmless as a rattlesnake.

“We’re here,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

The back seat of the station wagon ran around in a semicircle to fit the rear contour of the body, and it was designed to seat six persons comfortably. Car- stairs was filling it all up now, and dangling over the edges here and there. He was snoring with gentle gusto.

“Hey, stupid,” said Doan.

Carstairs opened one eye and watched him.

“Come on,” said Doan. “You’ve slept long enough.”

He opened the door beside him and slid out into the street, and then opened the rear door. Carstairs mumbled under his breath and began to assemble himself in sections, cracking his joints and grunting with the effort.

Carstairs was a dog, but it would be impossible just to let it go at that. In the first place he was a Great Dane, and in the second place he was enormous. Standing on four feet, after he had untangled himself and climbed out into the street, his back came up even with Doan’s solar plexus. Had Carstairs worked up energy enough to stand on his hind legs he could have looked right over Doan’s head, hat and all, without the slightest effort.

“You see that wall over there?” Doan asked.

Carstairs examined the wall across the street from them with disapproval. It was really something in the way of a wall. It was two stories high and made of grey granite blocks that looked cold and sullenly unyielding in the morning sunlight.

“There’s a prison behind it,” Doan said. “A prison is a place where they put criminals—well, not all of them, as you very well know, but the ones they catch. Keep that in mind in the future.”

Carstairs grunted and sat down. The sun hadn’t risen high enough to shine on the pavement as yet, and it was cold. Carstairs stood up again, muttering disgustedly deep in his throat.

Doan pointed. “That small door there is where they let the criminals out after they’re through with them. Keep your eye on it.”

Carstairs watched the door without any noticeable signs of interest. The street was very quiet, and the tree shadows made motionless, dappled pat¬ terns along the base of the prison wall. Somewhere a clock began to strike the hour with sullen, rumbling booms. It was ten o’clock.

“Just right,” said Doan.

There was the cold rattle and snap of bolts, and then the recessed door in the wall opened and a man stepped out through it and stood hesitantly on the sidewalk. The door closed behind him with a sharp clack. The man winced slightly. Then he pulled in a deep breath of free air and started up the street.

“Hey, you!” Doan called.

The man stopped short and half turned.

Doan crooked his finger invitingly. “Come here.”

The man hesitated again and then walked slowly across the street. He was young, and he was dressed in a brown tweed suit that had cost quite a lot some time ago. He had black, close- cropped hair and heavy black brows and contemptuous brown eyes with little greenish flecks in them. His lips were thin and hard and twisted down a little at one corner.

“Are you Bradfield Owens?” Doan asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Doan,” said Doan. “This is Carstairs. He’s my asisstant, or maybe I’m his. We’ve never straightened out the relationship.”

“Very interesting,” Owens said. “So what?”

“Colonel Ephriam Morris got you paroled,” Doan told him. “It was quite a job. Parole boards are a little leery of guys who go around sticking knives in people and stuff like that. He wants to see you.”

“What if I don’t want to see him?”

“Just go right over and rap on that door,” Doan answered. “They’ll let you back in.”

Owens shrugged. “Okay. Where’s Morris ?”

“Where he always is. On his farm. That’s where we’re going to take you.”

“What am I supposed to do when I get there?”

“Run the damned place,” Doan said. “What did you think Colonel Morris got you paroled for— just because he liked your pretty brown eyes?”

“No,” Owens said grimly. “I didn’t think that. Well, let’s go.”

IT WAS DUSK now, and Doan was still driving. The road looped in long, loose curves through country that was just slightly rolling.

“I’ve only driven this road once before,” Doan said. “We’re pretty near there, aren’t we?”

Owens nodded. “Yes.”

“I don’t hear any loud cheers from you.”

“No,” said Owens glumly.

Carstairs grunted and complained to himself, shifting around in the back seat, and then snuffled meaningly just behind Doan’s right ear.

“Okay,” said Doan. “Screwloose, back there, wants a drink and a walk. Is there any place we can stop near here?”

“Yes. Cleek’s Mill is just around that curve ahead. It’s abandoned, but there’s still a dam and a millpond.”

Carstairs snuffled more urgently.

“All right,” said Doan. "I hear you.”

“He’s a nice dog,” Owens remarked.

“Well, no,” Doan said. “Not exactly nice. As a matter of fact, he’s meaner than hell.”

“I meant that he was a good specimen. He’s one of the finest Great Danes I’ve ever seen.”

“He is the finest you’ve ever seen. He’s got four hundred and eighty-nine blue ribbons to prove it, but they weren’t judging him on his good disposition. He doesn’t have one.”

“Did he cost a lot?”

“He didn’t cost me anything. I won him in a crap game. Of course the upkeep is a little heavy. He eats three times as much as I do.”

Carstairs made an ominous, rumbling sound.

“All right!” said Doan.

The road swung around in a sharp curve, and the mill loomed to their right, blending into the thick shadow of the trees close behind it. It was a two-story brick building with a steeply peaked roof, the harshness of its outline blurred and melted by the thick growth of vine that covered it. The windows gaped like dark, empty eyes. The creek that ran along the road had been dammed to make a pool that gleamed deep and smoothly stagnant.

Doan bumped the station wagon along a weed-grown lane that ran up to the wreck of a loading platform, and then he stopped with a sudden jerk. They could see on the far side of the building now, and there were two figures facing each other in the shadow. One was crowded in against the wall, and the other loomed over it in gaunt and gangling menace. They were too interested in each other to have seen or heard the station wagon.

Doan turned off the motor. “What’s all this?” he asked.

The figure crowded in against the wall was a woman— short and dumpy in a shiny black silk dress and wearing steel-rimmed glasses set a little askew on her pudgy nose. She was holding a short, crooked stick in her hand.

“Aw!” said the gangling figure, making little tentative grabs at the stick. “You’re scared! You don’t even dare hit me! Yah!”

This one was what could be roughly called a youth. He had hulking shoul¬ ders and a lopsided, out-of-proportion face with loosely blubbering lips. He wore an old pair of overalls and a stained shirt and a dirty slouch hat with the brim ripped off on one side.

He feinted again at the stick in the woman’s hand and then suddenly twisted it away from her.

“Now,” he said, malignantly gleeful. “Now what you gonna do, huh?”

“That’s Joady Turnbull,” Owens said. He flipped the catch on the station wagon door and stepped out. “Joady! Quit that! Leave her alone!”

Joady Turnbull swung around with a sort of awkward grace. He stared unbelievingly, his lips loose and slack in his smeared caricature of a face.

“Brad Owens,” he said. “Brad Owens. They went and let you out of the jail.”

“Yes,” said Owens.

Joady Turnbull made a thick, choking noise. “And you got the nerve to come back! You think you’re gonna get away with that?”

“I think so,” said Owens. “And I think that you’re going to stop annoying Miss Carson.”

“You gonna make me?”

“Yes,” said Owens.

“How?” Joady Turnbull jeered. "You think you’re gonna stab me, too? In the back?”

“No,” said Owens evenly. “I’ll just break your neck.”

“But not now,” said Doan, getting out of the car. “I’ll tend to that if it’s necessary. Listen, goon, run along and haunt some other neighborhood.”

“I know you,” Joady Turnbull said. “You’re that city detective old Morris brought down. You don’t scare me.”

“Then you’re even more simple than you act,” Doan told him. He opened the rear door of the station wagon, and Carstairs got out.

Joady Turnbull backed away two steps. “I heard about that there damned big dog!” he said uncertainly.

Doan nudged Carstairs with his knee and said, “Woof.”

Carstairs bayed suddenly.

It was a solid, rocking blast of sound with a deep undertone of savagery in it. Joady Turnbull backed away three more steps, stumbling a little. Car¬ stairs watched him with eyes that gleamed greenish in the dusk.

Doan said, “If you’re not out of sight in five seconds, I’ll have him give you a little demonstration that his bite is worse than his bark. Get on your horse and gallop.”

It took Joady Turnbull the count of two to absorb that. Then he whirled around and fell over a bush and scrambled to his feet and ran. His feet slashed through the drift of fallen leaves, and then he disappeared in the thicket beyond the mill.

Carstairs grunted contemptuously, shook himself in an irritated way. Then he strolled over to the mill pond and lapped the water, making a noise like rain on a tin roof and sending the ripples scurrying in frightened haste.

“Would he really have attacked Joady?” Owens asked.

“Sure,” said Doan. “He likes nothing better than to bite people. But he won’t hurt you, lady.”

The woman was still crowded back against the mill wall. She had been watching Carstairs with a sort of fascinated horror, and now she looked at Doan with her eyes wide and dilated behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.

“D-dogs frighten me,” she said with a little catch in her voice. “I—I thank you for—for interfering. . . ”

“Aren’t you going to say hello to me, Norma?” Owens asked.

“Yes! Of course, Brad! I’m so upset— Joady and you and the dog....”

“I’m here, too,” Doan reminded her.

“This is Mr. Doan, Norma,” Owens said. “Apparently he is my— ah—  guardian for the time being. Doan, this is Norma Carson. She teaches the lower grades in the Ramsey village school.”

“Pleased,” said Doan. “Who was the ghoul we just chased off?”

Norma Carson looked uneasily at Owens and then away again. “That was Joady Turnbull.”

“I suspected that,” said Doan. “Is this the way he usually goes on, or was he celebrating some special occasion today?”

Norma Carson said, “You see— I refused to have him attend any longer the grades I teach in school... ”

“I may be wrong,” Doan remarked, “but he looked a little elderly to be attending the lower grades.”

“He’s a moron,” said Norma Carson. “I mean, really he is. He just can’t learn anything, and he’s so much older and larger than the other children.”

“I get the picture,” Doan said. “If he bothers you again, tell him Carstairs and I will pay him a social call.”

“Are you a parole officer?” Norma Carson asked.

“Right now,” Doan said. "It’s nice work if you can get it— I hope.”

Owens said, “Norma, can we give you a lift into town?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Brad. I have my car. It’s parked up the road. I came to the mill here because I’d heard there were some swallows nesting in it. I wanted to show their nests to the children. But Joady came up here while I was watching for them.”

Carstairs came back to the car and sat down with a self-satisfied sigh.

Doan rapped him on top of the head with the knuckle of his forefinger and said, “Get in the car, dumbness.”

Carstairs climbed in and dumped himself on the back seat so enthusi¬ astically that the springs groaned in protest.

“Brad,” said Norma Carson hesitantly, “are you going back to The Square?”

Owens shrugged. “Apparently I am.”

“After all that’s happened?”

“I don’t have any choice, Norma.”

“Jessica is there.”

Owens frowned. “I was hoping she wasn’t.”

“I hate this town and all the nasty, mean-minded people in it for what they’ve done to you, Brad!” Norma said. “And that goes for Jessica Morris, too.”

“I lived through it,” Owens said. “Forget it. We’ll have to run along. Good night, Norma.”

THEY GOT BACK into the car and Doan turned it around and bumped out along the lane again to the main road. Every once in a while Owens silently pointed out the turns to be taken in the roads.

“You might sort of explain this and that to me,” Doan requested, “just so I can pretend I know what the score is here.”

“You know, of course, that I murdered a man,” Owens said.

“That’s nothing to brag about,” Doan told him. “I’ve finished off a couple of dozen more or less in my time.”

“I stabbed this one in the back.”

“I’ve never used that method,” Doan said. “I’ll have to give it a ring some time. What was this party’s name, as if it mattered?”

“It does matter. His name was Turnbull.”

“So?” said Doan. “Any relation to the mental giant we just met?”

“Yes. His father.”

Doan nodded. “Well, that might explain the way he acted when he recognized you, although if heredity means anything I’d say you did the boob a favor. Was the old man as stagnant in the head as the kid?”

“Even worse. He was stupid in a sort of mean, vicious way that grated on everyone’s nerves.”

“What did you tell him for? He give you a dirty look?”

Owens sighed “We gave him work sometimes as an extra hand when we were short of help This particular time he was harrowing with a tractor over in the north field It was a new tractor. I told him several times to watch the oil and water and not let it get too hot. He let the water boil out, and then he was too lazy or too contrary to walk two hundred yards to get some more. He ran the tractor until the engine seized. When I came around to see what he was doing, he was pounding the block with a wrench. The motor was just about ruined.”

“What’d you do?”

“I lost my temper.”

"Imagine that now,” Doan commented. “Just over a little matter like that. What then?”

“I bawled him out, plenty.”

“Did it kill him?”

“Not that, no. He got nasty and threw the wrench at me.”

“The Turnbulls are certainly an attractive family,” Doan said. “Did he hit you?”

“Yes. In the head. I don’t remember a thing that happened after that. Not a thing.”

Doan glanced at him sideways.

Owens shrugged. “Believe it or not, I honestly don’t. When I came to, I was in the hospital under police guard.”

Doan said, “I had an idea when this started that we were going to talk about a murder.”

“We are. According to the evidence, Turnbull started to run after he threw the wrench at me. I threw my knife at him and hit him in the back when he was about twenty feet away.”

“Whose evidence?” Doan inquired.

“There were no witnesses. The field is not close to any houses, and there was no one else near. The evidence was the tracks on the ground, my knife in Turn- bull, and the positions we were lying in when we were found.”

“Uh,” said Doan. “It seems to me that the matter of self-defense might come in there somewhere.”

“No,” said Owens. “Turnbull was running away when the knife struck him and killed him. He wasn’t attacking me.”

“Uh,” Doan repeated. “It seems to me, just offhand, that there’s something missing in this little tale.”

Owens nodded slowly. “Colonel Morris.”

“How does he fit in?”

“He’s very unpopular around here. He’s accumulated about five thousand acres of the finest farm land in the state through some pretty sharp deals in mortgage foreclosures. He owns the bank in Ramsey.”

“He runs the bank, so they put you in jail,” said Doan. “Well, maybe it makes sense.”

Owens cleared his throat. “You see, lots of people are anxious to get back at him for one thing and another— and, well, I was supposed to be his prospective son-in-law. It seemed a good chance to get him through me.”

“A little tough on you,” Doan observed. “This son-in-law thing. Let’s look at that a little more closely. It might be something.”

“I was engaged to his daughter.”

“The plot thickens,” Doan said.

“Perceptibly,” said Owens bitterly.

2: Carstairs Takes A Case

“OPEN UP A LITTLE,” Doan invited. “Are you engaged to Colonel Morris’ daughter now?”

“Certainly not,” Owens said.

“Did she give you the brushoff?”

Owens stared at him, narrow-eyed. “Is this any of your business?”

“Oh, hell no,” said Doan amiably. “I just ask questions because I’ve got noth¬ ing else to do until I get to this farm.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“Ask more questions— of other people.”

“Ask them of me, instead.”

“You’re a hard guy to please,” Doan observed. “That was just what I was doing. Did this party of the second part give you the brushoff?”

“Her name is Jessica Morris, and she did. Now are you happy?”

“Oh, very,” Doan said. “Are you?”

Owens said slowly, “You’re going to carry this matter a little too far, friend.”

“Probably,” Doan admitted. “I’ve got no sense of discretion. Are you?”

“No, you fool! Would you be?”

“All depends,” said Doan. “How does this Jessica stack up? Bowlegged? Knock-kneed ? Halitosis? ”

“No!”

“I only asked,” Doan said. “I didn’t see her when I was down here before. What kind of a brushoff did she hand you?”

Owens breathed deeply. “Very kind. Very polite. Very diplomatic. She believed in me. She trusted me. She blubbered all day long at my trial. She wrote me nice letters when I was in prison— affectionate at first and getting less and less so all the time. Finally I received a clipping from the Ramsey paper. She was engaged to a man named Gretorex.”

“Cute,” said Doan. “Is she married to him now?”

“I don’t know.”

"Who is he?”

“He’s a gentlemen farmer.”

“Oh,” said Doan.

“He hunts foxes— on a horse.”

“Tally-ho,” said Doan. “Does the dame go for that brand of daffiness?”

“I suppose so. She evidently goes for him. And the colonel likes him.”

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” Doan comforted. “This Norma Carson, the schoolma’am, doesn’t seem to think so highly of Jessica.”

“She’s prejudiced. You see, she and I were raised in the same small town. We’ve known each other all our lives. She thinks the setup here prejudiced the jury against me and that if it hadn’t been for the colonel and Jessica, too, that I would have never have been convicted under the circumstances. Jessica didn’t seem to care about what happened to me.”

“What do you think?” Doan asked.

Owens scowled. “I don’t know. The colonel is hated. I don’t think he’s technically dishonest, but he’s very sharp and slippery in a business deal, and he doesn’t have any more mercy than a weasel.”

“Well,” said Doan, “it looks like things are a bit complicated here. It’s a good thing the colonel hired me to sort of straighten them out.”

Owens snorted. “How do you think you’re going to do that?”

“I’m a genius. I don’t have to think. I just sit down and wait for an inspiration.”

“You’ll need one,” Owens said sourly.

“Where do we turn off here?” Doan asked.

“The next block to the right.”

“There it is,” said Owens after a while. “The showplace of the county. All lit up as usual.”

The house sprawled across a fold of ground up and back from the road. The architect who had designed it had taken a good long look at Monticello and Mt. Vernon and other colonial showplaces before he had started working.

Fine gravel rattled under the station wagon’s fenders as Doan wheeled up the long, curving drive, and stopped opposite the front door.

“Ah, there!” a voice boomed at them. “Hello!”

THE MAN WAS at the top of the veranda steps, looming huge and solidly confident, with the light gleaming sleekly on his bald head. He was dressed in tan trousers and a tan tweed jacket and a darker tan shirt. He looked like the country squire in a whiskey advertisement. He beamed and rubbed his hands joyfully and came hurrying down the steps.

“Ah, there, Doan. It’s a pleasure to see you again. And you brought him with you? Ah, yes! I knew you would. I had every confidence in you. Brad, my boy! Brad! Welcome home, lad!”

“Hello, Colonel,” Owens said, getting out of the car.

Colonel Morris clapped him on the shoulder. “Why, you’re looking fit, lad! Yes, you are! And it’s good to see you! Indeed it is! I could hardly curb my impatience. I swear, I’ve been pacing the floor all day.”

“I’ve done that a few times, too,” said Owens.

“Eh? Oh, yes. Of course. But it’s past now, my boy! Past and done with and better forgotten. Now just step right in here, lad, and... eh? Oh, yes. Here’s Jessica.”

She was standing on the veranda, a little out of the pathway of light thrown from the front door. She was wearing a white dress, and her hair gleamed darkly lustrous in the shadow. She made no move to come closer.

“Jessica,” said Colonel Morris. “It’s Brad Owens come back from... well, come back.”

“She knows where I’ve come from,” Owens said.

“Hello, Brad,” Jessica said evenly.

Owens nodded politely. “Hello.”

“Eh!” said Colonel Morris. “Well....”

“Ahem,” said Doan.

“Oh!” said Colonel Morris. “Yes. Surely. This is Doan, the detective fellow, Jessica. You remember I told you he was fetching Brad from the... from the city.”

“Hi, Jessica,” said Doan.

“What?” said Colonel Morris, startled. “Here! This is my daughter!”

“I wouldn’t even count that against her,” Doan assured him. “Are you going to leave her all your dough when you croak?”

“Well, of course I— What do you mean, sir?”

“I was only asking,” Doan said. “I wouldn’t know as much as I do if 1 didn’t ask people things. Are you married, Jessica?”

“No,” said Jessica.

“Somebody should do something about that,” Doan said. “Aside from the dough you’re a pretty neat little number just as you stand. Don’t you think so, Owens?”

“That’s immaterial,” said Owens coldly.

“Not in my book it isn’t,” Doan denied. “You don’t find girls with figures like Jessica’s and dough too on every street corner. I know, because I’ve looked.”

“Here, you!” the colonel bellowed furiously. “Stop your infernal insolence! I’m your employer, sir!"

“You’ll find that out when I present my bill,” Doan assured him. “Well, let’s go inside where it’s comfortable and sit down and have a long chat about the political situation. Jessica and Owens probably want to talk, too.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” Owens said coldly.

“No,” said Jessica. “Good night.”

She walked across the porch and through the front door.

Colonel Morris scowled at Doan. “Sir, I resent your attitude and your words. Hereafter, if you find it necessary to address my daughter at all, do so with more courtesy.”

“Okay,” said Doan. “But I’ll have to charge more for special service like that. Are we going to stand out here and gab all night? I’m tired.”

Colonel Morris breathed deeply. “Come into the house, please. I have some matters to take up with you, Doan. Brad, your clothes and personal effects are in your old room in the left wing.”

“I’ll go there now,” Owens said. “This has been rather a long and busy day for me.”

"Would you like Cecil to get you something to eat?”

"No, thanks,” Owens said. He turned to his left and walked on along the veranda.

Colonel Morris nodded at Doan. “Come with me.”

They started toward the front door, and then Colonel Morris stopped and pointed a stiff, accusing forefinger.

“Do you propose to take that into the house?”

“Carstairs?” Doan said. “Yes. He’s afraid of the dark, and when he’s scared he howls.”

“Well, let him howl!” Colonel Morris sputtered.

“Oh, no,” said Doan. “You’ve never heard him. The last time he let loose, he broke three plate glass windows and stopped a grandfather clock dead in its tracks.”

Carstairs settled the argument by pacing dignifiedly through the front door into the hall. Colonel Morris followed him, muttering to himself. Doan trailed along behind them down the hall and into a room that had been fixed up as a combination study, den and office by someone who had expensive, if not very original, taste.

There was a fireplace with a high, broad mantel cluttered up with ship models and hunting prints on the wall and an enormous flat executive’s desk in one corner and deep leather chairs.

Doan sat down in one of the chairs, sighing. “I could use a drink now,” he observed.

“Humph!” said Colonel Morris. He picked up a square, cut-glass decanter from the stand beside the desk and looked at it. It was empty.

“Cecil!” he shouted. “Ce-cil!”

The rear door of the study opened, and a man put his head inside. He was bald, and he had a limp, corn-colored mustache and eyes that were just slightly crossed.

“You’re gonna bust a gut sometime, yellin’ like that,” he said. “What you want ?”

“There’s no whiskey in the decanter!”

“Of course not,” said Cecil. “You drank it.”

“Bring some more!”

“I was goin’ to in a minute. Just keep your pants on, will you?”

He pulled his head back, and the door swung shut.

Colonel Morris slammed around behind his desk and sat down with a thump. “Insolence!” he seethed, the veins in his cheeks standing out in bright, cherry-red knots. “Nothing but insolence. The world is going to the dogs, sir!”

“If it does,” Doan said, indicating Carstairs. “I’ll get my share.”

Carstairs was sitting in the middle of the floor, examining the room with an air of supercilious disapproval. Cecil opened the door and came back in the room. He was carrying a white crockery jug. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured liquor from the jug into the decanter. The liquor was just off the color of water, slightly yellowish, with an oily, smooth thickness.

When the decanter was full, Cecil upped the jug in the crook of his elbow and took a long pull out of it.

“You the detective?" he asked, glaring at Doan.

“Right,” said Doan.

“I don’t like detectives,” Cecil said flatly.

“Oh, you’ll like me, though,” Doan said. “I’m something special.”

“You’ll be something dead if you don’t stay out of my kitchen,” Cecil assured him. “I’m the cook around this dump, and I don’t like snoopers, and what I say goes. The deadline of my bailiwick is right at that door there. Don’t cross it.”

“That’ll do, Cecil,” Colonel Morris said.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Cecil ordered. “I don’t have to work here, you know. I can get a job any time for twice the dough you’re paying me and meet a better class of people at that. I suppose I’ve got to feed that cross between a water buffalo and a giraffe, too.”

“Yes,” said Doan, “but you’ll love him when you get to know him. He has a beautiful character.”

“Hah!” said Cecil skeptically. “What does he eat?”

“Steaks,” said Doan.

“What kind?”

Doan stared. “You mean you’ve got a choice?”

‘Hell, yes," said Cecil. “I’ve got a couple of cows hung out in the freezer. I can hack off any kind of a piece you want.”

“Oh, for the life of a farmer,” Doan commented. “I think a filet would do nicely for him. About two pounds. Grind it up and just warm it in the oven. Don’t cook it. You might dig up one for me, too, when you get through with him.”

“Okay,” said Cecil. “Come on, clumsy.”

“Go with the nice man, Carstairs,” Doan ordered. “He’s got a steak for you. Steak. Meat.” He licked his lips elaborately.

Carstairs stared at him incredulously.

“Fact,” Doan assured him. “Real meat.”

Carstairs instantly heaved himself to his feet and started for the door, eyes narrowed in anticipation. Cecil held the door open for him and then nodded meaningly at Colonel Morris.

“Don’t go and drink yourself dumb, now. You know the doc told you to lay off the stuff.”

“Get out of here!” Colonel Morris shouted furiously. “Mind your own damned business!”

“Phooey to you,” said Cecil, closing the door emphatically behind him.

“Insolence,” Colonel Morris muttered. “Unmitigated, infernal insolence, no matter where I turn!”

“It’s enough to drive a man to drink,” Doan agreed. “Are you going to?”

“Eh? Oh, yes. Here.”

Colonel Morris took two outsized shot glasses from the rack under the stand, poured liquor into them, and handed one to Doan. Doan drank it.

The liquor felt as smooth and slick as plush in his throat.

“Like it?” Colonel Morris asked.

“Sort of tasteless,” Doan said. “Pretty weak stuff, too, isn’t it?”

Someone suddenly set off a small charge of blasting powder in Doan’s stomach. The room tipped up at one corner, spun around three times, and settled back slowly and gently.

“Weak?” the colonel repeated softly.

“Wow!” said Doan, swallowing hard, “No. I take that back. What is it, anyway?”

“Just corn liquor. Cecil makes it. That’s why it’s necessary for me to put up with his boorish impertinence. He has a still hidden somewhere here on The Square. He won’t give me his recipe or even show me his methods.”

“Can’t you find the still ?”

Colonel Morris chuckled. “No. Cecil is an oldtime moonshiner. Sheriff Derwin has caught pneumonia twice sitting out all night on Fagan’s Hill watching with night glasses and trying to spot Cecil visiting his hideout. Derwin would like nothing better than to bring a moonshining charge against Cecil and against me as his employer. Will you have another drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Doan. “That stuff goes a little rough on an empty stomach.”

“Then to business,” said Colonel Morris. “Do you know why I hired you for this particular job?”

“Sure,” said Doan. “Because I’ve got such a worldwide reputation as a bril¬ liant detective.”

“No,” said Colonel Morris. “Hardly. I made many inquiries from official sources. I was informed that you were shrewd, violent, tricky and completely unscrupulous.”

Doan shook his head sadly. “That’s nothing but slander. I devote all my time to good works.”

“I can imagine,” said Colonel Morris dryly. “However, if you can curb your blasted impudence, I think we will get along.” He leaned forward and tapped his stubby fingers impressively on the desk top. “I anticipate trouble, Doan. A lot of it.”

“Trouble is my business,” said Doan.

“I suppose you’ve had sufficient initiative to make inquiries of Brad Owens about the death that occurred here?” the colonel asked.

“We talked about it some.”

“Good. That was a most vicious miscarriage of justice. If the jury hadn’t been composed exclusively of halfwits and enemies of mine, he would never have been convicted. As it was, it took me two years and every bit of influence I have to secure his release even on parole. There is a great deal of bitterness in the neighborhood because I was even able to do that. You are to see that the bitterness doesn’t take any— ah— material form.”

“I get it,” said Doan. “If anybody opens his mouth, I bat him down.”

“That is putting the idea crudely but lucidly,” Colonel Morris agreed. “I feel that Owens is almost a son to me, and I will not have him persecuted further.”

“And besides,” Doan added, “you need him to manage your farm.”

Colonel Morris’ red, overripe face darkened slightly. “That is the kind of remark I would prefer that you keep to yourself. Such cynicism sickens me.”

“Me too,” Doan agreed. “All right, I’ll sort of walk around behind Owens and interview anybody who sticks out his tongue. How long does this go on?”

“If there is trouble— and I believe there will be, as I said— it will come soon. Resentment of the sort felt against Owens— and myself— shows itself immediately.”

There was a furious, strangled yell from the rear of the house, and an instant later the door burst open and Cecil raged into the room.

“What kind of an animal is that you own?” he yelled at Doan. “Was he raised in a pigsty?”

“Yes,” said Doan, “but a very clean one. What did he do this time?”

“He sneezed in my cake dough! After I fed him! What kind of manners is that? He sneezed right in it on purpose and blew it the hell all over the drain board!”

“What did you do?” Doan asked. Before he sneezed, I mean?”

“Why, I just took a short snort of corn, is all.”

Doan sighed. “That was it. Carstairs disapproves of drinking— violently. The smell of alcohol gives him the pip.”

Cecil gasped. “You mean to say he won’t even let me drink in peace in my own kitchen?”

“Probably not,” Doan admitted.

“The hell with that noise!” Cecil shouted. “Then he ain’t gonna eat in my kitchen! You hear me, Colonel? After this, that damned dog eats in the dining room!”

“Here, here!” Colonel Morris echoed, aghast. “That infernal beast in the dining room? Impossible!”

“Impossible or not, that’s where he gets served,” Cecil snarled. “And he’d damned well better keep his nose out of my cake dough after this. You! Come out of the kitchen!”

Carstairs strolled unconcernedly through the door into the study. Once inside, he stopped short and turned his head slowly and ominously, glaring at the glass still in Doan’s hand. Doan put it down quickly.

“I’ve only had one," he said.

Carstairs snorted in utter and contemptuous disbelief. He walked over to the corner and lay down with his head in it and his back to the room.

Doan shrugged. “Oh well. Since he’s going to sulk about it anyway, I might as well have another drink or two or even three. Roll out the barrel.”

3: Murder In The Night

DOAN WAS LYING flat on his back in bed, gurgling peacefully in his sleep and blowing alcohol fumes at the ceiling, when an object that was cold and gruesomcly moist pressed itself against his cheek. Doan woke up, but he wasn’t startled at all. This had happened many times before. Carstairs’ nose, properly applied, was a very effective alarm clock.

“All right,” Doan said. “What’s your trouble now?”

It was pitch dark, and he rolled over and fumbled for the reading lamp on the bedstand and snapped it on. Carstairs was sitting on the floor at the head of the bed, watching him narrowly. Seeing that he had Doan’s attention, he paced over to the door of the bedroom and stood looking at it.

“Listen, lamebrain,” Doan said, “if you think I’m going to get up in the middle of night and escort you on a tour, you’d better start thinking all over again.”

Carstairs looked over his shoulder, his ears flattened tight against his head. He growled very softly.

“So?” said Doan. “Some matter that needs my attention?”

Carstairs turned his head back to stare at the door.

“Coming right up,” Doan said.

He got out of bed. He was wearing only the top of a pair of pajamas. He pulled on his trousers, put his suit coat on over his pajama jacket, and slid his bare feet into a pair of old moccasins he used for bedroom slippers. He jerked the bed covers back and unearthed a .38 Colt police positive and dropped it into his coat pocket.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He opened the bedroom door and bumped Carstairs in the rear with his knee, commandingly. They went out into the hall. It was darker even than the bedroom had been. Doan fumbled along the wall, and then Carstairs nudged in against him. Doan put his hand on Carstairs’ spiked collar, and the dog led him, seeing-eye fashion, down the length of the hall toward the front of the house.

At the stairs, Carstairs stopped, and Doan felt out cautiously with one foot until he located the top step. They went on down into the smooth, stagnant blackness of the lower hall. Carstairs headed straight for the front door and stopped in front of it.

Doan snapped the night latch and opened the door. Outside, the moon was fat and red and bulging, low over the rim of hills that enclosed the valley, and in its thin light familiar objects assumed brooding, weirdly twisted shapes. The air was dry and cold and sharp in Doan’s throat.

“If this is just a gag to give you a stroll in the moonlight, I’ll beat your brains out,” he threatened.

Carstairs ignored him. He was testing the faint stir of wind, head held first on one side and then the other. He went down the steps of the veranda and trotted in a circle, muzzle lifted high. He stopped suddenly and looked back at Doan.

“Lead on,” said Doan. “I’m with you.”

Single file, they went along the front of the house and on past the west wing. Carstairs stopped again, made up his mind, and then angled down the back slope. There were shrubs here, high and shaggy in the moonlight, and they worked their way through them. A row of barns and outbuildings stretched, solid and sturdily white, ahead of them, and Doan could hear faintly the stab of hoofs on board and the rolling wet crunch of corn in animal teeth.

“I’m getting damned good and tired of this,” Doan stated angrily. “Just what....”

A creek meandered across the pasture beyond the barns, and Carstairs was standing near a bend where it looped lazily back on itself on the lee of a dense, close-cropped clump of brush. His ears were pricked forward, and his shadow lay thin and spindly and black on the ground in front of him.

Doan came up to him quietly, alert now, his hand grasping the revolver in his coat pocket.

“What?” he whispered.

Carstairs rumbled deeply and softly in his throat.

Doan saw it, then, too. It was an object pushed in under the brush, lumpy and motionless and limp, with the dim light gleaming a little on the paleness of what could only have been a face.

Doan drew his gun. “I see you, bud,” he said. “Just speak up nicely.”

There was no answer, and the lumpy bundle did not stir. Doan cocked the revolver, and then Carstairs moved in cautiously, his head lowered. He snorted suddenly and loudly.

“The hell,” said Doan.

He moved in too, shoving Carstairs aside with his knee. He leaned down and poked the bundle with the barrel of his revolver. It was a slack and solid weight. Doan poked harder, and the head rolled back so that the moon shone on the pallidness of the face.

“Joady Turnbull,” said Doan softly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Joady Turnbull’s eyes stared dully and sightlessly up at him. A trickle of blood, glistening black and jagged in the moonlight, spread over his chin. Doan lifted him slighdy and saw the knife handle sticking up, grimly solid, from his back just over his heart.

“Very neat,” Doan commented.

He TOOK HOLD of the handle and pulled the knife free with a little grunt of effort. He dropped Joady Turnbull, and the body rolled loosely back under the brush. Doan stood up and examined the knife. It was not graceful or deadly or designed for murder. It was a work knife with a thick, broad blade that could be used for almost anything from pulling nails to cutting down a tree.

Doan stared at it, whistling noiselessly to himself, and then he stopped that and looked at Carstairs. Carstairs had turned his head and was watching a clump of willows that made a thick, dark clot on the far side of the pasture where the creek ran out into the next field. He began to pace toward it, stiff-legged, and Doan trailed right along behind him, the knife still open in his left hand, the revolver in his right.

They approached the willows slowly, circling a little, and then a voice said wearily, “I’m right here, if you’re looking for me.”

“Well, well,” said Doan. “Good evening and all that. We’re not intruding, I trust.”

“You are,” said the voice. “But I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about it. There’s a path just to your left.”

Carstairs found it, and Doan followed him along the tunneled blackness with the branches whipping stingingly across his face and the dried leaves whispering slyly together. There was a little opening here with the dappled, dark sheen of the creek moving slowly past. Owens was a bulking shadow seated on a fallen log beside the water.

“I saw you coming across the pas¬ ture,” he said. “What did you find back there?”

“Three guesses,” Doan answered. “On the other hand, let’s not play games. I found Joady Turnbull, and he’s deader than a salted smelt, and just what the hell do you propose to do about that?”

Owens’ body jerked. “Joady—”

“Turnbull,” Doan finished. “Remember him? He’s the one who was lying out there with a knife in his back.”

“Knife,” Owens whispered in a shocked, thick voice.

“This one,” Doan agreed, holding it out.

Owens moved back. “That—that’s mine. That’s the one— I—his father...

Doan stared, trying to see his face in the dimness. “You mean that this is the same number you stuck into his old man?”

“Yes. It— it’s called the Farmer’s Friend. I always carried—”

“This is a pretty dish of goulash,” Doan remarked. He knelt down on the creek bank and, holding the knife under the chilling water, scrubbed its blade and hilt with his fingers vigorously. “How did you get hold of it again?”

“Me? Why, I’ve never had it since the day that Joady’s father and I—”

“HuhI” said Doan. He found a handkerchief in his pants’ pocket and dried the knife carefully. Then he snapped the blade shut and put the knife in his pocket.

Owens said incredulously, “What are you going to do with that?"

“Never you mind," said Doan. “And as of now, you’ve never seen it, and neither have I.”

“Do you mean you’re going to conceal—”

“Look,” said Doan. “Remember me? I’m the guy who was hired to keep you out of trouble. If you have to be consistent when you murder people, I wish you’d be a little more careful about it.”

“But you can’t just—”

“Oh yes I can,” said Doan. “But after this, if you’re going to murder people at night, I’m going to charge Colonel Morris time-and-a-half for overtime.”

Owens came up to his feet suddenly. “Do you think—are you saying that I killed Joady Turnbull.”

“What am I supposed to think?” Doan asked.

“Why, what reason.... ”

“You tell me,” Doan invited.

Owens leaned forward dangerously. “I had nothing whatever to do with it, you fool! I had no idea he was anywhere near here, alive or dead!”

Doan stared at him speculatively.

“Don’t you believe me?” Owens demanded.

Doan sighed. “The hell of it is, I think maybe I do. You don’t strike me as being completely nuts. Oh, this is a fine state of affairs. I think I’ll resign.”

“Resign?” Owens repeated blankly.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Doan explained, “if I only had to keep the police, or whoever, from proving you did the dirty work. But now I’ll have to dig around and find out who’s really guilty, or else they’ll certainly hang you for it.”

"Hang?” Owens said dully.

“Somebody wants to see your neck stretched,” Doan said absently, "and he strikes me as one of these gents who believe that if at first you don’t succeed you should try, try again. It’s all very discouraging at this point. If you weren’t killing Joady Turnbull, just what were you doing out here at this hour of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Owens said. “After two years in a cell... I just thought I’d walk down here and sit for a while. It’s quiet, and we— that is, I— used to come here often.”

"Which way did you come?”

“Through the north gate. It’s on the far side of the pasture from where you came in.”

“Uh,” said Doan. “How do you let the cows and horses and junk out of those barns?”

“Why do you want to do that?” Owens demanded.

“We’ll track up the pasture. We’ll let the animals run back and forth a while and confuse the issue.”

“But— but that would be destroying evidence!”

“Don’t worry,” Doan said gloomily. “I’ve got an idea the guy that thought up this little caper will strew some more around.”

Carstairs growled warningly. Doan turned around quickly, the revolver poised in his hand. Dried leaves rustled somewhere close in the shadow, and then a voice whispered:

“Brad! Are you here?”

Owens stiffened. “It’s Jessica!” he breathed.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here," Doan said sourly. “I hope she brought something to eat. We’ll have a picnic lunch. Come join the band, Jessica.”

SHE STILL WORE her white dress, and she was plainly visible groping her way cautiously closer. “Brad,” she said uncertainly. “I was sitting up, and I saw you come down here, and I thought—”

Owens said to Doan, “As you’ve probably gathered by this time, we used to meet here quite often and sit and look at the moon.”

“A harmless pastime,” Doan said.

“You used to like it,” Jessica said.

Owens nodded curtly. “I used to be stupid, too.”

“What do you mean ‘used to be’?” Doan asked. “You’re giving a pretty good imitation of it now.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Okay, okay,” Doan agreed. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to talk to the girl.”

“I don’t want to talk to her.”

“Why not, Brad?” Jessica asked.

“I’m not interested in making polite conversation with the future Mrs. Gretorex.”

"I’m not the future Mrs. Gretorex,” Jessica said steadily.

“The paper said you were.”

“The paper was wrong. Gretorex comes here quite often, and some busybody called up the editor and told him that Gretorex and I were going to be married. The editor called Gretorex and asked him if it was true, and Gretorex said that was his intention, so the paper printed the story. I didn’t know anything about it until I saw it. I could have made the editor print a retraction, but what could that possibly have brought about?”

“H’m,” said Owens doubtfully.

“Brad,” said Jessica. “Don’t you remember asking me to marry you ? I said I would. I intend to.”

“What?” said Owens.

“He’s a nice fellow,” Doan said to Jessica, “but he’s a little slow on the uptake.”

Owens said, “Jessica! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“Oh yes I do.”

“But you can’t. You couldn’t possibly—”

“Take a deep breath,” Doan advised helpfully.

“Shut up!” Owens snarled at him. Then: “This is all the most ridiculous nonsense. Why, you don’t even love me, Jessica!”

“I’m the best judge of that,” Jessica informed him calmly. “You offered to marry me, and I intend to hold you to it.”

Owens turned on Doan. “Now see here—”

Doan said, “Since I’m stage managing this reconciliation, I’d advise you to kiss her about now.”

“Oh, be quiet! Jessica, your letters to me didn’t sound as if you still loved me!”

“It’s a little hard to write love letters to someone who won’t answer you or even let you visit him.”

“I couldn’t...I didn’t want you to think—”

“Dumb,” Doan observed, “but he means well.”

“All right,” Owens said. “Since you’re so clever, just explain to her what you found in the pasture.”

“Yes,” Jessica added. “I saw you come across from behind the barns. What did you find?”

“Nothing to get excited about,” Doan told her. “Just a body.”

“Joady Turnbull!” Owens snapped. “And he was stabbed with my knife!”

Jessica stared. “Your... The same knife—”

“Yes! Now I suppose you’ll tell me you don’t believe I did it!”

“I’ll believe what you tell me. Brad."

“You’re the only one who will!”

“Don’t forget me,” Doan said.

“Oh, you!” Owens said. “You don’t count.”

“I do so,” said Doan. “My opinion on a matter like this is vital.”

“What are you going to do?” Jessica asked faintly.

“He thinks he’s going to conceal the evidence that links me with the murder!” Owens blurted. “He’s crazy!"

“Like a fox,” Doan said amiably. “Now look. Let me explain things to you in simple words. You are out on parole. If you are even faintly suspected of being involved in anything slightly illegal, your parole will be revoked. Aren’t you tired of jails?”

“But it’s only a matter of time before they suspect me, anyway!”

“That’s what I want,” Doan said. “Time. Now you scram over and let the cows out of the barn. I would myself, only they might moo at Carstairs and scare him. And just keep in mind that you weren’t here tonight and you don’t know anything about any bodies or pastures or knives or what-the-hell. You were in your room the whole time, and I was with you. So was Carstairs. So was Jessica.”

“You can’t involve her—”

“She’s already involved,” said Doan. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that she might need an alibi herself?”

Owens breathed in noisily. “Don’t you dare insinuate that she—”

“Oh, run along,” said Doan.

“Do what he says, Brad,” Jessica directed.

“Now there’s a woman with brains,” Doan observed.

Owens spun around, muttering fiercely in an undertone, and slammed out through the brush.

Jessica came a step closer to Doan. “If he says he didn’t— didn’t have anything to do with Joady...”

“I don’t think he did,” Doan said. "I wouldn’t be sticking my neck out like this if I thought so. I’m not completely cracked. Someone wants people to think Owens is out to eliminate the Turnbulls.”

“Then it might be that Joady’s father....”

“Say,” said Doan admiringly, “you are pretty smart at that.”

“If you could prove— if you could— I’d give anything....”

“I hate to bring up these commercial matters,” said Doan, “but how much would anything be worth in cash? A thousand bucks?”

Jessica swallowed. “I— I haven’t that much. My father gives me only an allowance.”

"I’ll shake it out of him,” Doan said, “with a slight assist from you. Let’s get out of here before the cows get in.”

4: Putting On The Dog

SUNLIGHT, coming through the open front door, made a bright, slanted outline on the rug in the front hall as Doan came down the stairs with Carstairs shambling along, limp-legged, behind him. Doan started toward the back of the house and then heard angry voices from the porch. He turned around and went outside.

There was a long, low convertible with a right hand drive and high, slanted fenders standing in the drive. A man stood in front of it, his head held high and arrogantly, his hands pushed deep in the pockets of a tailored suede sport jacket. He wore boots and riding breeches, and he had a voice that sounded as though it came from directly behind his beaked nose.

“This is a situation,” he said, as though that settled it, “which is absolutely intolerable.”

Jessica was standing on the edge of the porch, and Owens was leaning against a pillar beside her, scowling darkly. Colonel Morris teetered back and forth from heel to toe at the top of the porch steps, looking extremely unhappy about it all.

"Intolerable,” the man with the beaked nose repeated. “A man of your sensibilities, Colonel, should have realized that. You should have consulted me.”

“We didn’t think it was necessary,” said Jessica.

The man looked amazed. “Well, naturally it was! A man of my experience is able to give sensible advice on such matters. Who is this person with the— ah— dog?”

“Doan,” said Doan. “You could only be Gretorex. This is Carstairs. Don’t mistake him for a fox. He probably wouldn’t react properly."

“Naturally he’s not a fox,” said Gretorex. “He’s a Great Dane.”

Carstairs sat down and scratched himself absent-mindedly.

“He thanks you kindly,” Doan said. “What were you beefing about?”

“Ah?” said Gretorex. “Beefing? Oh. I was objecting to the presence of this person— Owens— in this vicinity at this time. As I said, the situation is intolerable. People simply won’t stand for it. There’ll be serious trouble. I warn you.”

“Consider us warned,” said Doan. “Why don’t you go chase a fox?”

“What?” said Gretorex. “Well, really, this isn’t the season for fox hunting, you know.”

“Then chase yourself,” Doan advised.

“Here!” Colonel Morris intervened. “Doan! Mr. Gretorex is a respected neighbor of mine, and I put great value on his opinions. I didn’t realize the repercussions... I rather feel....”

“I’ll leave right away,” said Owens.

“Wait until I pack my things,” Jessica requested.

“Eh?” said Colonel Morris.

“What?” said Gretorex.

“If he leaves, I leave,” said Jessica.

“Oh, I say!” Gretorex blurted in horror. “You really can’t do that, you know. I mean to say—”

“Go ahead,” said Jessica. “What do you mean to say?”

Gretorex swallowed. “Well.... The Owens person is a criminal—a convicted one. You can’t just go away with him.”

“Try me and see what I can do,” Jessica invited.

“But, my dear girl, think. ”

“I’m through thinking. Now I’m going to do something about it.”

“Wh-what are you going to do?” Gretorex asked warily.

“Marry Brad.”

Gretorex went back a step, shocked to his core. “Oh, but this is unbelievable! Colonel Morris, do you mean to say you will allow a murderer to abduct your daughter into— into a life of crime?”

Colonel Morris sighed. “There’s no respect for parenthood any more. She’s stubborn and defiant.”

“What’s more,” Doan added, “she’s of age.”

Colonel Morris nodded gloomily.

“Well!” said Gretorex. “My dear Jessica, think of the terrible consequences of such a rash act. And you mustn’t feel too broken-hearted over the little quarrel we had regarding that item in the paper. You were sarcastic and rude and— quite impossible— but I’ll forgive you, my dear. I’ll marry you myself!”

“Thanks,” said Jessica. “Some other time.”

There was an echoing yell from behind the house. It vibrated in the still air, and then there was the hurried pound of running feet on packed dirt.

“Here we go again,” said Doan.

A MAN IN OVERALLS swung himself frantically around the corner of the house. “Colonel MorrisI Down there— in the p-p-pasture—”

“Here, herd” Colonel Morris snapped. “Get a hold on yourself, man!”

“There’s a fella,” said the man, gulping. “And he’s there in the pasture lyin’ there. And he’s dead with a stab in the back. And— and he’s Joady Turnbull!”

“Mercy me,” Doan commented. “A murder. And so early in the morning.”

Colonel Morris made a strangled sound. “Murder! Joady Turnbull!”

Gretorex had got back his arrogant confidence. “I don’t think, Colonel, we need worry about this killer and his attentions to Jessica any longer.”

Colonel Morris’ face was leaden-colored. “Show me!” he shouted incoherently, lunging down the steps.

He disappeared around the corner of the house with the farmhand thumping along behind him.

“Maybe we’d better notify what passes in this neck of the woods for the police,” Doan suggested.

Gretorex smiled thinly. “I’ll attend to that personally. And with pleasure!” He slid under the wheel of his car and headed it for the highway in a sudden ripping blast of power.

“Bad news sure travels fast,” Doan remarked.

Cecil came out on the porch and pointed a finger at Doan. “Listen, you. If you want me to get you your break

fast, you get up when the rest do around here. All my help has run out on me on account they’re afraid of gettin’ their throats cut, and I’m runnin’ the whole damned shebang, and if you want your bed made, make it yourself.”

"Okay,” said Doan, following him back into the house. “Did you hear that Joady Turnbull has been found murdered?”

“I can’t think of anybody I’ll miss less,” Cecil informed him. “What does clumsy eat for breakfast?”

“Just gruel. With lots of cream and sugar and no lumps in it. I eat ham and eggs. I’ll bet Joady Turnbull and his old man were good hunters, weren’t they?”

Cecil stopped short and turned around. “They hunted rabbits and stuff some.”

“Did they ever hunt stills?”

Cecil’s gaunt shoulders hitched up threateningly. “If they had, they wouldn’t have found none, and if they had found one, they wouldn’t have been stabbed in the back. They’d have been shot right between the eyes. Just keep that in mind. Now sit down and eat your breakfast and keep your big mouth shut.”

Some time later Doan was staring, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling. In front of him, on the dining room table, were the scant and tattered remains of what had been the equivalent of six restaurant orders of ham and eggs. Carstairs was lying under the table, gurgling and grunting in surfeited content.

Colonel Morris came into the room, followed by a second man who walked with a limply disconsolate slouch, long arms dangling loosely. His pants were baggy at the knees, and his coat was rumpled in front, and his whole posture gave the impression that if you patted him on the top of the head he would slump into a small heap.

“This is Sheriff Derwin, Doan,” Colonel Morris said in a worried tone.

Doan burped. “Excuse me,” he said. “How are you, Sheriff?”

Derwin leaned down and looked him right in the eye. “I know you, all right. I heard plenty about you. Don’t try to put none of your slick tricks over on me.”

“Not right after breakfast,” Doan said. “Not, anyway, this breakfast. Cecil is certainly a whiz-bang.”

Color surged up into Colonel Morris’s face. “Doan! There’s been a murder, do you understand that?”

“Sure,” said Doan, sighing contentedly.

“Well, don’t sit there like a stuffed toad! This is serious! Do something!”

“He ain’t gonna do nothin’,” said Derwin. “Not if he wants to keep walking around outside my jail, he ain’t. I got this case sewed up, and I don’t stand for no monkey business from the likes of him.”

Colonel Morris’s face was turning purple. “Doan! This— this imbecile claims that Owens murdered Joady Turnbull! He proposes to arrest Owens!”

“Let him,” Doan advised lazily. “Owens has been arrested before. One more time won’t hurt him. We’ll get him right out again.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Derwin inquired. “And just how do you think you’re gonna do that little thing?”

“You haven’t the slightest shred of evidence connecting him with the crime,” Doan said. “We’ll be on your trail with a habeas corpus for him in a half hour.”

“Humph!” said Derwin. “If he didn’t do it, then who did do it?”

“That’s your question. You answer it. What time was this murder put together?”

“Doc Evans says Joady’s been dead about ten hours.”

Doan nodded. “Some time around midnight. Owens has an iron-clad alibi.”

“What?” Derwin demanded.

“Not what. Who. Me. I was with him all the time. We were talking things over in his room.”

“Hah!” Derwin jeered. “You think anybody’d believe that? You’d say it, anyway.”

“Jessica was there, too,” Doan said.

Colonel Morris made a gurgling sound. “Jessica!”

“Don’t get excited,” Doan advised.

“When?” Derwin asked skeptically.

“From ten o’clock last night until four o’clock this morning, more or less, as the case may be.”

“Jessica!” Colonel Morris bellowed furiously.

Jessica came into the dining room. “Yes?”

COLONEL MORRIS gestured wildly. “Doan has the infernal Insolence to say you were with Owens and him last night!”

“I was,” said Jessica.

“It was all very proper,” said Doan. “We were playing cards. Five card stud. A fascinating game. By the way, I won a thousand bucks from Jessica. She said you’d pay.”

“A thousand—” Colonel Morris repeated numbly.

“One thousand and three dollars and ninety-one cents, to be exact,” Doan said. “But I’ll skip the small change.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Derwin ordered. He looked at Jessica. “Was you with Owens like he says?”

“Yes.”

"All right,” said Derwin grimly. “All right, for now. But I got my ideas. That stab in Joady looked mighty like the one his pa got, but this time I ain’t found the knife— not yet. And somebody let the cows out so they’d trample up the ground. And I bet I know who.”

“I never bet,” said Doan. And then he added hastily, “Except in poker games.”

“Your time’s cornin’,” Derwin promised. “You think you’re pretty smart, but you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Colonel, you’re responsible for Owens. I’m leavin’ him here now, but I’ll be back, and I wanta find him here.” He pointed his finger at Doan. “And you too.”

Twilight made shadows that were thick and gloomy in the study where Doan was napping when someone twisted his foot and woke him up.

“Umm?” he said, rolling over on the couch and blinking sleepily.

“The mastermind at work,” Cecil sneered. “Listen, dopey, here’s someone who wants to talk to you, and you’d better pry open your ears and listen.”

Norma Carson’s steel-rimmed spectacles made shiny circles in the dusk. Her face was pallidly drawn, and her hair straggled loosely down over her forehead.

“Oh, Mr. Doan!” she said. “You’ve got to do something! They’re coming here! They are! And it’s partly my fault!”

Doan sat up. “Who’s coming, and what’s your fault?”

“Those— those loafers and bums from town! It was that beast of a Gretorex. He talked to them and worked them up and gave them drinks, and then when Sheriff Derwin didn’t arrest Brad Owens for Joady’s murder, he said that they should take the law into their own hands!”

“Think of that, now,” said Doan.

“They’ll come here!” Norma gasped. “They— they’ll lynch Brad!”

“How would that be your fault?” Doan asked.

“Joady told all over town that Brad had you send your dog after him. There at the mill. He said the dog attacked him, and he barely got away with his life. They’re talking about tarring and feathering you!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Doan soothed her. “I’ll handle things. You run on back to town now. It wouldn’t be so good if the school board found out ahout this Paul Revere act of yours. Cecil here sure won’t say anything, though.”

Norma left reluctantly. Cecil went through the door, and slapped it shut emphatically behind him. Carstairs was lying on the floor with his head in the corner. He had slept through all the disturbance.

Doan got up and kicked him in the rear. “Up on your feet, brainless,” he ordered.

Carstairs sat up and yawned, and then stared at Doan with an air of cynical expectancy.

With Carstairs padding silently behind him Doan went through the hall and out on the front porch in time to see Norma Carson’s dingy coupe turn out into the highway and head back toward town. Doan sat down on the front steps. He took the police positive out of his pocket, flicked the cylinder open to make sure it was loaded, and then slid the gun into the waistband of his pants under his coat.

He sat there, looking dreamily thoughtful, while the shadows thickened and deepened and crawled softly across the sweep of the lawn. A few early stars made bright pin-pricks in the darkening purple haze of the sky, and then there were other bright pin-pricks, lower down, that moved and jittered jerkily in pairs, that were not stars.

Doan nudged Carstairs in the ribs with his thumb and pointed. “Company coming,” he said.

Carstairs grunted, and his claws scraped a little on the porch flooring. Doan sat unmoving while the pin-prick headlights of the cars crawled closer on the town road.

Suddenly the front door banged deafeningly behind him, and Colonel Morris raged out on the porch. “Scum!” he bellowed. “Infernal, impudent swine! Do you see them?”

“Yup,” said Doan.

The colonel stamped down the steps past Doan and stood at the top of the drive.

Doan jerked his head at Carstairs and then got up and sauntered quietly around the side of the house and down the back slope through the thick hedge. Light showed mellowly through the windows of the barns, and there was the high, thin whine of a cream separator. Following the sound, Doan went around to the front of one of the buildings and in through the wide doors.

Jessica was tending the separator, and she snapped the switch and stared at Doan.

“We’re having some visitors,” Doan told her. “The unwelcome variety.”

Owens came in from the back carrying two shiny tin pails. He set them down, and milk spilled a little, frothily thick, on the cement floor.

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to lend us a hand?” he said to Doan.

“In a manner of speaking,” Doan said. “There are some rough and ready parties on the horizon who have the idea of hanging you on a tree like a Christmas stocking. You and I and Carstairs are going for a hike in the woods and study the local bird life and all that.”

“Run away?” Owens asked incredulously.

Doan nodded. “Just that.”

“And you,” he told Jessica, “are to run back and put on a little diversion for the boys. You weep and wail and wring your hands and tell them that Owens has left you flat.”

Jessica stared at Owens for a moment, biting her lower lip, and then she turned wordlessly and ran out of the building and up the slope toward the big house.

“They might trail us,” Owens said. “If they should have dogs....”

Doan smiled and indicated Carstairs. “He likes nothing better than a light snack of well-buttered bloodhound. Let’s be on our way.”

5: Trail To Murder

THIS WAS THICK timber, on the north side of the valley, and it was darker than the inside of a cat. Doan bounced his chin off a low-hanging branch, stumbled backwards, and nearly stepped on Carstairs. Carstairs growled warningly.

“The thing I don’t like about woods at night,” Doan said, rubbing his chin, “is that they’re dark. Do you know where we are?”

“Certainly,” said Owens. “Keep close behind me, and that way you won’t have much trouble.”

“Okay,” said Doan. "Is there any place near here where we can park and watch our backtrail?”

“Yes. Fagan’s Hill is on ahead a ways.”

“You can see the farm from there?”

“Yes. You can see the whole valley”

“Is there anyplace else like that?”

“No. All the other hills are timbered thickly. Fagan’s Hill was once, but some early party dug a big quarry out of the side of it. It’s not in use now, but the cut and the erosion made a sort of a cliff out of it. It drops off steeply,

and there are no trees to cut off the view.”

Doan said, “You told me that you don’t remember stabbing Joady Turn- bull’s father.”

“I don’t.”

“I know,” said Doan. “Would you remember doing it if you had?”

Brush crackled against Owens’ legs, and he was much closer suddenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I think the reason you don’t remember stabbing him is because you didn’t do it. Someone else handled that end of it for you.”

Owens’ breath made a harsh noise in his throat. “What are you—”

"Easy,” Doan said. “Take it easy. I’ve got a gun, and Carstairs is right behind you, and we’re nervous people.”

Owens said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s simple,” said Doan. "You didn’t kill Joady Turnbull, or his old man either. I want to know if you know who did.”

“If I knew, do you think I’d have gone to jail for it?”

“Maybe,” said Doan. “Just maybe.”

“You fool! Why?”

“To protect the person who did do it.”

Owens’ shadow contracted a little. “You-”

“Don’t try to jump me,” Doan warned. ‘That won’t work. Answer my question. Do you know who did the dirty deeds?”

“No!”

“I do,” said Doan. “And I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”

Owens was breathing heavily. “What kind of a trick are you trying to pull off now?”

“I’m trying to earn a bonus,” Doan told him. “A little matter of one thousand bucks, and I see it fluttering prettily right in front of my snoot. Turn around and lead us to Fagan’s Hill.”

“Why?"

“Because I’m telling you to,” said Doan, “and brother, I’m not fooling. Lead on, or I’ll dump you here and find the place myself.”

Owens stood there for leaden seconds, leaning forward, trying to sec Doan’s face, and then he turned without any more words and headed through the tangled darkness. They went on steadily in silence, climbing slightly. Doan had his left arm in front of his face to protect it from invisible slashing branches. He was holding the revolver in his right hand.

At last Owens’ face made a pallid blob as he paused and looked over his shoulder. “It’s about a hundred and fifty yards ahead,” he murmured.

Doan reached back and got hold of Carstairs’ spiked collar and hauled him ahead. “Go ahead. Go on. Watch.”

Carstairs slid on ahead of them, his head swinging alertly from side to side.

“Follow him,” Doan ordered. “Don’t make any more noise than you have to.”

Owens walked on slowly, picking his path, and Doan kept in step right behind him. Owens stopped again. Doan looked around him. Carstairs was standing still, his head tilted, testing the night air with noisy little sniffles.

Doan sighed. “I’m on the beam tonight.” He stepped past Owens and nudged Carstairs with the revolver barrel. “Go on. Get him. And take it easy. Hold. Hold, you hear?”

CARSTAIRS MUMBLED sullenly and then seemed to fade away silently into the shadows. There was no further sound, and Owens and Doan waited, listening to their own breathing. Then a man yelled frantically.

Instantly Doan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Don’t run! Don’t try to get your gun! Don’t move and he won’t touch you!”

He threshed his way ahead up the slope with Owens pounding along behind him. The timber thinned into stunted brush, and they broke through it into a small clearing. There was a man sitting on the ground, both his hands raised protectively.

Carstairs was crouched squarely in front of him, his head thrust forward until his muzzle was no more than a foot from the man’s face. His fangs glistened, white and shiny, in the dimness, and he was growling in a continuous, ugly mutter.

“Okay,” said Doan. “Relax, stupid.”

Carstairs quit growling and yawned in a bored way. He backed off and sat down.

“Gaah!” said the man in a choked voice. “He come without no warning and— and jumped at me!”

“Hi, Sheriff,” Doan said.

Derwin caught his breath.

“I sent him on ahead,” Doan said, “because I thought you might hear us coming and sort of shoot before you looked.”

“Huh?” said Derwin. “Why?”

“I thought your conscience might be bothering you.”

“Huh?” Derwin repeated. “Conscience?”

Doan poined. “On account of that.”

The valley stretched out in a long, smoothly graduated scoop ahead of them, rolling up on its sides into the timbered shadows of the hills. The Square was immediately ahead and below, far down, as small and miniaturely perfect as an expensive doll house with lights bright and tiny in its windows. Other lights, mere pin pricks, moved and churned around it— in front and on the sides and in back among the smaller, lower outbuildings.

“Friends of yours?” Doan asked.

“What do you mean?” Derwin demanded.

“Look,” said Doan. “We’re grown up. We know the facts of life. No one could gather up a mob that size in a little joint like Ramsey village without the sheriff knowing all about it. You knew all about it. You just didn’t want to stop them, so you kept out of their way.”

“Humpf,” Derwin said sullenly. “Well, damn it, I— I figured....”

“You figured maybe the mob would scarce Owens so that he might confess to something.”

“So maybe I did,” said Derwin. “And he’s guilty!”

“And you’re so dumb it’s pathetic,” said Doan.

Carstairs suddenly stood up and growled.

Doan swore in a bitter whisper. “No, I’m wrong. I’m the dumb one.”

“What is it?” Owens demanded

“I figured Derwin would come up here to see what was going on. I never thought that the murderer might, too.”

“What?” said Derwin. “Hey!”

“Shut up,” said Doan, watching Carstairs.

Carstairs had lowered his head and was staring into the darkness at the back of the clearing. A stick snapped loudly there. Carstairs started forward.

Doan kicked him in the ribs. “No!”

“Why not?” Owens whispered.

“This is different,” said Doan. “This party sees us. I don’t want Carstairs full of buckshot. You out there! Come on in! I know who you are!”

Doan shoved Owens. “You and Derwin go to the left. Run for it! Circle around and drive back in toward the cliff here!”

Then he nudged Carstairs with his knee. “Come on!” He ran across the clearing and crashed into the brush on the right side of the clearing.

The darkness closed in tightly. Doan felt for Carstairs, grabbed the spiked collar. Carstairs lunged ahead, and Doan smashed and clattered along behind him, swearing great oaths in a bitter monotone.

“Make some noise,” he ordered. “Woof!”

Carstairs bayed savagely, and the sound rolled and echoed ahead of them. Doan fell into a gulley, and Carstairs dragged him, willy-nilly, up the other side, going ahead in great, heaving jumps. He bayed again and then stopped short. Doan fell over the top of him and scrambled to his feet. He stood tensely, listening.

“I know you’re close to me,” he said “You’re not going any further in this direction.”

There was the whistling sound of an indrawn breath. Carstairs leaped in that direction, and Doan got him by the tail and hauled back, digging in his heels.

“No! Take it easy, lamebrain! I like you without holes in your hide better!”

He got a new grip on the collar, and they went ahead in a weirdly tandem fashion with Doan caroming off trees and wading sightlessly through brush that crackled angrily.

“Derwin!” Doan yelled. “Owens!"

“Here!”

“Here!”

“Circle back this way!”

CARSTAIRS STOPPED uncertainly, started in one direction, turned and went in another.

“Make up your mind,” Doan panted.

Carstairs slowed up, and Doan hauled on the collar, gasping for breath, and then the darkness seemed to thin a little, and the undergrowth fell away ahead of them.

“Ah," said Doan. “This is it." He slapped Carstairs on the muzzle. “Back! Keep back.”

Carstairs grumbled and grunted indignantly, but he edged in back of Doan’s legs. Doan went ahead slowly, the police positive poised.

The ground sloped steeply down, and then they were abruptly in the clear, looking out over the empty black space of the valley. There was a figure right on the edge of the drop ahead— dark and wavering there, unsteady.

Doan said, “There’s the party of the first part.”

“Who?” Derwin said. “Who—"

A small, soft breeze from the valley ruffled the brush-tips and touched the figure on the cliff edge.

“Why,” Owens said in a numb, incredulous voice, “why it’s Norma Carson!”

Her spectacles glinted a little, turning toward them, and then she turned and gathered herself.

“Hey!” Doan yelled.

There was nothing on the cliff edge, and then like an echo to his yell there was a thin, chilling shriek that tapered off into the rolling, rumbling smash of rocks rolling.

Derwin ran toward the cliff, threw himself down on hands and knees and crawled forward.

“Oh,” he said in a sickened voice. “Oh. Clear down on those sharp rocks, and she’s all twisted and smashed....”

He got to his feet and ran back across the clearing, heading for the smoother slope farther along the hillside.

“Norma!” Owens said. “I don’t— I don’t understand.”

“She killed old man Turnbull and Joady.”

“Killed?” Owens repeated, still numb. “I can’t believe she would....”

“It took me quite a while to get the idea, too,” Doan admitted.

“But why?”

“Well, did you ever notice the way she looked at you or the way she looked when she talked about you?”

“What?” said Owens.

“She loved you, you dope. You thought no one saw old man Turnbull smack you with that wrench. But Norma did. She thought you were killed, and she gave herself away completely. Probably got hysterical and took on at a great rate. Old Man Turnbull got the idea. He was scared because he had socked you, and he put the pressure on her. She was supposed to say you hit him first or something.

“That was about the end of him. Your knife had probably fallen out of your pocket, or else she found it while she was trying to find out how dead you were. She gave it to Turnbull— in the back.”

Owens swallowed. “But then, when I was arrested—”

“I’m afraid you won’t like Norma so well after this,” Doan said. “I’m afraid she figured that if you were in jail, she wouldn’t have you, but neither would Jessica.”

“Oh,” said Owens.

“Norma probably figured on gathering you in when you got loose,” Doan went on. “She never dreamed that Jessica would stick to you— especially after she maneuvered that little phoney rumor of her engagement to Gretorex and sent you the paper so you’d know.”

Sheriff Derwin’s voice came to them faintly from below. “Doan! Owens! She—she’s dead. Oh, Lordy!”

"Go get a doctor or an ambulance or a hearse or something,” Doan ordered.

"But about Joady....” Owens said.

“Joady was mean,” Doan said. “Joady was dumb like his old man. He was so mean and dumb he died. He was mad because Norma wouldn’t let him go to school. Probably people needled him about it. He took to following her around and pestering her— like at the mill. He followed her once too often. She had to come, you see, and find out if you and Jessica were going to get together again. She had to know that. She was sneaking around the joint last night, and Joady followed her, and she caught him at it. He would have told on her.”

“What about the knife?” asked Owens, still dazed.

“After it was used at the trial, it would just be filed away in some drawer in the courthouse as an exhibit. No one would suspect a schoolteacher of anything if she was around the courthouse, and certainly no one would ever dream she would pinch a knife.”

Doan took the knife from his pocket, opened it and wiped the blade and hilt on his coat front. He flipped it over the cliff edge.

Owens drew a deep breath. “You— you know, it’s a little hard for me to grasp all this....” He hesitated uncertainly. “You are a pretty clever detective after all!”

“I’m the best there is,” said Doan. “I told you that in the first place. You better run on back to Jessica.”

“Well...” said Owens, “thanks.”

He turned and started back.

“Have Cecil put on a couple of steaks for us!” Doan called. “And, hey! Don’t forget that thousand dollars!”

Owens ran on, unheeding.

“Love,” said Doan, nodding to Carstairs.

Carstairs slowly and thoughtfully licked his chops.

Doan nodded. “Yup. Steaks are good, too.”

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Watch Me Kill You
- 2: Too Many Have Died
- 3: Take It From Me
- 4: Charity Begins At Homicide
- 5: Come Up And Kill Me Some Time
- 6: Death Sings A Torch Song
- 7: Cry Murder (Doan and Carstairs)