Roger Torrey Hard Boiled
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Roger Torrey (1901-1946) was a prolific writer of crime fiction for magazines like Dime Detective, Black Mask, and Detective Fiction weekly, producing nearly 300 short stories and novellas, and just one novel, 42 Days for Murder (1938). Torrey in life was as hard-boiled and as heavy a drinker, if not heavier, than his tough guy heroes. He died suddenly from alcoholic poisoning at the age of 45. This book runs to 150,000 words, and 13 stories, some of them quite long. 1: One Escort— Missing or Dead 2: Justice Borrows Bullets 3: Murder By Accident 4: Dice and No Dice 5: Ticket to Death 6: Black

ROGER TORREY:

HARD-BOILED

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

This original e-book collection of Roger Torrey

hard-boiled private eye stories was

Produced and Edited by "Pulpmeister"

and published by MobileRead

August 2022

Contents

1: One Escort— Missing or Dead

2: Justice Borrows Bullets

3: Murder By Accident

4: Dice and No Dice

5: Ticket to Death

6: Black Murder

7: Three Dead Men

8: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder

9: The Missing Mr. Link

10:  Printer's Ink Runs Red

11: The Cemetery Slaying

12: Murder Backstage

13: Two Little Men

______________________

1: One Escort— Missing or Dead

Lone Wolf Detective Magazine April 1941

THE AD was so screwy I didn't want anything to do with it. But Miss Bryce was both worried and willing to pay me for the trip. Once more I looked over the unusual advertisement.

WILL THE LADY WHO LEFT THE YALE MAN CALL FOR HIM AT DARNELL'S TAVERN ON THE SAWMILL RIVER PARKWAY.

We left the car in the parking lot, and on my way to the door I said:

"This is a gag, Miss Bryce— and it didn't miss. You're falling for it."

She was getting her own way and so she was feeling a little happier.

"You wait and see," she told me. "There's something wrong. You just wait and hear what they say."

With that we went into the place.

It was very nice and the girl pointed this out to me with: "D'ya think I'd made a mistake about being here? I know what you're thinking— that I was drunk and got mixed up. But I'll even show you the booth we were in. It's this way."

She took my arm and led me to a booth about halfway down the dance floor. A waiter broke away from the bar and headed down our way. The floor was bigger than most places like that have, and the bar was at the end of the place. Booths all around the floor, with tables for two spotted out in front of them. And even as far away from the bar as we were I could see it was stocked with good liquor and a lot of it.

In other words the place had class.

The waiter came up and the girl leaned across and whispered: "That's one of them! One of those I talked with."

He was a tough-looking mug, and he came up as though he grudged having to give us the service. He was looking at me and paying no attention to the girl. I told him I wanted straight rye and water, and Miss Bryce said: "A Martini, please."

He looked at her then— one of those so-here-you-are-again looks.

"That's right, friend," I told him. "It's the same lady! How about the drinks?"

I watched him talking to the barman then, while the Martini was being mixed and when the order was being put on a tray.

The girl was speaking again: "You see? He knew me."

"Well, why shouldn't he? You told me you'd been talking to him about this missing man. He'd hardly forget a thing like that."

"I should have gone to the police," Miss Bryce said.

"Why didn't you?"

"Well— well, because."

"That's a swell reason," I began, and stopped because the waiter was back with the tray and with a check for the drinks already on it. He stood there, and when I didn't do anything about it he said: "There's the check."

I told him I saw it.

"I just got told not to serve this lady any more drinks," the waiter explained.

"Who told you?" I asked.

He jerked his head toward the barman and didn't answer.

I said: "If there's one thing I love it's a snooty waiter. This is a public place, isn't it? The lady isn't drunk, is she? So you'll serve us drinks and like it or I'll find out the reason why."

"I just do what I'm told," he said to that. And I retorted: "That's what I want, so where's the argument? If I tell you we want a drink you get it."

He turned his head then and beckoned for the barman, who came out from around his plank with one hand under his apron. He was as hard-looking as the waiter, but he had a nice soft voice. He used it, saying: "Trouble, Luigi?"

The waiter said: "The guy's giving me an argument. I told him no more drinks for the gal and he gives me an argument."

The barman said to me: "Look, Mister! I don't know you and I don't want any trouble. But I'm running this place and I'll not serve that girl another drink."

"Why not?"

He came up right to the edge of the booth table and said: "Well, I'll tell you. She came up here just after I went on shift, and she gives us a story about leaving her boyfriend here. She claims she was in here night before last with him. She also claims that I was on the bar and that Luigi was, the one that served them. Now I was working that night. And so was Luigi.

"We just changed to day shift today. She wasn't in here or we'd have seen her. We haven't got any missing boys around here. The girl's maybe a friend of yours, but she can't come in here with a screwy story like that and get drinks served her. She made a scene, Mister. She called me a liar and she called Luigi a liar. So no drinks. Is that plain?"

Luigi said: "She's just nuts, is all."

I said to the barman: "You all through with the speech?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because, if you are, get back to that bar and make us another drink. One for me and one for the lady. Now move!"

He did. Faster than I thought he would and entirely in the wrong direction. Toward me instead of toward the bar. I saw the light shine on the brass on his hand as he took it out from under his apron and rolled away from it, but I didn't have a chance. I was sitting down and cooped, with that booth table catching me at the knees.

The barman caught me on the cheek with the first lick. I didn't know where the second one landed until I woke up sitting in the seat of my own car with the Bryce girl alongside me. She had as nice a set of hysterics as I ever saw in my life. And it took me about a minute to decide my jaw wasn't fractured, and to find that my gun had been slipped out of its clip and hadn't been put back.

I didn't argue. I remembered we'd passed a gas station down the road and I drove back there in a hurry...

It seemed the best thing to do at the time and in the circumstances.

The boys at the station were not only nice, but curious. I managed to cut the Bryce girl off before she could tell them anything she shouldn't have. My story was that I'd stopped to pick up a hiker and that the guy had tried to bat me down and take my car, and that I'd shoved him off the running board.

The story went over, but I was praying no highway cop would come by and ask me leading questions. Fooling nice kids like those station boys and fooling a tough cop are two different things. I got the blood off my face and the girl quieted down. As I turned the car back toward town, she said: "Now what do you think? And what are you going to do about it?"

"I think you've got something. We were all alone there, and if you'd only been a little dopey they'd have never turned you down for drinks. You were with somebody, weren't you, and you were sober. And that slugging match came up too fast to be on the up and up.

"And taking my gun wasn't the right thing to do on just an ordinary little bounce, like I shouldn't have been given. That's a public place and they're supposed to serve the public. So maybe you've got something there. Maybe this boyfriend of yours is really missing from the place, after all. Maybe you were right. Maybe you were there."

"We were there all right. What are you going to do about it?"

The answer was so plain I thought she'd figured it out for herself. I said: "Why, I'm going to stop at the State Police station and tell the boys what happened. So will you. Then I'll swear to a warrant and we'll go back there with a bunch of cops while they shake the place down properly.

"I could pick up a cop along the road here, but it's better to go to headquarters and do it right. We've got such a screwy story they'll probably want to check on me before they'll go for it."

"We can't do that," Miss Bryce said.

"Why can't we? If nothing else, I want my gun back."

Miss Bryce then told me why we couldn't go to the cops on the thing.

ii

IT SEEMED that she and this missing boy, whose name was George Harper, were engaged to be married, but that they'd had a struggle getting that way. George was a wild kid, and papa and mama Bryce didn't think he'd do the right thing by their little daughter. He'd been in a couple of jams for drunken driving and his folks once had had to pay him out of a girl jam. Both families had money, or so I gathered.

The girl insisted that going to the cops was out. That I'd have to work it out in some way so there'd be no notoriety. She didn't want her folks to hear of it.

They'd been in this place the night before. And they hadn't been supposed to be in any place where liquor was sold because George was on strict probation.

For that matter, he was on probation with the cops as well. He wasn't supposed to take even one drink and drive his car. That promise was the only thing that had saved his driver's licence.

They'd got in an argument over the kid's drinking. The girl had given him back some sort of a class pin that seemed to mean a lot to her and then had walked out on him.

We came to the police barracks about then, and I parked just the other side of it while we went over it.

I said: "Look, Miss Bryce! This is all well and good. But if you're really worried about this boy the cops are the people to tell it to. They've got authority and I haven't. I'm not going to take a chance on losing my licence by busting into that place without a bunch of cops and a search warrant behind me. On top of that I've just found out it's too hard on the face and eyes."

"How much?" she asked.

Which is what I'd been working for. The more I thought it over, the less I wanted to go to the cops with a screwy story like the one I had . . .

I didn't go back until ten that night and I didn't go back alone. I took Whitey Malone with me, and I had a spare gun and a sap as well as Whitey. I figured I shouldn't take too much of a beating with all three, because Whitey, at one time, had been better than a fair middleweight. He was a little punchy, but he did what he was told to do— and that's what I wanted. I parked the car behind a bunch of others.

"So you got it?" I said. "I go in first and you drift in behind me. Wherever I park, you park near. If I get in a beef, you know what to do."

"Sure, Joe," Whitey answered. "And if nothing happens and you give me the nod I sort of wander around and look the joint over. That right?"

"That's right. Now you've got money and you're supposed to buy a drink often enough for it to look good, but don't get tight. If it comes to a brawl I'll have a tough enough time getting out by myself, without having to dig you out from under a table and carry you on my back."

"Don't fret," he said, sounding hurt, "I don't get loopy when I'm working."

I knew a lot better, but I was hoping he'd hold up that night. It was the stuff in bottles that had beaten him in the ring, not the men he'd fought.

So that's the way we went in, and we found the place about half full.

I headed for the bar the first thing. If the lad who had given me the bounce had told me the truth he and his waiter pal had been off shift for some time. And the only chance I had for trouble would be that one or the other was hanging around. If that was the case I wanted to find it out right at the start, because I wanted to look around a bit and I wanted Whitey to do the same.

But the two barmen who were working then were strangers and I saw no trace of the waiter named Luigi. I took a couple of drinks at the plank, then gave Whitey the nod and sat down at a table where I could watch the dancing. Whitey drooped an eyelid at me and headed toward the back and the men's lounge.

And he was still back there when the cigarette girl came by, with her cute little tray and her cute little uniform.

"Cigarettes, Mister?"

I'd have bought them anyway, but I was a cinch when I saw the pin that held her uniform blouse together. I'd had the Bryce girl give me a description of the pin she'd given back to the boyfriend, and if this wasn't the one it was a dead ringer. I paid for the cigarettes with a five-dollar bill.

"If I told you to keep the change, would you get a cut on it?" I asked.

The girl was pretty and she was smart. She nodded her head and said: "That's the boss just going behind the bar."

I looked at the boss and saw what she meant. He was little and hard-looking and the type who wouldn't let a dime out of his hands unless he was getting two dimes in return. And I knew how most cigarette girls have to turn in their tips.

I said: "Look! He's watching. I'll take the change back and meet you by the ladies' lounge. I'll pass it to you there. If you can't get rid of it back there you're not as smart as I think you are."

"What's the idea?" she asked, all the time counting me out the change. She wasn't in any hurry about it. The girl kept smiling and nodding and acting like cigarette girls are supposed to act with customers who are spending money.

I put on the same kind of an act, and said: "You know something it's worth twenty dollars to me to find out. The five is just so you'll meet me and let me tell you what it is."

"Watch when I go back," she told me. "You come back in about five minutes. I like to talk about things like twenty bucks, Mister."

I could tell by the way she acted that she figured I was on the make. It made me a little sore to be picked for a masher. But I'd walked into it and I was getting a chance to talk with the girl and that was what I was working for. She made her rounds and went out in the back. I waited the five minutes and went the same way.

The bar went about halfway across the back of the building, and the swinging doors to the kitchen opened at one end of it. Past this door was an open hall with a shaded sign on each side of it. One read: LADIES, the other GENTLEMEN. On the other side of the bar was another hall, but this one was curtained and there was no sign of any kind by it.

I took it for granted it would lead back to dressing-rooms for the floor show that was advertised as being on three times nightly. To be truthful I wasn't worrying about it much. I was thinking I'd stumbled on a lead to my missing George Harper if I worked it right and got any kind of break.

As I went down my hall I saw the girl waiting for me. It was quite dark, so dark that I could scarcely make out the dim outlines of the girl.

She said: "Okay, hot shot! Spring it fast! I've got to get back on the floor. I'm not through work until four."

I gave her the change from the five and said: "I'm law. I want to know where you got that pin that's holding your blouse together. I'm willing to pay for the information, and if I don't get it I'm willing to take you out of here right now. Not at four o'clock, but right now."

"Tough, eh?" she said, sounding very thoughtful about it.

"Tough enough."

She proved half smart right then. She said: "You're private law, if you're any law at all. No regular cop would pay for what he could get for nothing. Listen. I get through here at four and I ride back with some of the boys in the band. My name's Mary Ames, and I live on West Seventieth. Can you remember the address?"

I said I could and she gave it to me.

She said: "I can't talk now. I haven't got time. And I haven't got guts enough, either, Mister. You wait for me outside my place. I'll be there about a quarter to five at the latest. And I'm not doing this for the twenty."

"What for then?" I asked.

She said: "You wouldn't understand."

And with that the door of the men's lounge opened and two men came out. And after them a third.

The first one was the bartender who'd heaved me out of the place that afternoon. The second was a dapper little man about half the barman's size. The third was Whitey Malone. With the light from the open door on them they were in a spot where I could get a good look. And I looked even as I ducked so that the barman wouldn't recognise me.

I even looked long enough to see the little man with him had a scarred neck. The scar ran from just back of his ear down into his collar. The barman and his pal ducked into a door right across the hall from the one they'd come out of— a door that in that shadow I hadn't even seen. Whitey turned away toward the bar and dance floor.

I said to the girl: "Who was the big guy?"

"Oh!" she said worriedly. "Did he see us?"

I told her that I didn't think it likely; that we were probably too much in shadow. I didn't tell her that if that barman had seen me he'd have probably tried to repeat the afternoon performance, because I certainly didn't have either the time or the wish to go into that right then.

"You be in front of my place at that time," she said. "Hurry back now. I've got to go. Please! You don't know the chance I'm taking."

I said again that I'd be waiting for her and went back in the bar and dance place. As soon as I got Whitey's eye I nodded toward the door and paid my bar check and went out. Whitey followed me in more of a hurry than I thought he'd be in. I asked him if he'd found out anything.

"Just that you were talking to a girl in that back hall," he told me. "That's all."

"Did you see me?"

"Sure— not plain, but plain enough."

That gave me something to think about while I was driving back into town.

iii

IT WASN'T until I'd been waiting a half-hour too long that I really started to worry. And at half-past five I started back alone. I had a notion to stop for Whitey, but all he was good for was a stand-up and knock-down fight. And I had a hunch it wasn't going to be anything like that.

I was right. Plenty right. I left my car way this side of the place, before I came to the bridge which was at least a half-mile this side of the tavern. I went up through the brush at the side of the road, too, making the sneak as quiet as I could. But, just the same, I barely put my head out of the bushes, and where I could see the place, when somebody shot at it.

It wasn't any mistake, either. It wasn't anybody potting at what he thought was a rabbit with a small-calibre rifle. The weapon was a heavy pistol. And when I ducked my head like a turtle and went back in the brush they tried for a lucky break and emptied the gun just by guess in my general direction.

By the time they got it unloaded I was getting away from there fast. I didn't have any reason at all to shoot back, even if I did have a dirty idea about it. And that wasn't enough. I stopped for breath and heard them chasing me.

One of them shouted: "He went this way, Sam."

The voice was over at the side, so I kept on heading down the general direction of the road, to where I'd left my car. And I pretty near got caught— because they figured I'd go that way and almost cut me off.

If they hadn't I wouldn't have found the car. I got to the bridge with them close enough behind so that I knew I'd never make it across without being seen. And I had the choice of making a target of myself or getting wet.

I took the latter. Ducking under the bridge with my gun out, I was ready to pop anybody who came in under there after me. The two of them who were chasing me stood right over me and talked it over.

One was the barman I'd had the trouble with. I knew his voice. The other belonged to a stranger, or at least I didn't recognise it. The barman spoke, and it was all I could do to understand him because he was out of breath.

"The skunk got away. It's the same guy, I tell you. The one I gave the heave-ho to this afternoon."

The other one said: "You damn fool! How d'ya know that? And if it was, why didn't you let him walk into something? What in hell did you start blasting at him for?"

The barman insisted: "It's the same guy. He was snooping around tonight, too, I tell you. It was him talking to Mary."

"It was probably some damn fool drunk wandering around the woods. Maybe some guy who ran out of gas and came up to the place looking for a borrow."

"He wouldn't come up through the brush, would he?"

The other man thought this over and finally admitted it wasn't likely.

Then he said: "To hell with it! If the guy tries to pull the cops in they'll laugh at him. He hasn't got anything except an idea. If they come up and say anything we'll tell 'em the guy must either be crazy or drunk. The place is clear."

"It is not."

"Why not?"

"Maury!"

The other man laughed. "Maury'll be okay! Don't you fret about Maury."

They left, and I let down the hammer of my gun and looked around. I was in mud to my waist and in water up to my knees. But what I was looking at was the back end of a convertible coupé sticking up out of the water just under the overhang of the bridge. The car was just about on its nose, with the back end far enough out of water for me to see it was a new green car.

And Miss Bryce had told me her missing boyfriend was driving a new green convertible...

The cops took it as a routine case because I didn't try to make anything else out of it. My story was that I had a leaking connection on my car radiator and stopped at the creek to fill up so I could limp into town and a garage. That I'd just stumbled on the convertible in that way.

That left the Bryce girl clear out of the picture, as far as the cops and the newspapers were concerned. The State Police sergeant said: "Anybody in it?"

I said I was afraid to look and that if there'd been anybody in the car they were certainly dead by that time. The car had been in the creek for some time.

"How d'ya know that?" he said.

"Because the creek's muddy, as you can see by looking at me. The water was clear around the car."

"Then why couldn't you see if there was anybody in it?"

I explained again that the car was tipped. Of course by that time he'd sent a pair of troopers to investigate the thing. It was just a natural police suspicion that was causing the questioning. Not that it made me feel much easier, knowing this.

Then I really got sick. Another trooper came in and said:

"They've checked that identification on the girl I found, sergeant. Her name was Ames, all right. She lived on West Seventieth at the same address as was on the letter in her purse. The city police just called in."

I hadn't said anything before and now I couldn't. The cops don't like it when you only tell half a story and sometimes they do things about your licence for the holding out. I looked interested, and the sergeant said: "We picked up a girl alongside the road about an hour ago. She'd been thrown out of a car, it looked like. Another damn fool kid who let herself get picked up by strangers."

"Local girl?"

He shrugged and said: "New York. At least that's where she lived. The cops there just checked on it and verified it."

That was that. Darnell's Tavern wasn't even in the picture, though the city police would no doubt find out the girl had worked there. And when they found it out the people at the tavern would just say the girl left with some man they didn't know. The cops would put it down as a killing and let it go at that. Which is all they could do, knowing nothing about what had happened.

About then the two troopers who'd been sent to look at the car in the creek came back. They told the sergeant the car was empty and that they'd looked around and seen no evidence of anyone being hurt.

The sergeant sent the police wrecker after the car. I went back to the city to get some sleep— and to try for an idea that would break the thing up and still leave me in the clear with the police. I'd made up my mind that I was going to tell the police what I knew about the mess, client or no client— promise or no promise— if I didn't think of something by that afternoon.

The worst part of the whole business was that there was no proof of a thing. The Bryce girl had a screwy story and nothing to back it up. My story about having the date with the dead girl had no proof back of it— any more than my story about being shot at did. The cops would naturally think that young Harper had run his car off the road while drunk.

They'd believe he had left it rather than report it to the police. For if Harper went to jail on a drunken driving charge he would certainly have lost not only his licence but have spent a little time in jail.

The people at Darnell's would just blandly deny the whole thing. And the cops would believe them, because there was a logical answer to everything that left Darnell's entirely out of the thing.

There was a good chance of young Harper having been murdered. But there was no question at all about the Ames girl being killed to keep her from talking to me.

That's why I put the blame for her death where it belonged— on my own shoulders.

I live in an apartment hotel, a small one where the doors are locked each night at one. That's when the clerk closes up shop and the bell boys take over. Whitey Malone called me at four and said he was coming over— so Whitey gets credit for saving my life. He'd just walked in, looking very unhappy. I'd telephoned down for ice and soda to go with the whisky I already had when there was a knock on the door. Whitey was nearest it.

I said: "That'll be the ice, now. Open it, will you, Whitey?"

Whitey opened it and Luigi, the one who'd first refused to serve a drink to the Bryce girl at Darnell's, walked in. Back of him came the little man with the scarred neck, the one I'd seen with the barman the night before. Both of them had guns, and Whitey and I backed away.

"Over against the window!" Luigi ordered.

My gun was on the dresser, out of its clip. The man with the scar picked it up and started to slide it in his side coat pocket.

"Nice gun, Luigi!" he said. "The dope knows guns, I guess."

Whitey said: "I thought it was you, Maury! I thought it was you!"

The man with the scar looked Whitey over very carefully.

Whitey gave him a feeble grin and said: "If I was in trunks and didn't have quite so much fat around my belly you'd know me."

Maury said: "Whitey Malone, by hell!"

Recognising Whitey had taken his mind away from his business a second— and in that second Whitey moved in. Maury was handicapped by having one hand in his pocket and he'd dropped his gun muzzle a little in addition. And Whitey had always been fast. He slid in ahead and slammed the little man in the stomach. The little man expelled a whoosh and doubled over.

Then Luigi slammed his gun barrel against the side of Whitey's head. Whitey went down on top of the little man with the scar, but by that time I had both hands on Luigi's gun wrist.

iv

HE WAS shouting: "Let go! Let go!" and was pulling away and trying to get his wrist free. At the same time he was hitting me in the face with his free hand. He was off balance and all that, but it wasn't doing me any good.

My face was still sore from the beating I'd taken the afternoon before, and this was giving him too much of an edge. We wrestled around until we got close to where Whitey Malone and Maury, the scarred man, were on the floor. Then somebody got me by an ankle and yanked.

I went down to the floor, but I took Luigi's arm down with me— still holding to it with both wrists. Then I looked past Luigi's leg and saw the bell boy standing in the door, with a trayful of ice and soda and with his mouth wide open.

I yelled: "Get help! Help!"

It was the scarred man who had me by the ankle, because he said: "Hold tight, Luigi: I'll get him!"

I could also hear the bell boy out in the hall, shouting: "Help! Help! Help!"

If I'd let go of Luigi's wrist I'd have been shot. I had to take a chance on what the little man was going to do, and what he did was rap me on the head with his gun. But he was about half lying on me and had to reach up to hit. So all it did was make me let go of Luigi's wrist and fall on my face. I could hear, but I couldn't move.

Luigi said: "I'll get him right!"

The little man said: "Get the hell out of here! That hall's going to be full in a minute."

Then I heard them go out the door.

It seemed like it took me forever to get my face from the floor, but it couldn't have been long. I twisted my head and there was my own gun in reach. Getting it, I reached the door in time to see Luigi and the little man just at the elevator. Luigi was half in it. The little man was the best target and so I picked him and let go. He went inside and the doors slammed.

I said: "I missed! Missed him!"

I got to the telephone to call the desk and could get no answer. The operator was probably listening to everybody on the floor telling her about the fracas. If she had any brains she'd probably already have called the cops. I put the phone down and Whitey Malone said:

"Argh-gh-gh!"

Whitey was trying to sit up and wasn't doing well at it. I got him up on the bed and felt his head, where the gun had clipped him. But I couldn't find any sign of a fracture. Then one of the biggest cops I ever saw in my life dashed in with a gun in his hand.

"Hey, you! Hands up!" he commanded.

I said: "Don't be a fool! I'm going to call a doctor for my friend."

The cop said: "There's one downstairs. You killed that guy, didn't you?"

"I missed him, I thought."

"You missed him like hell! You shot his guts out all over the inside of the elevator."

"What about the other one?"

"He got away. You got a gun?"

"On the dresser."

He backed away from me until he got my gun. Then he said, a little friendlier: "What in hell happened, boy?"

Whitey's eyes opened then. He looked as if he was around enough to understand what I was saying.

I said: "I'm damned if I know. The two guys came in with guns. My friend here took a swing at one of them and then the battle started. I shot at one, but I thought I missed."

"You hit centre. Who were they?"

"I don't know."

"What d'ya mean, you don't know. A couple of guys don't just walk in and start trouble with a strange guy, do they?"

"They did, didn't they?"

"You're a shamus?"

"Licence in my wallet. That's on the dresser, too."

He looked at my licence. I finally got the desk and told them to send the doctor up. By the time he arrived there were a lot more policemen, the manager of the hotel, two newspapermen inside, with a dozen others trying to get in.

It would have taken a hall to take care of the crowd that wanted to join us. But when I mentioned that to the cops they chased everybody out.

I thought that was so they could question Whitey and me with a little peace and quiet. But I was all wrong. That was to give themselves a chance for rough stuff, if they decided any was necessary— but Whitey and I fooled them.

We didn't know either of the men. We didn't know what they wanted to do a thing like that for. We'd never seen either of them before.

In fact, we didn't know a thing.

We spent the next two days in jail and in different cells. But Whitey had the idea, and I wasn't worrying about him saying anything. In fact there wasn't a lot he could say. He knew nothing at all about the girl being found dead. I hadn't had a chance to tell him about that.

Whitey didn't know about my early-morning trip back, and about me being shot at and having to hide under the bridge. He wouldn't have talked anyway— he's not the talking kind.

The dead man was Maury Cullen, and he was a bad one. Cullen had served time for everything from plain robbery to manslaughter. He'd spent more time in jail than he had outside, if you counted the time he'd spent in reform schools while yet a kid. That was the only reason there wasn't more trouble about it— the only thing that kept my licence for me.

I left Whitey at my place when I met the Bryce girl. I'd called her house the minute I left the station. Finally I got the girl after going through a performance that made me think I was trying to talk with a railroad president.

I said: "This is Joe Shannon, Miss Bryce. I'd like to see you."

"I've been trying to get in touch with you," she said. "I've called your office at least a dozen times a day."

"There's been a little trouble."

"You mean— you mean that George is in trouble."

"I mean that I'm in trouble. Or don't you read the papers?"

"Well, no. I don't pay much attention to them. What happened?"

I told her I couldn't talk to her over the phone and asked her to set a place to meet me. She suggested the Plaza. And when I laughed she told me she often met people there. I gave her the name of a halfway decent bar and restaurant on the wrong side of town. She agreed to meet me there in an hour.

And she did. She came in looking flustered. The minute we were in a booth, she leaned across to me and said:

"I've almost gone crazy. Haven't you heard a thing about him?"

"You might as well get ready to take it on the chin, kid. I'm afraid there's no news as yet. And this time no news is bad news."

"I thought about that. I mean about George maybe being kidnapped."

"That racket's been out since the government men took over, Miss Bryce. I don't mean that he was kidnapped. It's worse than that, I'm afraid."

The girl got white and asked me if I meant he was killed. I said that was it exactly, waiting for her to break down all over the place, but she did exactly the opposite.

She said: "But why?"

Her face was so white that the makeup stood out on it in patches. But her voice was even and no louder than it had been.

I said: "I don't know. Did he have much money on him?"

"Very little. He just had an allowance, you know, and he was careless with money."

"Then I can't tell you, though I'm beginning to get an idea. It's nothing I can go to the cops with."

Then she said something that made me so mad I could hardly talk.

"If it's more money you want, Mr Shannon, I can pay it."

"There's been a girl killed over this mess," I said. "On top of that I've killed a man and spent the last couple of days in jail over it, even if I'm loose now. I damn near got killed myself, and a man who was working with me almost got the same. I've been beaten up and shot up and chivvied around by the cops, and you talk to me about money. Will your money bring back that girl?"

"I'm sorry," said Miss Bryce. "What should I do?"

"If you've got any pull at all, or know anybody who has, you can find out who put that blind ad in the paper. The ad that started this. They're not supposed to give out that information, but maybe you could get it for me. And if you've got the nerve you can go down to the morgue with me and look at all the unidentified bodies of men around the age of this George Harper.

"If he was killed and all marks cut out of his clothes, or if he'd been stripped, that's where he'd be. If I knew him by sight I wouldn't need you. Unless you want to tell his people the story."

"Why break it to them that way?" she asked. "And, besides, we're not sure yet. George had two little moles on his chest, and he weighed one hundred and sixty-two pounds. He was twenty-two. His hair was blond and his eyes were blue."

"That won't be enough."

She didn't change the expression on her face a bit as she said: "He had a birthmark— a strawberry mark I think you call it, on his left thigh. It was very large. As big as that."

She made a big circle on the table.

I said: "Okay, I'll go down and look while you try and find who put that ad in the paper. I'll phone you back in two hours, say. At your house. And listen! If I go through with this and get into trouble, will you tell the cops about it? I mean if I fix it so there's nothing to kick back on you or on the boy?"

"Why of course," she said, looking surprised. "It's only that I don't want to make trouble for my people and his."

We left it that way.

v

THERE WAS nothing doing at the morgue except that I damn near passed out while looking for the Harper boy's body. I'd told the cop in charge that my brother was missing and that I was worried. I gave a vague description that tallied a little with the one the girl gave me. The attendant took me around and showed me every man they'd taken into the place during the last three days.

On the third tray they pulled out of the wall was Maury Cullen— the man I'd shot. They'd done a P. M. on him and sewed him up with a swell cross-stitch, but I could see what my slug had done to him. He'd probably been dead before the elevator got to the ground floor.

The attendant said: "I don't suppose this one would be your brother, Mister, but to make sure you'd better look. He's a little older than the way you say it, but it could be."

I said: "No, but the guy looks a little familiar."

He looked at me and said: "It gets you, looking at these stiffs. That is, at first. I'm sort of used to it. But at that I don't eat my lunch in here."

The place didn't smell like any lunch room to me and I said so. It smelled of iodine and chloride of lime and formaldehyde, but all that wasn't enough to kill the other smells. The attendant explained it with: "Some of these guys are taken out of the river after they've been in too long. Some of the others are found a little late. We freeze 'em and all that, but you can't kill all of it."

I got out of the place just in time to keep from being sick.

Miss Bryce said: "If he wasn't there that means there's still a chance, doesn't it, Mr Shannon?"

"I'm afraid it's slight," I told her. "What about that ad?"

"I got a friend of mine who knows a columnist down there to ask about it. It was a girl named Mary Ames who put it in. Does that help you any?"

"Quite a bit!" Then I told her that I'd keep in touch with her.

I hung up the phone, feeling even sicker than I had at the morgue. I remembered what the girl had said when I'd mentioned the twenty dollars I was going to give her for the information. She'd said she wasn't telling me anything because of the twenty, and I'd asked her why she was talking then. She'd said I wouldn't understand— and I hadn't then.

Finding about the ad gave me the answer. The kid had been sticking around and she'd seen he was going to get into trouble. She had tried to get him out of there without telling him anything that would hurt the place too much.

I didn't understand this last— but I had a notion I would in a very short time. In fact, just after Darnell's closed after that night's business.

That's when I planned on crashing the place.

We went in at half-past four. Just Whitey and I. We waited until the band boys had packed up and left and until most of the stragglers were gone. But we didn't wait long enough for any of the help to leave. I mean kitchen help and waiters and bar men. I didn't know who was wrong and who was right in the place. And I didn't want any of the wrong ones to get away.

The doors were locked, of course, so we went in through a window we opened on the dressing-room side of the place. I went in first. Then Whitey passed me the gun I'd made for him during the afternoon and followed it.

It was a good gun, but not handy for housebreaking. I'd gone into a second-hand shop and picked up one of the best guns the Winchester people ever made— an 1897 model twelve-gauge shotgun. That's the one with the hammer.

The new hammerless pumps are quieter and maybe they work a little smoother. But those old hammer guns never hung up and there was never a question about 'em being ready for action. All you have to do is pull the hammer back and pull the trigger.

I'd taken a hacksaw and cut the barrel off just in front of the pump grip. There were five shells in the barrel and another in the chamber, and all loaded with number one buck shot. That's the size that loads sixteen in a shell, and for close-range work that's just dandy. They're big enough to blow a man to hell and back, and there's enough of them to spread out and take in a lot of territory.

It was the logical weapon for Whitey, because he didn't know any more about a pistol than a cat knows about heaven. And he'd shot a rifle and shotgun a few times.

And he was out for blood. It wasn't that he'd been roughed up in my room at the time I killed Maury Cullen— because that didn't bother him. That was just a piece of hard luck to him. When I'd been knocked out and my gun taken from me no doubt the barman had rolled me and found my address and had remembered it.

Whitey had just happened to be calling when they came after me. It wasn't that. It was the girl being killed that was getting him crazy. And he was getting crazy, no mistake. He was a little punchy anyway, from a few too many fights, and when he got excited it hit him.

I whispered: "Now remember! I make the play, if there's one made. Wait for me and back me up. Don't start it."

He mumbled: "The dirty skunks!"

I went out to the front and peeked through the curtain shutting off the hall from the main room. There were still a few people finishing up their last drinks. But the lights had been cut and the bar was closed, and only one waiter was in evidence.

Quite a lot of noise came from the kitchen, and I figured they'd be following the usual roadhouse custom of eating after the guests had left. So I went back to where I'd left Whitey and his shotgun.

"We're getting a break!" I said. "I think they'll all be together in the kitchen. Let's find the door."

Somebody found it for us. We were going down the hall toward the back of the place when a door opened just ahead of us and somebody stepped out. I could hear dishes rattle and heard somebody laugh. The man who'd opened the door turned away from us without seeing us, letting the door slam shut behind him.

He didn't get far. I didn't know who he was or whether he was right or wrong, but I wasn't taking any chances. I caught him just as he started to open another door. When he turned his head to see who was running up to him I slammed him across the jaw with the side of my gun. It's no trick— you just palm it and swing.

Down he went and I took a look in the room. It was empty and I went back to Whitey, who was just outside the kitchen door. Whitey was breathing through his nose, like he used to do in the ring.

I said: "Let's go!" and opened the door into the kitchen.

And I was in, with Whitey and the shotgun right on my heels, before anybody even looked around.

It wasn't the way I'd have put 'em if I'd had the placing. There were two guys in white aprons over in front of a big range. One man in a waiter's uniform was just in back of them. The barman who'd first slugged me was sitting at a kitchen table, alongside the one the dead girl had pointed out as being the boss.

Another waiter was leaning across the table and telling them something they were laughing over. One other waiter was right in back of them, and two men were sitting at the same table with their backs to us.

They didn't stay that way. The waiter saw by the look on the tough barman's face that something was behind him, and he swung. So did the two men by him.

The odds were all wrong and I was glad the shotgun idea had occurred to me. Nine of them and two of us— but the shotgun evened it a bit.

I said: "Everybody over against the wall. Jump!"

I moved the muzzle of my gun a little, and Whitey croaked: "Move!"

The two cooks and two of the waiters started to move. But they never had time to get to the wall. All hell broke loose— like I was hoping it would. The big barman stood up and brought a gun up from where he'd pulled it under the protection of the table. I shot him as near centre as I could. When he didn't fall I did it again.

He tottered and looked at his boss, just in time to see the front of the man's face go out the back of his neck. I swear it looked like that. Whitey's shotgun just blew his face off at that distance. One of the men who'd been sitting with their backs to us fell off his chair. He started to crawl under the table, but the other one stood up, dragging at a gun he must have been carrying in a hip pocket holster.

I took time and did it right. I lined the sights of my gun on the pit of his stomach and let go. Then he doubled up and fell straight toward me. He landed on his face, without even putting his hands out to break his fall.

Whitey's shotgun blasted out again. The waiter on our side of the table went back through the air at least three feet. It was as if there'd been a rope around his middle and somebody had yanked. Then the man who'd ducked under the table shot. I sat down on the floor without knowing how I got there. Whitey shot twice. There was a lot of thumping noise coming from under the table and no more shooting.

The two cooks and the waiters who were left were against the wall, but only two of them were standing with their hands up. The other two were sitting on the floor holding their hands on their legs and howling blue murder.

Whitey said: "You hurt bad, Joe?"

The slug I'd taken had gone through the fleshy part of my leg. I didn't think it had touched the bone because I could move my foot and not hear anything grate.

I said: "I don't think so. Tell those guys over against the wall to come over to me one at a time. I'll shake 'em down and you watch it."

Whitey said: "To hell with it. They're in this, too. They get the same."

I don't know yet whether he was bluffing or meant it, or was just a little crazy with excitement and didn't realize what he was doing. Anyway, he raised the shotgun and the men by the wall screamed at him not to do it. I shouted the same thing.

"Go out in front and collect everybody," I said. "Bring 'em in, customers and all. They see that shotgun and they'll mind you."

Whitey went out of the service door. He came back in a moment with a puzzled look and a bottle of whisky.

"There's nobody there and the front door's wide open," he said. "I thought you could use a drink."

I had the bottle up to my mouth when the big barman— the one I'd first shot— started to move. He'd fallen ahead, so that his head and upper body were across the table. Now he raised his head and looked at me, saying: "I knew I should have taken you and that girl out of the way that first time you came in. My name's Ames— I was married to Mary."

Then he put his head down again, but it didn't stay there. He slipped down on the floor, moving gradually at first, then hitting the floor with a bang.

Whitey said to the four men by the wall: "Well, you guys going to talk, or do I turn loose on you?"

They talked with that, and I didn't blame them. A dumb man would have found speech if he'd looked at Whitey and that shotgun, because Whitey certainly looked as though he wanted to use it.

I heard all about it in the hospital. It was a good hospital, too, and I had a private room. With the Bryce girl's father footing the bills.

Whitey said: "Yeah, the state cops found Harper's body back in the woods. One of them damn waiters showed 'em where to look. The kid got looping drunk and kept wandering around the place. Finally he walked into Maury Cullen and his two pals who were hiding out.

"The barman and Maury and his pals grabbed the kid, but they didn't knock him off right then. They held him down in the hideout room, in the basement of the joint. That's what the spot was doing as a side-line— hiding out guys who were plenty hot and willing to pay for a place to stay."

"That's what the cops said."

Whitey went on: "Well, the gal didn't want to turn in her husband, even if she wasn't living with him. She gets the idea that if somebody come looking for Harper they'd get scared and turn him loose. They didn't— they knocked him on the head and buried him instead. He'd been nice to the girl— he'd even given her his frat pin after his girlfriend had given it back to him. That killing got the girl. She wanted to squawk, but she was scared of her husband."

"She was going to talk to me," I said.

"But she wasn't going to let her husband know about it," Whitey explained. "He caught her and they knocked her off. Anyway, the whole gang were in the hideout racket and they're all going up. You know, Joe, I should have told you about Maury, but I didn't have the guts. I knew the guy the minute I saw him in the can.

"He was a bad one years ago. He'd come to me when I was fighting and wanted me to throw a fight. That's why I didn't want to tell you, see? I figured you'd think maybe I was crooked or something. Say! You going to get in trouble with the cops over this?"

"Hell, no!" I told him. "Bryce got everything cleared. The cops act like I've got a medal coming. They figured it cleared out a bad bunch they didn't know about. And then, Bryce pulls a lot of weight. It's all okay."

"Swell, Joe," Whitey said, beaming at me.

"Tell me something," I said.

"Sure, Joe."

"Did you throw that fight that Maury Cullen wanted you to throw?"

Whitey stared at me and said: "Why— hell, yes! D'ya think I'm nuts?"

_______________

2: Justice Borrows Bullets

Secret Agent X, Feb 1937

JOHN ARCHER had left a growing law practice to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation, solely because he'd thought there'd be excitement in that branch of the government service. He'd found very little. He was young, only twenty-seven, and lusty and fullblooded; and he had the young lusty man's conviction that definite and decided action would solve all trouble. He argued to Evan Dykes:

"We're going at this wrong, Evan. The thing to do is force a show-down and stamp them out. While we spend time checking their books, kids are going hungry."

Dykes was directly opposite to Archer in every respect, save that of working for the same government service. He was fifty-six, twice and ten years as old. He was thin, pale, white-headed. He was a former accountant and had all that profession's respect for the exact truth, in either figures or fact.

He shook his head, said: "You're wrong, John. You're very wrong. You're a lawyer; you know we haven't proof that'll stand up in court."

Archer said stubbornly: "Milk in this town used to be ten cents a bottle; it's fourteen, now. We know the producers get no more for it. We know the storekeepers make no more profit on sales. The jobber is taking the difference. It's a racket. Heber's books show big payments to cash. Put on the screws, and make him say to whom. I'm willing to bet they're made to Mike Tovar; he's got a finger in every other racket in town."

"We can't prove that, John."

"We can stick him for income-tax evasion."

"But we're working on this milk racket."

They argued about it until they came opposite their hotel, where they stepped from the walk, Dykes in the lead. Archer looked up to the right, saw two cars coming but still a safe distance away. Dykes apparently didn't think so because he halted, turned his head to speak.

Then Archer saw the second of the two cars pick up speed and swing out to pass the first. He heard the whine of gears as the driver shifted into second for more pick up, saw the car surge ahead and swing out and toward them. He cried out, jumped ahead in an attempt to clutch Dykes, who twisted his head at the same time and saw the car come surging at him.

He jumped back, but not in time.

Even in that instant of flashing action, Archer knew it was no accident. While he hadn't been watching the car particularly, he had the impression that it had been parked just beyond their hotel. He got a glimpse of the license plate as the car sped away. Then he ran to Dykes.

THE sedan had struck and whirled the white-headed man in such fashion that he'd fallen under the car. One of the rear wheels had passed over his legs, and from the twisted way he was lying, Archer knew they were both broken. He'd fallen to the pavement with tremendous force, because, even over the hiss of screaming tire rubber, Archer had heard the thud he'd made.

He was unconscious now, with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, and from one lacerated cheek. Archer heard a traffic policeman's whistle shrill out, and heard the man come pounding up as he lifted Dykes to the curbing.

The policeman said: "The dirty rats! Hit and run!"

Archer didn't turn his head. He was straightening Dykes' twisted legs, holding Dykes' broken and bleeding head clear of the pavement. He said:

"Call an ambulance! Quick!"

"I got that license number, bud!"

"So did I. Call an ambulance!"

The policeman lumbered away toward a call-box, and Archer held Dykes while a crowd gathered. Then the policeman came back, said,

"They're on their way," and cleared the crowd from the still unconscious man. He said to Archer:

"Is he your father, bud?"

"A friend— the best I've got."

"That's tough, bud— that's tough." Archer said: "It's going to be tough for somebody. That driver went twenty feet out of his way to hit him."

The license number of the hit-and-run car was 5-D4-587, and Archer noted this down while he rode the ambulance to the hospital. He watched them carry Dykes to the operating room, then went to the phone and called the police station. He got Joe Denny, Bunco Squad Captain, gave him the license number and said:

"Check it, will you, captain. The car's a small sedan, if that helps. And keep it quiet."

Denny said he'd do this, asked: "How's Dykes?"

"If he isn't hurt internally the doctor thinks he'll live. He's got a fractured skull but not too bad. One leg's going to have to be taken off. It's crushed too badly to do anything else with."

He heard Denny whistle softly, then Denny said:

"If they catch that hit-and-runner, he'll get life." Archer said: "He should get the chair. It was deliberate."

He waited four hours before he could see Dykes— four hours of torturing thoughts of the year he and Dykes had worked together, of Dykes' unfailing kindnesses and help, of Dykes' loyalty and burden-taking ways, of his almost fatherly counsel. He finally saw him, just before they took off the crushed leg, and Dykes managed to smile a little and whisper:

"I thought you'd be around to see the old man, John."

Archer had difficulty in saying, "You'll be a new man, Evan, when they get through with you," because he wanted this to sound bright and cheerful— and couldn't.

He very apparently failed, because Dykes muttered: "You don't mean a new man, John. You mean half a man. Keep on with those books— the answer's there in those cash payments."

Archer said he would. Dykes warned weakly:

"Work slow, John. Keep away from Mike Tovar until you've got proof. You're alone on this, unless they send somebody to give you a hand. Work slow, and play safe. They mean business."

Archer watched them wheel him away toward the operating table— and the loss of one leg— and decided Dykes was right about the milk profiteers meaning business. And he thought of Dykes, still worrying about the job at hand, and decided to mean business himself.

He had gone with the F.B.I, because of a love of honest excitement and an equally honest hatred of crooks. Working for the Government had been an impersonal sort of thing, for a while, but this feeling had gradually changed. The personal feeling had been creeping in since Archer had started this case.

First it was children being robbed of life-giving milk. Seeing Dykes, his friend and partner, deliberately run down and maimed was the final thing needed to make Archer run amuck— but with his head controlling the running....

JOE DENNY was still checking on the hit-andrun car when Archer went into his office. He said:

"That's tough about Evan Dykes, Archer. Anything I can do?"

Archer said it was all being done. Denny looked at his tight, hard-drawn face, his tight, hard-bitten lips, and said:

"And I take it you'll do what's needed. I'm having that car checked now." He broke off as a clerk came in the room and handed him a slip of paper, then said:

"Here it is now— a Hurz sedan. License is 5-D4-587. Registered to William Heber. That's Heber, who runs the Dairy Products Incorporated. His place is on Front Street."

Archer said: "You should tell me. We've been checking his books, captain. We were coming from there to the hotel, when it happened."

Denny looked curious. "How'd you get at his books? Find anything?"

"We're supposed to be checking his income-tax reports. There've been a lot of big cash payments made that don't look right. Heber's been acting nervous about us, too. It ties up, all right."

Denny said thoughtfully: "Heber's supposed to be square. I don't know. I know you fellows are checking this milk racket, and I'm glad of it. We can't do anything, unless there's a complaint made. You can. If we can help, we will. You know that."

Archer leaned over the desk, said: "I'm going out after Heber, now. When I get him, I'm going to charge him with attempted murder and try to break him on the racket payoff at the same time. You know the local people— and I'll ask favors if I need them."

Denny said he'd be glad to help in any way, and added:

"I don't know about the attempted murder charge. A hit-and-run driver isn't planning murder, when he does it."

Archer said grimly: "This one was. It'll be a first-degree charge, if Dykes dies. If not, it'll be attempted murder."

Denny said: "You know best. They're supposed to teach you things like that, I understand."

"They do," Archer told him. "I'm going out and grab Heber before he knows about us tracing his car."

HEBER'S home was a fair-sized, comfortable house, set in a respectable but far from wealthy neighborhood. The yard was big, wellkept, but didn't have the spick and span effect a hired gardener gives to a place.

Two boys, tinkering with a bicycle on the front porch, looked up as Archer came up the walk, and one of them volunteered: "Just ring the bell, mister. Mom's inside."

Archer did this, asked: "Your dad home yet?"

The boy said his dad wasn't, and then the door opened, and Archer faced a buxom, matronly woman, who looked as though she'd be at home in a farm kitchen. He started to speak, but the woman turned and called:

"Marian! It's Mr. Sproat!"

Archer said: "I beg your pardon, but my name is Archer. Is Mr. Heber expected soon?"

The lady said: "At any time. I'm Mrs. Heber."

Then she laughed, as though she and Archer shared a joke, and confided: "I thought you were my daughter Marian's friend. She's been expecting him. Won't you come in and wait for Mr. Heber?"

Archer said he would and followed her into a comfortable, though worn hall, and from there into an equally worn parlor. Mrs. Heber and the house reminded him of his own mother and the midwest farmhouse in which he had grown to manhood.

He said: "I'm sorry to intrude, but it's necessary that I see Mr. Heber at once."

Mrs. Heber said her husband was always home between five and six, and then to a girl who came hurrying into the room:

"I'm sorry, Marian! It was Mr. Archer, here, wanting to see your father. It wasn't Mr. Sproat, after all. This is my daughter Marian, Mr. Archer."

Archer said he was very glad to meet Miss Marian and meant it— and felt sick at the errand that had brought him to the house. He liked Mrs. Heber and thought that "like" was too weak a word for what he could feel for Marian.

She was small and he liked small girls. She wore little makeup, and he didn't care much for painted cheeks. She was dark, with big blue eyes, and Archer admired honesty more than any single thing in the world. Altogether, he thought Miss Marian quite a girl.

She said: "I'm sure dad will be home right away, Mr. Archer."

Archer talked vaguely about the weather and was suddenly conscious of a slight bristle on his cheeks and that his shoes were dull instead of glossy.

The bell rang, and the girl left the room to answer it, and Mrs. Heber said comfortably:

"I declare, since we've moved to town, that bell's worn out by young men ringing to see Marian. First it's one and then another. Why—"

She broke off as Marian brought a tall, thin-faced man into the room, and said: "Mother, this is Mr. Sproat. Mr. Archer; Mr. Sproat."

Archer shook hands with Sproat and decided he didn't like him and never would. He didn't like smooth and soft young men, and Sproat was both. And he got a curious impression of Sproat at the same time. Sproat seemed to be watching him and studying him— and Archer felt as though Sproat knew his errand there. Then the man proved this by saying: "Rather an odd way to make an arrest, isn't it, Mr. Archer?"

Sproat's voice was so smooth and silky that for a moment Archer didn't realize what had been said. Then he flushed as Sproat turned to the girl and said:

"I'm sorry, Marian, but your father's in trouble. He had an accident with his car, and this man is here to arrest him."

The girl faced Archer, head up, and demanded: "Is this true?"

Archer said nothing for a moment, and Mrs. Heber said: "I can't believe it. If it was an accident, why should Will be arrested?"

Sproat said: "I'm afraid he was excited. The police will call it hit-and-run driving because he didn't stop at the time."

"Is this true?" the girl asked again.

Archer said miserably: "I'm afraid it is. These things happen." He walked toward the door, said: "I'm sorry about it. Believe me, really I am."

She taunted: "And I thought you were a friend of Dad's!"

THE boy with the bicycle was still on the porch, but was alone. He looked up as Archer came out the door, said: "Will you give me a lift on this, mister? I got to have somebody hold this chain while I tighten the sprocket."

He pointed at the bicycle, and Archer bent to help him. Then the girl said icily, from behind him:

"That will do, Tommy. Let Mr. Archer go."

Archer straightened and went down the walk, leaving the staring Tommy.

He called Denny, the Bunco Squad Captain, from a corner drug store, said: "Heber's not home yet, and I can't wait for him. Will you send out a couple of men and stake the house for me? You might put out a general order to pick him up on sight."

Joe Denny said he would, then: "Where you going to be? When we get hold of him, you'll want to be called, won't you?"

Archer said: "I've got something to do, but I'll be at my hotel after that. Call me there if there's news."

Denny said he understood, and Archer called a cab.

The books they had been checking in Heber's store suddenly loomed in importance. After all, Dykes had said the answer was there, and Archer thought Dykes might be right. He would take time to procure; knew that in that time the books might be altered or missing. So he decided to take a short-cut, though he knew Dykes would not approve of this.

The cab let him out on Front Street, at the corner where Heber's dairy and food store was located. Archer paid the driver, told him not to wait, and watched the cab roll away.

He saw another car parked a few feet down the street, decided this meant nothing, and turned into the entry of the store.

When he tried the door, he knew something was wrong. It was open, standing slightly ajar, and Archer remembered Dykes telling him that Heber had watchman service to guard against a thing like that happening. He drew the gun from under his arm, took the vest-pocket flash he always carried, and stepped inside.

He flashed the torch; heard a hurried scramble, and his light picked a man running toward the back. He raced after this man, shouting: "Stop, you!" and as he did, another man shot at him from the side of the store.

He flinched from the crashing report and dropped his light. The same man shot again, and he fired in return. He heard more noise from the back of the store, heard men run out from that direction, and then saw a side door open to show a patch of gray against the dead blackness.

Archer shot twice at the figures huddling through the door, then raced to the door after them in time to see a sedan start down the street, with two men hanging on the running board.

The sedan's lights flashed on, showing the license plate, and he saw the sedan was Heber's; that the license number was 5-D4-587, then saw a uniformed policeman running up the walk toward the car.

The car pulled past the policeman, and one of the men on the running board leaned away from the car and fired directly at him. The policeman turned and ran into the wall by him, and Archer, aiming carefully, fired the remaining three shells in his gun at the disappearing car, then ran to the policeman.

The cop looked up at him, groaned, then said: "What's it all about?"

Archer thought he knew the answer, but didn't tell the man. Instead he asked: "Where you hit?"

"In the leg—high up."

"Where's the nearest call-box?"

"Half a block that way."

The policeman pointed the direction, twisted his wounded leg in the effort, and groaned again, and fainted. Archer ran toward the call-box, deciding that Heber's books were as important as Dykes thought they were. And then he waited for the ambulance and police cars to come—and had one of the last carry Heber's books to his hotel.

MIKE TOVAR was an easy man to find, but a hard man to see. He lived in a neighborhood that didn't want him, but was afraid to say it didn't; lived in a house that looked like a motion-picture parody of a gangster's castle. And Mike could well have played the gangster part in the picture. He was big, broad, burly. Hair grew low on his forehead and high on his cheeks, and his little pig-eyes were sunk in rolls of fat.

Archer, following an armed guard into the room, found him with his big frame sunk in a chair that seemed too small to hold him. He looked up, said in a voice that tried to sound friendly:

"Hi, man! What's on your mind? Sit down."

Archer didn't accept the invitation. He turned, looked at the man who'd admitted him, and Tovar took the hint and said:

"Okay, Jack. If this guy wants to take me out of here, I'd go. He's got the law back of him, I hear."

Jack, the guard, went away. Archer said: "So you know who I am?"

Tovar admitted readily:

"Sure! You're one of these tax guys who go around saying people ain't paid enough. You was lined before you was in town an hour."

"Little scared of this tax business, aren't you, Mike?"

"Hell, no!" Tovar said. He tried to make this convincing, but his eyes showed worry. "I got lawyers and bookkeepers to figure it out for me. They know their stuff."

"You paid none last year."

Tovar muttered something about bad investments. Archer said: "Of course, you list all the money you do make, Mike."

Tovar said his bookkeepers did, and looked more than a little worried.

Then Archer said: "Okay! What's this money Heber's been paying you listed under. Tell me that one."

He was watching Tovar's eyes when he asked this, and it seemed to him that some of the worry faded with the question.

Tovar laughed, said: "So that's it, huh? Well, see here— I had a few trucks left over from the old days; trucks made to haul— uh— well, say milk. You get it? I sold 'em to Heber, and he's been paying for 'em. That's' all."

"In cash?"

Tovar looked puzzled. "Hell, no— check, of course. I got a record of them in my books."

"You ever around Heber's store?"

"Well—uh— Say, what the hell is this?"

Archer said evenly: "It's this, Tovar! Heber ran into my partner today and almost killed him. We're looking for him now. There's been a robbery at Heber's store this evening— after that— and I'm checking up."

Tovar said: "I get it! Listen— I been down there, of course—seeing Heber about the truck payments. But I wasn't there tonight, and I can prove it."

Archer said, "You may have to," and started for the door. Tovar got up, went over and stopped him just as he got there, however.

Tovar then leaned close said:

"Now get this; I don't monkey with stuff the man with the whiskers says I shouldn't monkey with. Get that? No federal man's got a thing on me—and won't get a thing on me. That plain?"

Archer said, in the same even tone: "I could take that as a threat. Is that what you mean?"

Tovar's face reddened. "Take it the way you want to. I mean, I won't be framed."

Archer tapped the big man on the chest with one stiff forefinger. He said: "Now, you get this. We don't frame a man; we don't have to frame a man. And if we get something on him, we take him. Is that plain?"

He turned then and walked out, leaving Tovar staring after him.

THE telephone awakened him, just as it turned daylight. He fumbled for it, grumbled, "Yeah—Archer speaking," and heard in return:

"Joe Denny at the station. We've found your man Heber."

Archer came wide awake in that second. He said: "I'll be down— right away. Hold him."

"Don't hurry," Denny said dryly. "He'll stay here."

"What d'ya mean by that?"

"He was found in the car he hit Dykes with, out along the Middle Road—off the road and against a tree. His car's wrecked completely."

"What about him?"

Denny said:

"Well, he's not smashed so bad we can't tell who he is, but that's about all I can say. The crash happened about three, and the medical examiner says death was instantaneous."

Archer put the phone down slowly. In a way, the news was what he'd wanted to hear— the man who had maimed Evan Dykes had paid for it in one sense. Killed by the same instrument he'd used to make Dykes a helpless cripple for the rest of his life.

Archer rather liked this idea, but the thought of Heber's family— of Marian, of Mrs. Heber, of the boy with the bicycle— took away this sense of justice rendered. It wasn't their fault, and he knew the burden of grief would fall on them. He dressed, half hoping the identification would be at fault and that the man in the wrecked car wouldn't be Heber....

The Medical Examiner was small, brisk, paunchy. He rubbed his hands briskly together, studied the card Archer showed him, then said:

"Well, a Government man! We hear much about them, but rarely see them." Archer said:

"We keep out of sight— most of the time. What killed Heber?"

The M. E. said briskly: "Fractured skull and crushed torso— instantaneous. The skull structure was broken in badly. And here's something odd."

He led Archer to a morgue slab, pulled back a covering sheet to show the body of a middle-aged man, and said: "I can assure you this business of mine is full of surprises. Look at this." He pointed, explained: "The wrists are lacerated. Neither hand is injured in the slightest, but look at those wrists."

Archer looked and saw lacerated flesh on both the dead Heber's wrists. He was still dressed, though his coat and shirt had been cut away from his chest, and Archer saw where blood had stained the shirt cuffs. In addition they were dirty, discolored.

He said slowly: "I suppose you have a microscope?"

"Naturally I have— one of the best. I use it in post-mortem work."

He brought a complicated brass affair over, said with pride: "If you'll tell me what it is you want to know. I'd be glad to assist you. Microscopic study is rather a technical thing."

Archer stated dryly: "That's one of the things they taught us in school, doctor. Thank you just the same."

He scraped at the dead man's sleeve, put this scraping on a slide, and did the same with one of the dead man's wrists. He studied both these slides through the scope, carefully, then stepped aside and asked: "What do you make of this, doctor?"

The medical examiner peered, said:

"Why, sir, I'd call it fibre of some kind. Rather coarse fibre, I'd say." Archer smiled grimly and said:

"I'd call it the same. Thanks." He walked toward the door, and the pursy little doctor called after him: "And— yes, I'd say it was very dirty fibre as well."

Archer nodded agreement and kept on going. He had to see Joe Denny, and he wanted him in a hurry.

THE government man found Denny in the bunco-detail room, feet propped on a desk, and snoring loudly. He shook him and Denny woke up, peered at him and grumbled:

"I been up all night. Thought I'd take a nap for myself."

Archer said: "When you put that call out to pick up Heber, how was it done?"

"The regular way."

Denny looked surprised. "When you called in and wanted his house staked, I put it out to the radio cars and over the station system. One of the boys in the radio cars saw the wreck along the road and called in. Just routine."

Archer said: "Thanks, captain. I'll tell his folks, or have them told."

Denny looked relieved and said he didn't envy any one that job. Archer said: "It's got to be done, and it might as well he done now. They'll be over it that much sooner."

"How's poor Dykes getting along?"

"As well as can be expected. He's going to feel a lot better when I tell him this thing is cleared up."

Denny yawned, said. "Well, you got the guy that hit him, anyway," and Archer rejoined: "I've got the answer to a lot of things, I think. Listen, captain— there're two things I want you to do. You know the local setup, and you can give me a hand."

He leaned over the desk, talked persuasively, and Denny finally said: "It's okay, but you take the blame if it falls through. I'm going to live here, after you're gone, you know."

He called a clerk, said: "Dig up one of the print men. I've got a job for him to do," and, when the clerk had gone: "Do you want the medical examiner now, too?"

Archer said: "Bring him with you, when you come. That's time enough."

Denny nodded, and Archer picked up the phone. He called Guy Sproat's house, got Sproat and said:

"This is John Archer. Mr. Heber has been killed in an accident, and I thought it might be best if you broke the news to his family."

He listened a moment, said:

"I took it for granted you were their friend, is all. You'll do this at once then, is that right? Thank you."

He said to Denny then: "He's going to do it right now, as soon as he dresses. He seems to think it's too early in the morning to be called for a job like that, but after all, we've got our work to do."

Denny grinned, said: "Yeah! Early in the morning's a good time to be doing it, too. Up with the milk-men, after the milk racketeers."

Archer phoned again before he left Denny's office, and Mike Tovar was dressed and waiting for him when he stopped by Tovar's house.

The big man said: "What is it now?"

"I want you to take a ride with me and look at some things."

"Is it a pinch? You got a warrant?"

Archer didn't like the big racketeer, and this showed in his voice when he said: "No— but if you make a point of it, I can probably get one. You've got your fingers in too many pies, Mike, to make an issue of a warrant."

The big man said sullenly, "It's just I don't want a frame hung on me," and climbed in the car.

Archer drove to Front Street and to Heber's store, and when they pulled up in front, Tovar blurted out: "Hey! You trying to pin this on me?"

Archer said: "Listen— that's enough. If you want to come in here with me and answer some questions, all right; if not, all right. I'll just take you in."

"You can't pull this third-degree stuff on me."

Archer said, "Okay, you're asking for it," and climbed from the car and into the street.

Tovar got out, as hurriedly, said: "Okay—I'll go in with you." Archer said, "That's better," and led the way into the store.

THE FINGERPRINT man from the station, Joe Denny, and the pursy little medical examiner, were waiting for them. Denny said: "Joe, here—" he pointed at the print man— "has found plenty of prints, and I've found this."

He held up a piece of stained rope, added: "It was on one of those bales there. It had been pulled out and cut off."

Archer said, "That's all we need," and went to the store phone. He called Heber's house, asked for Sproat, then said:

"Mr. Sproat?.... This is Archer, again. Do you suppose you can come down to the store. There are some things here I'd like either one of the family, or a friend of the family, to see, and I suppose they're too broken up over Mr. Heber's death to be available."

He listened a moment, hung up the phone and said: "He's coming right away."

Tovar asked: "Now what is this?"

Archer blazed out at him: "It's this. There're prints here, and we're going to check to see if your prints match them. There's a piece of rope here that ties in with this, and that's going to come into the picture. If you told me the truth last night, all right; if not. I'm going to find it out— and right now."

Tovar shut up, and Denny said: "Those calls ought to be coming through pretty soon. I put a crew on the job."

Archer replied: "That's fine. Here comes Sproat."

Sproat came into the store, solemn-faced, said to Archer and Denny: "It's a terrible thing, this Heber matter— terrible." Archer said: "Yeah— all of that. I wanted you here to tell you what I've found, Mr. Sproat. The situation is this— when Mr. Dykes and I checked Heber's books, we found records of cash payments, though no record of who they were made to. Then Dykes was run down and maimed. Naturally we suspected Heber, as Heber's car was used. Then the picture changed a great deal."

Sproat looked interested, said: "Indeed!"

"As I see it now, somebody tied Heber up and used his car to run down Dykes. The same person wanted Heber blamed for the accident, so he kept him tied up for a while and then killed him."

Sproat looked thoughtful and said he didn't quite get the last. Archer explained:

"It's simple. If Heber had been killed before his car was used to run down Dykes, the medical examiner would have known it from the condition of the body. It was important that he be kept alive."

Sproat nodded. Tovar looked interested and kept his eyes flashing from Sproat to Denny and then to Archer. Archer went on with:

"This same man then wrecked Heber's car, with Heber's body in it, and so it would look as though Heber had been killed in the accident. The books at the store here might have led to something— and an attempt was made to steal them. I got them instead."

Tovar blurted out: "That don't mean a thing to me. My books'll check with 'em on those truck payments."

Archer started to answer, but the phone rang, and he answered this instead. He listened a long moment, said, "Thanks," and then hung up. He came back, said to Tovar:

"Let that print man take your prints. Denny, you help your man on that, if he needs it."

Then he nodded at the medical examiner, and that man brought out his microscope and put it on a stand. Archer said to Sproat:

"Okay, guy. I want to see your hands."

Sproat said: "I don't understand. What for?"

TOVAR had straightened and was staring at them, as was Captain Denny and the print man. Only the medical examiner seemed to understand what was going on. Archer said then, spacing his words:

"Because that microscope will show parts of rope fibre ground in your hands— rope that was used to tie Heber's wrists while you used his car to run down my partner. That's why! You made a mistake, Sproat, when you told Heber's family I was waiting to arrest Heber for hit-and-run driving. That's what put me on you."

Sproat turned his head, looked at Denny, then turned back to Archer. He said:

"I heard the police were looking for him." Archer moved toward him, snapped:

"That's odd. I didn't have the police look for him until after you'd told the family I was there to arrest him. How did you know?"

Sproat didn't answer. Archer reached out to take him by the wrist, said at the same time:

"Another thing— Captain Denny's men just searched your place and found a notebook with notations of cash received on the same dates Heber paid it out. They did the same at Tovar's— and found nothing. That clears Tovar and cinches you. That's why I took both of you out of your places. Let's see those hands of yours. The microscope will tell us the truth."

Sproat suddenly whirled away and grabbed for Denny's belt. Denny carried his gun there, police fashion, and Sproat managed to snatch this clear as Archer closed with him. There was a brief flurry, then the gun boomed out in an oddly muffled way, and Sproat crumpled to the floor.

Archer stepped back, breathing hard, said: "That's what he wanted it for. He knew he'd burn for Heber's murder and he took this way out. He's dead."

Big Mike Tovar said: "Well, I guess that let's me out!"

Archer shook his head.

"Just for this, Mike, we're going to take your prints, just the same. There are other things we'll be talking to you about, and we might as well do it now and save time."

He watched the sullen Tovar being printed, then took the microscope and knelt by Sproat. In a moment he looked up and said:

"It's as I thought. That rope-ground fibre into his palms when he pulled it away from the bale. Look, doctor."

The medical examiner looked and agreed that this was right.

Archer said: "That's fine. In our business, we can't leave any loose ends."

ARCHER faced the girl and her brother in their parlor, again. He said slowly: "I'm very sorry about it, Miss Heber. It should make you feel better to know your father was innocent. It should make you feel better to know that, through him, we've got this milk racket in hand. It's just a question of time before the men who worked with Sproat in the racket are arrested and jailed. Your father helped on that. We're going to get Mike Tovar on this same deal— the trucks he sold your father were used to haul whiskey, and he never paid a tax on the profit he made that way."

The girl said: "Poor dad! I knew he didn't do anything like that."

"He was probably forced into it; Sproat probably told him he'd kidnap you or the lad here. A threat like that will frighten any man. Through him, we've broken the racket."

"That doesn't bring him back." Archer said it didn't and that he was sorry. He started toward the door, and the boy blurted out: "Say— are you a G-man?"

Archer said he was. The boy said: "I'm going to be one when I grow up."

Archer thought of Dykes, in the hospital for following his duty, and said: "I don't know, lad. It's a tough business."

Then the girl said: "Come and tell me how it comes out, Mr. Archer."

Archer felt rather glad he was in that business. After all, he'd done his job; he'd gotten justice for Dykes and the girl's dead father; rough justice perhaps, but still justice— G-man justice.

_________________

3: Murder By Accident

Private Detective Stories Nov 1943

MISS MARTIN was pretty and she had a temper. And she ran things her way, as I could see right off the bat. She said: "I'm Joan Martin and this is George Summerville. He's here under protest; I'll tell you that to begin with."

Because her brother had changed his habits, the girl was sure he was in trouble. Her fiance tried to shrug it off, but the detective thought maybe she had something I said I was glad to meet them and shook hands with Summerville. He had a nice firm hand and his smile was friendly enough. I took him to be about thirty-five and the girl possibly ten years younger.

"It's about my brother. Peter Martin. He's in trouble and I want you to find out what it is."

"You're guessing, Joan," told her. "You've nothing but a notion."

"I'm not guessing," she said. "He's borrowed from me and he's borrowed against his share in the estate. He's never done that before. And he isn't running around and spending his money as he did before. There's something wrong."

Summerville shrugged and said: "The boy's young. It's natural that he gets in over his head once in a while. Don't you agree, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "I don't want to get involved in any arguments, people. Suppose you tell me about it. Is your brother the one that got— uh— involved with a girl from the Versailles last year?"

She made a face and said: "That's right. It may be something like that now. It probably is. But he told me all about that mess, and he won't say a word about his troubles now. He doesn't even tell me where he's going, and that's unusual for Peter. I've practically raised him, Mr. Ryan. He's only twenty."

I kept quiet and let her take it on from there.

THE Martin kids, it seemed, had been on their own for the last three years. At that time their father had died and left them the estate tied up, with Joan's half comin g to her when she was twenty-eight and with Peter's share coming due when he turned twenty-one. She was twenty-six— the boy was twenty, with his twenty-first birthday four long months away.

George Summerville, who'd been the junior partner in Martin and Summerville, was executor, working under bond, of course.

Summerville broke in here with: "It... was— I should say it is— a general brokerage firm, Mr. Ryan. We have a seat on the Exchange, naturally. We still carry on under the same name."

I said I understood. Miss Martin went on with: "Peter has been trying for a commission in the Air Corps. He's been flying his own plane for the last two years and has a little over six hundred hours in his log book. He's very serious about it. He's practically stopped drinking and foolishness like that. That's why I don't understand his actions now. And he's frightened—terribly frightened. I know him so well that I can't be mistaken."

Summerville smiled as though he thought she was using imagination, and she flared back at him with: "I know he's frightened, George. I should tell you, Mr. Ryan, that George and I are engaged. We plan to be married in the Fall."

I offered congratulations and didn't know who I meant them for. She was pretty but she had a temper that wouldn't make for a happy home life if I was in the home. I could see that. Summerville was a good-looking geezer, but one of the smarty kind that knew it. In spite of the looks I didn't think he'd be a bargain for a girl.

She said: "Now Peter's been this way for the last two months. He stays in— doesn't run around and drink and gamble as he did. Once a week, usually on a Thursday evening, he goes out, and he dreads the trip. I know him so well I can tell it. It's before he makes these excursions that he borrows money from George and me, and I'm sure these trips are made for the purpose of paying out blackmail."

"Sounds like it."

She got red in the face. "I don't want you to think I make a practice of spying on my own brother, Mr. Ryan, but I followed him last week. I felt I should. He went to 417 West  —th Street, to a shabby looking brownstone building, and he was in it not more than fifteen minutes. He returned home then. I'm sure that's where the blackmailer lives."

I said it was possible, but that more than likely that was just the contact point. With this she turned to Summerville and looked triumphant.

"You see, George," she told him. "Mr. Ryan knows how these things are managed. I was right in going to him, no matter what you say."

Summerville shrugged again and gave me an apologetic smile. "It's just that I don't like to see Joan make an issue out of something that probably has a perfectly normal explanation. That's all."

I said: "And you want me to check on what the boy does? That it?"

"That's it," she said.

I told her she'd hired a man.

I stalled around the corner drug store two blocks above 417 West  —th Street for two hours before I got the call.

I took it in the booth, and Joan Martin said:

"He's just leaving, Mr. Ryan. He's just going down the drive."

I asked how he was dressed and she told me he was wearing a light gray suit, gray hat, and a gray topcoat. The top-coat was tweed, which would make it a cinch to spot.

I said: "Okay! I'll be there," and hung up the phone and drifted down to the hrownstone. I'd already looked the place over—it was one of the old houses remodeled into housekeeping rooms, and it was typical of the neighborhood. An open-fronted glass door opening into a cubbyhole lined with mail boxes on each side, with a bell and a speaking tube above each mail box. Then a door with an electric release opening into the main downstairs hall. I didn't bother calling anybody— just went inside and used a thin dime to open that inner door— and I was waiting back of the stairs leading to the second floor when Peter Martin highlighted himself in the space between the doors.

I watched him shove a button and bend down and speak through a speaking tube. I heard the door click half a dozen times, letting him through, and he came in with his topcoat over his arm and with a sick and worried look on his face. It was the first I'd seen him. He was chunky and tanned and blond, and looked like the average college boy with an athletic turn of mind.

He went up the stairs as though he was going to his own funeral, and, as soon as he cleared the top, I was after him. The place was four stories high, but his appointment was on the second floor. I kept everything but my head below the hall level and watched him go down to the last door on the right-hand side, and saw him knock and then hesitate.

That was all I wanted to know. At least right then. I went downstairs and out, and saw, two cars down from the door, a big convertible that would take six months of the Ryan income for a down payment on.

And I was standing by it when the boy came past me, almost running, and slammed into the seat of it. His face was white and he was panting, and he was so excited it took him minutes to find the starter on his own car. He took off in second gear and he was doing at least fifty by the time he reached the first intersection.

THE door at the right at the end of the hall was open, and the lights were on. The man inside was on his back, with his arms and legs thrown out as if they'd all been broken. There was a trickle of blood still dribbling from his mouth—his head was twisted to the side —and his head, from the top to below his ear, was crushed. There was a fancy ornamental ash-stand by him, on its side, and it was no trick to figure what had hit him. He hadn't been dead more than five minutes, and that put it right in Peter Martin's lap.

Or so I thought.

I couldn't see where a few minutes one way or the other would make any difference to a man that dead, so I closed the door and started through the place. There was a desk in the corner, with nothing in the pigeon holes. I looked under the corners of the shabby rug and didn't find a thing. The bedroom was littered, but it looked as this was more the result of poor housekeeping than a search. I found a pile of dirty clothes, a few clean ones, in the dresser. There were two suits, both needing pressing, in the closet. Nothing in the pockets of either. The kitchen was littered with dirty dishes— mostly glasses — and there was a half-full bottle of cheap gin on the drainboard, along with three halves of lemon. The other half had been squeezed dry, and was in the sink with a greasy frying pan and a half-dozen cockroaches that didn't even bother to scuttle away from me.

The back door from the kitchen opened on a landing and I went out on this and saw stairs zig-zagging down to the alley.

That made it look a little better for Peter Martin, anyway. He'd called the apartment from downstairs and certainly somebody had answered. Somebody had clicked the door open for him. That same somebody could have slammed the man inside over the head while Martin was on his way upstairs, and that same somebody could have left the apartment and the body for Martin to find. It was Martin's only out, so it was at least something to consider.

I went back through the place, wiping everything I'd touched clean with a handkerchief. My prints were on file at the station because of my gun permit and my license—and I wanted to keep clear of the mess until I had a lead.

And with this done I went downstairs and up to the corner drug store and got the Central Station on the phone. I held a half-dollar in my mouth, and if a voice can be recognized with a handicap like that, I'd like to see it done.

I said: "If you'll send an officer to 417 West.  —th Street, to the last apartment on the second floor— the one on the right— you'll find a dead man."

"Who's calling, please?" the desk man asked. I could picture him holding the phone with one hand and signing to somebody else for a tracer on the call.

I mumbled something that could have been any name in the telephone book.

"What's that?"

I said: "There's a dead man there," and hung up the phone and went down to where my car was parked.

It took about thirty minutes to drive out to the Martin place, and I spent that time in a lot of thought

A MAID in a frilly cap led me into what had been Martin Sr.'s library. A fine big room with three walls lined with books, and with a fireplace that was meant for use instead of decoration. George Summerville was there, as well as both the Martin kids. Both Peter Martin and Summerville had drinks in their hands, but Summerville had cut his with soda and Martin was taking his straight. In a wine glass, and straight Scotch in quantities like that certainly show a troubled mind.

I said: "Hello, Miss Martin. Hiya, Mr. Summerville."

Joan Martin said: "This is my brother Peter, Mr. Ryan. Pete, this is John Ryan — you may have heard of him."

The kid grunted and said he hadn't had that pleasure. He took his Scotch down straight and poured another before the first had time to hit bottom.

"The detective," she added.

He choked on his second drink.

Summerville said: "Won't you join us, Ryan? I just got here myself."

Both he and the girl looked worried— but they couldn't hold a patch to the boy. He was having the jitters in a big way. Summerville poured me a drink, with me telling him when, and I got half this down me before I started the business.

And then I said: "Did you kill him, Pete?"

The kid dropped his glass but it didn't break. If the rug hadn't been two inches thick, it probably would have. He tried to say something but just stuttered.

"I was up there not two minutes after you left. The guy was still bleeding. Can you make it self-defense or anything like that?"

He sat down— almost fell down— in one of the big chairs. He said: "My God! I didn't do it. He was like that when I walked in. He told me to come up and opened the outside door for me, and I walked in and found him like that. I ran out. Maybe I should have stayed and called the police, but I lost my head."

"You should have called them, all right."

"I was afraid. All I could think of was that they'd say I did it, and then I'd never get in the Air Corps."

Both his sister and Summerville were shooting questions at me, but I was watching the boy. Trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.

"Who was he?"

"His name was Andrews. John Andrews."

"Why was he blackmailing you?"

"I hit him with my car."

"When?"

"About three months ago."

"Where?"

"Long Island. Out in Roslyn."

"How'd you do it? Why the pay-off?"

HE STARTED shaking all over and Summerville splashed whiskey into another wine glass and gave it to him. He needed it. He looked at the floor, any place but at his sister, and, when he spoke, his voice was so low I could hardly hear him.

"It started like this," he said. "I might as well tell you and let you arrest me and get it over with."

"I'm a private cop. I'm working for your sister, not for the town. I'm on your side, Pete, so give it to me straight."

He looked at his sister for confirmation and she nodded. Summerville said: "You'd better tell Mr. Ryan, Pete. He can do more than anybody else to help you right now."

Pete managed to get his voice up a little but he still kept staring at the floor. "I'd been playing cards. I was at Jerry Hinkle's place, on Madison. There was a man there I'd met and played with before— a man named Evans. Charley Evans. I didn't know him very well, but when I ran out of money and dropped out of the game I talked to him a little. He told me he knew of a place out in Long Island and suggested we take a run out there, and I was tired of playing in Hinkle's place and took him up on the idea."

I said: "I know Evans. Used to be a bootlegger. Then he turned to hi-jacking. Strictly a bad one."

"I didn't know him very well. Just saw him around, you know."

"Go on."

"I was broke so we drove down to your apartment, George. D'ya remember? That night about three months ago when I went up and borrowed three hundred from you? About eleven at night?"

Summerville said he remembered.

"Evans waited in the car while I went up and borrowed the money from George. Then we drove out to Roslyn and just a little past, and turned down a side road. The place was off the road in a clump of trees, and just as I turned in to it a man fell in front of the car. I hit him— I didn't have either time or room to turn. I didn't hit him very hard, but it smashed him up pretty badly in spite of that."

"Were you drunk?"

"That was it. I wasn't, but I'd had a few drinks. You know how you do when you're gambling."

I said I knew only too well.

"I didn't know what to do. I wanted to call the police and an ambulance, but I was afraid they'd charge file with drunken driving. I knew that would blank out any chance I had to make the Air Corps. Then Evans suggested we take the man to a doctor he knew right by there, so I did that. The doctor looked him over and said he'd take care of if, and I arranged to have the bills sent to me. I went out and saw the man several times, and when he was better I gave him five hundred dollars. Your money, Sis— you remember that was the first time I'd borrowed from you."

Joan Martin said she remembered.

"Then I thought it was all over. But about two months ago this man called me and told me he wanted me to run down and see him. It was Andrews, and. he was at 417 West  —th Street, where he was tonight. He told me he couldn't work—that he was a nervous wreck— and so I gave him what money I had with me. He told me I'd have to give him so much a week—two hundred and fifty dollars—or he'd report me to the police as a hit-run driver and all the rest of it. I talked to Evans and he advised me to pay it."

"Why didn't you talk to me?" asked Summerville,

The boy didn't answer this but I caught the look he gave Summerville. There was no love lost between them, in spite of their relationship. I could see the boy didn't like him— could see he didn't like the idea of his sister marrying him. There was brother-in-law trouble coming up between them even before they'd reached that status.

I said: "Well, it's done now. The thing to do is try and work you out of it. Did you always drive your car to this West  —th Street address?"

"Usually."

"Ever meet anybody there? I mean in the halls?"

"Why, yes."

I said: "Then, sonny, all you've got to do is sit tight and wait for the police. A car like the one you drive isn't going to go unnoticed in a neighborhood like that. Somebody's stopped and looked at your name on the registration. Somebody's going to remember seeing you in the halls— and clothes like you're wearing aren't common around there, either. And then the guy probably has your name tucked away in that place, somewhere. So just sit tight."

Miss Martin said: "What are you going to do, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "Try to break it before the police do. That's all I can do."

THE first thing to do was try and find what the cops knew, and I went to the precinct station that covered the section 417 West  —th Street. I happened to kn ow Nels Jorgenson, a Homicide lieutenant, there, and knew he'd give me the dope, if I worked it right.

I caught him in and told him I was by his way and just stopped in to say hello. He might even have believed it.

He started to light the cigar I'd bought just for him, and I started it out. "Anything new?"

He looked at me through the smoke and asked: "In your line or mine?"

"Just making conversation, Nels."

"We got a funny one at that, Johnny. Some duck called in and told the boys at Central that they'd find a stiff in our territory. Sure enough they did. A guy named Ellis, though he was going under the name of Andrews. A guy that used to be a contortionist in a circus. A guy that's been in the accident racket so long he's worn himself out with the insurance companies. Ever hear of him?"

I said I hadn't.

"The boys are working on it now. It's some kind of a racket but they can't figure out just what."

I said it was very interesting and talked for a while longer and then left Nels. He knew, more than he was telling me, but the only way I could have found out just what it was would have been to come out with the questions.

And Nels was too old a hand to take those sort of chances with.

From there I called Summerville and got him just as he got back to his apartment. I said: "I'm going calling, and you might go along. You're working with me on this, I take it."

He said he certainly was, and I picked him up clear uptown. Almost where I wanted to go.

"You're seeing somebody?" he asked.

"Charley Evans."

"Isn't that the man who touted the boy out to Long Island?"

"That's right."

He looked puzzled and I explained.

"I figure the accident was a phony," I said. "This Evans—the kid knew him as Andrews—was a professional accident victim. He got so hot he couldn't take the insurance people any longer, so he must have gone into private trade. He probably worked the same gag on a lot more people than young Peter."

"And you think Evans was with him on it?"

"Sure. Proving it's going to be something! else again."

"Then possibly some other Victim was the one who killed him."

"Possibly. But if the cops put young Martin on the spot, and with the proper leg work that's what they'll do, he'll burn for it. The guy was killed just about the time he was up there,"

Summerville scowled and said the boy always was unlucky. Or guilty of poor management.

I SAID: "Here we are. This guy's tough— let me do the talking."

He said he certainly would. He didn't act near as cocky as he ordinarily did, either. I pegged him right then as a man who talked a good.fight but talked himself out of it rather than in.

I rang Evans' bell and he answered the door himself. And I heard Summerville gasp as Evans' full beauty burst upon him.

Evans was an old-timer and looked the part. Between fifty and sixty and bald. He had a nose like an eagle, and the skin on his face and on the top of that bald head of his was wrinkled and blotched, the last from a bad liver, I thought, and he had little black snapping eyes that were almost always hooded with eyelids as wrinkled as the rest of him. He wasn't over five and a half feet high and he didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. He was a toughie with a gun in his hand or a gang at his back, but that was all.

I said: "Hello, Charley."

He just grunted and I couldn't tell whether he was scowling at me or Summerville.

"I want to talk to you."

"Well, talk. You're here."

"Inside, Charley."

"Here in the hall. I wouldn't let a private dick stink up my place."

I put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. He went, rather than fell backward. Inside, his place looked like a second rate movie set, with too big chairs and too long couches and too many, too fancy floor lamps.

I said: "That's no way to treat company, Charley. This is Mr. Summerville. Say hello to Mr. Summerville."

He said:

"To hell with Mr. Summerville and to hell with you, you cheap—"

I slapped him and he went back and under a table. He landed on his hands and knees and stared up at me without trying to get up. He was in his shirtsleeves and I could see he didn't have a gun on him.

"You want to talk like that, Charley, it's all right with me. Or you can crawl out from under and stand on your feet. Either way."

"Talk to you, hell."

I STARTED toward him and he scuttled back farther under the table. I hauled him out and cuffed him again a couple of times and then sat him in a chair.

"I don't like this, Charley," I said. "A man comes up to talk sense to you and you give him a piece of lip. I'll slap that lip out of you if that's what you want."

He swore at me again and I slapped him again. And then things quieted down.

He said: "What's it? You know well enough, Ryan, I don't like cops. You get me burned, just looking at you."

"What's the idea of tolling a client of mine into a fakeroo like that Long Island phony? You know the deal I mean."

"I do not."

I lifted my hand and he flinched away from me, which was what I wanted. He said hastily. "I know what you're talking about, all right, but I just happened to be along with the kid. That's all."

"Nuts."

"That's my story."

"Want to tell it to the cops?"

"You dizzy enough to call cops on me?"

"Sure."

He laughed. "Then you're also dizzy enough to keep that fool kid out of the Army. The stink that'll raise would do it and you know it."

"It's murder, now, Charley."

"Hunh!"

"The stooge. Andrews. Ellis. Whatever you call him."

"You crazy?"

"No."

"Is the guy dead?"

"As mutton. Want to talk to the cops about it?"

He suddenly began to laugh and I think he meant it. He said: "Listen, you dope. That would clear me if anything will. If I was in it—and I'm not admitting a thing, would I be fool enough to kill off the only guy that could collect on the racket? Hey? The stooge would be the only one who could collect a pay-off, wouldn't he be? Hey? If he's dead, I couldn't get a dime, and if I was in a racket like that, I'd only be in it for the dimes, and you and I and the cops all know it."

"You've got something there, Charley, at that."

"And I've got something else, Ryan. Do the cops know your boy was paying off Ellis?"

"I don't know."

"They fool around with me and maybe they might find out. Not from me— from this anonymous that's always tipping 'em off. Get what I mean?"

"Sure. Mind telling me the name of the doctor you took the guy to? That friend of yours out there that's in the racket with you?"

"Don't you know it?"

"I'm just checking. The kid told me but I want to see if you tell me the same thing."

"It's Seitz. Dr. Seitz. And he's legit and you'll play hell proving he isn't."

"Maybe the Medical Board can," I said. "Be seeing you, Charley."

HE DUCKED but not in time. He ended up under the table again and the language he used was lurid. I was laughing when we went out, and Summerville was looking worried.

He said: "I don't understand that, Ryan. You deliberately antagonized the man."

"Sure."

"But why?"

"It may bring things to a head."

"But he's a vicious character if I ever saw one. It may be dangerous."

"Sure."

"I don't mean for you. But he's certainly going to hold this against Peter. He'll know that Peter told you of him."

"Sure. But Peter'll be safe enough. The first thing that's going to happen to Peter is a visit from the police. Peter will be safe in a nice cell, where Charley Evans and his boys can't touch him."

"You seem sure the police will get on Peter's track."

I said: "I know the cops. They're not the dopes that people think they are. They wouldn't be cops if they were."

Summerville thought that over and admitted I might be right. I said: "There's just one thing. They'll pick him up, all right, but they may hold him on some slighter charge than suspicion of murder. They may hold him on something bailable. If they do, you leave him in. Don't bail him out and don't let his sister bail him out."

"I'd have a hard time stopping her."

"Be a man, not a mouse."

It took him a minute to decide not to get sore at the crack, but he finally made up his mind He laughed and said: "I see you don't know Miss Martin very well. She does pretty well as she pleases."

"If she wants to keep little brother safe, she'll leave him in jail," I said. "Here we are at a cab stand. I'm going to pick up my car and drive out to Long Island. You tell Miss Martin that under no circumstances is she to bail the kid out; I've started dynamite and I don't want the wrong party in the blast."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Ryan," he said, sounding doubtful.

I told him not to worry and climbed in a cab and gave the driver the name of the garage my car was in. I didn't know exactly what I was starting any more than Summerville did, and I was as worried as he was. But it was a case of smoking somebody out in the open before the police had a chance to build up a solid case against the Martin boy — and that wouldn't take them long.

All I wanted to do was get things moving.

I DIDN'T find where Dr. Seitz was located until the third filling station in Roslyn gave me the dope, and that was a tip-off right there. The guy was only out of town a couple of miles, and in a little place like that he should have been a landmark. I drove out an unpaved road, turned to the right and then to the left, as directed, and finally came to a sign reading QUIET PLEASE—HOSPITAL.

The place was right around the bend— a big white house that looked more like a country home than the sanitarium it advertised itself as being. Sure enough, the sign in front was lettered THE SEITZ REST HOME FOR CONVALESCENTS.

It was a rambling sort of thing and I had to admit it looked restful. A slope of lawn that ran to the road, dotted with Norway pine and lilac bushes. Soft lights behind Venetian blinds. Some way of lighting the grounds directly around the house from under the eaves, but in a soft and shaded way not much stronger than moonlight.

I parked in front and sat in the car a moment, just looking around, and then a man came to the side of the car and shoved a gun in my face.

"You'll be Ryan," he said.

"That's right. This the way people usually get admitted to the sanitarium?"

He laughed but he didn't sound at all funny. "Special, just for you," he said. "Hey, Mike."

Mike came from around the corner of the house. He was a tall thin man and he'd had a broken nose at some time that hadn't been set right. He also had a sap in his hand.

"This the guy?" he asked.

"This is him."

"I see Evans has been busy on the phone."

"Take his gun," the first man said.

Mike crawled in with me and took it. I didn't do a thing except look at the gun the first man still showed me.

Then he said: "Get out of the car."

It happened then. I got out and walked into the sap and went down. I got the side of the gun across my face when I started to get up, so I stayed down that time. Then they started kicking me and slamming me with both the gun and the sap— and the last thing I remember was the one called Mike jumping up and down on my left hand, which in some way I'd thrown out to the side.

I woke up in the back of a farmer's pick-up truck just as we stopped in front of the Roslyn hospital.

They held me for three days in spite of anything I could do. The Roslyn chief spent most of his time sitting by the bed asking me questions, in between the times the doctor was putting me together again. I'd been picked up in the road alongside my car, at least a mile from the sanitarium. The car hadn't been hurt nor had I been robbed. Even my gun was stuck in its clip inside my coat. The chief wanted me to swear out a complaint against the people responsible for the outrage. I wouldn't. The doctor wanted me to stay and let him make sure the slight concussion I had was coming along all right, and I couldn't see that.

My hand wasn't broken, but it was swollen all out of place. It had been on soft turf during the stamping and that had saved the bones. Both my eyes were black clear down to below the cheekbones, but the dividing line wasn't clear because both cheekbones were so bruised. I had four teeth out in front and they'd come out the hard way. They'd broken off level with the gums and the doctor had to get a dentist to come in and pull the roots. My lips were swollen so I had trouble in opening my mouth, much less talk— and my throat and mouth were so sore that all I could eat was soup.

I had two broken ribs on my left side and three on the right, but my sides weren't as sore as my stomach. They'd really booted me down there— I was blade and blue all over, and the medico couldn't understand why I hadn't internal injuries. He seemed almost disappointed that I didn't have.

I managed to say: "I'm the same guy. Doc, that the Army turned down. They said I was too old to fight— that I couldn't take it."

He went away, shaking his head and saying, "My God," to himself, over and over again.

BUT they turned me loose on the fourth day and the doctor got a local boy to drive me in town in my own car. I went up to the apartment and sent him after a quart of whiskey before I paid him for the trip and sent him back to Roslyn. And then I called up a rubber I happened to know that was off shift in a Turkish bath and then got the Martin house and Joan.

I said: "This is John Ryan, Miss Martin."

"I'm surprised you'd bother to call me," she said.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't you know?"

"I do not."

"Can I believe that, Mr. Ryan?"

That made me sore. I said: "Listen, sister. You may have all the dough in the world but I still don't have to lie to you about one thing. You can believe it or not."

She sounded a little friendlier. "What makes you talk that way? You don't sound normal."

I was still sore. I said: "I had four teeth kicked out, lady. Try it sometime and see how you talk."

"Oh, Mr. Ryan! Then you really didn't know."

"Know what?"

"It's Peter. He's in the hospital. He may not live— he may not even regain consciousness."

"What happened to him?"

"Why, the police arrested him. They charged him with conspiracy to defeat justice and with withholding information vital to the police, or some legal way they have of saying what that means. They didn't accuse him of murder, though I think they were all ready to do that when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"I bailed him out, Mr. Ryan, or had a bail bond man do it, rather, and Peter was assaulted on his way to the cab stand, just down the street from the police station. His skull is fractured and he has internal injuries and the doctors say it's an even chance whether he lives or not."

"Anything in the papers?"

"Not as yet. George, Mr. Summerville, says he thinks they are trying to complete the case against Peter before they break it."

I said: "Maybe I can break it before they do, even now. I'll try, anyway."

"It seems so unimportant. I'm almost crazy. Don't you realize Peter may not live?"

I said: "Listen, Miss Martin, and get hold of yourself. If he lives and the thing breaks in the papers, he's lost his chance for the Air Corps. If he gets over this, that's going to be the most important thing in his life. So don't lose your head. Where's Summerville?"

"He'll be in this evening. I'm going to the hospital now. Would you like me to stop at your office and see you?"

"You wouldn't like the sight," I told her, and hung up and opened the door for Vladimir Volenski. Volenski was the rubber from the Turkish baths.

VLADIMIR was a good guy and he did the best he could, but I didn't expect too much and I didn't get it. He worked me over as easily as he could and I finally got so I could move without feeling as if I'd break in pieces. He took the tape from around me— that Roslyn doctor had me fixed up like a mummy— and he held my ribs in place with lighter wraps.

I could twist a little, even if it hurt like Billy Blazes. He dressed me; I helped but very little, and then we got down to the main piece of business.

I've got a little gun I'd always wanted to try, and I dug it out of the little collection I've got in a wall case. A .41 Remington derringer with one stubby barrel over the other. Just two shots, but that heavy flat-nosed .41 slug has wallop up at close quarters. It's strictly a barroom gun, made for shooting at card table distance, but the only modern gun that compares with it in smallness is the little .25 Colt automatic and that hasn't the punch I knew I'd need if I needed a gun at all.

Of course the gun hasn't been made for a good many years, but that was no reason for my not giving it a try.

Vladimir ripped up a sheet and made a sling for my bad left hand. He wrapped bandages around it, after I'd cuddled the loaded little derringer into the palm, even closing the bandages around the ends of my fingers. The bandages would catch fire if I had to shoot but I thought I'd rather have a burned hand than a bullet in the middle.

That was another reason I picked the derringer, for that matter. An automatic might jam being used in wraps like that. The slide could be caught and an ejected shell could jam the action because of not being thrown clear.

I tucked another gun in my waistband— a .38 Police Positive, but I knew fairly well I'd not have a chance to use it.

The trouble I was going to run up against was too smart trouble ever to let me get away with a gun in plain sight or a hide-out gun in the usual hidey spot. The bandage trick was an old one— but it was so old I thought it might get by with the younger generation where it wouldn't with an old head.

It was worth trying, anyway.

WE TOOK my own car and Vladimir left me off in front of Evans' apartment house. I said: "Now look, Russky. If you hear any shooting, you get the cops in a hurry. Speed it up. If I don't come out in half an hour, you get 'em. Understand?"

He said: "You are my friend, Johnny. It is not right that you should fight when you are injured."

"I'll get a lunch while the other guy gets a meal," I told him. "Got that straight about getting the cops?"

"It is understood," he told me. Vladimir's big— well over two hundred— and he looks like he's a barrel of fat, but he's all muscle under that thin layer of suet. A blank red face— skimpy blond hair and with no eyebrows at all, and with hands like the hams that used to be heard about. I climbed out of the car and went inside, and as I looked back over my shoulder I could see him still sitting there, watching me with a puzzled frown on his broad face.

I'd known him for years and knew I could depend on him.

And in the shape I was in I needed somebody like that.

Charley Evans might have been waiting for me. He opened the door almost before I had my hand down after rapping. He stepped aside and waved and said: "Why, come right in," and I saw the guy from Long Island, the one called Mike, standing back of him and pointing a gun my way.

I said: "The last time I saw you, Mister, you were using a sap. It's a gun now, eh?"

He nodded and grinned at me. He had a broken tooth right in front, and there was a gap, on the side where a couple more were missing.

There were three more men in the room beside Evans and Mike. One was Mike's pal— the other one of the two who'd worked me over in Long Island. The one who'd had the gun that time. One of the other two was of the same stripe— just a hoodlum— but the third man was short and weazened and looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.

I said: "You'd be Dr. Seitz."

He nodded once before he thought.

"You boys all together here trying to figure somebody to take the place of Andrews, or Ellis, or whatever you called him?" I asked. "You can't work that accident without a guy to take the phony fall, can you? Why don't you try and get an India rubber man from some carney? There's a guy that should be able to do tricks for you."

Mike moved to the side and nodded, and his partner took my .38 from my waistband. He also patted me all over for a hide-out gun, and I talked fast so they wouldn't look over my bandaged hand.

I said: "Or are you going to let the racket die down for awhile?"

Evans said. "Die down, hell! It's good for five grand a week, with enough suckers paying off, and that's too good money to lose over a dope like you butting in. So you're on the way out. I've had cops up here asking about Ellis. I've had cops up here asking me about framing the Martin kid. I've had merry Ned raised with me over this business, and on top of that I took a cuffing around from you that I won't take from any man in the world. You're on your way out, Ryan.

"The next time the cops come up here, they'll be here to take your body out. I killed you in self-defense, and I've got four witnesses to prove it. They won't believe the story but they'll swallow it because they'll have to. You'll shoot at me and miss, and there'll be a slug in the wall from your own gun to prove it. I won't miss, and there'll be a slug in you that'll prove that, too. Now what?"

I said: "You're a fool, Charley. You'll never get away with it. If the Martin kid dies, his sister will swear out a complaint against you for murder. Killing me will make it that much stronger. I wouldn't have come up here if I hadn't figured that out."

HE LAUGHED. He said: "You dope! If I'd wanted the kid beat up, the way he was, I'd have waited. I wouldn't have picked him half a.,block from the station, right after he was released on bail. I didn't even know he'd been pinched, Ryan, much less know he'd be at that precinct station at that time and out on bail. You don't use your head."

I swung so that my bandaged hand was bearing his way. I said: "That's only part of it. I was hired to clear the kid on the phony accident filing and that's what I'm doing. It'll take an accountant to tell who's responsible for the Martin kid being in the hospital now, if you know what I mean."

"Then you figured it out?"

"Sure."

He said: "Too bad you'll never have a chance to tell anybody about it. Gimme tnat gun out of the drawer, Sully."

The one who'd taken my gun handed Evans a .45 Army automatic. He said: "We work it like this. Sully, you stand alongside of Ryan. You turn his gun
loose into the wall, here by me. I'll blast him at the same time."

Sully stood at my side and Evans snicked the safety off on the big automatic. I tipped my hand in the bandage, so the bore of the derringer centered on his belt buckle, as near as I could line it.

Out of the comer of my eye I could see Sully raise my gun— could see Dr. Seitz crouch down in his chair and put his hands over his ears. And I could see Mike and the other thug lean forward, grinning.

And then, from the hallway, came: "I would not be hasty, gentlemens."

It was Vladimir. He'd sneaked a .357 Magnum out of my gun case, and that big gun looked like a cap pistol in his big hand. He took up most of the hallway, and I never was so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see that big hulk.

Mike still had a gun in his hand, as did Sully and Charley Evans. Vladimir had his eyes on Mike and Sully and wasn't watching Evans. I saw Evans tip up his automatic, turning so it lined on Vladimir, and I turned loose the derringer at that ten-foot range. And that took Evans off his feet, blowing him sideways into the wall—and it also opened the ball.

Mike lifted his gun and Vladimir shot at him and missed. A revolver, and particularly one as big as that Magnum, isn't an easy gun to shoot, and Vladimir had little experience. Mike shot once and I saw Vladimir sag, and then I gave Mike the second barrel of the derringer. The little gun had jumped out of my hand when I'd shot Evans, and I didn't have it solid in my hand on that second shot— and probably because of that I hit Mike in the haunch, rather than in the belly.

The result was as successful; though. That big flat-nosed slug broke his leg at the same time it knocked it out from under him, and when he went down, he dropped his gun.

That left Sully, and he and Vladimir were trading shots. Vladimir jerked again and I knew Sully had got to him but Vladimir won on the exchange. He caught Sully in the teeth and the Magnum load went right on through, taking part of the back of Sully's head with it.

I picked up my own gun— the .38— when Sully dropped it, and started ripping the bandages away from my left hand. They weren't burning but they were smoldering, and there's no pain in the world just like a burn.

Then there was a thin little pop— it sounded thin at least, after the slamming noise the big guns had made, and something tapped me lightly high on my left shoulder. Vladimir was, falling, going down in an easy way, as I turned and saw Dr. Seitz.

He had a little .22, a pearl-handled woman's gun, and he was holding it in both hands and trying for another crack at me. He was shaking so. that he was pointing it all over the room, rather than in my direction, and I didn't bother to turn loose at him with the .38.

Instead I bopped him along the jaw with the barrel of it and looked around for the other hoodlum.

This one was standing against the wall with his hands up almost to the ceiling. If he'd been a foot taller, he'd have reached it.

He said: "Not me, Mister! Not me! I'm out of it."

I said: "Maybe out of the shooting but not out of jail. You won't be out of that for a long time."

I took time out before calling the cops to look Vladimir over, and found he'd taken one through the flashy part of the thigh and another right under his left collarbone. Neither slug had touched a bone and so there was nothing to worry about.

I told him this and he grinned and said: "You and I are the good friends, eh, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "We're pals, Russky. Now I'm going to get the cops and an ambulance and the dead wagon."

MISS JOAN MARTIN wasn't too hard to convince. And also she was happy because the kid brother had regained consciousness and the doctors had jumped his chances of getting well. He was about ninety-ten. then, with the big odds his way. We were telling each other what good news that was when George Summerville followed the maid into the library.

He looked at me in a startled way and said: "Why— uh— I thought that you'd dropped the case, Mr. Ryan. After all, we've seen nothing of you since Peter was beaten and sent to the hospital."

"That's right," I said. "I was beaten a bit myself, but I can't lay that on you. I'm just accusing you of having the job done on Peter, after you bailed him out."

"Are you crazy?"

"Oh no. I told you to let him stay in jail, didn't I?"

"Why, yes. And, Joan, if you'll remember, I told you the same thing."

"But you didn't insist on it and you didn't tell Miss Martin I'd made a particular point of it."

He said stiffly: "I don't have to answer to you for my actions, Mr. Ryan. Joan, do I understand that you are taking stock in this man's ridiculous charges?"

The girl looked at him as though he were a stranger. She said: "Your ring is on the table, George. Right by you. I want to tell you that I am having an accountant start checking the books on the Martin estate immediately. I think that answers everything."

He said: "But Joan! Please!"

I said: "You fool! You've been looting the estate and you knew it would come out, when Peter turned twenty-one and demanded an accounting. He hates your guts and you know it and he'd slam it on you if he caught the shortage. If you could get him out of the way, either on a murder charge or by killing him, you'd have married Miss Martin and be in the clear. You followed him and found out about the accident jam he was in. You killed t h at contortionist after Peter was on his way up to the guy's room, and you went down those backstairs and left the kid to find the body and to take the rap. When that didn't work, you hired a couple of thugs to beat him to death, thinking it would be blamed on Charley Evans. It backfired. You're it."

"Joan!"

"I'm having the books checked in the morning, George."

I didn't expect gun play but I was watching for it. Instead of that he reached in his handkerchief pocket and hauled out the handkerchief that matched his socks and tie. He mopped his face and then went forward on his face— and I rolled him over and got a whiff of what he'd taken.

It was cyanide, of course. Just about the only thing that would get him that fast. He'd had it in a little glass tube and he'd crunched the tube so it cut his lips and mouth and gave the poison a chance to hit the bloodstream then and there.

I said: "He's gone. Miss Martin."

I'd known she had a temper but I hadn't thought she was as cold-blooded as she was. She only said:

"He'd have died anyway, in the chair. This saves the State a lot of unnecessary bother."

And then I changed my mind about her being cold-blooded. She went over in a faint before I could make a move to catch her.

THE doctor, Seitz, got five to ten on a fraud charge, along with one for criminal practice. The hoodlum with him— the one that hadn't joined in the gun fight in Evans' apartment, got three to five, also on the fraud charge. The girl and Peter got back what Summerville had looted the estate for— a little matter of two hundred thousand dollars plus— this from the bonding company over Summerville.

And I got my fee and a thousanddollar bonus, as well as the Roslyn hospital bill and other minor expenses, but I'd rather expected that.

The big winner was Vladimir. He waved the thousand-dollar check Miss Martin had given him and got so excited he could hardly talk.

"With this, my friend Johnny," he told me, "I shall return to Russia. I have a way of travel routed out. It is a long way but I shall arrive. There is yet the time to fight for Russia and I, Vladimir, will be there in time."

I said: "Swell stuff, Russky."

Miss Martin looked puzzled and Peter Martin grinned. We were in his room, both Vladimir and I still patched up but well on the way to recovery.

Miss Martin said: "But, Mr. Volenski. I understood you left Russia to come to this country because you were not happy there. Isn't that correct?"

"But yes, Miss. But that was before my Russia was in war. Now it is different. I feel a duty— as your brother feels a duty to fight for your own country. Is if not clear?"

Miss Martin said she thought she understood, but there was no question in my mind about her little brother knowing how the big guy felt.

If he hadn't had the same notion, he'd never have gotten himself in the mess he had.

And if I hadn't thought much the same way I'd never have worked so hard to keep his record clear so he could make it in the Air Corps.

It was once I was working for more than money.

__________________

4: Dice and No Dice

Dime Detective 15 Sep 1934

IT'S a honey of a crap game... for Farmer Sheats that's running it. I drop a hundred and twenty but I ain't crying about it because if I'd got over I'd have got a cut of between five and six grand as near as I can count. There's about that much in it. I've just lost the dice and the hundred and twenty and am standing right back of George Cullen that's got the dice now, and Nigger Eisman is right next to George waiting for 'em. George is rattling the dice in his hand and has got five twenties laying in front of him that's taken, but he's holding tight so's to give the side-bettors a chance to get their dough on the line.

Half of these are calling for how much they think he'll make his point, which happens to be eight, and the other half of 'em are saying for how much he'll seven and it's the usual madhouse that a big crap game always is.

MICKEY CATARINA'S taking the cut for the house and the game's big enough so Farmer's watching him which isn't usual. Mickey reaches out and takes a fin for the house and says: "Hit the board, George!"

George nods and says: "Eight just once, dice!" and draws his arm back to bounce 'em against the back of the table.

Just then Nigger grabs his arm and says: "No dice!"

He holds George's hand and says to Mickey: "These are bum dice. He can't seven with 'em."

Mickey says, "Gimme!" and holds out his hand for the dice. George gives 'em to him and says, "Look good, Mickey!" and turns and takes Nigger right in the puss.

He's all braced and set and he times it perfect. Nigger can't fall backard because there's too many people behind him and they keep him from going that way, but he bounces on them and then just sort of slips to the floor and lands on his back. George takes a step ahead and holds his foot about a foot above Nigger's face and then stamps down with it— but Nigger don't know it.

I grab George before he works on him any more, not because I give a damn about Nigger but because I don't want George going up on a murder rap.

Farmer's seen the whole thing. He goes over to Mickey and looks the dice over and tosses them on the board. They show seven which proves Nigger was wrong about them being crooked dice. He says to Mickey: "How much did Nigger drop?"

And when Mickey says, "Not over fifty bucks!" he says, "Pick him up."

There's a guy waiting to go on shift in Mickey's place that I don't know and he and some guy that Nigger fell against pick him up, and they and Farmer go into the washroom and I go along with 'em for two reasons: I want to hear Farmer tell Nigger what the score is because I don't like him five cents' worth; and I'm now out of money and figure I'll get a hundred off Farmer and get back in the game. I figure a hundred more won't hurt me too much and there's percentage in that big a game if you can ever get over.

They throw water in his face and Farmer and I stand there waiting for him to come to. He's got on a new suit that's a light flashy gray, and when George stepped on his face it busted his nose and he's bled all over the front of it. He's a mess.

He comes around finally and looks up at us groggy as hell, and Farmer says: "Here's the lousy fifty you lost and if you ever come in my place again I'll not only throw you out but I'll see you'll get a floater out of town from then on. Get that, Nigger?"

Farmer's got enough drag to do just that little thing and Nigger knows it. He gets up shaky as hell and takes the money and then says, "All right, Farmer!" and wobbles through the door. Farmer says to the house man: "See that he gets as far as the steps, Sam, and—" He winks and Sam, who's a big husky bird, winks back and they go out.

Farmer don't even ask me what I want; which proves how smart he is but just says: "How much, Johnny?"

I say: "A hundred'll do. I can't be sick always."

He gives me the hundred and I go back and get in the game.

AN hour later I'm well again. I've run the hundred up to about seventeen-fifty and I've got the dice and have just made my point and am going to try for a seven when somebody says: "Heist 'em, boys."

I look up, see two masked guys, one standing right by the door where he's got the room under control, the other by the side. The first guy's got two guns and the second, one. The door's about thirty feet from me and I think fast.

I've got two-fifty on the table and the rest of it, fifteen hundred, in my left hand, and I figure I can toss this under the table as I raise my hands and as soon as the heist guys are gone I can find it.

I do this.

There's a little guy wedged in next to me that's been rattling about ten dollars in silver in his hand and betting dollars against points. He sees me toss my fifteen hundred under the table and I'm damned if he don't throw his ten in silver after it! When the silver hits the floor it sounds as loud as an automobile smashup.

Nobody could miss it and the guy at the door don't. He says: "Line up against the waK and face it!" and waves his guns and we do just what we're told. Then he says to his partner: "Shake 'em down, keed! The cash drawer is on the far side and there's money under the table."

Keed goes through the crowd and cleans us right down to and including carfare, and takes the money out of the house drawer and dives under the table, and I can hear him grunt when he finds my roll. He even gets the guy's silver that he was so proud of.

Then the guy by the door says to us: "Turn around."

We do. I'm so mad I can hardly see, not so much at the heist guys as at the little dope that pitched the chicken-feed, but what happens next scares the mad out of me. We're all lined up against the wall, maybe twenty, maybe twenty-five of us, and this guy looks us over and comes up with his right-hand gun and pops George Cullen, who's standing right by me. When he does I see the gray coat he's wearing and it's the same one Nigger had on. There's blood down the front of it just the same way and it's cut the same and made out of the same flashy cloth.

I get all this in the second it takes George to fall forward on his face.

The guy waves his guns and says, "Don't hurry!" to us and to his partner, "Le's go, keed!" Keed goes out the door and the trigger man follows him out backward and we just stand there and watch 'em go. The game's really a hustler's game and all these boys know enough not to run after a guy with a gun. They figure all they lost is money and I figure the same way right along with 'em. We couldn't stop the guys and all we'd do is take chances on being laid on a slab alongside of Cullen.

I know he's dead but I squat by him and see I'm right. Fanner goes over and locks the door and calls out: "As soon as the law comes you boys can go but I don't want any questions about what's happened. There'll be no beef. Get the time straight and remember what's happened as plain as you can because you're going to be witnesses in a murder trial."

He comes over to me and squats down alongside and says: "Dead?"

"Plenty," I say.

He says, "You know who don't you?" and I say: "Nigger Eisman. I'll call MacAndrews at the station if you want, Farmer. He'll give you as much of a break as any of 'em and maybe more."

"Go ahead," he says.

We got to call the law because the room's so soundproof nobody could have heard the shot unless they was right against the door. I go over to the phone then and call the station and get homicide and ask for MacAndrews, and he's in which is a break. I tell him it's me— Johnny Carr—and where I am and what's happened and for him to come down, and then I say: "It'll save time if you put out a pick-up on Nigger Eisman. He's the guy that done it."

He says: "It's easy done if I want to but why should I?"

I say: "He's the one that done it, I tell you. There's at least twenty witnesses to it."

"How long ago did this happen?" he says.

I LOOK at my watch and see it's 11:26 and I know this happened at 11:23 because I looked at the time then in case of any question.

"Three minutes ago," I say.

He says: "Eisman's been here for at least twenty minutes talking to Tony and me. He's damn near drove us nuts trying to get us to put in a good word for him with Farmer so Farmer won't put the bee on him in all the rest of the joints."

"What kind of a coat's he got on?" I say.

I hear MacAndrews talk to somebody else in the homicide room and then he says: "He's got on a gray coat. He's got a smashed schnozzle and it's bled all over the front of it."

I say: "Well, come on down!" and hang up the phone and tell Farmer what he said.

Farmer's place is on Spring and not over eight blocks from the station. It takes Mac about five minutes to make it and he knocks on the door and Farmer lets him and Tony Corte, his partner in, and they've brought Eisman with 'em.

This Eisman is only called Nigger because he's got thick fat lips and is dark. And he's just one of those dirty stinking kind of two-bit hustlers that hang around the real ones. He comes in, feeling plenty snotty, and looks at me and Farmer and says: "Trying to hang this on me, hunh. It's no dice because I was at the station when it happened and I can't be framed."

He's just as smart about it as he can well be. Farmer looks at me and shakes his head so I don't say anything. By the time Mac and Tony take everybody's names and where they live there's a photographer there and about twenty other cops, some in uniform and some not, and an assistant district attorney and the place is jammed.

Farmer's got this D. A. over to one side and is talking to beat hell and then Mac calls out: "You can all go home but don't leave town without coming up to the station and telling me. You're material witnesses and I don't want to have to go after you." He knows he's safe in letting 'em go like that because they're mostly birds that live without working and can't afford to jam with the law over anything like being witnesses.

I start to go with 'em but Farmer sings out, "Wait, Johnny!" so I do. He gets through with the D. A. and gets his hat and I say goodnight to Mac and Tony and we start to go. I say, "Where ?" and he says: "Le's go to Herbert's and talk it over."

So we get a hack in front and go there and sit at a table and order and then Farmer says: "And what d'ya think of it?"

I've done plenty of thinking. Whoever done it got away with seventeen hundred and fifty dollars of my money and this hurts. I don't like to have George Cullen killed right alongside of me but after all he's no particular friend of mine and this don't bother me as much as losing the dough does.

"Why in hell should Nigger start the beef with George?" I say. "That was a phony. He'd lost fifty slugs but what of that. That wouldn't start him out unless he was higher than a kite and he didn't act like it."

Farmer asks: "Does he use the weed?" and I say: "Sure! But he didn't act like he was high tonight."

"You want to work on it for me, Johnny?" Farmer says.

I say: "Yes you bet. I'm going to do seventeen hundred and fifty dollars' worth of work on it for my own side."

He says: "The D. A.'s going to act as if it was a row in a private club so I won't get jammed for running a spot, but I had between four and five grand in that drawer. If I hadn't got a break I'd have had to pay out every one of the customers on a frequenting-a-gambling-house rap. I'm out and injured."

"You ain't got any cherry," I say. "I'll scout around and see what I can see."

He thinks about this for a while and says: "Cullen was in this, it's a gut. If Eisman's row with him was to make it look good for the shooting later on, which I think and you think, he must be. How's that for an angle?"

I tell him that it's maybe O. K. and we go. He's got to cash a check to pay our ticket. He's cleaned out as pretty as I am.

I FIGURE Farmer's got a good idea about Cullen but that I've got a better one. MacAndrews and Corte think we was seeing things when we saw Nigger Eisman but I know better. If Nigger had an alibi, and he's got a cast-iron one, somebody else didn't know he was going to have and was going to use him for the goat—whoever did the job. That's first-grade stuff. Also they wouldn't know he had blood all over the front of his coat unless they had seen him in the hour between the time of the beef with Cullen and the time of the heist. That's second-grade. Also Eisman wouldn't have picked a beef with Cullen unless he was in the dope some way. That's third-grade only it'd be eighth- if I could figure why he'd spot himself as a killer, and then back out on it.

The fourth-grade is a lot harder. I scout around a little that night and don't do any good and it's around three the next afternoon before I find out where Eisman lives... the Continental Hotel on South Main.

I beat it right down there and Eisman ain't in when I get there but comes in while I'm asking the clerk what room he's got. He sees me and starts to back out but he ain't got a chance because I see him at the same time he sees me. I grab him and say: "Le's go in your room and talk," and he stalls a little but we go back.

Just as soon as we get inside I shut the door and tell him to sit down and then I see he's higher'n a kite. He's got that dopey, screwy expression that shows it all over his face... a kind of silly grin that tells the score right down to runs, hits and errors.

"High, hunh!" I say; and he looks at me and grins and says: "Uh-huh."

I tell him that he's behind the eight ball and he tells me I'm crazy. Then he starts to tell me why I am. He's just so damn high he's got to brag to somebody and I'm there.

"You know Felix Ullman's place?" he says.

I do and I say so. Felix runs a cigar stand and is fronting for some bird that's making book in the back room of the spot. He goes on with: "Well, I was there yesterday about noon putting five on Jackie Horner's nose in the fourth at Caliente." He swears some here at somebody that touted Jackie Horner to him. "The dog thought he was the little lamb and the rest of the field was Mary. He'd have come in tenth except there was only nine horses running."

He's so dinged up that I figure it's better to let him go and not try to hurry him. I lost five myself on Jackie Horner to place and I know how he feels when it comes right down to it. He says: "While I was in there some guy comes over to me and says do I want to make fifty smackers. I say yes and he takes me over to one side and says it's mine if I pick a beef with George Cullen and let him take me." He kind of puffs up on this and explains that that's the only reason he lets George take him. In the shape he's in he even believes it.

"Who was this guy?" I say; and he says: "I don't know him but I've seen him in there once or twice before. He comes in there always with some other guy and this other guy calls him Oley."

I ask him what he looks like and he says: "He's about as tall as I am but he's got a big belly. He's bald as an egg on top of his head and just got a fringe around the edges and is light-complected." He goes on then with: "I tell him I'll do it and he says he'll pay me when I do. I back up on it then and he gives me twenty of it then and is going to give me the rest later."

"You think you'll get it?" I say.

"I know I will!" he says, and takes out a sweetheart of a stop watch that's worth half a grand of anybody's money. He shows it to me and explains: "He give this to me to hold and is going to meet me here with the other thirty at five today to get it out of soak." He nods his head at me as if that should show me what a smart dope he is.

I look at my watch and see it's ten to four. I say: "Where did you see him after you left the joint?" and he says: "In the cafeteria up the street from there. He and his friend were there waiting for me to see whether I did it or not. As soon as I talk to them I figure it's maybe a phony so I go up to the station and make myself an out. I guess I'm half smart."

I don't know whether he'll remember what he's told me when the marijuana wears off but I hope he does. I figure to ask him then how smart he is. He hasn't got any phone in his room and I figure that maybe the guy that did the job will take a chance and come in and pay off because they won't know I know anything about the set-up, and may figure that it's safer to pay Eisman so he'll keep his mouth shut. It'd be a sucker stunt but the whole thing's so screwy I figure it's a good bet.

"I'm going out," I say to Eisman. "Be right back."

He goggles at me and pulls out another reefer and grins at me and says: "I'll be right here when you get back."

He is....

I'VE gone to the lobby and telephoned. I get Mac and tell him to come on down if he wants to make the pinch and he says he will and I go back to the room. I knock on the door and Nigger don't say anything and I try the knob and it's locked. I pound some more thinking he's passed out. He was so damn high I don't think he can walk out and he didn't act like he wanted to take a powder on me.

About then my foot slips in something on the floor. I look down and see a dark spot that gets bigger while I look at it and right then I get the smell of fresh blood. There's no mistake if you ever smell it once. I get back against the wall across the hall and slam into the door with my shoulder, and this breaks the lock and I fall over Eisman.

He's laying on his back about a foot from the door when it's open, and somebody has fixed him up good. Really firstdass. There's a spot on his temple that means he got clouted there and then somebody's taken a knife and just ripped his neck open. This has cut the big artery and he's bled to death while he was knocked cold and this means plenty of blood.

For a minute it gets me. The phone booth's at the side of the lobby and all the time I telephoned Mac I kept watch, and I know nobody either went back or come out through the hall. I know it can't be suicide because marijuana smokers don't do the dutch hardly ever for one thing, and he wasn't even feding low for another, and what makes it murder for sure is that there's no knife. I look.

I sit down on the bed and tiy and figure it out, and here's a closet with the door standing open and that tells the story. Whoever did the killing was in the room when Nigger and I come down the hall, and he heard -us and hid there and heard Nigger tell the story of his life to me and figured that with Nigger dead things'd shape up better, and come out and smacked him when I left and made sure he was dead by cutting his throat. This makes it look like the bird that Nigger alibied for must be it, and it makes any chance of me tagging him at Ullman's no dice, because he's heard Nigger tell me about him hanging around there and'll give the place a miss from now on. The whole thing don't look so good.

I sit there and watch these puffy lips of Eisman's change color and think this all out before Mac comes. He sneaks down the hall and knocks real quiet and I whisper just loud enough so's he can hear it: "Come in!" He does, very quiet, looking at me instead of at his feet— and falls over the body and goes on his face.

Then he gets up and I say: "Meet the boy friend!" and I wave at Nigger.

He looks at him and says: "Did you have to—" then sees how his neck is chopped up and changes it to: "Who done it?"

I tell him that I don't know and this makes him sore and he says: "You was here, wasn't you?"

Mac's like that, flies off the handle easy. He says: "What was the idea in getting me in here and making me fall over it?" He waves at the body.

I say: "It was your own feet you fell over." It burns him up but he lets it slide. I tell him how it happened and that the guy locked the door after himself and must have gone out the back way and about what Nigger told me about this Oley, whoever he is.

"Ullman might know," Mac says then.

I say: "He might!" and Mac says: "He better."

He calls the morgue wagon and the print man and all the rest of the staff at the station and I beat it I know Ullman and I don't think Ullman's going to know a thing that he'll talk about. Mac could take some guy that didn't know the score too well down to the station and make him think up stories if he didn't know any, but this Ullman'II know what Mac can and can't do. He's got plenty of protection on his joint or he wouldn't be running the way he is, and a guy like that's got too many connections to get rough with just on a guess. As soon as Mac gets down to earth he'll figure the same way and I know it so I can't see any sense in wasting time sticking along with him.

I START right then on Fanner Sheats' hunch because it's all I got left, and make the rounds of the joints trying to find somebody that knows something about Cullen. The catch on this is everybody knew him and don't know anything about him. He was one of these birds that don't get up until the joints open and stays until they close and that don't seem to have any home. It takes me three days before I get a lead, but when I do I find out he's married and has got a kid and lives out in the Wilshire district which is a damn nice neighborhood.

I go out there and find his apartment and knock on the door and a little short dark woman comes to the door and I say: "Mrs. Cullen?"

She says she is and looks scared to death. I say: "I want to talk to you," and she says: "Won't you come in?"

I do. They got a pip of an apartment, the kind that rents for at least a hundred and fifty, and this is important money for a hustler to be paying for rent. She waves me to a chair and says in this scared way: "George isn't home, officer. I don't know where he is."

She's got me picked as a copper which is all right with me for a while. If I figure I can get more out of her by telling her I run a private agency there's always time. I never think about her maybe not knowing what the score is and say: "Why, didn't you know George was dead?"

"It's a hell of a thing to do but I don't think. She looks at me like she don't understand and says: "What did you say?" and then sees by my face that she's heard right. She looks at me for a minute and then says, "Oley!" as if to herself and starts to cry.

I let her go for a minute and think what a heel I am to tell her like that and she says, still crying: "George knew it. He knew it was going to happen."

I say: "He had a hunch?" and she says: "He told me we were going to move away from here because he was afraid of Oley."

I say: "Oley who?" and she says: "Oley Chrisman." She's really going to town with her crying and it's like talking to somebody who's answering questions they don't know is being asked 'em. Like somebody talking in their sleep. I say: "What made him think that?" and she says: "He and George quarreled something terrible the last time he was here. Oley's brother was quarreling with George too."

I say: "What about?"

She keeps on crying and mumbles:

"I don't know!" and I say: "George is dead, Mrs. Cullen. Anything you tell me may help me find the man that killed him." She cries harder than ever and says: "It was my fault. The whole thing was my fault. If I only hadn't asked George to quit."

"Quit what?" I say.

She looks up at me and says: "Kidnaping!"

I stare at her and she says: "George and Oley and his brother and a woman Oley said was his wife, only I don't think she was, were kidnaping people. I made George tell them he was going to stop it."

I've changed my mind about it being such a raw stunt telling her about her old man. If she had a chance to think it over she wouldn't be talking like this. She's lived with a hustler and if she wasn't about half nuts she'd clam up like one. I got her at just the right time.

"Did you ever hear any names?" I say.

She says: "I heard the name McClure once. And Sullivan. I heard that too. That was when they were all arguing, the night before George went away." She puts her head down on her hands and really goes to town again with her crying on this and I let her go because I got to have a minute to think.

For the last six months there's been talk around the joints about some snatch gang that works the big hotels for married men that want to party a bit. They let him meet some gal and seem to get over with her pretty well and when she takes him to her apartment they bust in and take him. The gal's supposed to be a respectable married woman just out for no good and the guy can't squawk on her account as well as his own. He'd have to admit being where he shouldn't. There's never been a beef come out yet because this bunch is smart enough to put the slug on easy— maybe five, never over ten grand— and give the sap plenty of time to raise it. A guy won't cry on a touch like that where he would if it was lots of money. I don't remember either the name McClure or Sullivan but I think of another way to check on it.

"How long have you lived here, Mrs. Cullen?" I say.

"About six months," she says. "We came from Kansas City. George got in some trouble there and...."

This fits fine. I can't see why George and his friends have a beef about him quitting though, so I say: "Why did you want him to stop?"

"This woman that was supposed to be Oley's wife," she says, "was always making eyes at George!" She breaks down here and starts in to cry good again and sobs out: "He got killed just because I was jealous of him."

I SMOOTH her down a little and wonder a guy that was as smart as this George Cullen must have been should have married a half-wit of a woman. He might have quit the other boys because she wanted him to but they didn't knock him off on account of that. I think of another way to check this kidnap yarn and ask her where the phone is and she points it out to me. I call the station and get Mac.

"Mac," I say, "did you ever hear of anyone named McClure and Sullivan?"

He speaks back real quick. He says: "McClure was picked up in a ditch last week but wasn't identified till this morning. Why?"

"I just wondered," I say. "What about Sullivan?"

He says: "Never heard the name. What about McClure? Why did you ask?"

I say: "Never mind. I'll tell you when I see you," and hang up the phone and go back to the woman. I ask her if she has any idea where this Oley Chrisman hangs out and she says she don't and then I figure I'll check on Nigger's description and I say: "He's blond, ain't he?"

"Why no," she says. "He's dark and he's got curly black hair parted in the middle. He's heavy." I ask her how tall and she shows me about five feet and a half high in the air.

I got another hunch now so I say: "You better get in touch with the law, Mrs. Cullen. I'm only a private detective!" And I get out while she stares at me.

I get down to the front of the apartment house and just as I step out on the street I hear a siren howl and along comes Mac and Tony Corte in a fast wagon. Mac sees me and climbs out and says: "What's this about McClure?"

His face is red and I can see he's so damn mad he can't hardly talk. It burns him up to think I'm holding out on anything he should have found out by himself. It takes me about ten minutes to tell him what the gal told me and then he says: "And you don't know where this Chrisman is?" and looks at me like he don't believe it.

I say: "I don't. There's two Oley Chrismans. One blond and bald-headed and the other dark and with black curly hair. As soon as I find more of them I'm going to put 'em with the Smiths in the phone book."

He says: "And you don't know where to find 'em, hunh?"

I say: "No. Believe it or not."

"For two cents," he says, "I'd stick around with you for a while." I give him a nickel and tell him that he owes me three cents and he says: "You mick! You hold out on me and you'll wish you hadn't."

I say: "Come along then."

He stares at me as mean as he can and says: "I know you're holding out on me. That's why I traced the telephone call."

"So what?" I say.

He says to Corte: "Come on, Tony. Le's go up and see what this woman's got to say."

They go into the apartment house and I head for a phone booth.

I start calling up hotels and make it on the fifth one. The Belvedere. A nice place. I say: "Have you had a Mr, Sullivan registered at your hotel in the last week or two that went away without his luggage?" I know that if anybody does a stunt like that it makes talk among the help.

The girl says: "Wait a minute!" and I wait and by and by she says: "Hello. Who is this speaking ?"

"Missing Persons," I say, which is taking an awful chance if the hotel has reported it to Missing Persons. But in a minute a man says: "This is Mr. Fields, the manager. You were asking about Mr. Arthur Sullivan?" I say: "Yes."

I hear him talk to somebody else and then he says: "Can you come down here? It's very important."

I've started something I don't know what to do with. Then I think that even if worse comes to worse and there's trouble I can always say they misunderstood on the Missing Persons gag and that I can't be stuck for impersonating an officer on that kind of proof so I start. There's something doing and I want to know what.

I GO into the lobby and ask for this Mr. Fields and he's left word for me because a bell-boy takes me to his office plenty quick. This Fields is a thin, worried-looking bird and he doesn't look too happy when he says: "You're from Missing Persons?"

"I'm John Carr!" I say, and let him take the Missing Persons thing for granted.

"This is Mr. Zeil," he says, and waves at a little dark Jewish-looking guy and I shake hands with him not knowing what it's all about. This Zeil says: "Mr. Fields and I had just decided to call you."

I sit down and say nothing and Fields says: "We didn't know what to do. We were just talking when your call came in."

I let Zeil tell the story and it's just what I thought it is. He and Sullivan run a real-estate office and a hotel in Santa Barbara and have quite a bit of property. Zeil gets a letter from Sullivan that tells him to dig up ten thousand in cash and to give this to a man that'll give him another letter from him. The pay-off is here at the Belvedere but Zeil gets thinking about it and don't believe the letter where it says it's for a business deal.

He explains: "We got spread out before the slump and are land poor. Sully'd know that I'd have a hard time to get the money and that we can't afford to go in to anything else."

He and Sullivan and this Fields have been friends for years and so he asks him about it and they just about decided it was a phony when I call. The baggage being left in the room is the tip-off to them, though they are sure that Sullivan wrote the letter.

I say: "Does it say when the man'll call for the money with the letter?"

Zeil gives me the letter and I see that he's supposed to wait at the hotel from Wednesday on and it's Friday now. I ask him about this and he says he's been waiting but the more he thought it over the more he thought he ought to do something. Then I tell them that I heard of a man named McGure who's just been found dead and Sullivan mentioned in the same way and ask 'em if they'll let me go on it my way, and we talk it over and finally decide what to do and how to do it, and Fields calls in the house dick and tells him he's to do what I tell him. Fields don't want any fuss in the hotel but I tell him that whether there is or not depends on how the play comes up and he has to stand for this.

The play comes up that same night and there's no fuss. I'm in Fields' office and I hear the buzzer on his desk tick three times which means that somebody asks the clerk for Zeil and I drift out easy into the lobby.

There's a short, runty-looking bird standing by the desk. By and by Zeil comes downstairs and he and this guy talk a minute and then the guy gives Zeil a letter. Zeil reads it and goes over to the clerk and asks for the envelope he's checked in the hotel safe, and the clerk gives it to him and he gives it to the guy and then I step in.

I don't make a move before because the guy has to get the money before the case is air-tight. I tip the wink to the house dick and step alongside this bird and say: "Easy, guy. It's a pinch."

Cullen has been shot and Nigger Eisman has been stabbed and this McGure has been killed some way I don't know about and I ain't taking any chances. I got a gun in my coat pocket and I got about three inches of the end of it into this guy's ribs when I speak.

He turns and looks at me and says, "What for?" just as easy as hell and I say: "It's only kidnaping now. It'll be murder on top of it by and by."

He says nothing to this but shoves his shoulders up like it's no never minds to him, and the house man and I take him out the back way so's not to tip anybody off that might be waiting for him. The whole thing goes so smooth that nobody even guesses there's been a pinch made and there's at least fifty people milling around the lobby. As soon as we get him out of sight we shake him down and don't even find a gun. He's got this envelope that Zeil gave him though, and he's got a letter addressed to Victor Chrisman and this is a break.

I load him into a cab and take him to the station and into the homicide room and say to Mac: "Here's one of the guys!"

Mac don't waste any time in getting into action. I don't even have time to tell him I know the answer to what he wants to know. He comes right over to the runt and says: "Where d'ya live?"

The guy gives him a snotty look and says, "You guess!" and Mac smacks him across the puss and the guy hits the floor so hard he bounces. He's out cold.

"He lives on Redondo," I say. "I just brought him up to park him and see if you want to make this pinch with me." I show Mac the letter, which is a bill from a radio company, and Mac says to another copper that's there, "When he comes to, put him away!" and to Corte, "Come on, Tony!" and we go.

THIS house on Redondo is in the third block up from where the street-car line ends on Washington. It's a nice neighborhood, all little houses but modern and most of 'em built this Spanish style. Mac coasts the police car into the curb a half block down from the house and I say to him: "This is going to be tough."

He grunts and gets out and says, "Why?" and I say: "Because this guy is plenty tough and there's this poor devil of a Sullivan in there with him. We got to call our shots."

He grunts again and pays no attention and says to Corte: "You take the back, Tony. Carr and I'll go in the front way." He's sore as hell because he thinks I'm trying to tell him what to do and just starts out with his head down and never a thought in it, and I got to tag along or lose my place.

He gives Corte barely enough time to get to the back and pulls up on the front porch and pushes the doorbell. There's nothing happens for a minute, but from where I'm standing back of him I think I see a shade on one of the front windows flicker. There's no light showing any place in the house and Mac keeps his finger on the bell and half turns to me and says : "I guess we're too—"

He gets that far and the front door opens and somebody reaches out and clouts him on the side of the head. Mac don't even see what hits him. There's a street light on the corner but the porch is so dark I just get the flash of the gun the guy uses to clout with as it comes down and I'm looking right at it.

Mac goes down like it was an ax he was hit with instead of a gun and I go through the door in a dive at about where the guy's knees should be, figuring that if he's going to shoot I can maybe upset him before he does.

He don't shoot but hits down at me as I come in. He misses my head and just hits me on the back and this don't bother me none. What does bother me is that I miss his knees and sprawl out there on the floor and can't see or hear a thing. I'm afraid to move. The door is either on a spring or he gave it a pull as he dodges back because it's closed now.

I lay there on my belly and listen and all of a sudden I hear a grunt and he smacks down with the gun again, but it lands on my shoulder instead of my head which is a break again.

It's the last one I get. This bird acts like he can see in the dark. I'm stretched out there and I got a gun in my right hand and all of a sudden he piles on top of me and gets my right wrist in two hands and puts on a wristlock that's a honey. I got to drop the gun to break it and I do this, and he changes it into a hammerlock but don't get a chance to put on any pressure because I get my head down and roll ahead. We're all tangled up with him still holding my wrist with both his hands and I shout, "Corte!" just as loud as I can, and smack whoever's got me with my left— but I can't get any weight behind it because he's holding me off balance.

This is the first he knows there's anybody in the play but Mac and me. He puts a twist on my wrist and puts me down to my knees and then he must remember that I've dropped the gun I had, because he lifts me up and changes his hold into a whip wristlock and pitches me over against the wall. I land sitting down.

This is a mistake but I can see how he makes it. He's got his gun and thinks I ain't I've lost one but I got another one and I yank it out. I got to hold it in my left hand because my right's still numb, but at that I figure it's even.

I hear Tony Corte pounding away at the back door and have got time to try and figure what in hell's holding him back before this bird makes a move. When he does I know he can see in the dark. I'm just sitting there, afraid to move because he could hear me, and he shoots and I hear the slug chunk into the wall right by my head.

The flash of the gun is heading right at me and it about half blinds me, but I shoot right at it once and then once to each side and about a foot away from it. While I shoot I get up to my knees and the minute I'm done I throw myself as far to the side as I can, hoping he won't be able to hear it above the bang of the gun. But I get another bad break.

I land into a chair and the damn thing skids across the floor generating plenty of noise, and he turns loose again. I feel a kind of jar in my left shoulder and high up but it don't seem to hurt at the time. I shoot twice back and move about five feet to one side and this time I manage not to run into anything.

I hear a kind of thud and then a little scramble, but I'm afraid to try for it. I only got one shell left in my gun and I can't waste it. I can hear Corte pounding away on the back door and it sounds like he's got something to pound with finally.

I hear a kind of groan and then I think I hear something move on the floor. Just then Corte smashes through the back door and comes in through the kitchen and the damn fool's got a flashlight in his hand, and as he comes into the front room he turns it full on me!

I DUCK and the guy on the floor shoots but Corte has kept on swinging his light and just as the guy shoots the light hits him. He's on his knees and right in front of a door. Corte and I shoot at the same time and he goes backwards through the door. Corte starts after him and I say: "Hold it. Turn on the light first."

He uses the flash some more and finds the light switch by the front door and turns it on. Just then Mac starts to pound on the outside and he lets him in. We all three look, and see a pair of feet sticking out this other door. I pick up my gun that's still got shells in it and then we move sideways until we can see what belongs to the feet, and here's the guy laying on his back and all shot to hell. He's deader than last Christmas's goose.

We hear another noise in the room beyond and ease in there, and here's a guy on the bed with tape across his pan and both his hands and his feet tied with more of it. We cut him loose and pull the tape from his puss taking a bunch of whiskers along with it, and he looks at us and sees he's on the right side once again and passes out. Corte goes in the bathroom and gets some water and throws it on him, and we find a bottle of bum rye in the kitchen and give him a slug of that. He comes out of it far enough to even watch us shake the stiff down.

We figure right away the blond bald head and the black curly hair angle. He's in his curly hair make-up when we come in and when he fell his toupee fell off and shows his egg head. He's a little short guy but built as solid as a Shetland pony, and I'll be damned if I see how I made out with him as good as I did. If I hadn't been scared to death it'd just been too bad.

He's got one hole in his head and along the edge of the blood the dark stain he's put on his face has run. That makes the dark complexion the woman said he had. He's got another hole right center on his wishbone and there's two more besides this in him, one low and to the right in his side and another just ticking his left arm. I figure that Corte and I made the two center shots when the light was on him and the other two was what I was doing in the dark.

We look at my own shoulder and the slug's made a little groove about half an inch deep right on top. It don't hurt any until I look at it and then it hurts like hell because I think about it. It's bleeding some and there's some cotton in the bathroom and we put some of this on it and tape it there. Then Corte goes out front to where all the neighborhood is flocked in the street and borrows a phone and calls the morgue wagon.

We load Sullivan in the car when the morgue wagon and medical examiner get there, and take him hack to the station and sit him down in the homicide room. He tells us that the reason George Cullen falls out with his Swede pals was because after this guy McClure paid off they killed him and Cullen wouldn't go for that. This makes more sense than his wife's yarn about quitting because of her being jealous of him, though he probably told her that to keep peace in the family. McClure was still there the first day Sullivan was brought in and he knows Me Clure paid off and hears Chrisman and his brother tell Cullen they were afraid McClure would squawk.

We get a description of the woman, Chrisman's wife, from Sullivan and Mac puts out a pick-up for her, though it prohably won't ever do any good. Then we go to Chrisman's cell and tell him we got Brother put away on ice and that all he's got to do is sign the complaint; and I'll be damned if he don't look stubborn and say: "I'd really rather not."

We tell him we know what the score is and can prove it's a blackmail proposition along with the snatch and all that, but he says that he could never make his wife see that and so he'd rather not.

Mac's just about ready to blow his cork on that, because he ain't got any proof on the McClure killing without it, and the kidnap rap won't stick either unless Sullivan beefs, but I get an idea. I go back to Sullivan.

I say: "Did you have a stop watch?"

We've searched the stiff but he didn't have any watch on him. This Sullivan says: "Why no, but McClure did. I saw it and heard Chrisman and his brother talking about it. The brother you got in jail got it."

I say: "If we find that watch and ask you to testify to this will you do it? The gal angle won't come into it if you're only a witness like that."

He thinks a minute and says he will if we'll keep him in the clear and then he says: "But what's the watch got to do with it?"

Even Mac don't get it and I've told him where I saw the watch. So I explain: "If it can be proved that the brother we got in jail had it instead of the brother we killed, I say, "This brother can be stuck for the Nigger Eisman killing. It don't make any difference who he's charged with killing as long as it sticks. He can only hang once."

Mac says: "We never took time to look but they'd shake him down before they'd put him away. It'll be on his property slip if he's got it. It'll be his neck if he has."

He rings a buzzer and when the clerk comes in he says: "Get me this fella Chrisman's property slip."

The clerk goes out and Mac says to me: "If he's only got it!" and then the derk comes back with the slip.

We look and he has. Also he's got seventeen hundred and fifty that I get, which makes the difference between dice and no dice to me. Where Chrisman goes he ain't got no use for money.

________________

5: Ticket to Death

As by "John Ryan"

Private Detective Stories  Aug 1944

IF ANYBODY had told me that when I went to Florida I'd get mixed up with the F.B.I. and with black market stuff, I'd have told them they were crazy.

And if I'd believed them, I'd have stayed home. If for no other reason than that the Federal boys don't need outside help from me or from anybody else.

But I got mixed up with it—I certainly did.

It started innocently enough. I'd bought a round-trip ticket to Florida with thirty-day stop-over privileges. It was entirely a vacation—I hadn't even taken a gun along. For that matter I had no license to practice in Florida and no reason to think I'd need one.

I stayed two weeks, lying around on the beach in the sun during the days and spending the evenings in the cocktail bars. And during the season Florida has plenty of the last. Then I decided I had a thick enough coat of tan and that I was getting a little bored with it all. New York's got cocktail bars, also, and that loafing was getting me down. So I went to the railroad station and started to turn my last half of the round-trip ticket in on a reservation.

I'd heard stories but I hadn't believed them. I'd bought a ticket and I couldn't see a reason in the world why it shouldn't be honored. But they gave me a reason then and there.

No space. All trains crowded. No chance for a reservation for at least two weeks, and no promise made for then.

The ticket man was nice enough about it. In fact he was so nice I decided he was laughing up his sleeve at me and I got huffy.

I said: "Now look, mister! You people took my money for this ticket. That's right, isn't it?"

He said that was right.

"Then I'm entitled to accommodations. What am I paying for?"

"I've explained it, Mr. Ryan," he said, very patiently. "We just haven't the space. You'll have to take your turn, that's all. Now if you'd made your reservation when you first came down, we might possibly have had something saved for you. But you didn't and you'll just have to take your turn."

"I've got a business to look after. At least I had a business—if I spend any more time down here I won't have any left."

"I'm sorry. I really am. It's better for you in that you're your own boss. We have a good many people in here on vacations that are going to lose their jobs for overstaying their time. You're actually lucky."

I BLEW up. I said I was going to sue the railroad and he told me to go right ahead. That he heard that fifty times a day or more. I said it was a crooked way of doing business and he said that the court might agree with me but that it hadn't agreed with the people that had actually sued. I ended up by telling him I wanted a reservation just as soon as I could get one and told him where I was staying and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as he could get me a thing and he promised to do that.

And I left his window thinking he'd do no such thing and that I'd haunt him every day from then on.

I got thee proposition before I got to the door.

A shabby-looking little man sidled up to me and said: "Hey, mister! I heard you talking."

"Probably everybody inside of two blocks did," I told him.

"You want to go to New York?"

"I hope to tell you."

"Can you wait three days, say?"

"I want to go right now."

"That'll cost you more, mister. Twenty bucks more. Now if you wait three days it'll only cost you thirty bucks. But on tonight's train it'll cost you fifty. I only got one for tonight left and I'm holding it for fifty."

"What is this?"

"Well, if a guy wants to get out of here in a hurry, it's only right that he pays for it."

A black market on tickets was a new one on me but I didn't like it better than any other kind of black market deal.

I said: "Get the hell away from me you little —— or I'll break your-neck."

"Jeese, mister! I was only trying to give you a hand."

I cuffed him, not hard. Just with the back of my hand. He scuttled away, holding his cheek and I looked back in time to see the ticket clerk grinning at me.

I was wise to the setup right then.

I STOPPED at my hotel desk to tell them I wouldn't be checking out that night as I said I would be. And, just making conversation, I told the clerk just why.

He gave me the regular hotel clerk stock grin and said: "Why I can fix you up on that, Mr. Ryan. Of course there's a small premium concerned. But I know when a man has to get back to attend his business, money doesn't make a great deal of difference to him."

"You can fix me up or is it the hotel that does the fixing?"

"The hotel has nothing to do with it, though we like to think it's part of the hotel service. It really is, we think. It pleases the guests, and a hotel cannot operate unless the guests are happy."

"You said we?"

"Oh yes! Practically everyone in the hotel could help you, with the possible exception of some of the maids. They—uh—can't finance it, let us say."

I said: "Well I'll be damned."

"You tell me which train you want a reservation on and I'll do the rest. That's all."

"I'll let you know," I said, and went into the bar that opened from the lobby. And there I let it be known that I was open to a proposition and got one both from the waiter and from the bar man.

By this time I was getting ideas and wasn't happy with them. I took a cab from die hotel to a night spot at the edge of town and got offered transportation from the cabby. All I had to do was complain about how hard it was to get back to New York. At the spot I got offered the same thing from the waiter, the bar man, and the manager.

I could see the idea had possibilities I hadn't realized. None of these people, other than those in the hotel even knew me. The cabby had taken me from there and assumed I was a guest. It was a high-priced place and he imagined I was a high-priced guy, that was all. At die night spot I spent money, and that was all it took. Possibly I'd mentioned the name of my hotel—I don't remember—but they hadn't even bothered to check on me. I knew they hadn't because they didn't even know my name and couldn't.

There had to be somebody at the head of it, that was a cinch, and I wanted to find who it was. And for two reasons. There'd be money in it for me some way or another and I didn't like the idea of a black market in tickets.

I DIDN'T think it would take too much work to locate the head of the thing, either, and that's where I was wrong. A mile wrong. It wouldn't be that little people like those that had been propositioning me could finance the thing. Tickets and Pullman reservations to the average place up North would be around a hundred dollars. Each of those people would either have to have a small fortune invested in them, to take care of the customers they were hustling, or would have to get them from a central agency. And it's the rare hotel clerk, waiter, and cabby who's got a thousand dollars or better to put into a gamble like that— the gamble of finding a customer and against the law as well.

That meant the central agency idea as the logical answer— and that meant a tie-up with the railroad ticket offices.

I hadn't tried it but I had a notion the busses would be in the deal as well. They had the same transportation problem on their hands—not enough seats for too many customers, and there'd be the same chance of racketeering from the people who had to get home in a hurry on them.

It was big business with a capital B.

Of course I didn't know at the time that I was stepping on F.B.I. toes, and I don't know whether, at that stage of the game, I'd have stepped down or not.

When a man gets sore, he gets pig-headed, and I was sore. I've never been played for a patsy yet and liked it— and that's what they figured me for.

I was past being sore— I was red-headed.

THE first cagy play I ran into was from the same ticket seller I'd talked with. I bounced into the ticket office early, figuring to catch him before the rush started, but that was a joke. He was as busy as a little bee, even at eight-thirty in the morning, and I had to wait my turn.

He didn't even remember me, or pretended not to. He didn't even blink when I gave him my name and reminded him that I'd talked with him just the day before.

He said wearily: "Look, mister, I'm talking with several hundred people a day, all wanting just what you want. How can I remember one of the bunch?"

I was being sweetness and light. I said: "I just came in, mister, to say that I was sorry about losing my temper yesterday. It wasn't any fault of yours that you couldn't give me reservations."

"I can't give 'em if I haven't got 'em." "Of course not. I was wondering." Here I lowered my voice. "I was wondering if maybe there wasn't some way of working it by paying a little extra."

"Not from me there's a way of working it. I sell what they give me, mister. I didn't even bootleg during Prohibition."

"It was just an idea."

He said: "Look, pal! Just open your eyes. Just ask at your hotel. Just ask a hack driver. Just ask at any joint where people spend any kind of dough. Don't be a chump— just open up your big blue eyes. But don't ask me. I just work here for the railroad."

I said: "Thanks for the tip," and left the window.

And, so help me, if I hadn't remembered the grin he'd given me the afternoon before, when I'd cuffed the booster that had been the first to try to peddle me a high-priced ticket, I might have believed the guy was on the square.

A private cop soon learns how to tail a man, and that's what I decided to do. And I picked my hotel clerk as the man to tail and wasted five days tagging him back and forth before I realized I was wasting my time doing it.

And also realized I was up against smart people.

I followed the dope to the room he had in a private house each day after work. Then I'd tag him to a cheap restaurant for his dinner. I'd follow him then to a picture show—the guy was a movie fan. He'd leave the show and stop in one certain bar for one beer on his way home.

That would be the nightly routine.

I'd pick him up the following morning and see him stop in the same restaurant for breakfast and then go to the hotel. He had his lunch there—I took it the hotel furnished lunches because no hotel clerk could afford the price that scatter charged for them.

And that was the routine, day in, day out, for the three days I watched him.

THE third day I caught wise. I saw a messenger boy come in and hand him a manila envelope and he slipped it into his own pocket instead of putting it up in the rack for some guest. He was doing his business by telephone, that was all— he was having no contact with his money man at all.

I aught the boy just as he was getting on his bike in front of the hotel. A little kid, not over fourteen. I gave him a flash of the deputy's badge I've got, not letting him look at it long enough to see what it really was, and pocketed it in a hurry.

I said: "Around the corner, sonny, and wait for me. I don't want to talk to you here."

He said: "Golly! A G-man."

I didn't tell him different. I kept on going across the street beause I was in full sight of the desk, and I went in the drug store there and through it and out the side door.

And then around the block to where the kid was standing by his bike, waiting for me. The kid was actually shaking with excitement.

He said: "Golly, mister, anybody'd look at you and think you was just another tourist."

"That's my disguise," I told him. "Now about that envelope you just delivered. What about it?"

"You mean to that dopey clerk? The one that just gimme a dime tip?"

"That's the one. Where'd you pick up the envelope to deliver?"

"A man gimme it on the street and told me where to take it."

"That the first time that's happened?"

"Golly no! Only it's always a different man that gives me the envelopes. Sometimes I get four or five to take around. The guy always tips, too, mister— it don't make no difference which one it is."

"Where d'ya take these envelopes?"

"Twice I've took one of them to that dopey clerk. The rest of them to different joints around town. The guy always gives me a list that's all written out on a typewriter."

"You got any of the envelopes left?"

"Golly, mister, I'm sorry. I always leave that dopey clerk for the last delivery beause he don't ever put out more than a dime."

"Got the list yet?"

"Sure, mister."

He hunted through his pockets and finally brought out a grimy slip of paper that had five names written on it. The clerk's name it turned out was Harry Grimes, and it had the hotel's name following it. Each of the other four names had the name of some hot spot after it.

I said: "I'll keep this."

"Sure, mister."

HE GOT a four-bit piece for it and I went back to the hotel. And I got back in time to see Harry Grimes in the very act of passing an envelope to some old sister I'd noticed hanging around the desk several times. I couldn't say for sure, of course, that the envelope he gave her held a railroad ticket with a Pullman reservation to match, but I'd have given nice odds that it did.

That ended my dealings with the clerk. I couldn't see any percentage in working on him at the time, though I thought I might do just that later.

He was the kind of guy that would tell everything he knew to anybody that was bigger and a little tougher than he was and was willing to prove it.

And for that very reason I didn't think he'd know enough to help me much. Whoever he was working for would think the same as I did—and wouldn't trust the guy as far as he could kick him.

I TOOK a day to think it over and spent it in the various cocktail bars that had been mentioned in the list I'd taken from the messenger boy. And I didn't see a thing wrong and I didn't get a proposition.

I didn't drop a hint that I was having trouble getting a reservation out of town, which may have had something to do with that, though.

Whether it was the drinks that I'd taken or what I'll never know. Or maybe it was beause the answer was staring me in the face all the time.

I went down to the Western Union office and looked"' around for my particular messenger kid. I had to wait awhile for him — those kids are busier than little bees these days—but he came in and I got him to the side.

"Any more of those delivery things, sonny?" I asked him.

"Twice today, mister. I was sort of looking for you."

"Any yesterday?"

"Sure, mister. Just once though."

"The day before?"

"I get 'em every day. I get a buck, too, from the guy that gives me the envelopes to deliver. And mostly I get a quarter from the people I take 'em to."

"Any more for the hotel clerk?"

"One today. That's all. That's the first time since the time you saw me give him that one."

"How about the other kids? They get them to deliver, too?"

"Sure. We make more money out of them envelopes than we do out of anything else except maybe some guy that's awful drunk. Once in a while a drunk kicks loose with a five-spot."

I said: "I'm going to sort of keep an eye on you, sonny. But you'll have to play it smart. You'll have to act like you don't know I'm watching you. Think you can do that?"

"Sure. Golly! Anytime I get to help a G-man I'll do most anything. You know, mister, you're the first one I ever seen."

"Okay then. And there'll be ten bucks in it for you if I can pick up the guy that hands you the next batch of envelopes."

"Golly!"

"So don't stick 'em in your pocket so quick I won't get a chance to see them passed. And another thing. I'll probably in a car. So you don't do any fancy bike riding. Keep to your side of the street and obey traffic rules."

"Look, mister. The guy, or whichever guy it is, always calls in and tells them to send a boy to wherever he wants to meet us. I could tell you right where it'd be. How'd that be, better?"

I said: "Sonny, you've earned five bucks for yourself already."

And anytime I lay out five bucks when I can't put it on an expense account, I'm getting my money's worth for sure.

I HIRED a U-Drive-It coupe early the next morning and parked it by the Western Union office. And I went in and talked turkey to the manager, who was as impressed by my deputy sheriff's badge as the kid had been. A badge like that is something no private cop should be without— though a man can get in a lot of trouble with one if he shows it to the wrong people.

The call came just before noon and the kid came out and said: "It's to be at the corner of Ponce De Leon and Hibiscus. That's two blocks up and four over. Can you find it?"

I said: "Sure. Give me time to get there, that's all."

He grinned and said: "I don't hurry much any place, mister. Golly! Are you going to pinch the guy, right there?"

"I am not."

He looked so sorry about it that I explained. "I'm going to follow him and try and catch his gang. Get the idea?"

"Oh, sure! Golly! You just watch." I drove to the corner he'd told me and parked a hundred feet past it. I was taking a chance on being hung up—the guy might have a car and drive it off the other way— but I couldn't stand right by that corner and expect any action. As it was, the kid rode his bike to the corner and then had to wait for at least five minutes—and he was more nervous than I was, if the way he fidgeted around was any sign.

Then a big blond man came up from Hibiscus and to the kid. A young fellow, probably twenty-eight or around that, and looking like a professional football player on vacation. He talked with the kid a minute and then handed him a half dozen envelopes and what I could see even at that distance was a list to go with them. And the kid gave me plenty of time to see what he was given and to spot my man. Then the kid got on his bike and started away and I put my foot on the starter and got the motor going.

And then a little thin man opened the door on the side away from me and showed me the gun he held.

He said: "Okay, snoop! You asked for this."

I LOOKED at the little man and at the gun and then up the street to where the blond man had been standing. He was already halfway to where I was parked, coming right to the car. He was grinning but it was a mean grin— he wasn't smiling at any joke.

The little man said: "You heeled?"

It was the first time I'd thought of that. I somehow hadn't connected selling tickets for a premium with gun play.

I said: "Lord, no! Why should I be?"

"Federal?"

"Again no."

"Just what?"

"Private cop. That's all."

The blond man was with us then. He opened the door on my side of the car so that I was between them. He said coldly:,

"I'll ask him the questions, Tony."

Tony said: "Why, sure, Duke. He tells me he ain't heeled but maybe it'd be better if I made sure."

"Maybe it would," said Duke.

I could see I wasn't going to like this Duke one bit. He had a smooth soft voice, rather deep, and it should have been a pleasant voice. Instead of that, though, it grated on me like a wet finger on glass. Tony reached in and patted me under the arms and Duke did the same for my hip pockets.

Duke said then: "Mister Man, you're an awful chump. Didn't you think I'd be watching that Western Union place to make sure the kid wasn't spilling his guts to some cheap copper like you? That's why I had him meet me some place close like that. So I could tag along behind him and make sure he wasn't leading somebody to me. You don't use your head or you wouldn't have walked in on it like that. Move over."

I said: "Hunh!"

He had thirty pounds or more on me and he was one of the strongest guys I'd ever seen. He just shoved me out from under that wheel like I was a kid.

"I'll drive," he said. "Get in, Tony. Keep that gun in his ribs. If he squawks, why, turn it loose."

I said: "You got me wrong, fella. I'm a private cop, that's all. I ran onto this game and wanted a piece of it. Anything as big as this can always make a place for one more."

He started the motor and put the car in gear before he spoke. He said: "Personally, I think you're Federal. But that's something I'll soon know."

Tony said helpfully: "I asked him that, Duke. He says no. He's a private eye. It could be he's telling the truth— I never seen a snoop yet that wouldn't sell his own mother out for a cup of coffee."

"Shut up," said Duke.

"I was just saying."

"Shut up."

THAT was the last word Tony said until Duke stopped the car, not more than ten minutes later. And he stopped the car in front of a place that, knowing rents during the season, I knew was costing somebody fifteen hundred or up, a month.

And then he only said: "Last stop on the line!"

I got out without being told but Duke had his fingers around my elbow with a finger in the armpit, and the finger was pressing in solidly. If you know the place to press, it hurts like the very devil and half paralyzes your arm— and he knew the place to press.

He said: "This is it, Mister Man. Just walk in like a little man."

I said: "Sure. Why not?"

"I'll give you something to think about, you copper—" he said, not raising his voice and not even changing the tone of it. "You'll walk in but you won't walk out."

I walked—but I began to think that I was really walking into a bad bad spot.

THE house was a honey but I was in no mood to enjoy it. I had a gun pressing in my right kidney and I had that big hulk of a Duke practically tearing my arm off at the elbow joint. They walked me into the place, with me going along like Mary's little lamb and through the first door to the right, off the big hall the front door opened on.

The door led into a room big enough to have two fireplaces and carry the effect, but it was dressed up like a business office and was being run like one. Filing cases around the walls—four adding machines and a couple of bookkeeping machines as well as six typewriters and six girls running them. At the far wall were a row of desks with half a dozen men back of them and all working. One kid, not over fourteen, was running one of the adding machines, and there was a sour-looking bird that looked like a chief clerk in a bank running one of the bookkeeping machines.

It looked like a very busy outside office in a very busy manufacturing plant.

Duke said to the one that looked like a dhief clerk: "Sammy in?"

The clerk said: "You dumb ——! Where would he be?"

Duke pinched my arm a little harder and we moved through the room and through a side door.

And there was Sammy.

Sammy was short and very fat and he looked like a cheap race track tout. And he was dressed like one— or over-dressed like one. But after you took one look at his eyes, you got over that cheap tout thought and fast. They were as cold as ice and had as much expression in them as two glass marbles.

He was sitting in a wide leather chair with what looked to be a Collins on the table by his side, but he wasn't alone. Across from him, but in a slightly smaller chair sat another man just as short as Sammy, but not fat. As big around but every inch of it muscle.

This last one winked at me and said: "Hiya, pal."

Sammy asked Duke: "This the guy?" and Duke started to Show how smart he was.

He began: "I watched the kid go out of Western Union and he stopped and told this lug his story. The lug starts the car and the kid stalls with his bicycle and finally gets going and I follow. Then when I get to where I'm to meet him I see the lug staking the spot. So I see I'm right and I give Tony the office and that's all there is."

Sammy said: "Don't run off at the mouth, Duke. It don't get you no place at all. The guy'll tell me—you don't have to."

"I just...."

"Get the hell out," Sammy told him. "You too, Tony."

THE short man across from Sammy took a Luger from the cushion of his chair, where it had been resting alongside his leg and hefted it as though he liked the weight.

He said: "Yeah, Duke! I'll take care of Sonny Boy! Even if I got to hold him on my knee—and paddle him."

Duke and Tony went out, with Duke giving the Luger man a look that said he didn't like him one damned bit.

And Sammy said to me: "All right, fella. What d'ya know? You Federal or what?"

"I'm a private eye, that's all. I got jerry to what was going on and thought I could maybe ride along with you boys and pick up a buck or two or three. That's all."

"Got anything to prove it?"

"Sure."

"Show me."

I handed him my wallet and what it held. My private license, permit to carry a gun, a courtesy card from the New York Commissioner—something that's damned hard to get—my draft registration and classification card, and some more stuff like that. Such as driver's license, insurance identification, and a few of my own cards as well as a few that had been given me. I even had both Western Union and Standard Oil courtesy cards in the thing.

He said: "I guess he's who he says he is, Truck," to the Luger man. And with no change in his voice:

"And he's probably F.B.I. besides."

I said: "Nuts. Your boys will tell you I wasn't even ironed. I was down here on a vacation and didn't even bring a gun along. If I was F.B.I. I'd be loaded, wouldn't I?"

"Not if you was making a play to get in my place, you wouldn't," Sam said thoughtfully. "You'd have played it just like you did. Let yourself be gathered in, thinking you'd be let out. What you think, Truck?"

I was between the two almost, within five feet of both but slightly in front of them. Just where I'd stopped when I'd handed Sammy my wallet. And I had a feeling that what Truck would say would decide the thing.

And Truck said: "I hate to do this, pal, but I been asked and a man that's asked has got to answer. Sammy, this guy is a stooge. If he ain't Federal, he's stooging for 'em some way."

I went for his gun right then. I didn't have to stop and think— I'd already planned it. I went into him head first, aiming my head at his big belly like a billy goat at a tree, and I got his gun hand with both hands just as I hit him.

If he'd been expecting it, I never could have done it. He'd have tightened up his belly muscles and my head would have done him no harm, and he'd have grabbed that Luger back against him and plugged me as I landed.

But I caught him cold. I got the gun with just one twist, but he'd fired twice with it by that time. It was at my side and away from me though and the slugs from it missed me a foot and more. I got the gun and then I slugged him with it, smacking him on the side of the jaw and leaning on it. I could hear it break and feel it break beneath the gun barrel.

Then I got away from him and swung toward Sammy, expecting him to be getting into action, but he was just sitting there. He had both hands on his fat belly and the most astonished look on his face that I ever saw on a man. He was wearing a very light gray suit—that is, gray with green plaid checks for a pattern, and under it he had an almost white silk shirt. Oyster white I think it's called. He had his hands across the front of this shirt and even as I looked at him, I could see the shirt redden under his hands.

I said: "The boy friend clipped you, eh?''

Then the side door opened and Duke and Tony came steaming in.

I'd shot a Luger but not for a good many years. I never liked the gun. I've heard good things about its balance but I could never see it. And I liked them less right then.

DUKE saw I was in control, rather than it being the other way and shot at me when he wasn't more than ten feet inside the room. He missed, but he didn't miss Sammy. I heard the bullet chunk into him, and even in that second I remember thinking that Sammy was getting all the worst
of it from his own side.

I shot back at Duke, but I missed in turn. The Luger seemed to go soft in my hand some way—it just didn't shoot like a gun.

Sam tried again and burned me alongside the leg. That time I got him, but it was an accident. I'd aimed at his belly and that damned gun shot high and caught him in the throat.

Tony had a gun out in sight but he hadn't used it. He turned and started for the door and I had to shoot twice at him before I hit him. Of course I was shooting for his legs, trying to cripple him, so that can be explained.

My leg was burning but it didn't even make me limp. I got to that side door and turned the Luger back and forth and tried to sound a lot braver than I felt.

I said: "You people just hold tight. You over by that phone. Get on it and ask for the cops. Jump now, damn it."

He jumped.

And then so did I. Because the door into the hall slammed open and about a dozen men came pouring in, with the guy that sold tickets at the railroad office in the lead. He was carrying a gun and ready to use it and I figured it was curtains for Mrs. Ryan's little boy. I swung the gun toward him though, thinking it was better to go out trying, and then he spoke.

He said: "Drop that, you fool! This is a Government pinch."

THE F.B.I. ticket seller's name was Ramsey, and he was so damned sore at me he wouldn't even talk to me for half an hour. He just went ahead and cleaned up the place— and I sat in Sammy's office and worked on a bottle of Scotch I just stumbled onto.

Finally Ramsey got things under way and came over and sat down by me.

He said: "Well, Mr. Ryan! You certainly raised hell and tied it up with a nice strong cord. You blew this up for me— I get half a dozen men and five times that get away. D'ya realize this racket is running all over the state? D'ya realize that man, Sammy Helziner was making as much money as the mint does out of it? D'ya realize I'd have picked up everybody and cleaned the thing up right if you hadn't butted in? I ought to charge you with interfering with an officer in pursuit of his duty."

I said: "How the hell did I know you were working on it? Nobody told me. If I was in your way, why didn't you warn me off? To hell with you. The guy's dead. Two of his own men shot him. Without him this racket will fold up and you know it. Let the papers have it that the G-men killed off the head of the gang, and the cheap pushers, the guys and gals that have been peddling the tickets, will run like rabbits. It died with him and you know it."

"Well, maybe."

"Why didn't you stop me if I was in your way?"

"I had a tag on you, Ryan. I got the dope on you from the city. I decided then that you weren't trying to cut yourself in on it. I thought you might blunder into something, that was all."

"I sure as hell did, too."

He laughed then. He said: "I've had a man right behind you ever since you first came in the office and slapped that pusher's face. He even tagged you out here— that's how I knew where to come. I was planted outside, when you started the shooting."

"It was the one named Truck that started that."

"Why argue?"

"No argument. Look, Ramsey! Will you answer me just one question?"

"Maybe."

"Now look! I know you've been trying to break this mess up—that you knew there was this black market in tickets going on. Sure, I know that. I know you took that ticket agent job so you could sort of keep an eye on things. That through that you could catch the railroad people who were working the tickets out to be sold that way. That right?"

"Why, yes, of course. I'll have half a dozen railroad men in Federal prison in three months, and it would surprise you if you knew how high up some of them are."

"It would surprise me if they were small fry. This was a big deal and took big men in the railroad business to swing their end of it. Okay! So far, so good. I know you had a hell of a lot of the pushers spotted, Guys like my hotel clerk and the cabbies and people like that that did the actual selling."

"A lot of them, yes."

"Now here's the question? Did you know who was back of it? Did you know about Sammy Helziner, if that was his name, be ing the guy behind it? Did you know he was running the thing and did you know this house was his headquarters? That's the question."

He said: "You win the sixty-four dollars Ryan. I didn't know. I was trying to find out and had been for the last month. That was all I was waiting for, just to find out who the head man was and whete he was located. Satisfied?"

"You bet."

"Now, I'll ask one. What were you in it for?'

I thought of telling him I was in it because I hated black markets but I decided that would sound too foolish.

I said: "For what I could get out of it, of course. With that much money around, I thought I could catch a little piece of it for my very own self."

"And have you?"

I said: "Nuts! I'll even have to pay the doctor to patch up my damned leg where it's creased. I'm out my expenses even. I didn't even break even on the mess."

He laughed and I didn't blame him.

__________________

6: Black Murder

Private Detective Stories Aug 1944

1: Mr. Larkin

IT WAS tough to have to close, but I just couldn't keep in stock. I'd built up the business on good whiskey and the rest of the hard liquor, and the stuff wasn't for sale any more. I could get plenty of beer, all right, but there's no profit in that— and the allotment the whiskey dealers allowed me just would not carry my trade.

My lease was up and I wasn't renewing, and I was feeling pretty bad about the whole thing.

It was like that when Amos Larkin came in. Just like he did on the average of twice day and like he had for years.

He said: "Just time for a quick one, Danny. I'm on my way to a committee meeting on the Red Cross drive."

The guy spent more time on various relief committees than he did on his own business. He was some sort of broker, wheat I think. Anyway he had a seat on the exchange and I'd heard him and a couple of his pals talk about May wheat, whatever that means.

It was one of the reasons I'd always liked him— that giving his time to charity, when his time must have been so valuable to himself.

I gave him his usual Scotch and plain water chaser and rang his half dollar up in the register. I thought it would probably be the last half buck of his I'd ever see, and that made me feel even worse.

Not because I needed his money—I'd put a little away—but just because I'd always liked the guy so much.

He must have read my mind. He said:

"What's this about closing the place. Danny? I heard it but didn't believe it."

"I've kept open as long as I can, Mr. Larkin. I just can't get the stock. The dealers give me what they can, but they've rationed us, you know. They're playing fair, all right, but I just can't get along on what they allow me. Of course there's the Black Market— I've had a few bids on that— but I don't want any part of it."

"Rather close up, eh?"

"I would. I damn' well would."

He made another motion and got another drink. I got another half buck.

He said: "Let me see, Danny. I've heard — I think you told me yourself— that you used to run a little rum."

"That's close. Whiskey from Canada, mostly. I made a few trips out to the boats, but not many. It was safe enough, as long as you took care of the pay-off."

"And you kept a book, I heard." "Just when I opened up. Before business was good. It helped, but now and then I'd get overloaded on some nag and lose all I'd made the month before. That's no part-time business— you can't follow it close enough if you're doing something else."

"I see."

I laughed and said: "I even handled some hot fur. Three or four times, I guess, in all. But I quit that because if I'd ever been caught, I'd have lost my license. I've thought a lot of this little bar, Mr. Larkin."

"I know you have, Danny. That's why I don't understand why you feel that way about the Black Market. If they've got liquor to sell, somebody's going to buy it. Why shouldn't it be you?"

He'd been coming in there three years and more and I suppose I'd talked to him as much or more than any other customer. And I liked him besides. But I told him something then he'd never heard.

I said: "Did you know I had two brothers?"

"I didn't, Danny. I don't believe I ever saw them, even."

"If you did, Mr. Larkin, it wasn't in here. They've never been in the place. It's like this. Ma was strict— she never liked the saloon business. In fact, she hated it. She brought the kids up the same way. I don't say they don't take a drink or anything like that, but they don't think it's a respectable business or that I should be in it. Ma didn't, and because she felt like that, I backed her up with the kids. They're younger, you see. One was working in a bank, up-state, and the other was in his last year in college."

"Working his way through, Danny?"

"I was maybe helping a bit. Well, anyway, John, that's the one that was in the bank, is a second-looey in the Infantry, and the kid, his name's Michael, is a Navy flier. And the kid's already a full lieutenant. He's in the South Pacific and he's got twelve planes to his credit already."

"Why, that's great, Danny. Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I guess because I didn't want anybody to know they were connected with anybody in this business. Anyway, that's why I don't do business with the Black Market, damn 'em all. You can see that now, can't you, Mr. Larkin?"

IF HE saw my side of it he didn't show it. And I don't blame him. All he knew about me was a bad record. Bootlegging, rum running, book making, and now I'd even told him how I'd handled stolen furs. I didn't blame him for not believing me.

He took a third drink, something he very seldom did.

And then he asked: "You'd know something about a gun, wouldn't you, Danny?"

I didn't know what he was getting at and said so. I said: "I've got one and I've shot it quite a lot, but I was never a hand at using it. That is, in business, if you know what I mean. I was never one of the boys who figured to shoot their way out of a jam. I always figured that if I got caught up with, why I'd taken the risk and I'd taken the profits and it just was my turn to pay up."

"I didn't mean quite that. You'd be handy with it, that's what I meant."

"Oh, sure. I still practice some."

"You're closing tomorrow?"

"This is the last day."

"Then how would you like to go to Florida with us?"

I didn't think I was hearing right and he grinned at me and repeated it. He said: "That's right. How would you like to go along with us? You'd be a good man to take care of Sonny, I think. For one thing, he's too wild a kid to trot around the hot spots down there alone. He gets in too much trouble. There's too much liquor, too many women, and too much gambling down there for Sonny to take by himself. You could teach him boxing— the boy could be in far better condition than he is."

I said automatically: "I didn't box. It was wrestling."

"All the better. A better body-builder, I believe. And frankly, Danny, I'm worried about the boy. I'm afraid he's in trouble right now—trouble that might follow him down there."

"What's that, Mr. Larkin?"

"Do you know a boy about Sonny's age named Frank Alderdyce?"

"Barely," I said. "He's been in the bar a couple of times. I think with Sonny, if it comes to that."

"Well, Frank's down in the morgue. I have to make arrangements about that, after this meeting. I promised his father— you know Alderdyce and I are old friends— that I'd look after it for him. He's in Chicago, and the boy can't be left in a public morgue. I'll arrange to have him taken to a decent funeral parlor and held there until his father can get back here."

"What happened to him?"

Larkin shrugged then. He said: "He was found down by the river in an alley. Shot five times in the belly. Gangster stuff, the police think."

"It could well be," I said. "It sounds like a hired killer who wanted to make sure he'd earned his money."

"Exactly. And he and Sonny ran around quite a bit together and Sonny, I'm afraid, owes as many gambling debts as did young Alderdyce. So you can see why a guard would be a good thing for Sonny to have."

I said I could understand it.

"Would you like to go down with me after the meeting?"

I certainly didn't want to go to the morgue with anybody, but it looked like I was going to work for him and I couldn't very well say no.

So I said yes and Larkin took another drink and left the place. I thought that having to take a dead kid out of the morgue, a boy he knew and a friend of his son's, accounted for the four drinks at one time.

Because he'd never taken over three at one sitting like that since he'd been coming in the place, and that was for three years and more.

He didn't drink as much as I did, and I'm no lush if I say it myself.

IT WAS five o'clock when he came back for me and my bar man was working and I was set and ready. And I got a notion then of why he wanted me to go with him, something that had been puzzling me. He had Sonny with him as well as a man named Milton Sawyer, who I gathered was Larkin's lawyer. Also I met the chauffeur, a bird named Lew Sands, and a guy I didn't like the second I saw him.

Sonny had been in my place probably half a dozen times and I liked the kid all right. Sawyer I'd never met, but he seemed okay, too. A big, chunky guy that looked the way lawyers do in moving pictures and hardly ever do when you see 'em in court. Sands was a smooth, hard-looking bird, but I will say he drove Larkin's big car in a beautiful way—cutting around and taking more than his share of traffic, but getting away with it in great shape. I put him at around thirty, and I knew he'd been around plenty just by looking at him.

Sonny was just a brat, even if he did tip the scales at around a hundred and ninety, my weight. He was twenty-two, I knew that— and he'd been kicked out of every school he'd ever attended. Blonde and good looking if you like 'em a little pouty.

When I saw Sawyer and Sonny along with the old man, I knew why I'd been asked along. Larkin wanted to see how Sonny and I would get along, and he'd probably brought Sawyer along to confirm any idea he got. He didn't say that, though.

He said: "I brought Mr. Sawyer along just in case there's any trouble in getting custody of the body. A lawyer, in a case like this, can do more than a plain business man can ever do."

Sawyer said that Mr. Larkin flattered him— that a man of Mr. Larkin's prominence could do just about as he pleased.

Sonny said nothing, just looked longingly at every bar we passed. Another thing I liked was that I rode in back with them instead of up in front with Lew Sands. I'd been afraid I'd be treated too much as a servant, something I was damned sure I wouldn't go for very long.

We got down to the morgue and it seemed we were expected. Anyway, two cops, one of them a captain, were waiting for us, as well as the regular morgue crew.

Larkin said briskly: "Well, Captain Hayes! I'm glad you could meet us here. Of course you know what I'm after. Here's my authority from Mr. Alderdyce— he wired me as soon as he'd heard what happened."

The captain looked at the wire Larkin showed him but as though he didn't care what was in it. I could see that the captain had already made up his mind to do anything Larkin asked him to do.

And I thought what a swell thing it would be to have the dough the guy had and the standing the money gave him. My few bucks didn't look very big right then.

Then we went inside to the cold room, or whatever they call it, to look at young Alderdyce.

THE place wasn't nice, though it was as clean as it could be. It smelled of formaldehyde mostly, but there was something more than that. It must have been death. There were no bodies in sight and when Larkin asked about that, the morgue attendant told him they kept the newcomers in another room. Here, all there was was sort of sliding shelves in the walls, all numbered, and with doors that fitted tightly.

It was the first time I'd ever been there and I hoped the last.

The attendant took the handle of number seventeen and pulled, and the shelf slipped out as though it was on ball bearings. The boy was covered with a canvas sheet and he pulled that down to show us, and when he did, I wished I was outside in the air.

The kid had been cut open and sewed up again in a neat little cross stitch. But there were five neat holes in the poor guy's belly, all along the stitching that ran there.

Any one of them would have killed him and the attendant told us more. When the doctors did their post mortem they found the kid had a heart that was no good at all.

Sonny, who was looking a little sick, said: "I knew that That was why he was 4-F.  Mine is a bad ear. That's one reason I always liked him— because the Army didn't like either one of us."

I'd been remembering something and I spit it out. I said: "Listen! Maybe I got something, captain. This kid, if I'm right, was putting on a personal fight with the Black Market. I remember something about it in the papers, I think. He said that if he couldn't fight in the Army, why he'd fight on the home front, or something like that."

The captain said: "We remembered it too, Mr.— what did you say your name was?"

"Dan Morahan."

"Run a bar, don't you?"

"This is my last day."

Larkin laughed and said: "Danny here, captain, is hipped on this Black Market stuff. If you take my advice, you'll check young Alderdyce's gambling. I understand the boy owed quite a lot of money around town. It may be—it's my idea anyway, that he didn't pay one of them promptly enough."

"We're checking that angle too, Mr. Larkin," said the captain, woodenly.

I happened to look at Sonny and I saw him give his father a worried look. I decided that papa and Sonny had had words on the matter of gambling debts and many of them.

Sawyer said smoothly: "We'll have someone come down for the poor lad then, captain. I surely hope your investigation won't lapse, because of our having the body taken to, let us say, a more attractive surroundings."

"It won't," said the captain. "We don't slow up much on murder cases in this town. We don't drop them, sir."

We went away then, with Sawyer and Larkin giving each other satisfied looks. Sonny and I had a few words about what was running at the Florida tracks, Sonny knowing I'd made book at one time and asking advice, and I saw Larkin and Sawyer look satisfied at that, too.

I figured they wanted to see how Sonny and I would get along, and I'd show them. They dropped me at the bar and the last thing Larkin said was to the point.

"When you get straightened out on the closing, Danny," he said, "come up to the office and see me. If I shouldn't be in, my secretary usually knows where I am or when I'll be back. We'll be leaving for the South in four days, I think, so plan on it."

I told him I had what would be left of my stock all disposed of and would be ready to go the next day, if necessary.

And that was that. I spent the evening in my own bar, getting a little bit tight while saying good-by to my best customers.

2: The Set-up

GOT a bang when I met Larkin at the station. I knew he had money and lots of it, but I also had heard of how hard it was to get rail reservations. And how anybody with priority could take it away from you if they needed it.

All he had was a drawing room for himself and his wife. It was the first time I'd seen her. She was about forty-five and she weighed close to two-fifty if I'm any judge. She was screwy as a toad, too. She looked at me as if I'd crawled out from under some rug, and told her husband what she thought of me as if I was a mile away instead of three feet.

"Why, Amos," she said. "This man will be impossible. I can't allow Sonny to be seen with him. Why he's a type, my dear."

Larkin winked at me and I let it go. The wink said she was nuts as plain as if he'd spoken out loud.

Sonny and I had a compartment together. And very nice— they are when you're riding an extra fare train.

Then I met the sister. Dinah. Sonny told me she was eighteen but she looked about twenty-five. One of the kind of kids that have their noses up in the air as if she was smelling something bad. But pretty!— oh my. She had a compartment to herself, as did Milton Sawyer, who it seemed was also traveling with us.

I was surprised at this but Sonny took it for granted. He said: "Dad always takes Milt along with him, wherever he goes. Dad's the only client Milt's got and the only one he needs. Dad's paying him better than a hundred grand a year and expenses, and that ain't hay."

Sonny gave me some more news, just as soon as we were settled in the compartment and he'd broken out a bottle of whiskey, which it seemed was about all the baggage he carried. He told me that Sands was taking the big car down, along with a Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Larkin's maid, who was named Mary O'Day. I asked him about gas rationing and he said it didn't bother the old man at all, and just laughed when I asked how he got around it.

I could see Sonny didn't give me credit for being more than a half-wit, which was okay with me. I was giving him the same rating, you see.

That's the way the trip started and it went that way for the time it took to make the trip. Everybody ate in their own rooms —the Larkins, you could see, weren't the kind of people who'd eat in the diner with the common herd, nor would their guests.

It was nice but I felt guilty about it. I also felt guilty about the way young Sonny lapped up the hootch on the trip, but when I told his father that, he just laughed and said to never mind it— that Sonny always drank himself sick while riding on a train.

THEIR place was between Palm Beach and -L Miami and when we got off the train, there was a station wagon, complete with chauffeur, to meet us, if you please. This chauffeur, a colored man named Charles. And the station wagon wasn't a rickety old one, like most of those you see these days but a brand new one built on a Buick chassis.

This dazed me, too, but Sonny just laughed at the way I took it, so I kept my mouth shut.

The train was a bit away from the ocean, and we had to drive maybe four miles to reach their place. And then I really bugged my eyes.

It was beautiful. There was a little point of land running out and the house was on the very tip of it. Ocean on three sides and pines and palms behind. The road in was private, Larkin's alone, and it was like a graveled drive leading up to a house in town. There were four cars in the garage besides the station wagon, and there was room for as many more.

Sonny said: "I'll be damned if I know why dad wanted the big car down here but I suppose it was because he wanted Lew. He depends a lot on Lew. And then Mrs. Watson and Mary O'Day had to come down, too, and it was as easy for them to drive down with Lew as it would have been to ride the train. For that matter, I'd have rather driven down. Of course not with Mrs. Watson."

"Why not with Mrs. Watson?"

Sonny laughed at that again. "Dad's a jealous— "he said. "Or do I have to draw you a picture?"

I hadn't seen this Mrs. Watson yet but I'd seen Mrs. Larkin and I could gather what was meant. All this was while we were still in the garage and while the others had gone over to the house. We stayed because Sonny wanted to see what care they'd been taking of his convertible, which was a special job.

It was a half block long and had two hundred dollars at least worth of extras on it but he wasn't satisfied with it at all. In fact, he kept growling because his father wouldn't give him a Rolls, like the big car was.

I'd have been more than satisfied with any of the four cars, and for that matter with the station wagon. The smallest was a Dodge and they used that for the help to go to town and get the groceries. And it was only two years old, and looked brand new.

Then we went to the house, passing two houses which were built the same way as the big one, very Spanish and each with a patio. These were the servants' quarters, and the average citizen would be glad to have one of them for the rest of his life to live in. They looked to be about eight rooms, coming out in that U-shape like that.

And then we came to the big house and I really had something to stare at. The patio was sixty feet wide and the same deep, Sonny told me that. It had a fountain in the middle full of fish, big goldfish of all shapes and sizes. It was planted with every tropical thing they can grow in that country, and if there's anything that don't grow in Florida that Chamber of Commerce has never heard of it.

The house, coming out around the patio in that U-shape, was two stories high on the sides and three in the back. There was a balcony running around the second floor and this was screened— I could see the sun glint on the brass screens but that was all. Sonny explained it beautifully.

He said: "If the wind's from the sea, there's no mosquitoes or anything. But from the other way, from the beach, the house protects against the wind and the bugs get bad. So then we sit on the balcony instead of in the patio to do our drinking."

WE MET his father just inside and Sonny gave him a blast about the car. He claimed they hadn't taken proper care of it, but the old man just grinned and paid no attention to him.

Instead, he said to me: "Come along, Danny, I'll show you where you're to stay."

He left Sonny standing there talking to himself and I followed him into the back part of the house and through that to a hall that led down through the right wing. Rooms on each side, those on the right facing the ocean and those on the left facing the patio. I forgot to say that all the windows were full width of the rooms, as near as I'd seen— and I found out afterward I was right. I didn't have a room— I had a large living room, bedroom and bath.

The old man said: "I wanted to get you in here and settled before Mrs. Larkin fills the house with the people she'll pick up. She's got a gift— she can find more people I dislike than you'd think possible— and she'll give them the best rooms in the house. This will do you, I think."

I said, and told the truth: "I never lived in such a nice place in my life."

"I want you satisfied, Danny. Maybe by and by I'll have a better job for you than just looking after Sonny. I want you satisfied with the way you're treated."

I said I was more than satisfied.

"I suppose you're wondering how and why I do this in war time?"

"I didn't think it was possible, that's all, Mr. Larkin."

"There's two reasons for it, Danny. First, there's Mrs. Larkin. While she looks healthy, she has a bad heart condition that means she has to live as she's been accustomed to live. Her doctors have testified to that, she has several, so there's no doubt about it."

Mrs. Larkin looked as healthy as a horse to me but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. That is, I didn't say what I thought.

He went on with: "And then I have to consider my position, though I don't want to seem to brag. The ration board has also taken that into consideration. While a good part, the main part for that matter, of the entertaining we do down here is done by Mrs. Larkin, I occasionally have business consultations with people from the North who visit us. Some of these are of vital importance and I have to put myself in as good a light in these as I can to be successful in them. I'm sure you understand, Danny."

"Sure, Mr. Larkin."

"How old are you, Danny?"

"Forty-one."

"Oh, I see. You look much younger— I was wondering, to be frank, why you hadn't joined the Army, feeling as you do."

I said: "It was that damned wrestling I did when I was a kid. It gives you what they call athletic heart, and I got turned down by 'em all."

"It don't seem to bother you any."

He hit my pet gripe and I told him about it. There was nothing wrong with me that should interfere with Army duty that I could see and I said so. I could still do anything that anybody ten years younger could do, or so I thought. I said that, too. Altogether, I guess I made quite a speech.

HE SAID: "You don't drink much, Danny?"

"Some. Once in a while. Not much." "You know, Danny, I've got no objection to it. For that matter, you'll probably get along better with Sonny if you drink a bit."

I must have looked funny about that because he laughed and said: "You're wondering why I don't shut down on the boy, eh?"

"Well, to be honest, I have."

"It just upsets Mrs. Larkin when I do and I have to bear in mind that heart condition of hers. She gets upset and she has an attack. I can't have that, of course. I just want you to go along with Sonny and keep him out of trouble. Of course if you can get him in better shape, get him to cut down on his drinking, why, that would be fine. But we can't make any issue of it because of Mrs. Larkin's heart condition, now can we?"

I said I could see where we couldn't do that. And then he told me that no doubt I'd want to clean up a bit after the trip and that he'd leave me.

And right at the door he stopped and turned and told me something else that I didn't like at all.

He said: "And oh yes, Danny. I want you to go down with Sonny tomorrow, to the city, and get some clothes. Sonny will know— he's got some shopping to do himself. You understand, I'm sure— I can't expect you to furnish clothes for a climate like this, coming right from the city and all. It wouldn't be fair to you to spend your money."

It made me sore— I'd been buying my own clothes since I was fourteen and was able to buy 'em out of the salary he was paying me, too. He was giving me a hundred bucks a week, which was more than my bar had ever made.

But I could see his side of it at that— he wanted me dressed so I wouldn't shame him in front of his guests and those his wife would have there.

So I didn't object too much— I told him I could well afford to get what I'd need and he laughed and told me to put my money in the bank or buy war bonds with it.

So I let it go— there was nothing I could gain by being stubborn, and that war bond argument was a big one.

He left me then— and I figured he'd left me in clover. I was in a soft spot for a guy who didn't have any schooling to speak of and who'd led the sort of life I had. Take a roughneck like me, whose only ambition up to then had been to run a decent little bar, and put him in a place like that, making that kind of money and being treated like a king, and it's easy to see how I felt.

I thought I was really on top of the world. And I kept that thought for all of four days and by that time things were in full swing and I thought I was in a madhouse.

3: The Madhouse

MRS. LARKIN had found a Countess and her son, or that's what they claimed to be. Refugees, they said they were and I believed that part of it, but my idea of it was that they were refugees from a chain gang. If I ever saw two crooks, two hustlers, it was those two, and I'd seen enough to be a judge.

They were high class, that's all I could give them. The woman was about forty-five, about Mrs. Larkin's age, and the kid was about Sonny's age. I didn't think they were even mother and son, but just working an angle that made that a good story.

The Countess was too flashy— Mrs. Larkin said that was the way Countesses all were and the kid was too slick and greasy. Mrs. Larkin said that was Continental. He had long sideburns and put stuff on his hair and used perfume, but he was no sissy. He was nuts about the girls and no mistake. Any and all of them.

They were staying for all time, as near as I could see— they had one of those lasting invitations.

Mrs. Larkin had other people, too, but they were just there for week-ends and for days and overnight, and they seemed all right. Most of them were screwballs, but Larkin had told me to expect that.

That was bad enough but the family set-up was something to turn a man's stomach.

Lew Sands had come in with the big car and with Mrs. Watson and the O'Day girl, and there was hell to pay from the time they drove into the yard.

Sonny hadn't been fooling when he'd hinted that his father had ideas about Mrs. Watson. The woman was built like Mae West and she didn't have the manners of an alley cat. I'm hard-boiled, or thought I was, and it got even me. She and Larkin were so careless about what people thought — that's what made me sore. If Mrs. Larkin hadn't been deaf, dumb and blind, she'd have had to know what was going on, but she didn't seem to see a thing.

That was only part of it. Mrs. Larkin was trying to fix things between the Count— I guess that was what he was— they all called him that, anyway, and her daughter Dinah. And the Count was for it, too— he took one look around and he wanted to move right in. He'd have been interested in the kid if she was cross-eyed and half nuts, but she was a good-looking kid and that would have taken the curse off marrying into money for him.

But Dinah, the little fool, couldn't see anybody but the chauffeur, this Lew Sands. She was nuts about him, and the more I saw of him the less I could see why. He was as crooked as the Count and a damned sight tougher.

The maid, Mary O'Day, was as cute as a bug's ear and Sonny thought the same. Every time he found her alone he passed at her, and she couldn't see him for dust.

She was the only decent one in the place, except little Dinah, and Dinah was such a little fool I didn't count her as more than half human.

I WAS getting along all right with her, though. She only acted snooty because her mama did and she thought it was the thing to do. When you knew her she was just a damn' fool kid with damn' fool kid notions.

She was the kind I'd have sent home from my bar in a cab— and the O'Day girl was the kind I wouldn't have let in unless she came with her brother or her old man.

There were a dozen more servants but they were all colored. Sands had a little room at the back of the house and Mrs. Watson had the same set-up I had but in the other wing of the house. That was closer to Larkin's suite, which probably explained it. The little O'Day girl had a room, a small one, in the same wing I had, and I was glad of it. I was afraid that sometime Sonny would get too much of a snoutful and try to break in on her, and that was the only reason.

It was like that when the fireworks began to happen.

They started when Larkin got company from the North. Two big fat men, brothers by the name of Morrison. Larkin and Milton Sawyer, who'd been a swell guy to me right along, and these brothers had a big meeting in the library, not even coming out for dinner. They had ale and sandwiches sent in to them instead, and I could hear them arguing in there at the tops of their voices when I had to go past the room.

It apparently ended peacefully enough because when they left, late the next day, they all seemed good friends. They just stayed overnight.

THAT next evening, right after they left, Sonny decided he wanted to go to town and make whoopee, and of course I had to tag along. I give the kid credit at that— outside of that first day when we went to town and got clothes, he hadn't broken loose once. He'd drunk steadily and far too much but he'd done it at home where he belonged.

But he wanted to go out that night and away we went in that damned convertible of his.

In the first place, he didn't recognize any speed limits. He was a good driver, all right, but I don't feel safe with anybody that thinks eighty miles an hour is loafing along the road.

I was a wreck before we even got to town, and watching Sonny going into action didn't ease my pain.

The first place we went into had a fiddle and piano, both of which sounded good to me, although they were playing what Sonny said were Strauss waltzes. I don't know a thing about music— just what I like— but this was all right with me. It fitted the place, which was sort of dim, and furnished the way a high-class cocktail bar should be.

But Sonny said: "That's com, right off the cob," and went over with a twenty-dollar bill in his hand to the musicians.

I saw them nod and smile and right away they started in trying to play swing— and a fiddle and piano can't play that sort of stuff. At least not the way it should be played. Even if I don't know music, I could tell it sounded like hell.

However, Sonny grunted and said: "That's some better," and started ordering drinks.

Not just for himself and me but for everybody in the place.

He started by giving the two bar men a ten-spot apiece and half that to each waiter.

And the drinks started whirling around, with the guests looking bewildered when they'd be served a drink they hadn't ordered. They'd ask the bar men and the bar men would point at Sonny and the guest would bow and Sonny would hold both hands above his head and shake 'em, like a prize fighter does when he goes in the ring.

I've got no manners, other than what I've picked up in the bar by watching people who have, but even I felt like a fool.

And then the way he drank. Martinis, which is a nice drink but nothing to take down like so much water. One after the other and instead of sipping them, drinking them down like they were straight whiskey.

It was embarrassing.

We stayed in that place for almost an hour and how he managed it I don't know but he wasn't very drunk when we left for another. I took it slow— made two ryes and sodas last me the full time.

The next place had just a piano and the guy was playing what Sonny seemed to like. Popular stuff, and slow and soft. Sonny liked it enough, anyway, to pass over another twenty.

He did the same with the bar man— there was only one in this place, and he gave both waiters five-spots. And then started buying for the house.

NOW this isn't good, unless you're in a place where you know just about everybody. Like the crowd that used to hang around my little place. I had the same trade day after day, night after night, and if somebody won, say In a crap game, or really beat the bookies bad that day, why he could buy a round or two and nobody thought anything about it. But when you go into a barroom full of perfect strangers and insist on paying for every drink, why that's something else again. A guy taking his girl out, for instance, resents it. He took the wench out with the idea of spending a little dough on her and showing her a good time, and it makes him sore to have a Coal Oil Johnny come in and flash twenties where he's been flashing ones. And it's even worse with the older men. They're like me— used to buying and paying for what they get, and they don't like to have a young cub force free drinks down their throats.

I could see where Mr. Larkin thought Sonny should have somebody along to look after him in case of trouble. I could see where trouble was a cinch if Sonny was on the prowl.

It happened in the third bar— or cocktail bar, as they call 'em down there. Sonny was getting pretty high by then and it was God's own wonder he was able to stand on his own two feet with the amount of liquor he'd had. This bar was like the first, except the music was an accordion, a longnecked banjo, the first one I'd seen in years, and a guitar. Sonny paid 'em off right at the start, as usual, paid off the bar men, there were two, and fixed up the waiters.

And then started his drink-buying.

There was a young officer with a bunch of ribbons on his chest, sitting right next to us with his lady. He wore captain's bars, though he couldn't have been over twenty-five or six, and his ribbons showed plenty of active service. He had wings above 'em, and I wanted to ask him if he'd ever happened to have met Michael, who was in the South Pacific, too. I could tell by the ribbons that this boy had seen service there and lots of times the Army fliers and the Navy fliers are together on some mission.

His girl was about twenty and seemed like a nice kid. She was sipping a highball, but the captain was just playing with a glass of beer.

Sonny waved an arm and the waiter came over. Sonny waved an arm around the room and said: "I'll buy a drink for the house." And then he happened to look over at the captain's table, and made his mistake.

He said: "And don't bring the officer any of that belly wash. Buy him a man's drink.''

The captain stood up and came over and put both hands on our table. He leaned down and spoke to Sonny and he still managed to speak pleasantly.

He said: "I'm sorry, mister, but I'm flying early in the morning. That is, if I don't do any drinking tonight. So I'm sure you'll excuse me."

Now he spoke quietly and all that, but he was sore as a goat. It showed in the flush in his cheeks, the very quietness of his voice, and in the way he had his hands made into fists, where they rested on our table.

Sonny paid this no attention. He said: "Oh, what the hell! Why drink beer when you can drink a man's drink."

I knew the captain didn't want to be mixed up in any barroom brawl, but I could see he had as much as he could stand.

I said: "He's drunk, captain. I'm sorry. I'll try and tone him down."

"Please do," said the captain, and started back to his table. It gave him a decent out and he was glad to take advantage of it— which was why I spoke. I didn't have any hopes at all of toning him down and both the captain and I knew it.

THEN a big man whom I hadn't noticed was with us. He spoke to me but looked at Sonny and he looked at Sonny in definitely an ugly way.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

Sonny said: "What the hell's it to you?"

"Out," the guy said, and picked Sonny up by one shoulder. He used one hand and didn't seem to have any difficulty lifting him, though Sonny was up around a hundred and ninety.

I said: "You the owner?"

He said: "What the hell's it to you?" mimicking Sonny, of course.

If he'd given me a polite answer— I spoke to him that way— I'd have had to sit there and watch him pitch Sonny into the street. There'd have been nothing else I could have done— Sonny had earned it in a big way. I could fight for the kid if he had half a leg to stand on, but I couldn't take up for him when he was so far in the wrong— not and look at myself in the mirror when I shaved.

But this made it different. If put it more on a personal basis.

I stood up and said: "Take your hands off the boy."

"And if I don't?" he asked.

I moved then. I went in fast and under the arm that was holding Sonny up, and I put my left hand clear up to the wrist in is belly as I did. He didn't expect it— he expected an argument, and he didn't have his belly muscles tightened the way they should have been. He let out a grunt that sounded all over the room and bent over, with both hands around his middle, and I got Sonny by the elbow and started toward the door with him. He tried to twist away and I put my fingers right into the joint, where it bends, and caught the nerve there.

He went then like a little lamb, with his face all screwed up from the pain of it. And outside I told him the score.

I said: "You Chump! If we'd stayed there, we'd have been mobbed. What the hell's the idea insulting that officer?"

I'd let go his arm by then and he stood rubbing it and looking bewildered. He said: "Why, I just asked the guy to have a drink, is all."

I let it go. There's nothing you can say to a drunk that means anything, anyway.

We left after the next spot. All of a sudden his liquor really took hold of him and he started to put his head down on the table and go to sleep. I paid the check out of his money—he had his billfold out on the table and it was still crammed with dough, and got him outside and started him up the street toward where we'd parked the car. And ran into a cop before I'd gone ten feet.

I had the kid half draped on me and was rushing him along, so that I wouldn't have to pick him up and carry him. Once I let him stop I knew he'd sag and go clear out. The cop stepped in front of us and there was nothing I could do but stop— and hold Sonny up.

The cop said: "Trouble?" in a bright and interested way.

I said: "My friend just had one or two too many. I'll take care of him, officer."

"Tourists, eh?"

"This is Sonny Larkin— his father's got a place up the beach."

"And you?"

"I'm staying with them."

He said: "Lemme give you a hand, friend," and got his shoulder under Sonny's other shoulder, and we went up the street that way. And when we got to the car he helped me put Sonny in it and told me how the cops did there.

"We try to give the outside people a break here, friend. Understand, you can't fight on the street but if a man's just a little drunk, we'll try and see he gets to where he's staying. You all right to drive the car?"

"I coasted. I came along to look after the kid."

He waved me good luck and sauntered away and I searched Sonny for the car keys and slid under the wheel.

And we didn't drive back at any eighty miles an hour, either.

4: Hell to Pay

THERE was hell to pay at the house. The driveway was full of State Police and sheriff's cars and the house was alive with the men that brought them there. I had Sonny propped up, just out of the car, when a big State man came bouncing out at me from the dark. He wore corporal's stripes and he must have weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds.

He said: "And who's this?"

"Sonny Larkin," I said.

"And you?"

"My name's Morahan."

"You live here too?"

"Sure. What's happened?"

"The kid drunk?"

"Drunker than a fool."

"Where you two been?"

"In town. Where he got that way."

"How long?"

"Three hours, maybe a little longer."

"Prove it, can you?"

"Hell, yes."

"I'll help you inside with him."

"What's happened?"

"Larkin's dead."

"How?"

"You'll see it, mister. Here, let me have him."

He picked the kid up in a fireman's carry like he was a child, and we went in the house that way. The big guy didn't even grunt when he picked him up, and he walked along with him like he didn't weigh a thing.

And the first thing I saw was Larkin, in the main hall, and on the floor in a mess of blood.

THERE were a bunch of cops there, too, but none of the other people in the house except Milton Sawyer. The cop that had Sonny carried him up to another one, this one wearing sergeant's stripes, and put him off his shoulder and held him on his feet.

"This here's the son, spurge," he said. "He just got in. This guy here, says his name is Morahan, just brought him home."

The sergeant took one look at Sonny and turned his head and bawled out: "Hey, doc!"

That brought a thin, dignified looking bird that wore a clipped mustache that was as grey as his hair. At that I didn't think he was more than fifty, fifty-five at the most. He came from the left wing, and he had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up.

He still managed to look dignified, though.

The sergeant said: "Take a look at just what came in. Think you can bring him around so he can talk sense?"

The doctor looked at Sonny and then doubtful.

I said: "He's had a hell of a lot to drink but all of it in the last three hours. Maybe a stomach pump would clear part of it out"

The doctor swore and said: "Another one!"

I found out later that he'd been working on the Countess at the time the sergeant called him. And with a stomach pump— she'd decided that was her night to howl and they were trying to bring her to life to see if She could tell them anything.

The doctor said: "Where's his room?"

I said: "If the corporal will carry him, I'll show the way."

He did it easy and I made heavy weather of it. I was just using my head. He picked the kid up on his shoulder and I led the way and we took him in his bedroom and dumped him on the bed.

The doctor followed and said, fretfully: "Put him in the bathroom, men. I've got to work on him. Oh, damn me! Why did I ever learn medicine?"

We left them together and went back to the hall, with the corporal telling me: "He's a sort of society doctor and most of his cases are bringing people out of hangovers and using stomach pumps on 'em and things like that. I don't blame the poormuch, but look at the dough he makes.".

I said I guessed he earned it.

Then he looked at me and said: "Hey! You said you was staying here with these

"How come?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Don't kid me, bud. You're not like these folks. You're a roughneck and nothing else. No offense meant, of course."

I said: "I'm staying here but I'm working here, too. I'm supposed to be looking after the kid. He gets in trouble with liquor, women, and gambling, and I'm supposed to see he don't get in too much of it.

"I get it."

"I've got a private license, if you want to see it. Larkin got it for me. Not that it makes any difference here— the kid and I were in town and don't know a thing about this."

"You mean you're a private detective?"

"Yeah."

"You might be able to help at that."

"Nuts. I've only been a private detective four days and I don't know a damn' thing about it."

"Well, you know these people here, don't you?"

"Sure."

"You can help then, mister, believe me. I never seen such a crew in my born days."

WE WERE standing away from the bunch that was still around the body. Sawyer saw me and came over and joined us. "A terrible thing, Danny," he said.

"I still don't know what happened."

"Amos was in the library the last anybody saw him. That is except the one who killed him, I guess. Then there was a shot and we all rushed out and there he was, just like you see him now."

"Where was everybody?"

Sawyer looked troubled. "That's what's going to make it bad, I'm afraid. Everybody had separated, for a few minutes. The Countess had gone to her room to lie down. She'd— well, she'd taken a few too many. I'm afraid."

The State Police corporal laughed, and said: "So says the doc!"

"Well, the Count and Dinah— I'd better put that another way. Dinah got angry at the Count and said she was going for a walk. The Count watched winch way she went, I'm afraid, because in about five minutes he slipped out after her. He didn't find her—they both say that, but it leaves both of them alone; neither can support the other one's alibi."

"Hell, man! Dinah wouldn't kill her own father."

The corporal said: "You're right, mister, you're new in this business, all right. There's plenty of cases where a girl has killed her old man. There's a few of them doing life for it right now."

Even Milton Sawyer thought I'd made a funny crack. He didn't grin much but he said: "I thought everybody had heard about Lizzie Borden, Danny."

"I still don't think she did it."

"I don't either, of course, Danny, but in a case like this an alibi is a very good thing to have and poor little Dinah has none."

I said: "What about Mrs. Watson? Mrs. Larkin? For that matter, what about Lew Sands and the O'Day kid? For that matter, where were you, Mister Sawyer?"

"Don't get sore, fella," the corporal said.

"I don't like these cracks about Dinah, that's all."

SAWYER said: "I'll answer the last part of your question first. I have no more of an alibi than anybody else. I was in my own room. I went there for a cigar, but I also went in my bathroom. I barely heard the shot, as a matter of fact. You see there's a turn in the hall and I had three doors closed after me besides that. The door to my suite— the door leading from the sitting room into the bedroom— and the bathroom door. I just heard a sort of thud, to be honest, and I didn't even bother to come out of the suite until I heard the screaming."

"Who screamed?"

"Mrs. Watson. She must have heard it and dashed right out. It's a wonder she didn't see who did it."

Sawyer was on the right wing, where I was, and Mrs. Watson was on the left, the same as Larkin and Mrs. Larkin and Sonny. "What did she do then?"

"When she saw him, she stood there and screamed for a minute. Then Sands came running just in time to see her keel over in a faint. We brought her out of that, this was when we were all there, and she had hysterics. We got her quieted somewhat, but the doctor had to give her a hypo when he finally got here."

"What time was this?"

"About nine."

I thought back and decided Sonny and I were in the second bar about then.  I asked: "And the rest? What about Mrs. Larkin? And Sands?"

"Sands was in his room. He said he'd been taking a nap— that he was still catching up on the sleep he lost on the trip coming down."

"Believe it?"

Sawyer shrugged. "I'm just telling you what he said. He's got no alibi— no more than the rest of us. Mrs. Larkin was in her room— she says she was changing her make-up."

"Why? At that hour?"

Sawyer shrugged again. "If you or any other man can figure what Mrs. Larkin does or why, I'd like to know how it's done. I've never been able to do it in the years I've known her."

I could understand that— I'd always thought the woman was the original screwball. He went on with: "The little O'Day girl was also in her room. For that matter, I saw her when I left my room, after the screaming I heard. She was coming out at the same time."

"Well, then, it's an alibi for both of you, isn't it?"

The corporal said gently: "Not so, Morahan. Either of them would have had time to have shot Larkin and then run back to their room. And then to have come out when Mrs. Watson found the body and screamed. Isn't that right, Mr. Sawyer? Not that I'm saying either of you did it, of course."

"That's right, corporal. There's not a soul in the house with an alibi, except you and Sonny. I presume you two were together all evening?"

"We were. I had a hell of a night."

"I'd like to hear about it sometime," he said, this time grinning. "Well, I'm glad to hear somebody's in the clear, anyway. This is going to be very bad."

THE corporal said: "Larkin had a pile of dough, didn't he?"

"He was a very wealthy man, corporal, yes. I've been his attorney for a number of years and am in a position to know."

"Then it'll be hell," said the corporal, comfortably. "They try to work with those kind of people in this country. If it was some poor guy, it'd go on the back page of the newspaper and the cops would work two days and then forget about it."

"You're not a local man, corporal?"

"Lord, no. From Georgia."

He didn't pronounce it that way but that's what it meant. He said it something like, "Gawga."

"What was he shot with? Maybe there's a lead that way?"

"The bullet went all the way through but the doctor thinks a .45. At least a very heavy gun."

I said: "Oh hell!" and both the corporal and Sawyer looked at me. I explained: "I didn't take the thing along with me tonight. We were just going to do a little drinking, Sonny said, and I didn't want the nuisance. Maybe it was mine— it's a .45 Colt Auto."

"Let's go see."

The three of us went to my room then, with the others apparently not even noticing we were leaving. I'd left the gun in my top dresser drawer, and sure enough it was there, but when I started to reach for it, the big cop just grabbed my hand.

He said: "Hey! Wait! Maybe it's the one. D'ya want to spoil any prints there may be on it?"

He took a pencil from his pocket and stuck that in the gun barrel to lift it from the drawer. And he smelled the barrel and nodded.

He said: "It's a damn' good thing for you, Morahan, that you had an alibi. And 'll tell you now it's going to be thoroughly checked. This gun's been fired and just a little while ago."

WE ALL trooped out front again, with the cop holding the pistol up on his pencil like it was a lollypop on a stick. By that time they'd busted into groups in the hall, with the sergeant at the side, talking to the doctor, who now had his coat on.

The corporal said: "I've found the gun, sarge. Belongs to Morahan, here."

"I thought you were with young Larkin tonight," the sergeant said. "What's this? Where'd you get the gun and what right have you got to have it?"

The corporal said: "He's got a private license, sarge. And he says he's got an alibi with young Larkin and I'll believe it until we check it and find different. His room was open—anybody could have walked in and snaffled the gun and turned and walked out again."

He gave the sergeant a look that meant something— I hoped something in my favor. And it seemed to be that way because the sergeant quit acting like I was a suspect.

He said: "You might give the gun to Jolliffe, corporal, and have him check it for prints."

The corporal turned the gun over to a thin little guy with glasses, but who was wearing the State uniform just the same. The fingerprint expert. He handed it over by the pencil and the little guy took a tiny bellows. We all watched him, none of us with much hope. There's been too much in the papers and in detective stories for much chance of a slip on a thing like a gun.

And so it proved. The little guy looked up and said: "Clean! Not a thing, either on the butt or the barrel. Want me to look at the inside?"

I said: "My prints will be all over that. I cleaned and oiled and loaded it just a few days ago. On the way down here."

The corporal said: "That won't be necessary, Jolliffe. It's a cinch the killer didn't take it apart. He probably yanked the slide back far enough to see there was a load in it and let it go at that."

He gave the gun back to the corporal who put it in his pocket. And who told me: "I'm sorry, Morahan, but I'll have to hold this. I can get you another one if you think you'll need it."

"What do you think, Corporal?"

"Well, you were hired to guard the boy, weren't you?"

"Sure."

"You're going to keep on doing it until you're told the job is through, aren't you?"

"Sure."

"Then you'd better have a gun, I'd think."

THE two of them drifted back to talk with Sonny then, and that left me with about a dozen cops I didn't know and the doctor. And with Sawyer, who was talking to him. I went over that way, just so I wouldn't be standing by myself. I said: "Don't these cops have anything to do? It looks like every cop in this district is on this job."

The doctor said severely: "Mr. Larkin was a very prominent man, young man. A fine citizen— I have known him since he built here. I have been his physician since that time. It's the same with the police. They all knew Mr. Larkin and liked him. He gave heavily to all police charities. The boys take a personal interest in getting this case solved in a hurry, with his murderer brought to justice."

I'd known Larkin for almost four years and said so. I'd also liked the man and I mentioned that as well. And then I thought of something else. I took Sawyer to the side and asked him about it, though, before saying anything to the cops.

I said: "Look, Mr. Sawyer! You'd know more about this than I would. What about those two men, brothers, that were here? Their name was Morrison, I think. There was an argument between them and Mr. Larkin, wasn't there? Maybe they came back and did this."

Sawyer said: "They went North the next day. That next evening, right after they left here."

"Maybe they didn't. The cops could check, couldn't they? There was an argument, wasn't there?"

"Not much of a one, Danny. Amos was a man who liked his own way, I'll admit that, and the Morrison boys are the same type. Anyway they went North."

"They could have changed their minds and stayed over. They could have doubled back."

"Tell the police if you like, Danny. If those two were here, in the house, I'd be inclined to think that way myself, possibly. It certainly doesn't pay to pass anything that might help, I'll admit that."

I waited until the sergeant and the corporal came back and started to talk to the sergeant about it. And he waved at the corporal and said: "Tell him your troubles, Morahan. He's the one to talk with."

I told the corporal and he took their name and their description down in his notebook. And then called one of the other cops and gave him the sheet he'd written on.

"Get on the phone and call the good hotels in town. Check with the trains. See if these men are still around, or if they left, find out when."

I said: "How come the sergeant turned me over to you with this?" and he seemed to think it was a good joke and on himself.

"Since I joined the force here," he told me, "I've been a lucky guy. I've cracked a couple of funny ones and they think I'm a detective."

"What did you do in Georgia, corporal, if you don't mind my asking."

He gave me the name of some county and told me he was the chief investigator for the sheriff's office there, and then added something else.

He said: "I've been with the cops since I was old enough. But I get tired of one beat and move on to another force. It's a hell of a way to get any promotion but a man sure sees a lot of country."

I thought he had something there and said so.

He got serious then. "It's like this, on this one, Morahan. I haven't got a thing to go on. I can't see any motive for this one. Not one at all."

5: Inside Job

WASN'T any investigator but I could see a lot of motives for a lot of people. I had one for Mrs. Watson— they'd been mixed up and she might have got sore at

Larkin over something. I could see a dandy for Mrs. Larkin— her husband was playing around and maybe she'd just found it out. I could see one for both the Countess and the Count.

If my hunch was worth a thin dime, they were both as crooked as wagon tracks, and maybe Larkin had found it out and told them about it and maybe they'd killed him to keep him quiet about it. There was an additional one about the Count— maybe he'd made a bad pass at Dinah and the old man had seen it. I knew that Larkin had thought ten times as much of the girl as he had of Sonny.

I could see a dandy for Lew Sands, too. That was another bad one, and maybe Larkin had caught wise to his playing around with Dinah. Dinah was the one that was doing the chasing, but that wouldn't make any difference to her father.

I could see one for Milton Sawyer. While I didn't know a thing about it, there was always the chance that he'd chiseled some money from Larkin in some way— he had every chance to do it— and maybe Larkin had found that out. Maybe he'd threatened him with jail and Sawyer had killed him to cover up the theft. I had no reason to suspect Sawyer— I really didn't, for that matter, but the thing was entirely possible.

Mary O'Day was the only one I'd give a clear board to. She might have slapped the old man's face if he got fresh with her— I knew damned well she could have— but she wouldn't have gone in my room, taken my gun from the drawer, and gone back and blasted him with it. I didn't think Dinah would for that matter, but she was such a little fool I couldn't put her entirely out of the thing.

I didn't think she had a thing to do with it of course... it was just that she did have a motive. Her father might have caught her with Lew Sands and raised hell, and she was so nuts about Sands she'd have done just about anything to get him and keep him.

Sonny had a motive, too— but he also had an alibi. He was the only one in the party that I absolutely knew was innocent.

I gave this all to the corporal and he listened and nodded at each one. And when I was through he said: "That's what I meant when I said you'd be a help, Morahan. Now here's what I want you to do. I'm leaving now, and so is the sarge. We're leaving three men here, two inside and one patroling the grounds. We've talked to everybody and have got nowhere. We made them go back to their rooms after we'd asked them what they knew, and they're in there now."

"Sawyer wasn't."

"Sawyer's different. He helped us. He knew everything that was going on and the rest just knew their own part in it. That's why he was out. I want you to keep your eyes open when they get together again. After we're gone. We'll leave as soon as the ambulance gets here— it broke down and we had to send for another, or we'd have had the body away an hour ago. You just keep your eyes open and if you see anything wrong, you tell me."

Just then the cop who'd done the phoning came up. He said: "They're registered in the Regis. I talked to the clerk and he says they were out all evening."

The corporal said: "Maybe you had something there, Morahan. The sergeant and I'll go down there right now and find out. Then he gave me a number and said: 'Call me there if anything comes up. They'll relay the call to me if I'm out."

"Who'll I ask for?"

He laughed and said he thought he'd told me.

His name was Joe Costello.

EVERYBODY got together as soon as the police went away. The cops they left kept out of the way, one of them sitting out in the patio, another in the kitchen, and the third just prowling around outside the place. What good any of the three were doing I couldn't see, but the corporal thought they should have been left and that was good enough for me.

I had a lot of respect for the guy by that time.

Both the Countess and Sonny showed their hangovers badly, this in spite of the stomach pump treatment. Beside that, it was three o'clock in the morning and nobody looks their best at an hour like that. I thought holding a meeting at an hour like that was silly, but I just worked there and what I thought I kept to myself. Anyway, it was Milton Sawyer's idea, and I had a notion he'd be in charge of the family finances for some time— at least until the will was probated.

Mrs. Larkin looked the same as usual. She didn't even seem to realize her husband had been murdered, but I was wrong on this. It was just that she didn't care a damn.

Mrs. Watson looked like the wrath of God after a bad Indian. She had a Mae West figure but it had slumped. She'd had big baby-blue eyes, but the lids were so puffed from crying they could have been any color in the rainbow and nobody would have known. They looked like somebody had smacked her between them. Her nose was red as a beet and as shapeless—it was swollen, too. Her cheeks were all raddled, with the veins standing out, and she hadn't even bothered to put on make-up.

I'd never liked the woman but I felt sorry for her then. She was taking Larkin's death harder than his own people, if looks meant anything.

Dinah looked sullen, and I took it the cops hadn't talked to her the way she thought they should have. If she'd cried, she showed no signs of it. The Count was his usual greasy little self, going around telling every one how sorry he was about "My good friend being so foully murdered."

I could have slapped his pretty little face and loved it.

Sands looked the same. He was the original hard customer, anyway, and I wouldn't have expected him to change expression if he'd watched a train wreck.

The little O'Day girl had been crying and she told me, quietly: "Mr. Larkin has always been so good to me. Like my own good father, who's dead, bless his soul."

THAT was all of them except Sawyer, and I wouldn't expect him to show much emotion. I've never yet seen a lawyer that had any more heart than an iron statue, anyway.

I sat at the side, with a highball, and watched them all. And all except the little O'Day girl had something to match my drink— one of the colored men was a pip of a bar man as well as a butler.

They all said the usual thing. What a terrible thing it was and how bad they all felt. And who could have done it? Who could have had anything against poor old dad, who'd never harmed a soul in his life, or against poor Mr. Larkin, who'd been such a good friend to them, as the case might be? They all sounded as though they meant it. Sawyer said the first really sensible thing.

He said: "One thing now, folks. It's almost a certainty the killer is one of us. Barring the possible chance of it being one of the Morrisons, and frankly, I don't see any reason for them to have killed Amos. Their dealings with him were highly profitable, they'd have been killing the goose that laid the golden egg, if you don't mind a figure of speech."

"What are you getting at, Milton?" demanded Mrs. Larkin. It was the first time I'd ever seen her show good sense, and I watched her and listened to her and realized I'd made a mistake when I'd thought she was a fool. She was, maybe, in some things, but she caught on when the chips were down. "Do you mean the rest of us are in possible danger?"

"Just that, Martha."

"Why?"

"Who knows why Amos was killed? Certainly it was over money. Probably over the money he'd leave."

"You infer than, Milton, it was one of the family?"

"No, dear. He left bequests as you know. And in considerable amounts to many people."

"Certainly not to me or my son," the Countess said. "He had no reason."

"There could be other reasons why either you or the Count would have wanted him out of the way, madam," Sawyer told her acidly. "I assure you the police are taking that into consideration."

The Countess said: "How dare you!" but she didn't say it with any push behind it. And she didn't say any more.

Mrs. Larkin said: "Of course money will be behind it. It has to be. Or does it?"

WITH that she gave Mrs. Watson a level stare that told me she'd known what was going on all the time. Either she didn't care about it or couldn't stop it, one or the other— it certainly wasn't ignorance that was holding her back.

Mrs. Watson gave her a blank look and just sniffled a couple of times.

Mrs. Larkin said, and oh so sweetly: "Of course after this you won't want to stay here, will you, Mrs. Watson?"

Mrs. Watson said: "What's that?"

"I said that with Mr. Larkin dead, there's no further reason for your presence here. I'll ask you to leave as soon as the police permit you to go. Is that plain enough?"

Mrs. Watson stopped the sniffling and began crying in a big way. I didn't blame her much— there she was, going along great guns, and now she's out on the street.

I felt sorry for her even if the street was where the big tramp belonged.

I said: "Just for a suggestion, how about this? Suppose everybody goes to bed now. And suppose everybody sees their door's locked. That ought to do the trick—this killer can't go through locked doors."

Sonny said: "There's more than one key to the doors in this house."

"Where are they?"

He laughed and I caught what he meant. His old man certainly had had a key to Mrs. Watson's room. There was a fair chance that either Lew Sands had a key to Dinah's or that she had a key to his. What the angle was between the Countess and the Count I didn't know— but I was damned well sure they weren't mother and son. As far as I knew, Mrs. Larkin was okay, but I didn't know her very well and Milton Sawyer was a good-looking guy. And her husband had left her alone, and not alone that but had sported another woman right in her face.

The only one I was sure of was little Mary O'Day, and Sonny would have had that key if she'd have given it to him, that I knew.

I said: "Well, it's worth a try. We can't go the rest of our lives with no sleep. At least I can't."

Sawyer said: "I think that's a good idea, Danny. After all, we can't decide anything at an hour like this. Certainly not anything that makes sense."

Sonny said, in a querulous voice: "Whose idea was this meeting, anyway?"

"Nobody was sleeping," said Sawyer, "and I thought a drink or two might help everybody. And I thought that warning might be in order."

So that was that. We went to bed after another drink around, and I didn't wake up until almost noon.

IT WAS Joe Costello who woke me up by knocking at my door, and he told me he almost tore it down before I heard him.

And I said: "Why not? That's the door to the living room and I had It locked. I also had the door to the bedroom locked. And I was sleepy."

He said: "The news I've got won't bring you awake, either. I'm afraid. That Morrison business proved out all wrong. Both the brothers were in a night spot all evening —if not one, then another. And it takes time to make that drive. And they have no car and there's no record of them renting one of the U-Drive-Its or of a cabby bringing 'em out here. We didn't even trust the people in the spots— we even checked their possible transportation."

"Did you check where Sonny and I were?"

"Sure. They remember Sonny— they'll never forget him. Anybody that tips ten and twenty bucks before he sits down isn't forgotten soon. They'd just as soon not see him again though, tips or no tips."

I could understand that and I told Costello something of what had happened. He thought it was funny but the memory was too fresh for me to go along with him on the thought.

Then he said: "Everybody but you was up and doing. Except the little girl."

"Dinah?"

"Oh, no, she's up. I mean the maid. Mrs. Larkin was raising hell about not waking her."

I knew part of the answer right then. It clicked just like somebody had snapped their fingers.

"Let me get my clothes on," I said. "This is going to be plain pure hell, mister."

"What d'ya mean, Morahan?"

I said: "The kid's dead."

6: Smart Money

THE colored butler had a spare key so we didn't have to break in the door. The kid had had a nice little room, all finished up with chintzy stuff in blue, with drapes of that stuff on the windows and with the chairs and dressing table finished the same way.

Costello mentioned it. He said: "It's a hell of a room to have a murder in."

There was just the two of us. He had his three cops still there but we hadn't been sure just what we'd find. That is, he hadn't been sure—I'd been sure since I'd heard she hadn't answered her bell.

She was on the bed and it looked as though she'd been killed in her sleep. She was in a mess of sticky bloody bed clothes —and it made me sick to look at her. She'd been wearing a thin little cotton nightgown and the knife had gone right through it, just under her breast. Just that one wound but it had been plenty— she'd died instantly and probably hadn't even known what had struck her. She probably hadn't even woke up, Costello thought.

The way the killer had come in was as plain. The chintz drapes were blowing in the breeze that came in through the still open window.

She didn't look to be more than fifteen, though I knew she'd been twenty— she looked like a baby in spite of being in that mess of blood.

I didn't look very long. I said: "I can't stand this. I'm getting out. I'll kill the man that did this if I can get my hands on him."

"Don't be a fool," Costello said carefully.

"Unless he resisted arrest, you'd hang for it. Let the State do it for you. It's better that way— he has to sit in jail and wait for what he knows is coming. Who is it?"

"I don't know. I know that the kid saw something or that the killer thought she did.

That's the only possible answer— this baby never did anybody harm in her life."

"You said 'he.' What makes you so sure it was a man?"

"It would take a man to drive a knife in that way."

"You're wrong, Morahan. A ten-year-old kid could've done it unless the knife struck bone. It would slide in like it was going through butter. You can see where it went in between the ribs."

I looked, though I didn't want to. I still thought it was a man, though if Costello said it could have been a woman, I believed him.

He had experience and I hadn't.

I said: "What now?"

"We go through the same thing. Only I hope that damned ambulance don't break down like it did last night. I didn't mind having Larkin on the floor like that for hours, but it's different with this kid."

"I liked Larkin fine, but it's different with me, too. I barely knew this kid, but somehow it's different."

Costello told me something else then from experience. "It's always different when it's a woman. And it's even worse when it's a kid. That's why most people are lynched, over women and kids."

We went out and closed the door and Costello went into the library and used the phone to call his crew.

I spent the time in my bathroom being sick.

Lying there on the bed, she looked as though she had been killed in her sleep.

THIS time the questioning didn't take long. The doctor put the time of death at about five-thirty, when it was still so dark that the cop prowling the ground couldn't have seen a thing unless he'd been within a few feet of whoever had gone through the window. Everybody said they were sound asleep at that time, of course. Certainly little Mary O'Day had been, because if she'd screamed, either Sawyer or I would probably have heard her. I had my window open and so did he. Hers had been open and Costello pointed out how somebody had cut through the screen, right by the hook that opened it, and had got in that way.

I felt worse then. Mrs. Larkin told us the kid had no people at all— that her father had died when she was seventeen— he was the last she had— and how the kid had been with them since that time.

Somehow that made it worse— to think of the nice little kid, alone in the world and with the only people who'd ever befriended her, being killed in such a way.

Costello took me to the side and said: "I remember what you told me about Sonny passing at her. It could have been him, you—"

"He might have passed at her but he wouldn't have passed at her with a knife, Mister. Besides that, he wasn't sore at the girl, he was crazy about her."

"She might have turned him down and got him sore that way."

"Hell, man, she's been turning him down a dozen times a day, since I've been here. The Lord knows how long before. And he wouldn't have gone courting with a knife, and you know it. He isn't that kind of a man."

"A drunk will do crazy things."

"He wasn't drunk last night. He was sick as a dog with a hangover. You can rule him out."

"I don't rule anybody out, Morahan."

"What about me? This is one I don't have an alibi for."

He said seriously: "It isn't that. I think, just like you do, that she was killed because whoever killed Larkin thought she'd seen or knew something. But the cops have to figure every angle— that's their business."

They all went back to town then except the three men still on guard duty, and what the hell good they were expected to be I never did know. None of us were supposed to leave the county but there was no restrictions on us going to town or around like that. We just had to stay in the jurisdiction of the State police, and everybody was not alone willing but anxious to do just that— or at least appeared to be.

MUST have been hell for Mrs. Larkin to have to live where her husband and her maid had both been murdered but she never whimpered. Nor did Dinah, and I didn't expect Sonny to'. That was another reason I didn't take Mrs. Larkin off my list of suspects—she was taking the whole thing too calmly.

But staying there like that gave me a chance to go over everything—we went out in the speedboat some, Sonny and me, and the Count kept chasing Dinah and Dinah kept chasing Lew Sands, and things seemed about normal.

There was always that thought behind every move though—somebody you were eating with and talking with was a killer, twice over. And that don't help your appetite or your flow of conversation—that I found out right then.

Sawyer was the best off in the lot because he'd had a job to do. He was in the library for the next two days, wiring and phoning up North and going through the papers Larkin had brought with him to work on. He had something to do—something to take his mind off what had happened—and I'd have given my share in Heaven to have been in the same spot.

All I had to do was think about the murders and why they'd been done—and it's no wonder that I finally caught on to something.

And I did it an easy way.

SAWYER called me in the library and gave me a nice smile. "Would you do me a favor, Danny?" he asked. "Take a trip to town for me? Mrs. Larkin is going to need Sands this afternoon."

I said I'd be glad to get away from the house for a while and he said he thought we all would.

He went on with: "There's a boat at the docks downtown that just came in from Jamaica. Its name is the John P. Johnson — it's a converted lumber schooner— you know they're using everything that can carry cargo these days."

I said I'd heard that.

"I've been trying to get hold of the skipper on the phone and I can't catch him. He'll be around the boat, sooner or later, and you could spot him if you were there. His name's Josephs — just ask for Captain Josephs. When you find him ask him to call me here."

"Sure. I'll be glad of the excuse to get away."

"Take any of the cars. Sands will see it's gassed and oiled. Tell him I said to see you on your way."

"Sure."

That was all there was to it. Sands wanted me to take the little Dodge they used to carry groceries back from town with and I laughed at him. Instead I got a Buick sedan, with only four thousand miles on the ticket — and I had a swell time driving in, taking my time, just loafing along. And I had a swell time at the docks, locating the John P. Johnson, which turned out to be a half sail, and half motor ship.

And Josephs was on the boat, talking to what I took to be some custom man of some kind. I waited until he got through and gave him Sawyer's message, and he nodded and said he'd call as soon as he could get away.

That left me free so I sort of strolled around the boat and looked it over. I'd taken enough liquor off boats to judge a cargo pretty well, and they had a lot of theirs on deck, which helped. I judged the load to be between eight and nine hundred hogsheads of rum, it was marked so on the hogsheads and from what I saw and the cargo space I knew was below, it had to be about that many.

Then I drove back and told Sawyer I'd delivered his message all right.

He said: "Mr. Larkin had many and varied enterprises, Danny. It's a wonder one man could have gone into so many things. He'd contracted with Captain Josephs to bring over a cargo of sugar, but the captain had this priority load of rum to bring. Those little boats have done a lot for our war effort, believe me."

I said I supposed they had— that I'd never thought much about it— and then forgot the whole thing.

And then I read the newspaper article. It was plain enough. It had a picture of Captain Josephs standing on the deck of his unloaded boat and it went on to say how small converted vessels like that were holding the West Indian trade, while the bigger steamers were making the long run overseas, with cargo for the Army.

The pay-off was when it said the John P. Johnson had just brought back four hundred and twenty-five hogsheads of rum.

I'm not smart but I'd played the rackets long enough to know one when I see one. And I'd seen the boat and the cargo, and that was enough. I didn't do a thing— I just waited until the next night, when Sonny decided he wanted to go to town and wanted me with him.

I w'ent to town, but I parked Sonny in the first cocktail place we came to and kept on going.

I went to the OPA.

I HAD the usual time with Sonny, but managed to keep him out of fights and out of fights myself. It took a bit of doing, too—Sonny had been a good boy too long, and wanted to break loose and tear things up. I got him home a little after two, though, and one of the cops still on duty at the house helped me carry him inside and to bed.

For the next two days nothing happened at all. Corporal Costello came out, supposedly checking things to see they were all right. He got me to the side and in the first five minutes he was in the house. He was more excited than I was—I was sure. He said: "It checks out, Morahan. It checks out. Hickey told me to tell you there were nine hundred and twenty barrels of rum on that ship and that it only reported in as having four hundred and twenty-five. D'ya know what it means?"

I said: "Sure. I've figured it out. It makes about five hundred hogshead difference. Checked in legally that five hundred kegs would be worth about a hundred thousand. Bottled and taxed and all, the customers would pay about three bucks a quart for it instead of the four dollars a gallon it stands at the dock. But leave out the taxing and selling it for what it could bring in the market, that hundred grand worth of rum's about two and a half times that. That's rough figuring because I've been out of the business quite a while, but it won't miss it far."

"Hickey's tracing the shipment now. He's got somebody going right along with it."

I said, from experience: "It'll be diverted to some warehouse along the route and listed as turpentine or something like that. If they can bribe a customs man like they must have to have passed a shipment like that, why they can fix it up with some shipping clerk on the railroad. For that matter, if they can get it to the freight yard, they don't even have to bother with that. All they've got to do is paint out the heading on the hogsheads and relabel them."

"That's what Hickey said. Morahan, I want to apologize. I figured you were sort of a dope and here you step into something really big."

"Trying to kid me?"

"Hell, no."

I said: "This is just a drop in the bucket. Sawyer didn't start this, he s just carrying on what Larkin started. And you don't think Larkin was just fooling around with small potatoes like this, do you?"

"I don't get it."

"If he was fooling with black market rum, or bootleg rum or whatever you warn to call it, he'd have been fooling with something else. He was a money-maker and a big one. I'd have never known the guy except my bar was near the financial district and a quiet little place where he could duck in and not be bothered by people. I stepped into something a damn' sight bigger than a deal in bootleg rum, mister, believe me."

"I still don't see how you caught wise, Morahan. I've tried to figure it out. As I get it you just happened to notice the boat had more of a load than the papers said."

"That was part of it. Now look! Sawyer tells me he wants to talk to that Captain Josephs but that he couldn't catch him on the phone. That could well be, but it also could be that he didn't want a call going out from this house, where it could be traced back, and that he wanted the captain to call him on a pay phone instead. I know that trick—that was one we used in the old days and plenty. Now that isn't enough. But here's a full load on the boat that's reported as half of a load. The two of them together add up— two and two make five, when they come like that. Then, when you put a double murder on it, you don't get two and two and two make six, but they make about sixteen."

"You think it was Sawyer that did the killings?"

"Sure. But how are you going to prove it?"

Costello thought about it and admitted he couldn't think of a way. I'd gone nuts trying to, myself, so I knew how he felt.

I SAID: "About the only thing to do is coast another couple of days and see what Hickey can dig up here and what his little pals up North can find."

"How come you told Hickey to get in touch with you through me?"

"Because it's a cinch if an O.P.A. man
called me at the house here, I'd be third on
the list. As it is, every time I make a move

I've got to dodge Lew Sands."

"D'ya think the boy's in on it?"

"Hell, no! I think he knows about it, though."

"Any reason for it?"

"You bet. There was a young fellow up North who was very chummy with Sonny. This kid, his name was Alderdyce, was turned down by the Army and he was a very patriotic kid. He started out to beat the black market all by himself, and he ended up dead in an alley. I think that he found out something through Sonny, or through running around with him and being at his house or something like that. I think Sonny knows about it but wouldn't turn his old man in. Sonny's not patriotic— all he's looking for is a good time."

"It sounds reasonable."

"Another thing. The old man never cracked down on him for anything. He let him do as he liked, just paid his bills. I think the old man knew Sonny was wise to what was going on and was afraid to say anything to Sonny about what he was doing."

"The little rat!"

"Not so. He was brought up that way, is all. He was brought up to think anything's all right that you can get away with. And that anybody that joined the Army was a fool. There was plenty of kids like that before Pearl Harbor, Costello, and you know it. The colleges were full of them."

"Most of them got over it."

"My kid brother did, Mister. That's one reason I'm interested in this mess."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

I told him I had two and where they were and just how I felt about them. Costello told me he'd tried to join, himself, but that his feet were flatter than pancakes and that they'd told him he'd do more good in the job he had than in the limited service they'd have to give him if he joined up. I told him what they'd told me when I tried, and we had a nice little chat about Army doctors and their mistakes.

Then he left, but not before warning me to be careful, something I assured him I'd be.

And I tried to be and didn't do too bad at it.

7: Guarding Sonny

IN THE first place, I started wearing my gun and not in any holster. I tucked the thing under my belt inside my shirt and kept a jacket on and buttoned so nobody would notice a bulge. You can jerk your coat open, tearing off the buttons of course, and take your shirt out of your pants with the same grab. This with your left hand, of course. That leaves the butt of your gun in the handiest place in the world, to grab— that across the body draw is up to now, anyway, the fastest way the boys have yet discovered. I've got the front sight of my gun smoothed down—it used to have a square Call sight but I took the front comer off with a file. I rounded the outer edges of the back sight, a Patridge, and that couldn't catch in my pants any more than the front.

THE gun itself, a Colt .45 Automatic, is the Target model and a sweet little gun after you get used to it. I carry it with the hammer back and the safety on, which is the thing to do if there's any chance of having to use it. That's as safe as leaving the hammer down and the safety off, and a man can throw off that safety faster than he can get his thumb up and yank back that stiff little hammer.

Costello had taken it but he'd brought it back to me as soon as he thought I might be in any actual danger, and I was glad he had. It's a lot of satisfaction having a gun that you're used to and trust— and it gives a man a lot more confidence.

I packed the thing two days and nothing happened except that Costello came out and told me Hickey had the rum shipment traced to Norfolk, Virginia, and if ever there was a town that could take up a load of bootleg stock that was the one. There are State liquor stores there and the people are rationed until getting a drink is a day's wait at one of the local dispensaries. The town's full of war workers with a lot of dough and with sailors who've got enough, and there are plenty of outlets around the town, as well as in the town itself.

I know nothing about the police there, but a town with a force just big enough to take care of a normal hundred and sixty people can't take care of three times that with the same number of cops.

I figured it was a sweet spot to unload the rum— even better than farther North.

Costello said: "And Hickey's been going back into other rum shipments and he's uncovered at least three other times the same thing's happened. They've taken the customs man that let it through up, along with three others, for Federal Court, but they're keeping it quiet until they find out what's what up North."

I said that was swell and he left— but I'll always think that Hickey's investigations were the tip-off for Sawyer. That was close to home— and four men can't be spirited away like that without some talk. Of course Josephs, the John P. Johmon's skipper, had been taken up right along with the others, and he might have found out that way.

Anyway, found out he must have.

I was taking a walk along the beach with Sonny when it happened. There was no particular reason for it—Sonny had wanted to go to town and make whoopee and I'd talked him into taking a walk, instead. I didn't know it but the Count and Countess had gone ahead of us, probably to talk over future tactics, but it wouldn't have made any difference, anyways, the way the thing turned out.

We were just loafing along, with Sonny picking up shells and pitching them at birds flying by and kid stuff like that. We were right down by the surf, and every now and then we'd have to step back so the wash wouldn't catch us. Sonny had asked and I was telling him something about the way they used to bring the liquor trucks down from Canada, in the prohibition days, and how if the way was greased the way it usually was, the only danger a man ran into was from hi-jackers.

I did notice Sonny acted pretty nervous but I put that down to wanting to go to town and celebrate. And then a young fellow like that who's just had his father murdered is bound to be nervous—or so I thought.

We were almost to a little point when Lew Sands came down through the brush and to the ocean to meet us. I thought that probably he'd had a date to meet Dinah down that way and thought little about it— but I was canny enough at that to open my coat and get a grip on the front of my shirt, just above the gun's checked grip.

I've never lost anything yet by playing safe.

Sonny said, as if surprised: "Why here's Sands. That's funny, ain't it?"

The minute I heard his voice I knew I was in for it. I noticed then that Sonny was also wearing a jacket, something he never did except when going out in company or when waiting for somebody to build up the fire for him.

I was between them— that is Sonny was nearer the water than I was and Lew was coming down from the shore side. Lew was sixty yards away and walking fast and purposely. So I decided to start the ball.

I yanked my shirt away and got my hand on the gun and spoke to Sonny at the same time.

"On your face, you punk," I said.

He had his hand up as though he was going to scratch his chin. I could see the play as if it was written out. Lew Sands would start blasting about any time, and when I turned, as of course I would, why. Sonny would have a shot at me he couldn't miss. He wasn't ten feet from me.

He said: "Ugh— ugh!"

I said: "On your face!"

THE damn' fool started for his gun and I yanked mine and waited for his to come in sight. And when it did, I shot him through the thigh.

I sort of liked the kid and didn't want to either kill or cripple him too bad. And I didn't have time to see if I'd put him out of action or not—by that time Sands was close enough to do me damage and he was the one I was afraid of.

He was close enough for comfort at that. About thirty yards away, standing there and trying to take a bead on me. He got it just as I turned and I could see the flame bloom out from his gun muzzle just the faintest fraction of a second before I heard the gun.

I didn't hear the slug but it must have been close. Any man that's ever shot a pistol much, and it was a cinch that Sands had, couldn't miss very much at that range. But I shot back and I missed, too. Nervous, I guess— I know I was plenty excited.

It's one thing to shoot at a target and another thing to shoot at something that's shooting back at you— and I supposed it affected Sands the same way.

He shot again and he didn't miss. He almost did but not quite. I felt a tug at my pants and my leg jerked under me, but not enough to let me down. I tried back, twice, as fast as I could get him in the sights and pull the trigger and it was the second one that got him. He started ahead, but dropping the arm that held his gun down by his side, and he must have taken at least half a dozen little steps before he caved in and went ahead on his face.

I swung back to Sonny and he was squirming on the sand like a fish somebody's pulled out of the surf. He was screaming— but so help me, I hadn't heard a sound. He'd dropped his gun, with which he could have shot me half a dozen different times, and he'd wriggled his way at least six feet from it.

Then I looked past him and saw the Count and the Countess running toward me. And, believe it or not, both of them were screaming, too. The Count as loud or louder than the Countess. The Continental idea, I suppose. I saw they had empty hands and didn't pay them any more attention but went up to look at Sands.

I'd caught him just to the side of center and at the base of his throat. What had kept him on his feet as long as he'd stayed there I couldn't understand, except that possibly he'd been leaning ahead against the recoil of his gun and had gone ahead to hold his balance. He was as dead as mutton, so I went back to Sonny.

BY THE time I got there the Count and Countess were there, too. She was kneeling by him and she turned and glared up at me and screamed: "You murderer!"

The Count started to pick up Sonny's gun and I flashed mine out while I waited to see what he was going to do with it. He looked up from it to see me watching him and I thought he was going to faint. He dropped the gun as if it was red hot— and it was for him, if he'd known it. I'd always hated the sneaky little punk, and in the state of mind I was in at the time, I'd have blasted his leg out from under him as fast as I had Sonny's.

I said: "You two get on back to the house in one hell of a hurry and tell 'em to send somebody after the kid. I'll stay here and wait and look after him."

The Countess said: "I will not move one step, you murderer. You would kill him, the minute I left him."

"Nuts! Get moving! And fast."

I had no intention of shooting her but I accidentally let the muzzle of my gun swing toward her. She squawked like a chicken and got off the sand— she was on her knees —and she made the first hundred yards like a sprinter.

The Count had taken off when I first looked at Sonny then. He'd quieted down— he was crying and saying over and over again: "I've been shot! I've been shot!" but he'd quit his fool squirming and was lying fairly still. I pulled his pants down and off him— the right trouser-leg was saturated with blood, anyway, and saw I'd missed the bone entirely, but that I just had. The slug had gone clear through, of course— it takes bone or a lot more of a leg than the kid had to stop a big slug like that at that range. I'd hit an artery, though, probably the big one there, because the wound was pulsing with each heartbeat.

I took his belt off and put it above the place and tightened it with his own gun.

He cried about that, too— said it hurt him. It was hard to believe he was the same one who'd planned on mouse-trapping me with Sands.

Then I looked at myself and found what I'd expected to find. Sands had creased me— his slug had cut a shallow groove along the outside of my leg. It was about four inches long and not over half an inch deep in the middle of it, and while it stung and smarted and ached a little, it didn't really hurt.

I sat with the kid and talked to him, and he was in a shape to talk. I helped this out, maybe, by telling him I'd take the belt off his leg and let him bleed to death right there if he didn't talk, but I don't think I needed to do that.

He'd have talked anyway— he didn't have what it takes to play those sort of games.

I GOT the lowdown on a lot of things that were going to be handy to know. His old man was heart and soul in the black market, as I'd figured out. When I told him who'd killed his father he didn't believe me.

He said: "Why, he told me you did that. He was sure. He said you'd probably slipped away from me during that evening."

"What made you believe him?"

"Because of Mary O'Day. He said that she was killed because she'd seen whoever had killed dad, and that's why she was put out of the way. And then he explained why he was sure you were the one who did it."

"What was the argument?"

"Why that you and she were in the same wing. He told me that nobody from the other wing could have gone around the house on the outside like that and gone through her window without running into the guard. It sounded like good sense."

"Didn't you stop to think that he was in that same wing?"

"Why, no! Somehow I never thought of Milt doing a thing like that."

I said: "Well, I'll be honest, kid, and tell you I didn't either. I was as much up in the air as you were, until I found the reason he killed your father. And then everything made sense— everything clicked at once."

"You mean that black market stuff?"

"Sure. He knew your father's business inside out. He'd have the use of your father's money, at least until the estate was settled. For that matter, your father probably had a bunch of dough sunk away because of taxes— money hidden in different places. He could get his hands on that and have all the capital he needed to run with. He couldn't have taken over your father's legitimate business that way but he could take over the racket. Why did your father ever go into the thing? He was doing all right the way he was."

"You didn't know dad. He went all the way. Lock, stock, and barrel, Danny!"

"Yeah!"

"I wouldn't have cut in with Lew Sands like that if I hadn't thought you'd killed dad. Honest, I wouldn't."

"I believe you, kid. You thought the cops would never prove it and that you'd have to take the law into your own hands."

"That's what Milt said. How'd you know?"

"I knew what he'd say without hearing him say it. You're lucky, kid—I think I can pass this off as an accidental shooting,
if you want it that way."

"I'd like it, Danny, you know it."

I left him then and went up and looked at Sands' gun, which was where it had fallen. I was leaving it there until the cops came—I wanted my story to be clear. It was a short-barreled .38 Colt Detective Special—a belly gun and the probable reason he missed me as he did. They're a good little gun but not made for long-range stuff —and when a man's shooting back at you, thirty yards is a long, long ways.

I went back and said: "It'll pass, if Costello tells the doctor not to be too fussy. Now I'll loosen the belt for a minute to keep the circulation going and then I'll tighten it up again. Then we'll keep on waiting."

"How long will it be, Danny?"

"That depends on how screwy that Countess and her son are. I wouldn't bet a thing one way or the other."

"What d'ya mean?"

"There'll be trouble about this, too, kid. I wouldn't put it past those two to pack up and get out and not say a word."

"They wouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

I decided then that the kid had more brains than I'd given him credit for. He said: "They saw you kill Lew Sands— he'll stick around now, thinking he's got more of a chance with Dinah. Dinah'll have money of her own, now."

I told him that he maybe had something there.

8: Three-Time Killer

MRS. LARKIN led the parade with Dinah a close second. Then came the butler and the five colored men servants, Mrs. Larkin was crying and waving her hands like she was crazy. Far behind them all I could see was the Countess and her son bringing up the rear.

I said: "Okay now, Sonny! Here comes just about the whole household. And I'll bet not one of the damn' fools thought of bringing anything we can use as a stretcher."

I'd have lost. The butler had a blanket. They had other things, too. A first aid kit — Dinah had thought of that. An ice bag, and whose idea that was I never will know. A beach chair, one of the long ones that you lie down in. A thermos of hot coffee and a quart of whiskey and a quart of rum — Mrs. Larkin said, quite seriously, that "Poor dear Sonny sometimes drinks whiskey and sometimes drinks rum."

They had the first aid kit but I was the only one that knew how to use it. So I used it first on Sonny and then on myself.

I said then: "I don't see Sawyer. How come? Didn't he care if Sonny was lying at death's door?"

Mrs. Larkin said: "Why, he said he'd follow right along. He was going to telephone for a doctor and an ambulance."

I knew then what had happened. My leg was stinging some from the antiseptic, but I could walk on it all right. I'd had a little time, chasing the help away from where Sands was lying in the sand, and I turned that job over to the butler.

I said: "You'll have to help carry the boy back, of course. But I want you to pick the best boy of these and leave him here until the police come. Tell him not to touch a thing. I've got to get back to the house in a hurry."

He said: "Yes, sir."

I told Mrs. Larkin I'd go back to the house and get things ready for Sonny at that end and by that time, of course, the Countess was there, ready to put her oar in.

She said: "Don't let that man leave here, Martha. He shot Sonny— he'll escape."

Sonny wasn't feeling so good by that time but he heard that all right. He said: "Tell that old witch to keep her mouth shut. It was Sands that shot me. He must have lost his mind. He just started shooting at us, and if it hadn't been for Danny, he'd have killed both of us."

Mrs. Larkin said: "Is that right, Mr. Morahan?"

"Why, sure. The first thing I knew Sands started shooting and then Sonny fell and I started to shoot back."

"But I tell you, Martha, that my son and I saw the whole thing. This man here shot Sonny down in cold blood and then turned and started shooting at poor Sands."

Mrs. Larkin looked bewildered, but she wasn't fooling me any on that. She was smarter than she acted and I knew it.

I said: "Well, Sonny would certainly know who shot him, wouldn't he?"

And turned and started back to the house.

WE WERE about a mile and a half up the beach and I never thought I'd make it. It wasn't that my leg was bothering me so much— it was that I was getting the kick-back from the excitement I'd had. And I was worried about Sawyer and whether Costello could catch him before he got clear away.

There was no question in my mind about him having made plans about a getaway, just in case. I thought that was probably the reason he'd worked Sonny up into going along with Sands cm trying to kill me, for that matter. I figured he'd heard about the investigation that was going on and had realized his number was up, and was going to skid out and knew I'd stop him if I was there.

Or at least give the alarm so he'd be stopped. It was the only possible explanation for the attack on me. He had hired Sands, certainly, and he'd talked Sonny into it just as a matter of policy. There was always the chance that Sonny might have been a help to Sands in the job, and Sawyer had nothing to lose in any case.

I got to the house and found nobody there but some colored maids and the cook. Sawyer had cleared out, taking the big car —and he had better than an hour's start on me. I called Costello and told him what had happened and he said he'd be right out.

I said: "To hell with that. Try and stop that damn' Rolls before it gets out of the country."

"I did that before I came out, Morahan. Don't get excited."

"Excited, hell! I've got the answers to every tiling. The kid knew about it, just as I told you he did, and he spilled the works."

"You tell Hickey yet?"

"I'll call him when you hang up."

He hung up and I got the OPA man on the line and told him what had happened. He talked calmly enough but I didn't think he felt that way inside. He said he'd keep in touch with me and with Costello and that for me to take care of myself."

That last crack was the tip-off to how high he was up in the air. I started to tell him what I'd found out from Sonny and he listened a minute and said:

"Good Lord, Morahan! I'll be right out. This is big! Big."

I said I'd wait for him.

And then I sat down and waited for the rescue party to come back with Sonny— and I had a bottle of Scotch and ice and soda right alongside of me. Scotch tastes to me a little like medicine, but I thought that was what I needed.

HICKEY got there right after they brought Sonny back. I'd forgotten all about calling the doctor and the ambulance —but I passed that hurdle by saying that I'd thought Sawyer did. I just had time to tell him what I'd learned from Sonny when Costello steamed up. He told us he'd put out a stop order on the Rolls and that it was just a question of time before it was picked up.

Well and good. It wasn't five minutes later— I wasn't through telling him about the shooting— when he got a call that the Rolls had been found. Up the road at a little station thirty miles away. And that Sawyer had managed to get on one of the refugee trains going North.

They called them refugee trains because they ran them just for people who were stuck in the State. A lot of them had reservations for months ahead but that made no difference— the trains, that is the Pullmans, were jammed full and they had to run these chair cars to take care of the overflow.

Costello said: "Have him pulled off at the next stop. Wire ahead— you've got his description."

I could hear the phone rattle back at him and then he said: "Damn it! Then have them stopped. I can't take a chance of him getting off in between."

He turned to us and said: "There's going to be a hell of a row about this but it's the only thing to do. He tells me the train's jammed full, and that there'll be no chance of picking Sawyer out of it. He looks like any other middle-aged business man come down here for the season and stuck, and that train's full of them."

I asked: "Can they get them to hold a train?"

"For a three-time killer they can, Morahan, believe me. Want to go along— you and I are the only ones that can identify him. It's in the next district— all the boys that were here at the house are on patrol— we're as near as any of them."

I said I wanted to go along, naturally. We piled in Costello's car, and if I thought Sonny was a fast driver— and I did— I found I hadn't seen anything. That State trooper put his foot on the gas, all the way down, and he left it that way from the time we left the house until we pulled into a little whistle stop a hundred and ten miles north. So help me, if that car had wings, we'd have taken off and flown. We made that hundred and ten miles in an hour and fourteen minutes and that's driving, even if he did have the siren to help him with all the traffic and on all cross roads.

He slammed into this little station wide open— his radio had told him where the train had been stopped— and when we got there we found four troopers patrolling outside the train. Boys from this district, that weren't sure what we were looking for but who'd been told that nobody got off there. Costello took one of them with us and the two boys and Hickey and I started through, going down from the head end.

I NEVER saw anything like it. Every seat was full and the aisle was jammed with luggage. The racks overhead were piled so they bulged. There were half a dozen men standing in each vestibule, which should give an idea of how crowded that train was.

We went all the way through and it took half an hour. By that time we "had two conductors with us, and they, the poor devils were going crazy. They were going to complain to the Governor— they were going to lose their jobs or at least their seniority, if they didn't get underway right then and there.

Costello was a pretty sick man by then. He'd held a train— not a good one but still a train that had a schedule to maintain— for an hour and a half and he didn't have a murderer to show for it.

And then I got a brain storm. I said: "Listen, Corporal! There's one place we didn't look."

"I'd like to know where."

I told him and we went back through again.

WE FOUND him in the third car from the back and Costello had to threaten to shoot the lock out of the door before he'd open up. He was in the washroom, of course, all bolted in. He came out, cringing like a pup, and this in spite of us finding two guns where he'd tried to hide them in the fuse box that was stuck in there.

Costello said: "You're under arrest, mister, for murder. Three murders, to be exact."

Hickey said: "And if you should by any chance beat that, the Government wants you for OPA violations. I don't think we'll ever get you, though— murder takes precedence over our charge."

Sawyer didn't deny but part of it. He said: "Three murders. I don't understand."

"Killing Mary O'Day," Costello said.

Sawyer just looked at his feet.

"Killing Amos Larkin."

Sawyer looked at the handcuff that linked him to the State trooper who'd gone through the cars with us.

"And killing a boy named Alderdyce."

Sawyer looked up at that one. He said: "You can't put that one on me, Corporal. Sands did that." And then he turned to me.

"Did you really kill Sands?"

I said I had.

"I don't understand it."

"Why?"

"Sands was supposed to be a good man with a gun."

I laughed at that one.

We took him off the train and loaded him in Costello's car and he didn't have a word to say except just once. And we were half-way back to the house before he said that.

It was: "I suppose Sonny told all he knew?"

I said that Sonny had opened all up.

And that was all.

Sawyer got life and Sonny got a pat on the back from the cops for being an innocent victim of Sands' wild shooting. However, the Larkin family didn't fare so well at that because the Government levied on the dough Larkin had pulled out of the black market and really made it stick.

They still had more than enough left, though. His legitimate business had always been a money-maker and they had better than three million dollars to split between themselves after all taxes were paid.

Of course I didn't know about that until quite a while afterward. I was on a job— Hickey had got me one with the OPA as an investigator— and it just happened they sent me South again. And it just happened I drifted into one of the spots Sonny and I had favored with our trade, during the time of the murders.

This was three months after Sawyer had been tried.

The first thing I heard was somebody bawling out: "I'll buy a drink for the house!"

Sure enough it was Sonny. I went over to his table and met a dirty-looking blond wench I wouldn't have walked down an alley with. Sonny was as drunk as a skunk and looked like hell— but he seemed glad to see me.

I said: "Folks down, too, Sonny?"

"Dinah's married," he said.

"To the Count?"

"Oh hell, no. They arrested those two. Just after we went back North. Some bunco game they'd run on a woman out in Chicago. I haven't heard another thing about them."

"Who'd the kid marry?"

Sonny straightened up and looked proud. "A guy in the Army. And Danny, he was only a private, not even a private first class, and you know what?"

I said: "What?"

"By golly, he's already a second looey. He went to that officer's school and made second looey. And only in a year and a half. We're pretty proud of him, all of us."

This from a black market family. I said: "How's your mother?"

"Mother's fine. She's chairman of the bond drive up in Connecticut. We've got a place up there, too."

"And you?"

He said, and I got another explanation of why he looked so bad. "I'm working here at the Port, Danny. I just got off a seventy-two-hour shift. We're running short-handed and a man's got to put in extra time to keep things moving."

I shook hands with him and was proud to do it.

___________________

7: Three Dead Men

Thrilling Detective Sep 1940

1: Judas Pinch

THE BAR was almost deserted when I came from the back room, with only one boiled customer and one bored bartender in it. The customer was Steve Kovacs and the barman, Henry Gillis. Steve had a small logging contract which probably made him about as much money as Henry dragged down In wages. And Steve, who was one of the few Hungarians in that part of the country, had been all over the world and liked to talk about it.

Henry had been tending bar for thirty years and had never crossed the county line. They got along just fine together, because Steve thought Henry was stupid for staying in one place all his life, while Henry thought Steve was a fool because he didn't stay in one place and get acquainted with the neighbors for a hundred miles around. They argued it all the time.

Steve was in the middle of the bar, all sprawled out, with his elbows wide and chin almost on the bar, so I stopped at the end of the plank. Steve stared at me for at least ten seconds before I registered on him. Then he waved a hand toward me.

"Hi, Joe!" he said. "You have drink with me?"

I had stopped with the idea of having a quick one and then home and to bed. I had been in the game since three that afternoon, and ten hours of tough poker playing is wearing.

Henry set up the bottle and the plain water chaser without being told, and Steve waved a hand at me again.

"You come here, hey, Joe?" he said. "You have drink with me, yes?"

I poured out a drink and held it up and nodded to Steve. There was no point in going down the bar where he was. I don't like being mauled around by a stew unless I'm one myself, and Steve, very plainly, was in the arm-across-the-shoulder mood.

"He's been on it three days, now," Henry said. "He's waiting for some friend of his that's just come over from the old country. He's going to work for Steve, I guess. Steve's been waiting for him since seven."

"Steve's a good boy," I said. "He tried to sit in the game, but Fales wouldn't let him light. He had too much. About ten, that was."

HENRY sighed and went back to Steve and poured out a drink for both of them. If Steve had tried to pour his own he would have spilled it all over the bar, and Henry was a careful man with the owner's stock.

So we all held up glasses and nodded and smiled and drank. I nodded at Henry, who poured another one for the two of them, and then drifted back to me carrying his glass. He nodded toward the back.

"Looked pretty steep," he said.

"How'd you come out?"

I had lost a hundred and forty dollars and said so. I'd been losing steadily for about three weeks and it about had me down. Any time I'd get a good hand I wouldn't get a play on it, and every time I'd get a fair one I'd find it beaten. I'd win a pot now and then, of course, but the percentage was going downhill with me all the time.

"Steve's a rotten poker player when he's sober and he's worse when he's tight," I said. "Fales did right in keeping him out. There's a bunch of sharpshooters in there that would put their hands in your pockets if they couldn't rob you any other way. I've been finding it out."

About then we took the second drink and I paid for it— and about then in came the night cop. A bird named Sol Dickie. Just a big country kid who had a gun and a sap and who didn't have the faintest idea of what either of them was for.

He came dashing in, put on the brakes when he saw Steve at the bar, and then hauled out his gun. A man could have walked from the bar to the door while he was getting it out. He pointed the cannon at Steve.

"C-come along," he got out.

Steve had heard him come in and had wobbled around on his seat to see who it was. He saw the gun was headed in his direction.

"Hey!" he said. "You be careful!"

Dickie tried to look like a policeman about to make an arrest, and didn't do well at it. He went a little closer to Steve, acting as though he was easing up to a cornered wildcat.

"Come along," he said again. "Don't make a move!"

I laughed and Henry laughed. Steve gave us a puzzled look and then laughed because we were doing it.

"Put away the gun— you don't need it," I said to Dickie. "Since when are they picking up drunks in this town? You're going to need a bigger jail to hold everybody from the mayor on down, aren't you, Sol?"

He quit pointing the gun at Steve, but he didn't put it away.

"I ain't picking him up for being drunk, Joe," he said. "He's killed a guy, that's what he's done. He beat him to death with a jack!"

"You gone crazy, Sol?" Henry Gillis asked. "You must've."

"The fella's out in the car," Sol said. "In Steve's own car. His head is all beat in with a jack. Steve must've had a flat and just left the jack out on the floor boards, and he must've picked it up and started to swing with it. The guy's deader than the Unknown Soldier!"

STEVE had stopped laughing when Henry and I had. He was staring at Dickie but he wasn't understanding what Dickie was saying. Henry's mouth was open and he was looking as though he didn't believe what he had heard.

"This jack's a big old thing, with a square base," Sol went on. "It must weigh ten pounds or more. Every time the guy was hit, one of those comers must've gone in. His head's spread all over the front seat of the car. You should see it! I guess I'd better not move the car until the coroner gets here."

"I guess you'd better not," I said. "What makes you think Steve did all this?"

"The dead man is the one that was going to work for Steve. He just come here from Europe, some place. He got in town yesterday, but Steve, here, wouldn't get off his bust and take him to camp.

"I got the doctor and the doctor said he'd been dead about three hours, and Steve was talking to him about nine o'clock. Couple of fellas saw him talking to him. Besides, Steve's the only one this guy knew in town. He just got here yesterday."

"You talk about what?" Steve said. "What's the matter with you? You crazy?"

"Look, Steve," I said. "I'm a friend of yours, ain't I ?"

"You my friend, Joe."

"Then come on and take a walk with me."

"Sure, Joe. I go. Where we go?"

I winked at Dickie and he got the idea. He put his gun where it belonged and went out ahead, starting for the jailhouse, and Steve and I followed. Steve was wobbling all over the street.

"What you been doing tonight, Steve," I asked, "besides drinking up all the drinking liquor in town?"

He said he'd been doing just that— that as soon as his friend from the old country came along, he was going to camp.

I asked him where he'd been around nine o'clock.

"Drinking," he said, and waved his
hand. "I drink because I have to go to camp and I not drink there. It is my camp and it does not do to drink where the men are hired."

He wasn't stalling, I was sure of that. He just didn't remember. About that time we got to the door of the jailhouse, which Sol had left invitingly open, and in we went. Steve didn't even hesitate. He was so tight he didn't have any idea of where he was.

Sol motioned toward the last of the three cells from where he was standing, and I walked Steve right into it and Sol slammed the door.

"Go to sleep, fella," I said to Steve. "I'll see you in the morning."

He held onto the bars of the cell and then suddenly realized what they were and where he was.

"Joe!" he cried out. "You! My friend!"

I felt like Judas, but it was better than having the big kid cop lose his head and start work with the sap, which is what held have done. He'd think he was dealing with a murderer and he wouldn't take any chances. We went out and Sol shook his head.

"I'd never have believed it of Steve," he said.

"I don't now," I told him.

"He must've done it."

"Well, you're the cop, you should know," I said, and went back and said goodnight to Henry Gillis.

I knew Henry would be glad to hear that Steve had ended up in jail without having his face all marked up with the sap.

2: Self-defense

I HAD been in Ellerville about a month by then, looking for a man named Schuyler. George Schuyler. At least,  that had been his name seven years before, when he had taken forty-eight thousand dollars from the bank he worked for and skipped out with it. The bonding house I work for had trailed him for awhile, but he got clear away and for five years we had let it rest.

But a month ago we had received a letter from a girl he'd run around with while he was in the bank, and she told us she'd heard from him and that the letter had been mailed from Ellerville. He didn't want an answer, he said, but just couldn't help writing her. He said he was going under another name and was living honestly, and that when he was able he was going to pay to the bank the money he'd stolen— and the rest of the line that went with it.

That's common. It's hard for a man to forget everything in the past. They'll write letters like that and visit the old home-town and telephone long-distance a surprising amount of times. Of course, lots of times it's when they are drinking and Old Man Remorse is walking hand and hand with them. And lots of times they really mean it— but they never do it.

I had a poor snapshot of Schuyler taken some time before he skipped, a general description of him that didn't necessarily mean a thing, and that was all. And a man can change a lot in seven years, particularly if he's a fugitive from justice.

I figured my best bet was to hang around town and wait for him to come to me, so I spent the time loafing around in bars and in playing cards when I could find a decent game. I'd be a lot more likely to run into him in such places than I would around the church crowd. I like to hang around them anyway, so I was combining business with pleasure and nobody was hurt.

Besides, I'd have to get acquainted with the man before' I could put my finger on him and say, "I want you, Schuyler." And there's no easier place in the world to get acquainted than in a saloon. The man would be going under a different name, would be altered physically and mentally, and I had to be sure. Then, too, I knew he wouldn't be inhibited.

The only thing in my favor was the size of the town. There weren't more than fifteen hundred people in it, and they all made a living from the mills and logging camps around. All I had to do was watch them, and the loggers when they came to town to spend their money.

I was staying at the best hotel, which would have classed as a rooming house in a town any bigger. It was clean, but that was about all you could say for it. Just a cubbyhole in a corridor with a washbowl in it. The bathroom was two doors down the hall.

You don't usually look for trouble in a bathroom and I had no reason to expect any, so I don't figure I was to blame for walking in on it in my shirtsleeves.

I'd taken off my shirt, shoes, and gun, even my undershirt. I was lugging a pair of pajamas and all I was thinking about was the shower I was going to take. So when I opened the bathroom door and a guy with a handkerchief over his mouth and nose stuck a gun at me, I was in no shape to argue.

"Inside here!" he said. "Out of the hall!"

I went inside, holding my hands up at shoulder height. I didn't drop the pajamas because there was no sense in dropping them on a dirty floor, and they were the last clean pair I had left until the laundry got back.

"What did Steve Kovacs have to say, huh?" the man said.

"He was too far gone to talk," I said, and tried to figure what was holding me up.

HE WAS dressed like a lumberjack, with pitch-crusted denim overall pants and a blue cotton work shirt. His logging boots looked as if they'd seen a lot of service. His hat looked okay, too— all battered and out of shape, but with a sort of reckless tilt to it.

But his hands were smooth and clean instead of calloused, and he didn't talk like a logger. He had just the trace of an accent, but I couldn't figure what it was.

"What was the idea of helping the cop take him in?" he said. "You a policeman?"

"Steve's a friend of mine," I said. "I figured the cop might go whacky and start sapping him all over the place. The cop's just a kid and he was scared of Steve and I figured he might blow his cork and start kicking Steve all over the place. Steve's so plastered he wouldn't know what the cop was trying to get him to do."

"Your name's Walters, eh?"

"That's right."

"What d'you do?" he asked.

"Play a little cards."

"Crossroader, eh?"

"Well, yes."

A crossroader is a gambler who plays in one town for awhile, then hears of a big game somewhere else and goes there. They'll jump five hundred miles to sit in one all-night game, if it's steep enough to warrant it. In other words, a professional gambler who's not working for the house.

The man with the gun looked me over, not missing a thing.

"You don't look like one," he said.

"You look like a wrestler."

"Too hard on the ears," I said.

"So you're not a wrestler, eh?" he said, and laughed. "Well, you're not a crossroader, either. You've been losing too steady. You're nothing but a damn liar!"

With that, he took a step forward and made a pass at me with the gun.

I'd lied to him both ways. I wasn't a gambler, and I had wrestled quite a bit. Amateur stuff, but there's a lot of good wrestling done among the amateurs, because they're leveling instead of doing the circus tricks. So when the gun came down I stooped fast and took the blow on the big shoulder muscles, and I got my arms around his middle before he could get away.

And that's where the pajamas wrecked us both. Instead of being able to grip one hand in the other, I had to get my right wrist with my left hand in order to get a hold. I still had the pajamas in my hand and I couldn't get them out of the way.

That extra four inches cinched his stomach against me harder than I realized. Enough so that when I yanked in with my arms and butted up with my head, I caught him fair on the chin and he had no slack to take up the shock.

When I heard the crack I knew I'd done it. It sounded as though somebody had stepped on a rotten stick— a sort of crunching noise. He sagged back against my arms, the gun dropped out of his hand onto the tiled floor, and then I let him down.

He had a broken neck, that I knew. But there was a chance, if the spinal cord hadn't been broken, that he could be put in a cast and would get over it. If the cord was just pressed he might still live. If it had been broken, he was dead.

The cord was broken. He was as dead as a man could be!

MY SHOULDER, where the gun had  landed, was already getting over the numb feeling it had and was beginning to ache. And so was my head, for I'd managed to kill a man who certainly knew something about the jam poor Steve Kovacs was in.

I hadn't done it on purpose. He'd smacked at me with the gun and I'd done just what I'd been taught to do by a wrestling coach, in case a thing like that should ever happen.

As far as the man himself was concerned, I didn't care at all. He'd threatened me with a gun and he'd tried to smash my head in with it with no provocation whatsoever. But a dead man can't talk, and I'd wanted to ask some questions and hear some answers.

I pulled down the handkerchief from his face and saw he was some bird I'd remembered seeing around the card tables once in a while. But that didn't mean a thing. There are always bystanders, if the game's of any size.

The gun was right by him and I didn't pick it up. I could see where it was worn, where the blue had been polished off the barrel and cylinder— which meant it had been carried for some time in a shoulder rig. For several years, at least.

I stood up, and then Sol Dickie said from behind me:

"Hey! What's this?"

Sol was in the doorway, gaping at the man on the floor.

"What's the matter with him?" he said. "Didja upset him?"

"I certainly did," I said. "He held me up and started to crown me. We scuffled around a bit and I guess I broke his neck. It was self-defense, Sol. I had to do it, or else get smacked on the head with the gun. The gun's there on the floor."

He edged ahead until he was between the gun and me, and he stooped for it, fast. I shoved him clear on over it.

"Leave it alone," I said. "It's got his prints on it and none of mine. It'll prove my story."

He didn't like being shoved around much, but he didn't argue. He picked up the gun, using a handkerchief I gave him, and we went in my room and I helped him wrap it so any prints on it wouldn't be damaged.

"The D. A.'ll be over," I said, "both about this and about Steve Kovacs, and this gun wants to be the same it is now. You've put in a call for him, haven't you?"

He said he had. That the whole law enforcement group had already left the county seat and were on their way.

"Say, who are you anyway?" he asked then.

"Joe Walters," I said. "Joseph H. Walters."

"What are you doing here? You're no gambler."

"How d'ya know that?"

"You always lose. Look, Walters!" he added. "I know there's something funny going on and I know you're in it. You stick around and you spend money and all you do is lose more in the games. You gave me a hand tonight. That Steve Kovacs, when he's been hitting it up he is like a crazy man if he gets mad. Here's two murders in one night and—"

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Maybe the fellow in Kovacs' car was murdered— I don't know. This man wasn't. I've got a right to protect myself. It's not murder when you're protecting yourself, is it?"

The kid shook his head. "I don't know anything about it," he said. "I hate to ask you on account of you helping out, but come on. We'll lock your room and the bathrom. It's not so bad in jail, we keep it clean. If I don't keep you there until the D. A. gets here, I'll lose my job, sure as anything."

"Wait until I get dressed," I said. "You know the guy in the bathroom?"

"Yeah," he said. "His name was Schuyler."

3: Circumstantial Evidence

DURING the rest of the night, there was a lot of time for me to think. The jail was clean enough, but it had a smell of disinfectants and of staleness, and I'm used to a mattress instead of iron slats under two thin blankets.

I knew that once I told the D. A. who I was and what I was in Ellerville for, I would be in the clear, and so I wasn't worried about myself. As far as the Schuyler case was considered, that was in the bag.

The one I'd tangled with was too young and too big to be the Schuyler I was looking for, but it was a cinch to be some relative of his. All I'd have to do would be to look around and locate this bird's running mates and my man would be among them.

But I was bothered about Steve Kovacs. He was tied up in the business, some way, because the Schuyler I had killed had been after me for butting in on the Kovacs angle.

And, worst of all, it was entirely possible that Steve had killed his friend during an argument and had been too tight to remember it afterward. While I didn't think he had, there have been a lot of cases where just that same thing has happened. And while Steve wasn't a pal or anything like that, I liked the lad and didn't want to see him railroaded if he didn't have the ride coming.

Sol stopped by and saw I wasn't sleeping, so he went over to the one all-night restaurant and brought back coffee for both of us.

"You see how it is," he said. "If I didn't take you in, I'd lose my job. It was a rotten trick, after you helping me with Steve Kovacs."

I asked him how long Kovacs had been in the country. He said Steve had drifted in about a year before, had worked for wages until he got an idea of what it was all about, and then had branched out for himself. Also that he had brought money in with him when he came.

"Who were the two men that saw Kovacs talking with the man he's supposed to have killed?" I asked.

Sol looked startled. "Golly!" he said. "One of them was this Schuyler— the one that held you up!"

"The one I killed, you mean."

He got red in the face. "Yeah! The other one was a pal of his, named McGrath."

I asked what McGrath looked like and got a description that might possibly fit the Schuyler I was looking for. I asked if the man Kovacs was supposed to have killed had been robbed.

"I don't know," Sol Dickie said. "I had the car towed to the fire station, and I ran the fire truck out and backed the car in the stall. That place is locked, so the coroner can't say I let anybody disturb the evidence. Same as the guy down in your bathroom. That door's locked and I got the key."

"Do me a favor, Sol," I said. "Go in and turn Kovacs over on his side. He's driving me crazy!"

I was in the next cell to him and he was sleeping on his back and sounding as though he were sawing through a heavy log.

"Tell me something else," I said, when Sol came back and Kovacs was quieter. "You asked me what I was doing here in town. What's the idea of that? You don't usually go around asking people who come here what their business is, do you, Sol?"

He got red again. "Well, no, Joe— I mean Mr. Walters— but I heard several fellas talking about you and nobody knows anything about you. I guess I was just sort of curious. I guess some of them think you're looking for a place to buy, and some others think you're some kind of a cop, and some others think you're hiding out. What they said got me thinking. I guess I just got curious, is all."

THAT'S a small town for you. All I was doing was minding my business.

"Y'see, you wear decent clothes most of the time," Sol went on, "and you got a good car and you talk like you been educated. So they wonder what you're doing here, like I say."

"Sol," I said, and made it sound mysterious, "I'm looking for the Lost Dutchman Mine. I have reason to believe there's gold in these hills."

"But there ain't no mines around here," said Sol, looking bewildered.

"There's no law against a man digging one, is there?" I asked. "I think I've run into a gold mine!"

He left me then, shaking his head as though he thought I was crazy. He was wrong, for if I dug up George Schuyler after he had been missing seven years, I was a cinch for a bonus— and gold is where you find it. George Schuyler was my particular gold mine and I'd found him in Ellerville.

The D. A. and the sheriff and two deputies and the coroner all got there between eight and ten the next morning. They came in two cars, with a hearse to boot, and as the D. A. was in the ten-o'clock car it was a quarter after that before I got out.

I told him who I was, what I was there for, how I had miscalculated and killed the brother of the man I was looking for, and how and why I was pretty sure I knew who my man was.

The D. A. scowled. "We'll have to have an inquest, you know," he said. "It's too bad you didn't have a witness to this attempted assault on you, Mr. Walters."

"If I'd had a witness the assault wouldn't have been attempted," I told him. "But you've got something here that's phony. These two Schuylers are tied up with Kovacs in some way."

"How? And why?"

"That's what I'd like to know. I can't very well find out while I'm sitting in jail. And my man is liable to get away and I'll have to start hunting him all over again."

Sol Dickie hadn't even bothered to search me for a gun the night before. I still had one, as well as all my identification. The D. A. checked this over again and compared my gun license with the number on it.

"I guess I can release you on your own recognizance until the inquest," he said grudgingly. "But don't leave town or anything like that. I'll tell you when the inquest will be."

"Thanks," I said. "Maybe I can help out."

"I don't see how," he said severely. "We apparently have an open-and-shut case against this man Kovacs. Kovacs is the only one in town who knew the man who was murdered. He's the only one that could have had a possible motive for the crime. He was seen talking with the man at the scene of the crime at approximately the time it was committed. The fact of his being drunk doesn't alter the matter one way or the other," he continued. "He claims he remembers nothing of the evening at all. Doesn't even know how he arrived in jail. It's an open-and-shut case, Mr. Walters."

"Well, maybe," I said. "I've been wrong before. Do you mind if I go and hunt up this man McGrath and see if he's the one that I came out here looking for?"

"I've already sent an officer after the man," the D. A. explained. "He's the one remaining witness to the talk between Kovacs and the murdered man at nine last evening. You, unfortunately, disposed of the other."

"I'd say 'fortunately' disposed of the other," I commented. "If I hadn't disposed of him he would most certainly have disposed of me. Do I understand that you'll release this McGrath to us after he's testified about the Kovacs case? I've got a warrant for him."

"Well, he might fight extradition," the D. A. said cautiously. "As long as he tells his story about seeing Kovacs and this man he killed together, he's nothing to me."

I LEFT then, just in time to join the sheriff and Sol Dickie. They were going to make the rounds and look at all the corpses again. Sol had already gone around once with the D. A. and the coroner, but the sheriff was up for reelection in the fall and had stopped to do a little campaigning.

Business before duty was his motto, I guess— and besides that, saloons are swell places to campaign in and I guess the sheriff figured he needed a few drinks before looking at a bunch of dead men.

After seeing the man in Kovacs' car I didn't blame the sheriff a bit. I'd expected something pretty bad, but this was worse than that. The poor guy's head was all over the front of the car and there was blood splashed up on the roof of it. The man was so badly battered around the face you had to guess what he must once have looked like.

The coroner was there, fidgeting around.

"A brutal crime, Sheriff!" he said to the lawman. "Brutal! The man who did this must be a maniac!"

The sheriff had heard the story about Kovacs' nasty temper.

"Or someone that lost his head when he was full of liquor," he said.

I'd been thinking hard about the night before, so I took the sheriff to one side.

"Now, look!" I said. "Last night, just about half past nine or a quarter to ten, Kovacs tried to sit in Fales' poker game. Fales wouldn't let him light because he was just about at the falling-down stage. But he was good-natured. Now if he'd been mad enough to beat a man to death a half hour before that, he wouldn't have taken it that way. He'd have still been on his toes.

"He was too far gone to pick up the jack the job was done with, I'll swear to it. There were six of us in the game besides Fales, and every one of us'll tell you the same thing."

The sheriff looked very wise. "I don't know what a drunk will do, and you don't know," he said flatly. "He could have forgotten all about it in that length of time."

"Well, the man was killed before that time, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, sure. Between nine and half past."

Then I gave him the clincher.

"I saw Steve after that, then. And anybody around will tell you he came to town in the clothes he's got on now. Figure it out— you've seen him."

"I don't get it," said the sheriff.

I waved at the car.

"Take a look," I said. "The killer was inside the car. Do you think he could have done a job like that and not be covered with blood? Steve hasn't got a speck of blood on him anywhere. I took him to jail last night, and I know!"

"Hey, Doc!" the sheriff called heavily. "Come here and listen to this!"

About then the D. A. wandered in, and in fifteen minutes Steve Kovacs was up in front of a bar, taking his morning drink and wondering what had happened the night before. He was telling both Henry Gillis and me that the town had gone crazy.

4: Everything in Line

McGRATH—  or George Schuyler, as I was beginning to call him to myself— was not to be found. Nowhere. He'd been the boss office man at the biggest mill and was fairly well known, but he'd apparently just dropped out of sight.

I thought he might have been afraid the Kovacs affair would bring a lot of law to town and that he would be recognized. But this didn't hold much water when I stopped to think how long he'd been in town and that he was wanted for something that had happened seven years before and about fifteen hundred miles away.

The D. A. seemed to think I'd given him a break by not letting him take Steve Kovacs to the county seat and charge him with the murder, so he was playing ball with me like a major-leaguer. He was letting his men do the looking, and their stall was that they wanted McGrath for a witness about whom he'd seen talking with the murdered man in the car and also about the Schuyler I'd killed in the bathroom.

Sol Dickie was also supposed to be looking for McGrath, though he didn't know what he was wanted for any more than the sheriff's deputies knew.

"I should have asked George Schuyler last night just where McGrath was," he said. "I mean when Schuyler told me about seeing Kovacs talking to the man in the car. But how'd I know you was going to break his neck?"

"It was Schuyler, then, who told you that he and McGrath saw the guy and Kovacs talking," I said. "That it?"

He said that it was.

About this time the coroner and the D. A. came down the street.

"How'd it be, Walters," the D. A. asked, "if we held the inquest on this man you killed day after tomorrow at the county seat? Can you make it? I'll leave two of my boys on the job here. They've got nothing to do until then, anyway."

"Broken neck," the coroner said to me. "Clean break. You must be a powerful man, Walters."

"It's a trick, is all," I admitted. "If he'd known anything about rough-and- tumble brawling he'd just have a sore back. He could have let himself go and it wouldn't have hurt him seriously."

We walked down to the hotel, the four of us.

"I don't think that there'll be any trouble about this," the D. A. said to me. "I'd like to know something about the man, is all. All I know is that he came to town and moved in with McGrath. McGrath has a house, you know. He's a bachelor."

I knew it, and said so. Since I'd decided McGrath was my man, I'd found out a lot of things about him.

"That's what makes me think your theory as to their being brothers is correct," the D. A. went on. "McGrath wasn't a friendly man by any means, and yet he takes this stranger in. That would tend to prove you correct—that this McGrath is undoubtedly George Schuyler, the man you're looking for."

"And the man you're Iboking for, too," I said. "It seems darned funny to me that a man as well known as he is could just drop out of sight."

"We'll find him," the D. A. promised. "He didn't leave in a car. Of that, we're fairly certain. They had a traffic check on both sides of town last night— state policemen checking licenses. He didn't go out by car, I feel I'm safe in saying."

By that time we were at the hotel, and we went to the bathroom to look at the corpse I'd made.

STRANGELY, the man looked smaller than he had the night before, but maybe that was only natural. Death always seems to shrink a person. He had a thin, hatchety face, which had become a discolored, dirty gray. There wasn't a mark on him except a half- healed scratch on his wrist, and there was a little blood on the sleeve of that shirt, which was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of his costume.

There was little tan on his face, and his hands were clean and well kept, with the forefinger on the left amputated at the first joint. It all meant plenty.

"Well, maybe I can give you a hand," I said to the D. A. "You check your records for a bird that's been vagged a good many times. This guy's a professional gambler and he's probably been playing the small camps around on paydays.

"He's not a logger, in spite of his clothes," I went on, "because his hands are too nice, and that forefinger being off makes him, in all probability, a fast man with the cards. He can get that stump under the deck and take off bottoms without the end of his finger flashing out into sight. He lit in here, and his brother had to take care of him and introduce him around. He hasn't played around town or I'd have sat in a game or so with him, so that means he's been playing the mining camps. The clothes make that almost a cinch bet. Does all this make sense?"

They all agreed, and the D. A. promised he'd look up the man's record.

"Well, you'd better get your boys on the hunt for McGrath and let 'em try and see what happened to him," I said then. "My guess is that when you find him you'll find something that isn't pretty."

Both the D. A. and the sheriff started to stutter together, asking what I was driving at. And then, before I had a chance to tell them, Sol Dickie came dashing in.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Come on! It's another dead one, by golly! Down by the tracks. Some kids found it!"

A train had run over this one, and my guess about him not being pretty was absolutely correct. From his shoulders up, you'd never have known it had once been a man. The train had just spread the mess for twenty feet down the track. Even the ties were smeared.

The clothes were ordinary business clothes and the D. A. went through the pockets.

"Well, here's your man, all right," he said to me as he straightened. "At least it's McGrath. Here's bills and a couple of letters and his wallet with a driver's license."

I'd been seeing too many dead people and it was getting me down.

"I'm going back to town and get a drink," I said. "When are you going to move the bodies back to town?"

"I doubt if we will until tomorrow," the D. A. said, shaking his head. "What do you think, Doc?"

The coroner looked up from the body, or what was left of it.

"I'm going to have the inquest here," he growled. "I can set it at the scene of death if I so desire. There's too damn many killings going on around here!"

"This is an accident," the D. A. said. The coroner shrugged. "If you can tell me why the man was walking out here along the railroad tracks, I'll maybe believe you," he said. "There's a road that runs the same way fifty feet from here, and it's a lot easier walking. He'd have had to climb up the bank to get here. We did, didn't we? Don't tell me he was trying to catch a ride on the train, because he'd have done that in the yards when the train was stopped, or just this side when it was pulling out slow.

"And"— he waved his hand— "if you'll look you can see how the embankment is all scuffed up. The kids might have done some of it and we might have done a little more, but we didn't make those deep gouges. They were made by two men carrying a third. This would be the third. They laid his head on the track and the train took care of the rest."

"But why should they do that? We know it's McGrath."

The coroner said he'd be darned if he knew, but that he intended to find out. That it was part of his duty to find out, and, by golly, nobody ever accused him of not doing his duty.

"It'll all come out in the wash, gentlemen," I soothed, "and I think we'll do the washing tonight. I've got ideas about this."

"Somebody's going to hang for this!" the D. A. promised.

"Five'll get you ten they don't," I said. "I'm in here pitching for my bonus and I can't get it by any guesswork. You'll never hang the lad that did this."

LEAVING them, then, I went back to the saloon.

"That was a shame about that Schuyler, Joe," Henry Gillis said. "Who'd have thought he was a bad one!"

"You knew him very well, Henry?" I asked.

"He came in the bar now and then. Once in awhile he'd get plastered, maybe. That's all. Always had money and he always spent it. I like people like that, Joe."

I didn't know whether the last was a hint or not, but I bought both of us another drink.

"What about McGrath?" I asked. "Was he good bar business, too?" "He never came in the place," Henry said. "But then, I guess maybe he didn't have any money."

"I wouldn't know," I murmured, thinking about the forty-eight thousand George Schuyler— McGrath to Henry— had taken off with. "He must've had a salary, at least."

Henry shook his head and said that most salaried people weren't good bar customers.

I left and went looking for Steve Kovacs, figuring to get to him before he got too full to talk. There was one point I had to straighten before everything fell into line. Steve was in the second saloon down the street but was still in fair shape, so I bought a round.

"Hey, Steve," I said. "I want to ask you something."

"You my friend," he said. "From the jail you take me. I tell you anything."

He had forgotten I was the one who had led him to jail, and I didn't remind him of it.

"It's about this friend of yours," I said. "I can't pronounce his name."

"It is Bela—" The last name was something that had to be half sneezed.

"That's right," I said. "Now tell me— he's supposed to be from the old country. Wasn't he here in this country before?"

"Bela, he travels like me," Steve said very proudly. "All around, all around. Four times Bela fias been in this country. He has worked in this country. He can the language speak."

George Schuyler had come from a factory town called Roslyn. I took my chance and asked, "Did he by any chance ever work in Roslyn?"

"Ho!" Steve chuckled. "In Roslyn Bela works in what you call cannery. The canned corn. The canned pea. The canned bean."

"How long ago?"

"Eight-nine year ago. It was Bela's second trip to this country. He save his money and he lose him to this Schuyler man you kill. That was a fine thing, my friend, that you kill this man. He was crook. He take Bela's money with the cards, the dice. All the money Bela has in the bank he takes."

"Thanks, Steve," I said. "You've done me a favor."

"Joe, you do me the favor," Steve insisted. "You kill the man that rob my friend, which is very fine."

Everything was in line, then.

5: "Gold Is Where You Find It"

NATURALLY, there was nothing doing until dark, because I had no way of telling if McGrath's house was being watched or not. The sheriff had gone through it, after a fashion, after finding the body by the tracks, but he hadn't been in there long. I had made a point of seeing he wasn't.

The D. A. and the sheriff and I now went in the back door without turning on a light, and I parked the D. A. in the front room and the sheriff in a small cubicle off the kitchen. I'd even borrowed a gun for the D. A.

It was only about nine-thirty, but we weren't taking any chances on missing our man through carelessness. I took a sort of roving assignment, but I'd found a pair of McGrath's carpet slippers and I wasn't making any noise while I prowled around. About eleven I had to stop the D. A. from smoking a cigarette. It hadn't occurred to him that somebody coming in from outdoors would smell fresh smoke and recognize it as such. About twelve I had to wake up the sheriff, because he'd fallen asleep in his chair and was snoring along in great shape.

But at one-thirty the screen door at the back creaked and we got ready to go into action.

I was just inside the dining room, with my back against the wall, so that whoever came in would pass me. I had a finger on the light switch. It was arranged that we were to let whoever it was get all the way in, so we'd be all around him and there would be no chance for trouble. But the sheriff must have gone to sleep again and was waked by the noise.

"That you, Walters?" he called out softly.

The screen door slammed when whoever was holding it let it go, and I went through the kitchen and past the sheriff and to the door. I could see a dim figure pounding toward the road.

"Hold it!" I shouted.

The man kept running, and I lined the gun at him about knee level and started in.

It's hard shooting like that. It was shooting by feel, and that means you have to know your gun. I didn't want to kill the man because he had done nothing to warrant that. All he was after was money. So I kept my shots low and got him through the ham on the fourth try.

He went down and never said a word. And that scared me. The sheriff and the D. A. came boiling out from behind me, but I yanked them back.

"Now wait!" I told them. "We do this right. Split up and each of you take him from one side. When I shout, you put the flash on him and be ready. I'll do the shooting."

"The devil you will!" said the sheriff. "Why should you?"

"I don't want him killed. Do as I say."

"Do as he says, Pat," the D. A. ordered. "It's his show."

So they spread out and turned their flashlights on when I sang out.

Henry Gillis, the bartender, was on the ground, with a gun held up and ready. His bad leg was doubled under him and he sat on it like a hen on a nest of eggs. He was grinning, but he didn't look as though it was at anything funny. He kept jerking his head toward each one of the beams of light coming at him.

"All right, come and get me!" he snarled.

The sheriff was at his right side.

"Drop that gun, Henry!" he cried.

Henry turned and swung the weapon up, and I took a chance and shot at it. The slug hit both the gun and Henry's hand, and it sent the gun spinning through the air for twenty feet.

And then we collected Henry and took him to the doctor's house.

THEY held their inquest the next day,  and I headed back for the home office the following morning. I had a letter from the D. A. to my manager, telling him what a help I'd been to law and order.

The stolen money that we'd found in the McGrath house had been put in the bank and would be released to us as soon as the formalities were over, which meant a bonus for sure for me.

This part of the business was a real break for everyone concerned. Usually an embezzler spends the dough as fast as he can get rid of it, but George Schuyler had happened to be a miser.

Henry Gillis was back of the whole thing, though Kovacs' friend just coming to town speeded it all up. But they didn't even make a charge against Henry. There was nothing they could hold him on that would stick.

George Schuyler's younger brother, who was a professional crook and gambler, had wandered into Ellerville, probably just passing through and dropping in to say hello, and possibly wanting a little dough. Of course he knew about his brother taking the bank for forty-eight grand.

He got tight and talked in front of Henry, and Henry promoted the idea of finding where the money was hidden and hijacking it. McGrath couldn't complain, because as George Schuyler he'd stolen it in the first place. The gambling brother had just found where the money was when Steve Kovacs' friend came to town.

Kovacs' friend knew both the gambling brother and the absconding one. He had banked with one, and lost money to the other. They knew he'd be a cinch to talk. So they knocked him on the head, figuring that Kovacs would be blamed for the killing, and even went out of their way to plant that idea with Sol Dickie. They were trying to make it certain.

Then the gambling brother got panicky and really went bad. He asked for getaway money and the miser brother wouldn't come through. They probably had a knock-down, drag-out fight about it, though it's possible it was just plain cold-blooded murder.

Anyway, the gambling one killed the absconding one and took the body down to the tracks, thinking the law would figure the man had accidentally been killed while trying for a getaway. Somebody was going to be blamed and he didn't want it to be him.

It was after this that he told Dickie about seeing Kovacs and the friend arguing in the car. He stuck around just for that. That would throw the first killing on Kovacs— and with his brother's death being passed off as an accident, he was in the clear. But then, when he saw me butting in and helping Sol take Kovacs to jail, he got worried and thought maybe I'd seen something fishy.

That's where he slipped. If he had let well enough alone he'd have probably made out all right. But he followed me and braced me, and he got a broken neck for it. I got wise to him being the killer when I saw the blood on his sleeve. The shirt had been put on after his arm had been scratched, so the blood must have got there from somewhere else.

It all checked up. After killing his brother he'd gone home and changed his clothes, all except the shirt. He either hadn't noticed the blood on the sleeve or figured no one else would. We found the clothes in a trash barrel out behind the house.

HENRY GILLIS had made the plans, and the gambling brother had told him where the money was located. The dead brother had even added to it. Just a miser. The gambling brother wasn't taking any chances in telling Henry this, because the money was under the floor and we had to tear up half the house to get it finally.

Henry had made the plans but no one had acted on them, and the D. A. couldn't do a thing about it. In fact, Henry threatened to sue the county and state for being shot, and the only reason he didn't was because we all three swore we would testify he had broken into the house.

He hadn't— he was just getting ready to. And the funny part of it was that he didn't hold a grudge against me and he knew I was the one who shot him, that I was the one who had figured he was back of it, and that I'd laid for him and trapped him so I could be sure and find the money. He explained to me how he felt.

"It's your job,'' he said. "You get paid for it year in and year out and I can't blame you for working at it. I don't hold a grudge."

There was something that puzzled me. Gillis had been thirty years tending bar in that one county and had never even seemed to want money. He lived quietly, and money seemed the last thing on his mind.

"What in the devil did you want with that much dough, anyway, Henry?" I asked.

He looked wistful. He was propped up in the hospital bed.

"I got thinking about what Steve Kovacs was all the time talking about," he mumbled. "About seeing different people, different places. It takes money to travel around like that, and I didn't have any. It wasn't like I was robbing anybody— the guy had stolen the money himself. And then, I didn't figure any killings in it.''

I started to laugh, and Henry asked me what was so funny.

"Just this," I said. "Here Kovacs gets you all hot and bothered about traveling. I was just talking to him, down the street, and he told me he's going to stay here the rest of his life, that he's never going away. He says he's going to settle down and grow up with the country. He's giving me your argument and you're giving me his. As near as I can make out, I'm the only one in the whole affair who wins. And I win for sure!"

Henry asked how I meant that.

"Well," I said, "I told Sol Dickie there was gold in these hills, and I was right. And part of it will be coming back to me on the bonus I'll get."

"You ought to travel on it, Joe," Henry said thoughtfully. "Get around, see things and people."

I told him I had.

_______________________

8: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder

Private Detective Stories Sep 1942

FRANKIE AND Johnny's Place was about as rough a spot as I'd ever been in, and it had Harry Shoreham's eyes bugging right out of his head. He couldn't understand how the law would let a place like that operate and he said so.

"It's places like this that are ruining our boys," he told me. ''Why, it's like something in those stories you read about the Old West!"

I was getting a kick out of it. It made me think of the old-time barrel houses. They even had a professor at the piano, with the guy smoking a cigar out of the corner of his mouth.

"The boys must like it," I said. "Nobody's dragged any of 'em in here. In fact, it looks as though some of 'em are going to be dragged out."

Two husky M.P.'s were standing by one of the booths, and the lad inside seemed to be giving them an argument. He had two girls with him, with bum written over each, and he was tighter than a tick.

He said: "G'way."

One of the boys said: "Come on, sonny."

Sonny said: "G'way."

One of the girls said: "Wha's a matter with you guys? Can't a soldier have any fun, without you come bustin' in and spoilin' it?"

The M.P. didn't waste any time. He wasn't rough but he was firm. He picked the girl up and dragged her out, without saying a word. He got sonny on the next haul— and had to hold him up when he got him in the clear.

Then the three of them sailed out, with sonny in the middle. With sonny's feet dragging, and with his head lolling over one shoulder.

Harry Shoreham said: "Disgraceful!"

I said: "It was a nice piece of policing. There was no noise and no fuss. They'll take the kid back to camp and let him sleep it off. They won't even charge him, unless he gets so tough they have to. That was nice work."

"These boys shouldn't be allowed in a place like this."

"How would you keep 'em out? It's their money they're spending. All that can be done is look after them, the way that was done."

"It isn't right."

I gave him more argument and then he gave me a clincher. And I didn't have another word to say. And what was worse, he gave it to me in a sad way.

"If it wasn't for this place," he said, "my brother George would be alive today."

And that stopped me, because his brother, or rather half-brother, George, had been found behind the place four days before then. Just at daylight. His head had been smashed in and he'd been rolled. He'd been drinking and he'd been flashing money and he'd been with one of the little tramps that hung around the place for what she could get. At least that was the story that came back to his people— and with it the information from the local police that they were stuck on the thing. Which was why the family hired me to look into it.

I just figured young George had been playing Stork Club in the wrong kind of joint.

RIGHT AFTER the bouncing we met both Frankie and Johnny. Johnny was a big blond wench, possibly thirty, and still good-looking if you like the husky type.

I do.

Frankie was little and slim and dark. About the same age. Still pretty, if you like 'em fast and snappy.

I like that kind, too.

They came over and slid in the booth across from us and introduced themselves as if they were a sister act. The old "I'm Frankie'— "I'm Johnny" business. Two wise heads, I figured. Then Frankie waved a hand around and baited for a rise.

"Howja like it?" she asked.

Harry Shoreham stammered something about it being nice, but he didn't mean it. I said the same and did.

I wasn't lying, either.

The place was about sixty feet long and half that wide. The back of it was all bar, even if all that could be sold legally was beer. Booths lined all the sides, except for a little notch where the piano player held forth. The middle was all dance floor, if what the boys and girls were doing out there could be called dancing. The bar was three deep; all the booths were filled; and the overflow was out on the floor cutting up didoes.

All in all, the place was making nothing but money— and I could understand why the girls were proud of the joint. It couldn't be classed as a nice place in any way— but it was certainly interesting. I could see where a man need never have a dull moment in the spot.

Then Frankie got down to business. She seemed to be the spokesman for the pair. She waved the card I'd sent her by the waitress, and started in.

"You're a snoop, eh? Looking into that soldier boy thing, eh? From his folks, eh?"

I said: "Right on all counts. This is his brother Harry."

Shoreham said he was glad to meet the girls. He didn't act or sound that way, though, and the girls caught it fast but let it go.

"The cops checked into it," Frankie told me. "They got Doll Higgins, the girl that was with him, down at the pokey right now. Only— one of the boys happened to stop by, and he told me they was going to turn her loose tonight. He said there was nothing against her, but that they had to hold somebody to make it look as if they was doing something. You know how these —— cops are."

I said I knew how the —— cops were and she got red in the face and said: "Excuse me! For a minute I forgot you was one."

I TOLD her I didn't take it seriously, and that got a laugh out of both of them. Shoreham looked pained, but I didn't expect him to go along with the kind of talk you get in that kind of spot. Then I told them what I wanted and they agreed to play ball with me. And then they left, with Frankie beckoning me out of the booth for a private word.

"I can't talk in front of that frozen-faced jerk," she said. "Look! Send him back where he belongs and stick around. Doll will head for here, the minute they open the door for her, and you can see her. Maybe you can get a line on something."

I said that was an idea and went back to Shoreham. We'd driven in late— just had picked a hotel and registered and gone right out to Frankie and Johnny's Place, and I didn't know whether he could find his way back.

I said: "You take the car and go on to the hotel. I'll get back some way. D'ya think you can find it?"

"I go back down the beach road until I hit Iris Avenue," he said. "I turn right there, until I hit Market. Then right up Market to the hotel. That right?"

"Right."

"I've got a good memory. I remember how we came out here."

I said that was fine and he left. Then both Frankie and Johnny came over, this time with a bottle of whiskey they were careful to keep out of sight.

This was to pass the time while we waited for Doll Higgins.

MY CLIENT'S boy had been in the army as a private soldier. He had been café society before then, but he'd enlisted like so many young fellows did, right after Pearl Harbor. It was a surprise to everyone, because he definitely wasn't the type. He was the kind that wasn't happy unless he was in the rotogravures each Sunday, and each Sunday he wanted to be shown with a different young belle.

And I give him credit... he got the different young belles in no uncertain fashion.

He's had a private income from money his mother had left him... all he had to do was get along on a lousy little four thousand dollar a month income from it. At that, he barely managed to make it last the month out— he was a fast man with a dollar. I didn't know him and now I never would, but I had him picked for a rich young heel, and nothing I'd found out about him made me alter the opinion,

That last was the only thing I didn't tell Frankie and Johnny. I gave 'em the rest of the set-up straight.

I said: "You can see how it is, girls. The folks have money and lots of it. They've got influence— enough of it even to reach down here. If this is cleaned up and the guilty party— or parties caught, they'll forget about you. If it isn't, they're going  to get up on their hind legs and demand something done about the  place where little George was killed."

"And you'll go along with 'em on it," said Frankie. "The first thing you see that's off-side, then there we go. That it?"

"Now, Frankie," said Johnny.

"You can see Drake's not that kind of fella. He wants who done the kid in. Even I can see that, and I'm not smart.'

"That's right," I said.

Frankie said: "Well, here's Doll Higgins."

I LOOKED at the girl coming in the door and saw she was far from alone. She had two men with her and she was carrying a load that wasn't groceries. Plainly Doll had stopped somewhere, after being discharged from the city jail, and plainly she'd tried to wear out her drinking elbow. Frankie called out something to her and she started to stagger our way and then I looked over the two boy friends.

The first was as big as a small house. He looked as though somebody would have to tell him when to come in out of the rain. He had a wide blank stare and seemed to fancy himself as a sort of Tarzan because he came across the dance floor in a straight line, elbowing everybody out of his way.

The other boy was thin and blond and wicked looking. I figured that if he was carrying a gun it would be in a hip pocket... there was no bulge under his arm nor around his waistband... and his clothes fitted him so fast that a gun would have shown. On second thought I decided he'd be the kind that would use a shiv, and that he was carrying it in his left coat sleeve.

This because he favored that arm— keeping it close to him and tipped a bit. If he wasn't carrying the percentage in that sleeve, I hadn't learned a thing in all my time around.

I had time to ask Frankie: "The little guy tough?" and to hear her say: "Just plenty!" and then they were with us.

Doll Higgins goggled at me when Frankie introduced me. She could still walk, but I figured two more drinks would put an end to that. The big guy's name was Hennessy, and he was about half that way. Just drunk enough to think he was tough. He scowled at me and started the party.

"Who're you?" he asked.

"Name's Sam Drake," I told him.

"What you want?"

"Nothing from you."

"Ho! Smart guy, hunh?"

His friend said: "Ah shut up, Three Star. The guy ain't bothering you any."

"I don't like his looks," said Hennessy, leaning back and glowering at me. "I don't like his looks. He better not diddle around with me or, I'll change 'em for him."

Frankie motioned to me not to take it up and introduced the thin one. His name was Mickey Sims, and unless I was wrong, he had me tagged as a cop that second. He had that watchful waiting air, right from the start.

So I gave 'em the rough hustle fast.

"You guys get on your way," I said. "I want to talk to Doll. When I'm through talking, you can come back."

Hennessy got to his feet just roaring. "Why you...!" he started, and then I stopped it. "Get out," I said. "All I've got to do is open my mouth and I'll have half a dozen M. P.'s over here. Then all I've got to say is that I think you two are the guys that killed George Shoreham. Get it?"

"You dirty ——!"said Sims. "You can't lay that on us."

"By the time you explain that you're in the clear to the Army, Mister," I said, "the Army'll have you in pieces all over the floor. George Shoreham may not have been such a wonder in the Army, but he was in it. The boys don't like what happened to him, and they'll work you over first and talk about it later. Catch wise?"

He said: "Come on, Three Star."

THE Higgins girl sobered up a lot with the first words I said to her, and she kept on going that direction the more I talked.

I said: "Look, sister, I'm a cop. I'm down here to hang this Shoreham killing on you. You rolled the kid here when you saw he had a bankroll, and you spotted him for your boy friends. I'm not local— I'm not interested in what the local boys do down here. I'm working for the dead guy's folks, and they've got money to throw away. They've got enough to put you away for life, if they want to go to bat on it.

She said: "Honest, Mister, I didn't have anything to do with that. Neither did Mickey or Hennessy."

"Were they here?"

"Why ...ugh... why, yes."

I said: "It's all over but the trial. It'll surprise you what a lot of money can do when it comes to digging up evidence."

It was just conversation but I figured the timing was right. She'd certainly been pushed around by the local cops before being let out of jail. You can trust small-town cops to work over a gal when she's in a spot like this kid was. I figured they'd thrown a scare into her already, and that all I'd have to do was carry on with it. She'd think she was clear, once she was out of jail, and then to have more of the same pitched at her before she had a chance to rest, might do the trick.

And it did. She began to cry, and a lot of the soldier and sailor boys dancing by began to give me dirty looks. One of them even stopped and asked the gal if I was annoying her, but went away when he decided she had a crying jag.

"Did you know George?" she asked.

"He was nuts," said Doll.

"He was still murdered."

"Mickey didn't do it. Look, Mr. Drake—"

"Sam's the name."

"—I can't talk to you here. I can't talk to you when Mickey and Hennessy are watching."

They were watching us, too. Standing by the bar and never taking their eyes from us.

"Well?" I asked.

"Now look! I live in an auto court. The White Pines Auto Court. Know where it is?"

"I can find it."

"Come there. Say about two o'clock. Mickey and Three Star will have gone, by then, and I can talk."

"Okay."

"Honest, Mr. Drake... I mean, Sam... this thing's got me down. The cops are raising hell with me. The chief told me he was going to give me a floater out of town, and I got no place to go. I... I been playing around some with Mickey, see, and that makes it bad, too. I'm afraid of Mickey. I don't know what to do. I just got in the middle on this thing."

I waved at Mickey and his Hennessy pal and stood up. "I'll see you at two," I said. "You better sober up before then— it don't do any good to talk to a drunken woman."

She said: "My cabin number's eleven."

FRANKIE and Johnny lived out behind their place in a trailer. I found that out and found that about half the workmen in the section lived that way. No accommodations, between all the extra defense work and with the Army and Navy there in force as well. And I'll say that a trailer, when it's fixed up, isn't a bad place at all to live.

The girls had a big one, and it was fitted up with half as a bedroom and the other half as a sort of sitting room. A sort of bar sitting room, if there's such a thing.

The three of us sat there, with first one of the girl's leaving to check business in the place and then the other. We were interrupted three times as well, when one of the help would come over and tell us there was an argument, and then both girls would leave and take care of the situation.

Between the M.P.s and the bouncer the house hired, trouble never got far. Finally, along about eleven, they Said to hell with it and Johnny brought back her boy friend, a big guy named Jerry Thomas. Jerry, I gathered, was a steamfitter and not a professional ladies' man. And he knew all about what I was there for— had been in the place the night George Shoreham had been killed. He knew what Frankie and Johnny were facing on the mess as well as they did— and so I spoke right out in meeting.

WE WERE evenly divided on Doll Higgins. Both girls said she was a bum in spades and both Jerry Thomas and I thought the cops were giving her the business because she was handy. We took the stand that she was being abused— and the girls took the stand she deserved abuse.

I told them nothing about my two o'clock date.

We were sitting there, all chummy, all happy and bright and arguing  whether the Doll girl was a bum. I had a highball glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and the rest of them were similarly laden.

And then the door opened and a man walked in behind as big a gun as I've ever seen in my life.

"Stand up!" he said.

We stood up. Holding to what we had in our hands. Not a chance in the world to go for a gun,

Another one followed the gunman in, another gunman. This one was holding a mail-order pistol as if he was afraid of it. The first man was tall and thin, with a mean-looking squint and with a nose that had been broken and badly set. It was humped like the back of a camel. The second. boy was pocked and his cheekbones and eyebrows were too thick. An ex-pug, without the shadow of a doubt. He was short and thick, and even figuring the extra weight he'd probably put on when he broke training, I thought he'd fought at least as a welter. A good-sized man.

Jerry Thomas growled: '"Wha's this? A hold-up ?"

Frankie said: "You dopes! The dough ain't here. We don't take off the damper until we put the place to bed, and then it goes down to the night bank with two special cops. We been held up before."

"Shut up!" said the first man.

"Yeah, shut up!" said his ex-pug pal,

"All you turn around," said the first.

We all turned around, still balancing the drinks and the cigarettes. There was nothing else to do, believe it.

THE ex-pug came in close and patted us over. He took some money from Jerry Thomas, some money and my gun from me, and he got a giggle from Frankie, when he patted her more than he needed to.

She said: "Aw, quit."

"Shut up!" he said.

"Fresh!"

"Now you shut up."

"Then quit. You don't have to pinch."

He was partly behind her and at her side. Also at my side, but level with me. I weaved a little, as if I was a little in the bag, and the tall one that acted as if he knew what a gun was all about told me to stand quiet. He was behind me, of course; all I could hear was his voice.

I said: "Sure! I'm standing quiet."

And then to catch my balance I put a foot out and managed to come down on the ex-pug's instep.

He howled and dropped the gun he'd taken from me, as well as the money he'd taken from both Thomas and me. I had my weight on my foot, and it must have hurt him plenty. He snarled something then and stepped back, raising his damn' cheap gun to swing at me, and the thin partner said:

"No, Ike!"

Ike stopped. It was plain that the thin one wore the pants,

"You ain't going to get rich that way," Frankie said to Ike. "You can't put money by if you throw it on the floor."

"Dirty !" Ike told her.

The thin one said: "This is for you, Drake— it's no heist. Get out. You're not wanted. We'll handle our stuff down here. We don't want any outside talent horning in."

I said: "Mickey Sims got to you fast."

"To hell with you. Pick up his gun, Ike. Now, Drake, you stay here. Don't stick your puss out the door, or I'll take a shot at it."

"You're the doctor," I said.

Ike picked up my gun and  they backed out. Then Frankie said: "Well, I'll be damned!"

I said: "I got to go now."

It was a little after twelve then.

Frankie said: "You can't do any good for yourself this late at night. Stick around; the party's just getting rough."

"I've got to go."

"Now look, Sam," she said. "You even haven't got a gun to work with. Let it go for tonight. You and I can have fun— Johnny's got a boy friend and that makes us evened up, don't it?"

I said: "I've got to go back to the hotel and pick up my spare gun. I want to do it in a hurry, too."

"In that case I'll call a cab," she sighed. "Just promise me one thing."

"Sure."

"That you'll come back when this is over. That's all."

"Sure."

"You and I've got some unfinished business."

"Sure, hon."

"I've got an investment in you."

"I don't get that one."

"You dope," she said. "Haven't you got about five bucks worth of my liquor in you? I'm not putting out for nothing, dearie."

I told her I'd try to make good on what I owed.

HARRY SHOREHAM wasn't in the room, but I wasn't surprised. He'd been giving every girl we'd seen the bad eye, and I figured he was out doing the tom-cat act. He was a fool for women and whiskey, just like his half brother had been— and I'd known it from the first hour with him. I got my spare gun from my bag and put it in its clip and then went back to the waiting cab.

And had the cab let me off a full block from the White Pines Auto Court. I made the block in the shadow, circling around number eleven, but outside of a little light drifting out from behind a drawn shade, I didn't see a thing.

So I knocked and Doll Higgins let me in. She'd been crying, and either that or the jam she was in had sobered her completely.

I ducked inside the door so I wouldn't be outlined and she looked at me as if I were crazy.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

I told her— told her what had happened at Frankie and Johnny's.

She said: "Mickey didn't have a thing to do with that. If he wanted you out, he'd have told you himself. He isn't tongue-tied."

"He's not laying himself wide open, either. If he'd told me himself, that's what he'd have been doing."

She said: "Sit down," and motioned me to a ratty-looking couch.

She brought out whiskey and apologized for having no ice or soda, but I told her I could go for it without a chaser.

So could she, it seemed.

Then she said: "I'm going to give it to you straight. Mickey'd beat the hell out of me if he knew it, but it's our only out. If I don't give you the right of it, you'll frame us. After this warning business, I know damn' well you would."

"I don't like that," I said. "I'll go when I get ready, and you can tell Mickey I said so. He didn't take the only gun in the world away from me."

"Now listen," she said. "Mickey sapped the kid, all right, but that's all he did. And that's what he was supposed to do."

"Hunh!"

"I'm giving it to you straight. He and Three Star were supposed to do it. It was all arranged:"

"Who by?"

"By the kid, of course. Mickey's going to beat hell out of me for telling you, but I'm going to tell, anyway. I'm not going to have you pushing me around on top of the cops pushing me around, It's just too much it's driving me crazy and I can't stand it."

BETWEEN being afraid of Mickey and being afraid of the cops and being afraid of me she was getting jittery. I put my arm around her to calm her down and it was no hardship at all. She was a chubby little wench, not over twenty, and while she was as hard-boiled as they come, she didn't look it. She had a round baby-face that went just fine. with her round little figure, and the combination wasn't hard to take.

"Nobody's going to push you around, honey," I said. "At least if anybody does, it'll be me, and you won't mind it so much."

She put her head down against my shoulder and kept on talking from there.

"This George Shoreham was goofy," she said. "He always had a lot of dough, and all he could think about was getting his name in the papers. That's why he enlisted— all the talk about a rich man joining up as a private when he could have waited and tried for a commission. You know how he was?"

"I've heard."

"A publicity hound, that's what he was. Well, after he got in, the papers forgot him: He couldn't stand it— it was driving him nuts. So he got me to introduce him to Mickey and Three Star. I was just playing him before then, see. He didn't know I was really going with Mickey. Then he asked Mickey to tunk him on the head, easy, so he could go to the cops and claim he'd been knocked out and robbed. It would have put him back in the papers. It would have reminded them of him again."

"Sounds crazy."

She sighed and nestled closer and said: "I know it. But it's straight. He was going to tell the cops that he got rolled for almost three grand, but all he had on him was two hundred and something. Mickey and Three Star were to keep that for clunking him."

"Go on."

"Well, they did. Mickey sapped him and rolled him and then he and Three Star came back inside. By and by, when the kid didn't show up, they went outside to see how he was making out. Just out of kindness, you might say. And there he was for good. Some —— had taken a pieceof pipe that was there and had just knocked his head in with it."

"Mickey probably sapped him too hard."

She said indignantly: "Mickey don't sap 'em too hard. He's an artist with that sap, Sam, and I don't mean perhaps. No sir! He left him there with a little bump on the jaw and he went back and found him with his head smashed in. Why should he lie to me?"

BY THIS time she was almost in my lap and getting closer every minute. I could see her angle— she was trying to make friends with me in the best way she could. So I let her cuddle and thought it over. Her story was so dizzy it made sense. If Mickey Sims had killed the kid, he certainly wouldn't have been admitting to her that he'd sapped him. He'd have claimed he'd changed his mind about going through with the proposition. And there was no reason for him sending anybody to me with a warning to get out of town. He was able to do that himself, if I was any judge.

And  his muscle, big Hennessy, would have done it if Sims hadn't wanted to. Hennessy was  stupid enough to warn the chief-of-police out, if Sims had told him to do it.

It boiled down to the old, old reason. Murder for gain was the only motive that would stand up, and Sims and Hennessy couldn't gain a thing by that particular murder. All they could get was what was in the guy's pockets and they'd taken that. There was no reason for them to kill him and every reason why they shouldn't.

I said: "Well, thanks, Doll. I'll go now. I've got to send a night letter."

She moved in closer and said: "A day letter would get there just about as fast. Look, Sam, I'm scared. After it's over, I'll be all right but I'm scared now. Mickey'll beat hell out of me if he should come around."

I said: "Ill look after you."

HARRY SHOREHAM was just coming in when I got back to the hotel after sending my day letter. He came in a little drunk, with the cat-that-ate-the-canary expression and he must have caught the same look on my face.

"You had a time for yourself, too," he said.

"Sort of," I told him.

"This is a swell town. A man can get out here and play around without running into a lot of people that you know."

"Where'd you go?"

He winked and said: "The Regent Hotel."

It was a tip-off. If he'd been a rounder, he could have dug up a joint like that in no time at all, but he was a nice boy. Or supposed to be one, anyway. Nice boys can't put their nice little fingers on the hot spots, not like that. I watched him go to bed and then went out and down to the station, and I caught the chief just going into his office. And introduced myself and told him what I wanted.

"It'll be at the Regent Hotel," I said. "I want a thin, mean-looking bird with a squint. I don't know his name, but he's a pal of a plug-ugly named Ike. This Ike's an ex-fighter. I can identify 'em, all right, but I don't want to go along with the raid if I can keep from it."

The chief asked why not and pointed out, very reasonably, that I was the one making the charge and therefore should be sure the cops picked up the right parties.

I said: "There'll be some noise and some confusion and somebody might see me. I might have been pointed out, anything like that. I can't take a chance on having the guy I really want tipped off. I want to pick him last."

The chief shrugged and said it was always a pleasure to pick up Ike Mors and Pinky Innis, which was who the thin man would be. He said they picked up that pair at least once a month, but never could hold them long enough to do anybody any good. That the two of them were hoodlums but that proving they were was a tough thing to do.

I said: "Well, you'll have 'em out of your hair from here on now," and went back to the telegraph office.

And there it was— the only answer to the whole thing.

I didn't even bother to go back to the station, but picked a beat man to go along with me and make the arrest.

Harry Shoreham was flat on his back and snoring and the first he knew about the thing was when I got him by an ankle and yanked him out on the floor. He woke up and the cop told him, very properly.

"You're under arrest for murder, Mister," he said.

Harry goggled at me. "Wha's— this?"

I said: "The officer is right. The two boys you hired to kill your half brother are down at the station."

"THAT was all there was to it. The answer was there, right from the start. George, the boy that had been murdered, had money left to him from his mother. A lot of it. He naturally wouldn't leave it to his dad, who didn't need it. His old man had dollars where he had dimes. He could have given it to some stranger, but that didn't make sense. He'd leave it to some of the family... and if it wasn't his father it would be his half-brother or his step-mother. He'd split it between them, it so happened. His half-brother Harry followed him down to where he was stationed and learned about the dizzy kid's publicity idea. Of how the kid was going to let himself be knocked out and robbed, to get back in the papers. The kid would be proud of the idea and would brag about it. Harry just hired Ike Mors and Pinky Innis to carry on from the fake knockout and robbery, and there he was with a fortune in his hand. It was almost fool-proof. If it came out that the kid had staged a fake publicity stunt that had gone sour, the cops would think he'd been slugged too hard by accident. There was nothing to connect his half-brother with the thing at all, except he'd got worried when he found I was going to put the pressure on Doll and her boy friends and might find out the original set-up.

I WAS telling Frankie about it the next night, while Johnny was over in the place keeping an eye on things. She was giving Frankie a break at Frankie's own request.

"It was a cinch, once I cut my head in," I said. "Here's this guy, supposed to be a stranger down here. Yet he knows his way back to the hotel from here, even telling me streets and all. I'd driven out here, but I didn't remember street names, and nobody else does the first time out. Then he manages to find himself a hot hotel and puts on an all-night party there. He could have picked up a girl, of course, but it would have been strictly business then and no party like he was on. It proved he'd been here before and he'd have said so if he didn't have something to hide. They'll stick him along with the two thugs he hired for the actual killing."

"What about Doll and Mickey Sims and Hennessy? Will the cops do anything about that fake hold-up?"

"No. Why should they? The kid wanted it done."

"Then money was back of it all."

"Sure. It always is."

"Not on everything," she said, sitting up. "Not by a damn' sight it ain't. You can't tell me it was money that made you quit me last night and spend that time with Doll Higgins. Maybe you can tell me, but I won't believe it. And it wasn't because you were afraid Sims a would come in and beat her up, either."

"That was just business, honey."

"Then what's this?"

I said: "This is just paying what I owe you, lover. Didn't you tell me you had an investment in me?"

She said she'd had her investment back with interest.

______________

9: The Missing Mr. Link

Speed Detective July 1944

THE spot was just run-of-the-mill, just an ordinary small town gambling joint. The sergeant knocked at a blank door that showed no sign of light, and somebody looked out at him through an eye slot. This somebody turned out to be a heavy-shouldered lad who looked a bit the worse for wear— I saw that when he opened up for us. Both cheekbones were too thick as well as his right ear, and both eyebrows were lumpy with scar tissue. He had a gold tooth right in front and he showed this to us when he grinned and spoke.

"Hiya, sarge," he said. "Is it a sneeze?"

"Just checking," said the sergeant.

The guy must have used a signal of some kind because the door from the main room opened and another man came out, This one was also short, but fat where the door-tender was solid. This one also had a gold tooth in front and looked enough like the other one to be a fatter, smarter, older brother.

This one also said: "Hiya, sarge," but let it go at that.

The sergeant said: "Hiya, Boleo! Just making a check. We're looking for a guy."

"What guy, sarge?"

"A guy named Link."

"The missing link, eh, sarge?"

I'd taken the same crack from the sergeant, when I'd told him my troubles. It hadn't been funny then and it wasn't funny now. I'd been looking for Link about three weeks by then, and if I'd heard the gag once, I'd heard it a hundred times and it was getting no better with age.

The sergeant said: "That's right, the missing link. Ever see the guy?"

HE handed over the photograph I'd given him and Boleo, if that was his name, took it to the side, where there was a little light coming from a dimmed-out bulb. He studied it carefully, but that didn't mean so much because the picture was just a snapshot and was five years old, He said briefly:  "Not here."

"Been here?"

"Not that I remember. You remember the guy, Sam?"

The doorman took his turn at the picture. "Not any. But I might forget."

Boleo said to us: "You want to look?"

"I do."

He shrugged then. He complained: "Every time you come in like this, sarge, it gives the boys a bad taste in their mouths. They drift out and they don't come back for a day or two. You can't blame 'em— they think I ain't been paying off and that you're trouble for 'em."

"Nothing like that, Boleo."

Boleo looked at me then and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. They were thick and bushy and he could do everything but talk with them.

"A friend of this Link's," the sergeant told him. "I'm just giving him a hand."

"Cop?"

"Oh no."

Boleo Jooked as if he didn't believe this, and I gave him the same stall I'd been using for the three weeks I'd been working on the thing.

"The guy slid out on his old lady," I said. "He took off with some babe, and the old lady's sore and wants to locate the two of them together. The guy's got a little dough, I guess, and she wants alimony."

Boleo shrugged agaim and said: "Go ahead and look. I'm dammed if I see what the cops are doing on it, though. It ain't like the guy's hot or anything like that."

"His old lady will pay a little dough if I find him. That's all."

Boleo said to the sergeant, and in the  same complaining way: "Another angle you're working, eh, sarge. It ain't enough that I pay off through the nose— you got to louse up my place making another dollar off it. Oh, well, go ahead."

"Thanks, Boleo," the sergeant said, and, so help me, seriously. "I hate to do it, but business is business."

Certainly lots of cops have their hand out, when a gambling joint's running wide open in their territory, but there's damned few of them act apologetic with the guy that's running and doing the paying-off. Most of them wear even a bigger chip on their shoulder than usual in that case. Just to show that they're tough, even if they're crooked.

But not my sergeant. He went through the door and into the main room as though he was grateful to be allowed in the place, was a crap table against the far wall— a big one, maybe sixteen feet Iong and with high-boarded sides a foot and a half above the table level.

There were about thirty men around it, jammed in and crowding and making the noise that goes along with a game that's running a temperature.

There were two poker tables, one straight draw and one stud, one five-handed and the other seven, and that's not counting the rake-off man. There was a blackjack stand right by them, but only one man was bucking it and he was playing just quarters. That's a pastime and not gambling, in a proper sense. There was a bird-cage, but nobody was by it except the house man. There was a roulette lay-out, too, but they hadn't even taken the sheet off it.

I said: "Quite a place you've got here, Mr. Boleo."

He said: "My name's Ortez."

"It's a nice set-up."

"Not with what I pay-off to keep open."

The sergeant winced and said: "Now, Boleo."

"I take in a dollar and pay out a dollar-ten."

"Now, Boleo."

"Go ahead and look, sarge."

The sergeant looked and I looked. He'd look down at the snapshot and then peer around at faces, and I just peered. I knew that picture by heart. This guy Link was thin, blonde, was going a little bald, and was kicking his early forties around, and there was nobody in the place that looked that way. About three out of every four men in the place knew the sergeant and ealled him by his name, which was Eberhard, and he knew 'em as well.

There were four whom he asked for identification, and they brought out social security and draft cards, johnny on the spot.

That made us through with that place —which was the biggest and best of the joints we'd covered that night, and we started to leave, but found Boleo, or Ortez, in our way.

This time he was grinning, but that gold tooth of his didn't make it a warm one.

He said: "I'll buy a drink, men, if you're open for it,"

"l— ugh—"

I said: "What Sergeant Eberhard is trying to say is thank you. You bet we're open."

The sergeant gave me a funny look and I had a notion about what he was thinking. I could be leveling and really looking for a man named Link, I also could be a spotter for some civic virtue outfit, in which case I had enough on the guy to hang him.

It was that that probably decided him, I thought, The harm was done in any ease, and he thought he might as well have a snifter for himself.

He said: "Ah yes, sure, Boleo. I'd go for that."

BOLEO led us to his office then, and I got a surprise. It was a plain door leading through a plain board partition at the back of the place, right next to the crap table, but inside it looked like a movie set. Like something the rich executive gave his orders from. A big flat desk, absolutely clear of everything but a desk set that held two silver-mounted pens. A leather chair back of it and three more facing it, A leather couch, but one of the comfortable kind, along the wall. They were covered with soft Morocco leather, too, instead of the usual cheap tan stuff. A cannon ball safe, big enough to do credit to a country bank against the side wall, this facing what had to be filing cabinets against the other. The cabinets were hand made though of mahogany, and looked like they belonged in the room.

The fourth wall, the one we'd come through from the gambling quarters, was lined with book cases, and the books looked as though they'd been read.

It was indirectly lit with no openings except through that one door, and Boleo, or Ortez, if that was his name, caught the look I'd taken.

"Sound-proofed," he said. "Air-conditioned. What'll it be, Scotch, rye, or bourbon. Or I can give you something fancey."

"Straight rye," I said.

"I figured you as a Scotch drinker, I can usually tell."

I gawked at this one, and he laughed, "It's a fact. I always guess, and I'm right three times out of four, Now the sergeant's a bourbon man—it's written all over him. I drink Scotch— I thought you would."

I said: "If you want to know the truth, I do. But I had an overdose, night before last, and it still gags me when I think of it. Another day or so and I'll be back on it."

As a matter of fact I drink anything at any time, but I thought it would be good policy to show the little fat guy how smart he was, carrying on the old one about catching more flies with sugar than with salt, He went to the filing cabinet— one corner of it was a handy little bar and built-in Frigidaire— and came back with the tipple, which he put on the desk with magnificent disregard for the finish.

"I'll get ice," he said, and did. "Here's soda, too, Plain water, mister, if you'd rather have it."

He furnished me a pitcher of water and the three of us glasses, with a shot glass for me and highball glasses for himself and the sergeant.

And then he sat down and showed us the gold tooth and said: "And now let's hear about this missing link. I'm interested."

I took my drink down and waited for it to hit bottom. It did and very satisfyingly, I said: "It's like I said. The guy couldn't stand his little home, so he did something about it. Mama doesn't like what he did, or who he took with him to do it. So mama hired me to find him."

"That all?"

"That's the size of it."

"Where did this happen?'

I lied and said: "Chicago." As a matter of fact it was in Muncie, but I couldn't see what difference it made. I just happened to be working out of the Chicago office and Muncie was in that territory.

"What makes you think he was here?"

I told the truth then. I said: "He wrote  a card from this town. Not to his wife, lage to somebody that happened to tell her about it. He likes to gamble— that and women and whiskey are his only weaknesses— so I figured it would be smart to look around the spots."

"What's it worth to find him?"

I shrugged and said: "I'm on salary and expenses, That's all. I can pay out  up to a thousand for information that leads me to him. I don't get a dime of it."

"Unless you work a cut-back with who gets the thousand."

I nodded and said: "I've thought of that, of course. It's been done."

The sergeant grunted and made himself another highball without waiting to be asked. He was nearing sixty; a fat puffy red-faced old man— and I could see he thought a lot of his little tot.

He poured his drink and said: "What d'ya say we move on and try another place, Ryan? Hey? After this drink."

I said: "Sure," and Boleo, or Ortez, didn't urge us to stay. But as we left he let the sergeant lead the way to the door, and he whispered to me from the side of his mouth so the sergeant couldn't hear a thing,

"Drop back," he said. "I'll tell my brother to be looking for you."

I nodded and didn't answer, but I decided I was finally getting a lead on Mr. Link.

2: Dead Men Don't Squeal!

I TOLD the same story I'd used right from the start and there was some basis of truth in it. Not too much, though. Link was missing, all right— that was perfectly true. He was married, as well, and his wife wanted him back. Also true. The poor lady had a hazy notion that he could straighten things up if he came back.

The guy had been cashier and treasurer of a company that was working full out on war contracts and was still using their old system of paying the men with cash money instead of vouchers. They paid once every two weeks instead of weekly, as they always had worked that way. But where they'd once hired around a hundred and fifty men, they were now using five times that, and practically every man was getting rich on overtime. It put that payroll up over the two hundred thousand dollar mark, every two weeks.

Mr. Link was in charge of the payroll and he'd taken complete charge of it. He'd just taken it, period, to be exact.

He'd worked things out in a pretty fashion, too, showing it was no sudden notion, The money had been sent to the plant by an armored truck, at ten, on a Saturday morning. By noon it was divided— seven hundred and fifty little pay envelopes, all bulging with good solid money. There was some silver in the swag, of course, but it didn't amount to much. The entire lot of envelopes wasn't too big to go into a small handbag, and that's what Mr. Link used when he walked out at the noon hour for lunch.

He just stepped out, carrying his little handbag, and he just dropped from sight from then on.

The plant was insured up to a hundred and fifty thousand, so the insurance company investigators were on the job. But the company was stuck for between fifty and sixty thousand and they'd hired me to do something about it. I'd finally got a line on a girl that Link had seen occasionally, and I'd got her a little bit drunk and more than a little confidential and she'd told me that Link had written her and asked her to join him in Callenville.

He'd given her no address to meet him, though; her idea was that he'd write her again and give her details. She could have written him general delivery, sending the letter to Joseph B. Conlin, but she claimed she hadn't done a thing about it.

She probably was telling the truth about not writing him because the guy was hotter than a pistol and she knew it. She probably was sorry she'd ever known him— she seemed like a pretty nice kid.

I'd put a plant next to the general delivery window at the postoffice, but I didn't expect anything from that. The guy had worked his. get-away too well to be caught on the postoffice stuff, I thought.

I HAD only the one lead— that he was or had been in Callenville and that he was nuts about gambling in every shape and form it came in. If it had been just horses, I'd have made the rounds of the tracks still open, but he played the horses just like he played everything else. He was no specialist, like most gamblers are. He went for cards, dice, horses, dog races, and I had it on good authority that he'd match pennies, pitch 'em at a crack, or spit at the erack with anybody for anything if there didn't happen to be any pennies in the crowd.

Just a gambling fool— and that's right because anybody that's bitten by that bug's the biggest chump there is.

It's worse than drink or women, when it comes to making a bum out of a man, though this Link drank and chased women as well as gambled. Sure he didn't do either of those if he could dig up something to wager on— and that's usually not hard to find in this day and age.

So I had this fever of his to work on and that was about all.

The sergeant and I got outside of the joint and I said: "This Boleo, or Ortez, or whatever it is. Who is he? And which one is right?"

"I don't get that?"

"What's his name? Boleo, like you called him, or Ortez, like he told me it."

"It's both."

I didn't understand and said go. "His name was Boleo, at first. That was his brother, tending door, and his name's still that. Sam Boleo; he's an ex-fighter."

"I caught that."

"Boleo managed him. Arthur's his name, or Arturo, I guess it is. I mean the older one now."

I tried to sound patient. He was drawing me little pictures of which was who and I didn't need 'em.

"I get it. Sam's the doorman. He's an ex-pug. Arthur's the big shot— he's the one that owns the spot. Well, when Arthur— just call him Boleo— we never think of Sam as anything but as Sam— started in politics, he changed his name. Legally. Because of all the talk, you see."

"What talk?"

"Why, about how a guy like him could run the town the way he did. He was the boss bootlegger in this part of the country, see, and he had a wire into the sheriff's office and into the department. That caused talk. So when he came out openly into politics he decided he should change his name. So he did. To Ortez— that's his legal name."

"I get it now."

"But we still call him Boleo. That is, us old-timers. I guess we always will."

"He still run the town?"

"Pretty much. Just between us, that is."

"That his only joint?"

The sergeant ticked 'em off on his fingers.

"We been in six places. We'll make maybe that many more, tonight. That'll be about the size of 'em. In every one you'll meet the guy that's supposed to own 'em. Everyone of the guys just work for Boleo. There's not a chiseler in town can spit on the sidewalk unless Boleo says he can spit. Nobody but a stranger would try."

"What if one did?"

"He'd spit out the back of his neck. He don't act it, but Boleo's tough."

"How big's the town?"

"About sixty thousand, now the boom's on. It'll run about forty, on the average, I guess."

I had the picture and I said so. It was a nice spot for a hustler, I could see that. If he ran the sheriff's office and the police department, and had the gambling concession in his pocket like that, it meant he also had every other racket the same way. Right in his hand.

And the fast money in a town of sixty thousand, filled jam full up with war workers, is a lot of dough.

I started looking ahead to seeing the little fat guy again.

WE made the rounds and didn't find a thing. We went through the same performance, except that nobody else complained about the protection money he was dishing out,

That checked with the sergeant's story— Boleo was the man who was doing the paying for the places and so was the one to squawk. The joints were about the same. Usually with a crap game going full blast and with little play on the fancy stuff— and that checked with the kind of town Callenville was turning into. When you put twenty thousand extra workers into a town and give'em dough to spend— enough to gamble with, that is— they go for the fast games and craps are certainly that.

And the percentage on a crap game is a lovely thing. For the house, that is, Even with a straight game it's pure and simple murder, and I didn't think I'd seen a game that classed as straight. The house men were handling the dice too much, and the dice in the jars they alternated with were too much of the same sizes and colors.

There's a system on the crap games and it can be worked by a good operator to perfection.

The house man's got a rake, in the first place. He pulls to the dice to him with this, after the shooter makes his pass. He'll let the same diee roll for a couple of passes, maybe more, it all depending on how they're running. Then he'll change them for another pair, taking the new set from a jar by his elbow that's full of them. He'll tip the jar once in a while, so as to keep the fresh dice on top, but a good operator can palm three sets of dice and change 'em as he tosses 'em back to the shooter. A few of the places used a cup, with the house man putting the dice in the cup and so not giving the shooter a chance to handle the dice at all, but this was the exception.

The house, in most cases, was taking a cut out of each pass, the amount depending on how much money was riding on the cubes. There were a few house games, where the players would bet against the houses straight through, rather than against themselves, but these were the exceptions.

Mostly the games were just straight crap games with no trimmings, except those the players took. But the big one, the game that ended the others, took place after the other joints closed, at Boleo's main spot. That was why he had his office there I thought. He could be handy to watch the heavy money roll— and roll into his pockets.

There'd be a few winners in each of the places, and they closed at two in the morning. Boleo's main place kept open as long as there was a play. So the winners would drift in there, riding their streak, and the play would be correspondingly high.

And the cut would be the same way, If a man had a hundred dollars down, the house would cut out five. If there was a hundred dollar side bet, the house would take another five. Right straight through like that. The result was the house would end with about all the money that had come into the game—it was just a matter of time.

I CAUGHT it all when I drifted back to the main place and while I waited for Boleo to get through with some business in his office, and decided it was the most brutal thing I'd yet seen. Gambling, the way it was run there, was good for at least three hundred thousand a month, counting the entire town, and here was one man taking the big share of it,

And from the people whe worked in the war plants. That was the bad thing about it.

I was steaming when Boleo finally came out of his office with the man he'd been talking with. A big, bland, smooth-faced bird who looked familiar, in an unpleasant sort of way. Boleo went to the door with the guy and then came back to me, and I said what was bothering me.

"I've seen that guy before."

"That's hardly likely, Mr. Ryan."

"He looks familiar."

"That's our district attorney."

"It must have been his picture that I saw then."

"No doubt. He's getting quite a lot of advertising these days."

They were touting the guy up for nomination for governor, so that was no story. And here he was in a gambling joint, the main one in town, and talking to the town's main gambler.

Boleo led the way back into his office and got out the drinks without bothering to ask me if I wanted one or not. He sat down, nursing his own which again was a thin highball, and watched me pour my shot glass full.

"About this Link," he said. "This, ha, ha, this missing Link? I'm interested in that, Mr. Ryan."

I shrugged and said it was worth a thousand bucks worth of interest to anybody.

He watched me carefully. "It's worth two hundred thousand bucks, isn't it, Mr. Ryan? Outside of what he's spent."

"I suppose you read about it in the paper, eh?"

"Not so. The D.A. just told me about it."

That was bad luck but something to be expected. Of course the papers had made a hell of a fuss about the steal when it had happened, but it had been dying down and I'd hoped nobody five hundred miles away from Muncie would remember it. But the guy's name was against me— when a man named Link is missing, it's beyond news— it's a gag.

I said: "The guy took that much, but between his bond and the insurance, the company was covered a hundred and fifty grand worth. The rest is their loss."

"You're working for the company? Or for the insurance people."

"The Company. The Amalgamated Tool & Die Works."

"That's better. Much better."

I asked why but it wasn't necessary and I didn't get an answer. All I got was a gold-toothed smile. He meant, of course, that if I was just a run of the mill private cop I'd be interested in cutting in on two hundred thousand dollars, whereas if I'd been a decent, honest guy, the kind that works for insurance companies, I wouldn't touch the thing.

I came right to the main point. I said: "You know about the guy. Why cut me in at all? If you find him, why not work it out by yourself?"

He widened his eyes. He said: "But, Ryan! Suppose he's not in Callenville. In Callenville I'd have things the way I wanted them, but out of town, no. Suppose this man Link's out of town, out of the country? That's where you come in."

"How?"

"You locate him. You tell me. You bring him back here, how I don't care. I'll even help you bring him back, if you know what I mean. When he's here, I can handle the rest of it."

"There's others working on it."

"Do they know he was here?"

"Well, no."

That was also true. I'd found the girl who'd got the letter from Link, here in Callenville, and I'd kept it to myself.

Boleo said: "That's fine I'm going to have to put others in this—you know that. But there'll be enough left to really mean something to both of us."

I didn't think I could make him put himself on record, but I didn't know how confident he was. I said: "When I get him, or if I get him, and get him back here, what then? If we just take his money and turn him over to the cops, why, he's going to squeal like a pig."

"He won't squeal," said Boleo.

I knew then that he meant to kill Link, just as soon as he'd found and robbed him. And that I was to go along on it, or else. He wouldn't have come out in the open that way if he hadn't meant business —and telling me about it meant it was my business, too.

I was beginning to think I was up against somebody really tough, by that time.

3: A Loser Both Ways

I WAS staying at the Callen, the town's best hotel. And very good, too, for a town of that size. It had about four hundred rooms, a dining room besides a coffee shop, and a nice little bar. The bar was supposed to close solidly at two in the morning, but I'd already found that I could get service from it later than that if I wanted it.

And when I got back to the hotel, I decided I wanted it— for my company if nothing else.

My company was the D.A., the same big smug guy I'd seen in Boleo's place. He looked like a bond salesman rather than a lawyer, but I suppose that was beeause most bend salesmen have that syrupy way of talking.

He met me, inside my own door, holding out his hand and smiling cheerfully at me.

"It's Mr. Ryan, isn't it?"

I said: "Well, it's my room, so that's a safe guess. And what in hell are you doing in it?"

'My name's Lauders. You may have heard of me,"

"I have, Running for office don't give you any right to come in my room. That's breaking and entering, isn't it?"

He looked pained. "Oh no, Mr. Ryan. I simply explained to the desk clerk about wanting to see you and he suggested I eome up and wait for you. The bell boy let me in, I can assure you. Now you can see that's not breaking and entering."

"It's your law, I guess, You run it;"

"Ah, yes, that's why I'm here."

I said: "As long as you are, I'll provide a drink, I want one."

"That would be very nice."

He beamed on me while I phoned room service, and when the night bell captain brought up the bottle of rye and the ice I'd ordered, he beamed at him, too, They called each other by name and I took it the D.A. threw a party in the hotel, once in awhile,

THE bell boy left and I poured drinks and said: "And what is it, Mr. Lauders? If it's credentials, I've shown them to the police. My gun permit is in order. I haven't done a thing I'm not allowed to do under my license."

"I'm sure you haven't Mr. Ryan. I'm here to arrange it so that whatever you do will also be as safe."

"I don't get it."

"Link, Mr, Ryan. The missing Mr. Link. I know why you're here, you see."

"From Boleo?"

"And from the police, as well. Sergeant Eberhard is a good friend of mine. He has found it pays to, let us say, cooperate,"

"Sure. Let's say it."

"It's two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Ryan. Between ourselves, if Mr. Ortez— Boleo, if you'd rather call him that— if he gets his hands on that money, nobody else will. I'm speaking plainly. Once Boleo has it, you and I are out."

"What did you do? Try to cut yourself in on it with Boleo?'"

"Naturally. I heard why you are here. I assume, of course, you have a line on your man that leads you here. The man certainly has that money, or has it where he can get it promptly. What would be more natural than that I should cut myself in, as you say?"

They were coming too fast for me to catch. The town was bad enough, All the racket stuff run by one man and that a had one, But here was even worse—here was the sworn protector of the people— the man who was supposed to uphold the law and who'd been elected for that purpose— here was that man, selling out and on a wild chance. And to a stranger!

I said: "I still don't get it, I guess. You mean you want to cut Boleo out of it? Or won't he work with you on it? Or what?"

"Why should he enter into it? We have no need of him. I can give you protection anywhere in the county. That's all. You'll be safe, no matter what you do, I see no way of speaking plainer."

"I'm to get the guy, take him for his dough, and how or what I do to get it makes no difference. I'm protected; I won't be stuck, no matter what. That it?"

He hesitated delicately and said: "No matter what, that is, if everything is as it should be between us two."

"As long as you get your bite, you mean?"

"Exactly."

I stood up, intending to throw him out. I didn't have time. The bathroom door, at my right, opened and a short, husky young lad stepped out. He wasn't more than twenty-two or three, and I wodered how the Army had missed him. He held a .45 Automatic in his hand, which is maybe why I thought of the Army, but I don't know.

He said "Hold it, Ryan, Welt, Lauders."

Lauders said happily: "Why, it's Tommy, Little Tommy Chime."

And with that Little Tommy Chime shot him three times. A 45's a big gun and it makes a hell of a lot of noise in a small room. When three slugs are ripped out like those were, just one-two-three, just as fast as the man could aim and shoot, it's deafening. I just stood and watched it. I had a gun under my arm and absolutely no chance to get to it because Little Tommy turned that big gun my way and just grinned at me above it,

"Come on," he said.

"Hunh?"

"I said come on."

Then he moved closer and I took a step back. I shoved up against a heavy chair though and had to stop, and he kept coming,

That is he kept coming until he was elose enough to reach me and he did just that.

He clipped me alongside the jaw and I saw it coming and didn't have either time or space enough to duck the smack, I twisted and rolled with it— that was all I could do.

I CAME to on Boleo's couch and I couldn't have stalled on it if I'd wanted to. I was sick the second I snapped out of it and in a big way. I was so sick I couldn't even see— I could just hear Boleo laughing and hear him call somebody in from outside. It was a goofy looking bird with a mop, and he and Little Tommy Chime put me back on the couch and the mop man cleaned up the mess I'd made.

By that time my stomach had settled, though not back to normal. Boleo went to his little bar, in the corner of his filing department, and found some ammonia, and that and a little water did help. In fact it helped enough so that a drink of rye stayed down a few minutes later.

Boleo was back of his desk again and Chime was by me, at the side. I had no gun but he still had his Army .45, and it looked as big as a cannon even if it wasn't pointed at me. Chime just dandled it on his knee, with it pointing every which way, but I couid see the safety catch was latched off and I knew it wouldn't take him long to get it in action, if I got ideas.

He said: "I didn't mean to hit you so hard, chum. My hand slipped."

It was a wonder I didn't have a broken jaw and I said so. I had a knot on the side of it as big as an egg and I could move a couple of teeth back there with my tongue. The inside of my mouth was cut, too, though there was just a break in the skin on the outside. It was black and blue, though—I could tell that without looking in a glass,

Boleo said: "I had to get you out of there, Ryan, in a hurry. There was no time for arguments. I think that Chime did very well. Very well indeed."

"You had to get me out of there?"

"Of course. The shots were heard. The police were there not five minutes after Chime took you down the fire escape. You should thank him."

"I should like hell. My gun wasn't fired. They'd have found that Lauders wasn't shot with my gun. My story would have held up with them."

"It won't now," said Chime, easily.

"They can say now that you shot him with a .45 and took the gun with you when you left, And that you got rid of it. You can tell 'em different but they won't believe you."

"I could help you on that, Ryan," Boleo said, showing me his gold tooth. "I can indeed. If I told them what to believe, they'd believe it.'

"That's what Lauders told me he could do."

"Chime heard it, Just about all of it."

I looked at Chime.

He said: "Yeah, I got the bell hop to let me in the room next to yours. You remember when he brought you ice? Remember when he went in the bathroom and filled the ice pitcher with water? That's when he opened the door between your room and mine."

"He know why you were there?"

"Hell, no. And with a shooting like that, he won't admit I was in the building, He's no fool."

"Of course I know him, too," Boleo said, grinning.

I was a nice frame, with me as the picture. I'd killed the D.A., or so the cops would think unless this Boleo told them different. The cops knew me, knew I was registered there, and some of them even knew me by sight. Like Eberhard, for instance. I was in a strange town, a town run by this grinning Boleo, and I was in a hell of a spot no matter which way I jumped.

Boleo said: "I've been wondering about Lauders for some time. He seemed even too reasonable about things I'd suggest. You've got to watch a man, Ryan, who gives in too fast. It isn't natural, and when something isn't natural, it pays to keep your eyes open. I'm glad that you didn't put in with him. For your sake, I mean."

"There'll be a lot of stink over this. The guy was all set to run for governor. That won't die down fast."

Boleo shrugged, and I decided finally that he was probably a Syrian. Possibly Roumanian, but not Italian as I'd first thought. There's a difference, though how it can be told I don't know. It's something that's sensed, rather than thought out.

He said: "That won't matter. l let just enough out about him to take him off the hero's stand. When the people find out what a crook he was, they'll be glad he's out of the way."

I could have laughed at that one, if I'd been somewhere where it would have been safe to do it. Here was Boleo, about the worst I'd ever met, talking about another man being crooked.

"I'd like to know where I stand now," I said. "You didn't bring me here just to keep me safe. I know that."

"You're here to find Mr. Link. The missing Link, ha, ha, ha. That's why you came to town and that's why I want you to stay in town. That's alk"

"Any idea of how I'm going to do it? If I go out on the street, the way you've got me framed, the cops will have me then and there."

Boleo said: "I've thought of the way for you to work it, Ryan. You will write to the young lady who got the letter from Link, I presume it was a young lady, though you didn't say. You will ask her to come here and help you."

"She's a nice kid. She don't want any part of Link."

"You can tell her you'll broadcast her connection with Link if she doesn't do as you ask. That will bring her. If she's a nice girl, like you say, she won't want that. If she isn't, she'd help you for a share in the money."

I began to see then why he wanted me to work with him. Other than a five year old picture of Link, he had no idea of what the guy looked like, He knew nothing of the man's habits, other than what I'd told him. He couldn't get in touch with anybody in Link's home town, Muncie, without cutting out-of-town crooks in on his gravy.

That left me as the logical person to find the guy, and after I'd found him, I had a notion of what would happen to me. I'd either be found in a ditch, someplace out of town, or I'd be turned over to the cops for the murder of Lauders.

I was the one to lose, no matter which way it went, and my only chance of life was to work along with the gang and do the best I could to break things up my way.

I didn't have much hope but I went ahead on it. I said: "Okay, Boleo. I'll ride along. I'll write the gat a letter, here and now."

"And you can live with Chime, while you're waiting for an answer," Boleo told me.

That meant I'd be guarded day and night and by a guy that was a good guard, if what I'd seen of him in action meant a thing.

Chime was a good guard and a good gun man, and he wasn't as dumb as he appeared to be. If he had been, he couldn't have taken me out of that hotel as nicely as he had.

4: "Safe as Gold"

THE girl's name was Marie Walters and knew she had a job. It wasn't much of a job as they go these days— she was stock girl in the same plant that Link had worked for. The Amalgamated Tool & Die Works. That's where Link had met her—she'd told me that. She'd gone out with him a couple of times and found that he was married and dropped him, but he didn't want to stay dropped. He'd kept sweethearting her right along, up to the time he'd skipped out with the bank-roll.

She was a good-hearted kid and hadn't dropped him hard enough to hurt him, | I thought. The guy, from what I'd heard, was a conceited sort, and so probably hadn't even realized he wasn't welcomed by the kid. He'd still had hopes and was working on them when he'd written her to join him in Callenville.

I wrote her and took two hours on a two page letter. I'd taken the girl out a few times, but we weren't what you'd call sweethearts, at all. Just friends, though that's as far as I'd tried to go along that path with her. I told her nothing of the jam I was in; just told her she could help me if she'd quit her job and move to Callenville. I told her— this was Boleo's idea— that she'd be on salary and expenses while she was here, and I got a funny feeling about it when Boleo told me how. much to tell her the salary and expenses would be.

They were far too high— they were so high it showed Boleo thought he'd never have to pay them.

I explained she could get her old job back, when I'd caught Link, and that no harm would be done on that score. I pointed out that stealing a war plant's payroll money, in time of war, was a form of sabotage against the workers themselves, even if most of the loss was covered by insurance.

I stressed that angle some, knowing the gal was working in the plant just out of patriotism. I finished, acting as though I didn't have a doubt about her joining me, and I gave her a phony name and 'Boleo's address, for her to tell me when she'd get there. The name was John Kaufman—another suggestion from Boleo.

I was all through and ready to put the letter in the envelope and seal it, when Boleo reached out a hand for it. I gave it to him—Chime was there, with the gun, and it wouldn't have done any good to object. Boleo read it through, carefully, and then gave me some news I didn't want to hear.

"You'd better tell her not to believe all she'll read about you in the papers," he said. "They'll be full of this business, in the morning. You'd better tell her that it's part of some scheme you're cooking up or something like that. You know the girl— you tell her something she'll believe."

I put a postscript on, using the scheme idea as the stall. Naturally the Muncie papers would have space on a prospective candidate for governor in a neighboring state being knocked off, and the main suspect would be mentioned by name as a matter of course.

That would be me, and it would be too much to hope that Marie wouldn't see the item.

I'd been hoping that Boleo would use his pull and keep the thing under cover— at least hold the cops down so they didn't go all out for me. But he was showing no sign of doing that and he was the one that held the cards.

He held them as long as Chime held the gun—and the way he stuck with me he might as well have had it jammed in the small of my back.

He did everything but sleep with me— he even locked me in my room, when we went to his place after leaving Boleo's.

HE did himself well and I figured that the gunman business must be paying him well. He lived in an eight room house, at the edge of town, and he was married to one of the prettiest wenches I ever saw in my life. This Marie Walters I'd written was a good-looking girl, but Chime's wife should have been in pictures.

She looked like Hedy Lamarr, and they had one kid, a brat of about four.

Chime said, as we went up the steps:

"Don't make a crack, Ryan. The kid don't know a thing. She thinks I'm still a dealer for Boleo— she don't know that I've changed work."

I found out afterward that he'd been a stick man on one of the crap tables.

We went in and I was introduced, and Chime said: "Mr. Ryan, honey, owes the boss a piece of money and I'm supposed to keep an eye on him until it's paid. Mr. Ryan ran short and had to send east, to his bank, and the boss don't want him to leave until the dough gets back here."

The girl took it as a matter of course. It explained why I was a prisoner, and she apparently thought nothing wrong in my being one. It was five in the morning then, but she was up and waiting for Chime. She cooked us scrambled eggs and coffee, and we had ali the butter we wanted and real cream, thick and yellow, the way it should he.

I took it that if you worked for Boleo, ration points were something that didn't bother you. It put the guy in the black market, too— something else I could hold against him.

After breakfast Chime took me upstairs and to my room, which was very nice and with its own bathroom, It was also at the back of the house, which was well by itself and at the back of a double jot with nobody living on either side. There were no bars on the windows but the wall went straight down, too far to jump.

Chime pointed this out. He said: "This has been used before, for something like this same thing. So don't get notions. If you make a fuss, I'll make one with you. You be nice and I'll be nice. You crack wise to my wife, and I'll beat your head in."

"Don't she know a thing?"

"Why should she? A man should leave his business downtown. He shouldn't bring it home. That's the way I work it, always."

"I'm here, mister."

"You're business, and the way I'm working it, she don't know a thing. Keep it that way, Ryan."

There was no point in doing anything eise so I didn't argue it. He'd brought up most of a pint of whiskey for me, in case I felt the need, and when I told him I liked to read myself to sleep, he shouted down and his wife brought me up some magazines.

I didn't do so good on this because all she had were women's magazines and the only things interesting in them were the eorset ads. But I checked through a couple of them while I took a bath— there was no shower and I made up my mind to somplain about the lack of one—and then I took a drink and went to sleep.

And woke up staring at Eberhard.

HE was worried and plenty. His fat red face was sweating and he was breathing like he'd been running a fast mile. He was overweight, anyway, besides being past his chicken years, and excitement hits an old man like that sometimes. He said: "Shshshhh," and put a finger to his lips.

I said: "How did you get in? Chime locked the door— I heard him turn the key."

He nodded toward the window and I saw it was open a lot wider than the way Id left it.

"Through there."

"You fly up there?"

"Ladder. Hurry up, get your clothes on."

"What for?"

"You want to get away, don't you?"

"And go to the pokey? Not any."

"You haven't got a chance here, Mr. Ryan. You've been framed."

"Sure. How'd you know?"

"I can tell Chime's work. Always three times. Always from the belly up to the neck, with the slugs placed even. Always a .45. I've seen too much of it."

"Why not pick him for it, then?"

Eberhard laughed, but didn't sound as if he was laughing at a joke. "How long would it stick? Until Boleo got news of it, that's all. He'd have him out on a writ in half an hour. I'd be off the force."

"Aren't you working with Boleo?"

"Some. We all are. We have to. Some of us don't like it much."

"Suppose I go with you. The frame'll stand against me. Boleo wouldn't have put Lauders out of the way unless he had somebody to step in and take his place. He just as much told me so."

Eberhard said: "I'm not going to take you to jail. I'm going to take you out in the country. I've got a place out there. I think the guy's gone too far this time. With you where we can get you, we can maybe break him up."

I wanted time to think. I said: "How did you know I was here?"

"I knew where you'd be. I took a plant outside of Boleo's and saw you come out with Chime, I knew he'd bring you home. I've been here in this house— I knew where this back bedroom was."

I'd been thinking of the letter I'd written to Marie Walters, and that was the sticker. She'd come— I was fairly sure of that— and she'd go to Boleo's place, expecting to find me. That, would put her in bad all the way around because Boleo would have her to use against me.

I said: "I'm sorry, but I don't see it. You guys can get a warrant, I suppose, and take me out of here, but that's the way you'll have to do it."

"I can take you now. I don't need a warrant."

"Not if I sing out for Chime. You'd have to shoot it out with him, and you don't want that. Boleo would be in the clear."

"That's right, too. You going to stay here?"

"If that's what Boleo wants, I am."

"You're depending on him, Ryan? Can't you see, man, that he's going to put you out of the way, after you've found Link for him? That's just common sense."

"I know it."

"You won't be killed in jail, even if I took you there. And I won't take you there. We want you out where we can use you, when we need you."

"We?"

"There's others," he admitted,

"Who?"

"I won't say."

"More cops?'

"Some of them."

I had a notion to tell him about the girl coming and then decided not to. I wasn't sure of him. He was Boleo's man, even if he was trying to break loose, and I had no guarantee he would do the breaking.

So I said: "Well, that's that. You show me something that will help me, and I'm with you. But that's the way it has to be."

HE went down the ladder and I watched him until he got to the bottom. It was a little after seven— broad daylight— but the room was at the back of the place and nobody could see a thing from the street. I saw him step off the jadder and saw somebody else come out from behind the garage and help him carry the ladder away, but I couldn't see who this other party was. He wouldn't look up and give me a peek at his face. Mrs. Chime was asleep, as was Chime, and the only chance the two of them took was in having the kid wake up and hear them— and that wasn't much of a chance.

I didn't realize how little a chance it was until I saw the kid, later in the day, and then I knew they'd taken no chance at all.

The kid was crippled, poor little brat, and didn't get around much by itself. Spinal meningitis, Chime told me. One leg was warped and twisted, and a child that young don't do well on crutches, so the baby had to crawl.

It was a smart kid, too. It was too thin— which couldn't be blamed on the way it was taken care of— and the veins on its forehead stood out against its skin, which had no color. It had dark blue eyes like its mother, and would have been a swell-looking boy if it hadn't been for that bad leg.

There's nothing a man can say about a thing like that and I didn't try to say it, but Chime must have known how I felt.

He said: "The boy was just over a year old when it happened. That's the best the doctors could do. We tried 'em all."

"There's quite a lot about a system some nurse invented," I said. "I don't know anything about it— I just read an article or so."

He knew what I meant and told me a lot about it. He'd studied the subject and knew what he was talking about, at least as much as any amateur knows about the professional side of medicine. I actually sort of liked the guy by that time. In spite of what he was and what he'd done to me. And he gave me what could have been taken as an explanation of what he'd done and why.

He said: "That's why I've done a lot of things, Ryan. The kid cost dough, all the time I was trying to do something for him that would help. More dough than I was making as a dealer, if you know what I mean. It didn't leave me much choice in making up my mind, when I got a chance to do better."

Murder for hire was his idea of doing better, but he was honest about his reason, anyway. I don't suppose a man dies any easier, because he's killed to get money to look after a crippled kid, but somehow you don't hold it so much against the killer, It isn't as though the guy had done the job to get money for a blond,
l said: "Those things are bad, all right. And nobody's fault. No chance at all, you say."

He shrugged and said the Mayos hadn't offered any hope.

I GAVE him something to think about right then and there, I said: "The boy certainly would be in a bad way if you weren't around to look after him, wouldn't he?"

"I'll be around,"

I saidt "I'll bet a hat that's what Lauders thought. Only Boleo thought different."

"Lauders was trying to cross him up. That's all."

"That's enough," I said, and laughed. "You may trust him— I don't. He isn't my boss, except for this little deal, and he wouldn't be, I don't like to have to watch for that knife all the time."

He wasn't bright, He asked: "What knife?"

I said: "The one aimed between the other guy's shoulder blades. The one he's got ready, any time he thinks it would pay him to use it. Figure it out,"

"I'm all right with him. Boleo and I are like ham and eggs."

"Eggs go bad, mister. Ever think of that?"

He shut up and went back to his morning paper. It was three in the afternoon but we'd just got up, and we were waiting for breakfast. But I noticed, after we'd had the breakfast, that he acted pretty thoughtful, and a couple of times when I looked up, I'd find him staring at me.

I gave him something else to think of then, on top of the other. I said: "Two hundred grand, cut two ways, would go a long ways toward helping a man get his wife and kid away from this town. And from a beef that's sure to come in time and that'll take in everybody."

"Boleo's safe, Safe as gold."

I just laughed and let it go at that, I could see the guy was thinking— and he wasn't the type that does it much. He was a bit screwy, anyway, and when a man like that starts using his brain anything can happen.

Anything but common sense stuff, that is.

5: The Tip-off

CHIME had a Cadillac convertible that was a pip and we went down to Boleo's in it. That was the third day from the time I'd gone to Chime's with him, and during those three days I hadn't been out of the house. Mrs Chime had gone out and bought me some decent magazines to read, though, and she'd shown me she was a master cook, so I'd been comfortable enough.

Boleo had sent up a case of assorted hootch, too, and both Chime and I had been pleasantly loaded for at least half the time. I was liking him better all the time, and I was nuts about his wife and the kid. Two better people than those I never saw—and it got me to see the way Chime was putting it over with them. He was the honest decent family man at home and nobody ever played it smoother.

Boleo ealled that third day and we started, just at dusk. Chime explained: "It's before the joint opens tothe trade. You'll probably have to stay there until after they close up."

"In that back room?"

He just grinned,

"You've got a niece car," I said.

"It was Ducky Fowler's."

"Who was Fowler?"

"Fowler," Chime said indifferently, "was a guy who ran a couple-three road-houses, out past city limits. He started a game in 'em, when the town opened up, and he shouldn't have done it, It was his own fault."

"For opening the games?"

"For not closing 'em when Boleo told him to. I got his ear— Boleo gave it to me for free."

"That all you got?"

"Five grand, mister. I own my own place. No mortgage, no nothing, I even carry insurance, so help me."

That was the family man, talking and bragging. He'd just admitted he'd killed a man named Fowler, for five thousand dollars, and that he'd been given the car we were in as a sort of bonus.

And I liked him in spite of it.

I said: "This Fowler, now. Didn't he have any friends?"

"Lots of 'em. It made quite a stink at the time it happened. But there was nothing against Boleo on it. Nobody could even say that Boleo had warned him out of business."

I said that Boleo was undoubtedly a smooth worker, and Chime agreed. Just as we pulled into the parking lot alongside of Boleo's place he gave me Boleo's system.

"He warns 'em, personally. Then he does what he's told 'em he'll do. But he don't warn 'em in front of witnesses and he don't do anything in front of witnesses. Not unless theyre his own people, that is."

"That's what'll stick him," I said.

"How you mean?"

"His own men will turn on him. They'll beat him to the punch. They'll turn on him before he has a chance to turn on them."

We got out of the car then and went inside, with Chime not saying a word. I'd put another thought in that bird brain of his, and he was working on it.

MARIE WALTERS was waiting for me, and she looked scared. I could see why, too, as soon as I got in the room. Sam, Boleo's brother, was in the room with the girl and Boleo, and he couldn't keep his eyes away from her. I also noticed he had lipstick smeared across his cheek, and that the other one showed four red lines.

Boleo was grinning, and Sam looked as though his feelings were hurt. Marie started talking before either of them had a chance to. She ran to me and caught hold of my coat and hung to me like a kitten on a curtain.

"Oh, Mickey," she said. "I thought you'd never get here. This big ape tried to kiss me."

I didn't think being kissed by Sam would poison her but I didn't say anything. I let Sam say it for me.

He grumbled: "What the hell! The dame walked out with me, didn't she?"

"He just told me, Mickey, that he'd show me how people gambled. About the games and all. Then he tried to kiss me."

"A little smooching never hurt anybody," Sam argued.

Boleo said: "Get out, Sam."

Sam got out, but I noticed he watched Marie even as he went to the door. And I learned something else— that Boleo had had trouble with him before and over— women.

Because Chime said: "You ought to watch that guy, Boleo, even if he is your own blood brother. He goes wacky when he sees a dame, and it ain't right."

"Sam's all right," said Boleo, absently, "Look here, Ryan, The girl's here, so we might as well get down to brass tacks. Link isn't in town— that is, he isn't in any of the hotels or boarding houses, I'm sure of that. I had copies made of that picture of yours, and a bunch of my boys made the rounds. He could be wearing a phony beard, or something like that, but it isn't likely. He's out of town, just close enough so that he can drop in now and then. So let's narrow it down."

"Let's," I said. "It's all right, kid. I see that that big guy don't bother you any more."

Marie sat down then and I parked on the arm of her chair.

Boleo asked: "What kind of a guy is he? Fussy? I mean about one and where he sleeps?"

"He is, He's an old maid that way, or that's what I heard. How about it, Marie?"

"You mean Link?"

"Yeah."

"He's cranky about such things," Marie said. "I didn't like to go out to dinner with him because of it. He'd be mean with the waiter if things didn't suit him."

"He'll be worse," said Boleo, "Now that he's got money to spend and lots of it. He'll be more finicky than ever, What about clothes? Was he fussy about them, too?"

I said: "He was, Very much so. How about it, kid?"

Marie said: "His suit always had to be pressed just so. Everything had to match, or contrast in color."

Boleo thought that one over and proved he had a mind and could use it. He said, consideringly: "Now he may fool us on that. He probably will. He'll probably be wearing rough clothes. Good ones, maybe, expensive and all that, but rough. That would be a change from normal for him and he'd do something to be different. He wouldn't miss on meals though— your skin don't care what's put over it but your belly cares what's put inside it. What you think, Ryan?"

I said he sounded reasonable.

"He wear a mustache, miss?"

"Oh, no."

"What color would it be, if he wore one."

She hesitated and said: "His hair is grey, but I think it used to be dark. So his mustache would be dark."

"Or grey," Boleo said. "That would change his looks some—he'd probably go for that, too. His hair, now? He wear it long?"

"Oh no, Short and always with a hair cut. He was a fussy man, Mr. Boleo."

BOLEO thought this over and turned to me. He said: "It figures just one
way. That is, if he's still handy to Callenville. He's got to be at Forest Lake, That's just over the county line, twenty-two miles from here. It's the only place he'd stay."

He was making positive statements with no basis for them that I could see.

I said: "I don't get it. I don't know this country very well, but there's a lot of places either right in town or just outside where he could stay. Your men couldn't cover everything."

"You're a cop, Ryan, but I'll tell you something. Figure this, now. The man wouldn't go to a private house, one of the rooms-for-rent places. Now figure out why?"

"Easy. Because there's too much talking in a place like that. People are curious about other people, when they're together im a little place like that. He couldn't stay by himself without comment,"

"Right. So that puts him in either a rooming house, where they don't give a damn what you do, or a big hotel, where they figure the same. That right?"

"Sure."

"Now he's fussy. That cuts him out of the tourist camp places. He likes good food and you don't get it in the tourist traps. You don't get it in the little towns around here, either. There's nothing but grease joints in any of them. Except Forest Lake. And now I'll give you the clincher. There's gambling at the Lake and big stuff. Bigger than anything here in town. That's where a guy like that, with a brand new set of money, could get action for it. They really play in that place."

"Your games?"

"No, damn it," Boleo said. "They're in the next county, like I said. I wish they were mine, It's a resort and a high class one, and everyone that lives there has to have dough to afford it. The games there are run by Joe Fowler."

"Ducky's brother," Chime put in helpfully. "That's how Ducky got the notion of nosing in here."

"You talk too much, Tommy."

"He knows about Ducky, Boleo."

"How?"

"Well, I told him. But nothing that could hurt."

BOLEO gave him a look and I could see the thoughtful expression creep into Chime's eyes. He was remembering, then and there, what I'd said about Boleo getting rid of anybody he didn't want around.

I said: "If Link's there, then what? What can I do about it, the way I'm tied down?"

"Tommy can take you and the girl over there. No cop or deputy's going to stop Tommy's car, They all know it. Once you get there he can show you the places and you can look around. Will you know this guy Link, if he's got himself fancied up?"

I said I thought I would.

Marie said: "I'd know him, Mickey. So would you if you'd known him as well as I did. But Mr. Boleo!"

"Speaking," said Boleo.

"I won't help you at all, unless you make your brother leave me alone. You've got to promise,"

Boleo said: "I promise."

I made the same promise but I made it to myself. I was getting pretty well fed up with the brothers Boleo— and they were harder to take each time I saw them.

Not that I was stuck for Marie or anything like that. She was just a nice girl that was lending a helping hand in time of trouble. I just didn't like the idea of her being pawed by fat Sam.

FOREST LAKE was bigger than I thought it would be. Probably five thousand people, either tourists or people making a living from tourists. There were four big hotels, all of them bigger than the one in Callenviile. And more expensive, as well. There were two that looked to be tops, besides these— something that belonged in Sun Valley or a place like that.

I hadn't known it but Forest Lake was famous for some kind of mineral water that was supposed te be good for what ailed you, whether it was a bald head or athlete's foot, and all points between. It had been going for a hundred years and I'd never heard of it.

Some places like that don't advertise— they don't need it, They get the same clientele, year in, year out,

Chime drove us through the place, showing it off like he was running a sight-seeing bus. He said, and wistfully:

"This is the spot where they really spend dough. Imagine it. The wheels get more of a play in this town than the crap game does."

That was a tip-off right there. Moneyed people like to lose their dough with style instead of speed, and that's the difference between roulette and dice.

Chime finally dropped us on the main street and in front of a restaurant that I could see was below basement level, A nice looking place, too. Called just Fowler's.

He said: "This is the main place, in back of where they eat. Good eats, too— best in town. You might see your guy as you're passing through to the back, so watch."

I said: "How'll we get in the back?"

Chime said he almost forgot and handed me a card with a signature serawled on it. That was all. The signature could have been anything, but he assured me it was Joe Fowler's.

He said: "That's your entrance card. Nobody goes in without one. He don't hand 'em out like they were for free, either."

"What's Fowler look like?"

"Why?"

"He might be in here. He might ask me where I got the card."

"Tell him you met him in Chicago, and that you both were drinking. He don't drink here in Lake Forest, but when he goes out of town, he really puts one on. He doesn't remember a thing about what he does, either. So tell him any name you want and tell him you met him three raonths ago in Chicago and you'll be all right."

"What's he look like?"

Tommy Chime considered. "He's about forty, only he looks about thirty-five. He's about six feet tall and he's got a nice build. He's dark and he's got a mustache like Ronald Colman. He talks like Ronald Colman does in the pictures, too. Very soft and refined, sort of. Only he's a pretty tough guy."

"What did his brother, Ducky, look like?"

"Like Joe, only younger and not so nice. He looked iike what they are, not refined like Joe puts on."

He told us he'd park and wait for us, right down the street, and I knew he would. I didn't have a chance at getting away from him and I knew it— I wasn't too sure I could even go through the restaurant and to the gambling room without being stopped.

6: Safe Under Convoy

THE Callenville papers had played me up big, and in some way they'd gotten a picture of me and had splashed that over their pages, too. It waa an old one and didn't do me justice, but it showed the way my nose is bent and it showed the couple scars I've got over one cheekbone.

If somebody remembered the picture, he'd spot me in a second, so I went through the restaurant without doing much looking for Link. About all I saw was that it looked to be a darned nice place, and that it was doing the same kind of business.

Marie tooked for Link, though, and told me she didn't see him. This was while we were waiting in front of a door at the very back of the place—a very innocent looking blank door that had no knob on our side.

Chime had told me about this and all I did was stand before it and wait. By and by it opened and a Jittle dark man, in a dinner eoat, came out and stared around him with no curiousity.

I said: "My name's Kline. Billy Kline. Mr.— uh— Mr. Fowler suggested I call on him here, when I came to Lake Forest."

"Card?"

I handed him over the pasteboard holding Fowler's signature, and he looked it ever carefully.

"Where'd you meet the boss?"

"Chicago, And man, was he high! We had a few drinks together in the hotel and then we went out and had a few more, At the College Inn."

The dark man nodded and opened the coor for me in an odd way. He stepped back, somehow, and the door swung open a crack without help from anybody. I know that because we went inside and the stairs leading up were empty.

I said: "Mysterious stuff, like in picture shows, baby. Doors open by themselves: Voices will come out of the air, next thing."

"Is this all right, Mickey?" Marie asked, and I realized I hadn't had a chance to talk to her since I'd met her in Boleo's. We weren't alone there, and we'd been with Chime, in the ear, all the time after leaving there.

I said: "You're doing fine, kid. Just point out Link, if you see him. And I think you'll see him— Boleo seemed pretty sure that he'd be here."

"His reasoning about it was good, Mickey. You said so yourself."

I laughed and said: "He's got more to go on than reasoning, kid. He's got a line on the man and the thing I can't figure out is why he hasn't grabbed him."

"I don't understand why he wants to find him, Mickey. After all, that's a job for the police, Or for you, because the company's hired you to do it. I don't see why this awful man Boleo's concerned at all."

I COULDN'T explain because, by that time, we were at the top of the stairs and facing another door. This one opened for us, too—but there was a man on the either side of it, He could have been a twin to the one who'd let us on the stair— short and dark and smooth.

He said: "Good evening, Mr. ..."

"Kline. Billy Kline. Well, William Kline, Jr., to be right. Ha, ha, ha, ha."

"Your first visit, Mr. Kline?"

"That's right. I met Mr. Fowler in Chicago, about three months back. A fine man. Is he around tonight?"

"Not just now, Mr, Kline. Just go ahead—the bar's at your left and the games are right ahead. The checkroom isn't open yet, I'm sorry to say."

We passed the cheekroom and turned into the bar the guy had mentioned. It looked like a very good hotel bar and was getting a fair play, but I noticed there was no register and that no cash, other than tip money, changed hands.

I nudged Marie and said: "Big stuff, kid. More like in movies. Drink on the house, tike free hunch in cheap bars."

It didn't mean a thing to Marie— she didn't know whether that was good or bad, We got a booth, just inside the door, and then I looked around, And I didn't see any sign of Link but I did see something that I hadn't seen since I'd Iast been in Reno.

It was a window in the back of the bar, up high where it commanded the whole floor of the place, One man was looking out, and I could see the muzzle of a shotgun standing up beside him. There was a slit below the window, which even at that distance showed it was made of funny looking glass.

"It's a look-out cage," I told Marie. "More movie stuff. Bullet-proof glass and a guy inside to cut down any hold-ups. Hie could pick 'em off like shooting at clay pigeons."

Marie looked up at the window and shuddered. She was a home girl, and things like that were a little out of her line.

THE waiter came over and I ordered straight rye for myself and an Alexander for the girl. Home girls like the fancy drinks that make the strong men shudder.

She said, while we waited: "I missed you a lot, Mickey. But I think the only reason you ever took me out was to find out something about Charles Link, Tell me the truth, Mickey. Wasn't that the only reason?"

If I'd told her the truth, it would only have hurt her feelings. The only reason I'd arranged to meet her, in the first place, was because she was a friend of the guy and would know about him,

But I lied and said: "Of course not, kid. Nothing like that at all. It's nice that you knew the guy because you can be a big help to me by pointing him out, but that's all. I don't mix business with pleasure and I like taking you out."

The waiter brought the drinks, good, very good rye for me, and that awful mixture for the kid, and I thanked him.

He said: "I wish you luck tonight, sir."

I thanked him for the drinks, which sure enough were on the house.

And then Marie said: "Oh, Mickey, there he is."

It was Link but I don't think I'd have known him. All I had to go on was a five year old snapshot of him that wasn' too clear when it was new. This man looked younger than he did in the snap, even in spite of that five years' difference. He'd dyed his hair brown, almost a reddish brown, and he'd made a perfect job of it. He had a scrubby mustache that showed more red than did his hair, and that was also right. He looked heavier than he had in his pictures, and he wore an outfit that looked like it was out of one of the Hollywood fan magazines.

A checked tweed sport coat that was loud enough to speak up for itself and grey flannel slacks that were cut pleated at the waist and came up almost to his short ribs. A brown shirt, with a fancy collar. No neck tie but a scarf, though this last was swinging loose. Brown and white shoes that looked custom made. His eyes were blue, very blue, and they went with both his new brown hair and his fancy clothes. He was forty-five by his service record with Amalgamated Tool & Die, but the only way he showed he was over thirty was by tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And you had to look close to notice that.

I asked: "You sure?" even if I was myself.

"Positive. Oh, Mickey. If he sees me, he'll know me."

I said: "Just sit quiet, kid. If he talks to you, tell him you're visiting your aunt, in Callenville. Stall. I'll be back."

I got out of the booth and over to the bar and just in time. Link turned his head and saw Marie, and for a second he could have been looking at a ghost. Then he turned his head and ducked out toward the door that opened to the gambling room, I went after him but I stopped at the booth and told Marie what to do while I was on my way.

I said: "Just sit here, kid. Take another drink or two—they won't hurt you. I've got to line this out."

She nodded and I went out into the gambling part of the set-up.

I HAD the answer to everything then.

I knew why Boleo wanted me in on the deal and there was no chance of error on his reason. It all tied up.

Link hadn't gone in to the bar alone, that was the thing. Two men were with him and the same two men had followed him out, to the gambling room.

One was thin and tall and not a bad-looking guy, if you don't mind 'em having too much space between the eyes and with a smirk on a face that comes too much to a point at the chin. He carried his hands swinging free but there was a bulge under his left arm.

The other was also thin, but short, not over five feet tall. He carried his head forward, as though he was looking for something he'd dropped on the floor. The first one about twenty-five and the second at least forty-five. Both were guarding Link, with the first man packing his gun in a shoulder rig and the second, as near as I could figure, carrying his in his coat pocket.

At least he kept a hand in it all the time.

They had to be Fowler's men. There was no other answer to that one, either. Link couldn't have hired guards from any agency, as hot as he was. Any agency man in the world would have spotted him for who he was. They couldn't have been trivate gun experts, working for Link, for the same reason. They'd have known he needed them to protect his two hundred thousand dollars worth of stolen money, and they'd have ganged on him and taken it for their very own.

That left it squarely up to Fowler. He was protecting Link for some reason, and he was keeping him safe under convoy. That meant Boleo couldn't get his hands on the man without waging a pitched battle for him, and away from Callenville and out of Callen County, Boleo couldn't get away with a small war like he'd have to fight.

Fowler couldn't keep Link away from the cops, if they located the guy, naturally. But he could keep him away from another hustler, even if the other hustler did control the adjoining part of the country—and he was doing just that.

And Boleo was going along with me, on my wagon, so I'd make the break that might get Link loose and in the open where he'd be Boleo's meat. I had some authority and could always claim I was honestly trying to arrest the guy. That is, I could if I could get clear of the charge 'hanging over me on Laudersg' killing. That would give me an out, if any rough stuff came into the open. Boleo had me solid, or thought he did, on the charge, and he thought he could depend on me going to bat with him because of the fix I was in, It was a frame that he could either push or drop, and he'd think I'd play it his way on account of it.

I WAS in the middle all the way around. The cops were on one side, Boleo on another, and now Fowler on the third.

Link had shoved his way into the crowd around one of the three wheels. that were running, and I was right behind him. I had expense money to spend and no grudge against dropping a little of it in the tiger's mouth. Link bought chips and so did I. He was on my left, with the older, shorter bodyguard between us, as well as just another customer. This one happened to be a fat, red-faced man who was putting twenty dollar chips all over the lay-out, and who depended on the croupier to tell him whether he won or lost.

He lost, of course. The wheel man was only human.

Link put a red— ten dollars— on black, another on the first twelve, and another on seven, on the nose. I put the same amount on red. Playing colors won't make a man rich, but he won't lose near as fast and he has the fun of watching the wheel spin.

It came black and I doubled on red. It came black again. I put fifty on that time, still riding the red, and red showed up for me.

Link had won on his color bets the first two times, but he'd lost on the others. The wheel was running high and he lost betting that it would hit the lower third of the thirty-six possible numbers the ivory ball could end up on.

I played along easy, losing forty dolfars in half an hour, and by that time I'd decided that the short man did carry his gun in the side coat pocket next to me, and that the fat customer was going home in his underwear if he kept on playing.

Link ran out of chips twice and he was buying 'em five hundred dollars' worth at a time, but from the conversation he was having with the croupier, I gathered he'd won a little the night before, Playing like he was, with an oceasional hit like the night before, his two hundred thousand would last him quite a while, I thought.

THEN I deeided to do something about the situation and, as I did, I saw Fowler come in. There was no mistaking him. Chime's deseription would have been good enough to tell him, and the way he came in and looked the place over would have tipped me anyway.

He had that owner's look. Checking on how much and how heavy play was going on. Looking to see that each table had enough bank money to run nicely with. Having a word with the cashier, who had an office at the side of the place. Looking up at the window at the end of the place to make sure his shotgun guard was on shift.

He came near the wheel I was working on and | waved at him and he nodded back at me. He looked a bit puzzled, as though he was trying to place me, and I decided I might as well start with him, I picked up my ehips— I had a hundred and sixty dollars worth of them left— and moved over next to him.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Fowler," I said.

"Ah yes," he said, shaking hands, "And how's everything with you?"

"I'm losing a little."

He looked down at the chips in my hand and said that luck went that way. That a man might lose for hours and then pull ahead in ten minutes of the evening's play. Just ordinary edme-on talk.

I stopped that. I said: "You don't know me, Fowler, but you should, You really should. Where can we talk?"

"Why should we?"

"It might pay both of us."

He shrugged and nodded toward a door at the side of the room. "My office is there, mister—I don't believe I know your name."

"It's Ryan."

"Oh, oh."

"That's right. Same man."

7: Both Ends Against the Middle

HE led the way to his office and motioned me to a chair across the desk from him. He was as hard as Boleo, but in a different way. This man was smooth, but ] didn't think he was as smooth as he fancied himself. His office, though, was nothing like Boleo's. Boleo's was fancy and this was plain and business like. This was a place to work in and Boleo's was a place to impress people.

Fowler said: "Ryan, eh? Well, Mister Ryan, you're hotter than a fox. You're a damn' fool to be out in public. It was Chime that killed Lauders, wasn't it? Little Tommy Chime?"

"That's right."

"You see it done."

"I did. How'd you know it was Chime?"

"It bore his trade mark, from what I heard. The man was shot three times. All centered, and running from the pit of his stomach to his neck. It takes good shooting for that."

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"The shooting? I can't help you, Ryan. That isn't my county. You should know that by this time."

"I know it. It isn't about that shooting— it's about another."

"Whose?"

"Your brother's. Ducky's."

I was watching his face but he didn't change expression. His eyes maybe looked a little different but that was all.

He said: "I'll do something about that, but I'll pick my own time. That was Chime's work, too."

"Just on order."

"Sure. I know that. I told him not to try and buck that combination over there, but he wouldn't listen to me. I can't do anything about it, not the way things stand right now. I've got to wait for the proper time."

"Suppose I arrange it? Will you turn Link loose if I do?"

"You know about that, eh?"

"I can guess. That's who I'm after. That's something the papers didn't know."

He considered this and he took a minute to do it. "Look, Ryan," he said. "Suppose I am taking care of him? He's got two hundred grand and I don't know where it is. I want to know that, before I turn him over."

"You've had time to find out."

"I can't work on him. The guy's got a bad ticker. Anybody gets rough with him, and he'll pop off. That's why he took the dough, he tells me. He says he has only so long to live and he might as well live high while he's doing it."

That was something neither Boleo or I knew. I kept my mouth shut and let Fowler argue it out with himself. He said:

"You working for the company or for yourself?"

"Why? What difference does it make?"

"Plenty. There's enough to split. There'd be no split if you're working for the company."

"That's Boleo's thought."

"I'll turn him over for half of what he's got. For Boleo thrown in, I mean."

I said: "I'll be fair. I didn't know about Link having a bad heart, and that makes it different. Suppose I give you Boleo, and we'll argue it out about Link after that. We can get together — there's enough dough in it so we can."

"I want Chime, too. He was working for Boleo— I know that— but I want him, too."

"You can have him."

"You got a plan?"

I had and I began telling him about it.

MARIE had taken three more Alexanders and they'd acted on her, or acted up on her, whichever it was. Her eyes were about twice as big and she wasn't talking as usual. She didn't exactly stutter, but she was starting to. She wasn't drunk but she wasn't sober —she was at that in-between stage where everything's peaches and cream.

She said: "Oh Mickey, honey! I didn't think you were ever coming back."

"They been treating you all right?"

"Oh, yes. A couple of men sat down here and tried to talk to me, but I told them I was waiting for my husband. Wasn't that right?"

"Sure."

The waiter came over and I ordered another rye and another Alexander. Another snifter wouldn't hurt the gal, that I could see.

I said: "We're going back to Callenville now, kid. There's going to be quite a lot happen and don't let any of it get you down."

"Why, what will happen, Mickey?"

"I'm not sure yet. Nothing tonight."

We had our drink and went downstairs and found Tommy Chime parked half way down the block. He was sitting well back in the seat with his face in shadow, and when we got in the car I saw he had that Army .45 in his lap, all ready.

He said: "I had a close one, mister, and I don't mean perhaps. Fowler walked by here and looked right at me. If it hadn't been for a car coming by and blinding him with its lights, he'd have seen me sure."

"He know you?"

"Sure."

"You know his boys, too?"

"Most of  'em. They leave us alone and we leave them alone. That is, if they stay where they belong, to hell out of Callen County."

"He figure the same about this one?"

"Sure. The county line's the dead line. We can come over here and give his games a whirl and his crew can come over to our joints and try us if they want. But no trouble, that's all."

"What about you?"

"Not me. The bars are up for me on account of Ducky. And for Boleo, too, of course."

Marie asked: "Who is Ducky?"

I said: "You mean who was Ducky? Ducky was a man who didn't know where he belonged. Isn't that right, Chime?"

Chime got the car out into the line of traffic and agreed that I was right. And for the rest of the ride into Callenville I spent my time fending Marie away. Those Alexanders were taking hold and she'd decided that if I thought anything of her I should be showing it more, and she moving half way toward the showing.

It would have been embarrassing if Tommy Chime hadn't been a family man, but as it was it worked out all right.

We went straight to his house, and when he'd called Boleo to tell him we were back, and Boleo had told him to keep the girl there in the house, the same as I was kept. Marie never complained. For one thing I could see she liked Mrs. Chime, and for another I was with her there. That made it perfectly fine.

IT was just after daylight when I saw Eberhard, and I was worried for fear he wouldn't show up. He'd said he'd keep in touch but I was afraid something might have interfered with the plan. I dropped the note I'd written him and watched it flutter to the ground with him chasing it like a cat chases a butterfly, and when after he'd read it and motioned toward the back of the garage where the ladder was stored, I waved him away.

I knew what he wanted, He wanted to argue what I'd lined out for him and his pals to do, and I didn't want any part of it. It was too tricky as it was. I had to depend on Chime, on Boleo, on Fowler, and on this bunch of cops that wanted to get out from under Boleo's thumb, and I had to work on each one of them from a different angle.

Each angle, of course, had something in common. Each depended on the well known double cross— each bunch was after something the other one had.

All I had to do was work 'em against each other and slide out with Marie and Link, during the pay-off, It wasn't going to be easy.

Marie was sleeping with Mrs. Chime, not more than half realizing she was a prisoner, and Tommy had made himself up a bed on the front room couch. I woke him up from that about nine.

I said: "Look, Tommy, it's about time we had a talk. I'm going to give you a chance to get out. To get out while you're alive and to get out with the wife and kid."

"You're nuts," he said, but he was paying close attention, I noted. "Why should I want to get out? I'm doing all right with Boleo. There's no reason why it . won't go along like that."

I needed him and I had to have him on my side. He'd gone to sleep on the couch with his gun on the floor by the head of it, and he was lying back on the couch, then, with a hand propped under his head and staring at me.

I WAS five feet away but I had the advantage of the first move. I dived for the gun and landed on top of it, and he rolled off the couch on my back and started to pound my head up and down on the floor.

As a gun man he was good, very good. On the rough and tumble stuff he was only fair. I twisted so I got a purchase with my feet against the couch, and then I kicked out as hard as I could. It moved me away from there fast, with the rug sliding under me like a pair of skates, and it tipped him to the side and gave me a chance to roll clear. I had the gun in his belly then and had the safety catch off— he carried it on full cock, the way the gun should be carried if a man has any idea of having to use it in a hurry.

I said: "Behave now. Sit back there. I don't want to blast."

He coughed— I'd jabbed the muzzle of the gun into him pretty hard. He got back on the couch and stared at me, and I when he spoke, he sounded as though his feelings were hurt.

"I sort of trusted you, Ryan," he said. "I wasn't watching you the way I should have been doing."

"What did you do with my gun, Chime?"

"It's in the car pocket,"

I took the magazine out of the .45 and jacked the shell out of the chamber, I tossed it back to him and said:

"I don't want this, Tommy. I want my own."

He held the gun as though he'd never seen it before.

"Why'd you give it back to me?"

I knew then the beef was over and that I could talk him into what I wanted, I gave him back the shells and watched him shove the magazine up in-place and jack a shell into place. I noticed though that he put the safety on them.

I said: "I'm going to give you a chance, Tommy. The pay-off's coming tonight. I want Link, you know that. Now I want Boleo. If you work it, I can have 'em both. If not, you go out with Boleo."

"I don't get it," he said.

"Play it my way and you've got a chance to go clear. Maybe not—there's a chance, of course. But play it against me and you're through. I've got Fowler in it now."

"You double-crossed us, hey?"

I laughed and he got the idea. He said: "Not that I blame you. We put you in a spot, all right."

"I'm getting off it. You want to go along?"

"Go ahead."

I talked— and we ended by going out to the garage together and getting my own gun. I felt better with it, too. There was going to be shooting that night and I wanted my own gun to do it with.

8: Last Act Curtain

FOWLER was where he said he'd meet me, and with him were Link, Link's two bodyguards, and two other men I'd wever seen before. Link's hands were tied behind him, which couldn't have been comfortable, but he wore no gag. When I walked up to the car, he was cursing Fowler steadily, but not as though he were mad. It was a discouraged sort of swearing, more than anything, and Fowler just sat next to him and listened.

The car was parked about two blocks from Chime's house, just as we'd arranged.

I walked up to the car and spoke to Fowler and then looked at Link. Link had quit swearing as I came up, but he picked it up where he'd left off.

Fowler pointed a thumb at him and said: "The guy's sore. What the hell! He don't seem to realize that money isn't everything."

"How much of it you got left, Link?" I asked.

He started cursing me then. I said: "It's going as planned. There's just one thing. If there's any shooting, and there will be, I want you boys to be careful. My girl's in the house, too, and 'm going to try and get her down in the basement. But if I can't, I don't want her to stop any wild ones."

Fowler said: "Don't fret, Ryan."

"We might as well start."

Fowler and three of the men with him got out of the car, leaving the older one of Link's guards still with him. Fowler said: "If he gets noisy, just knock him on the head. Link, if you're smart, you'll keep that trap of yours shut."

Link told him to go to hell, in detail.

We started toward the house then. I said: "Now remember! I want Chime  left alone until the last. I need him right straight through, until then. That plain?"

Fowler said: "I said so last night, didn't I? I want Boleo more than I want Chime, anyway."

We walked up to the house and on the porch and through the front door, and there was Tommy Chime to meet us. He held that Army gun of his at full cock and he had the safety off it and he was as tight as a wound up watch. He was so scared he was white around the lips. He lined the gun on Fowler's middle and said:

"Hi, Joe! If there's any cross on this, you go. first."

"Don't be a chump," Fowler said. "I don't want you, Tommy. I want Boleo."

"Play it that way," Tommy said.

I put in with: "Okay, Chime. Now's the time to do it."

AND I told him again what to do. I said: "Go ahead now. Tell Boleo I went out last night and got Link, and that I'm barricaded with him down in the basement. And that you've got to have help to get me out. That'll bring him."

Fowler made the same objection he had made the night before, when I'd given him the plan. He said: "He'll send somebody else out here. He won't come out himself."

I gave him the same answer as I had before. I said: "He will not. He won't take the chance. He knows he has to have Link alive, if he's going to get the money from him, and he won't trust the job to anybody else. Get going, Chime."

Tommy eased around to the door, watching Fowler all the time. They were like two strange dogs, circling each other with their hair up on their necks and growling, He baeked out the front door and I heard his ear start up from where it was parked in front, and I breathed a whole lot easier.

I'd been afraid of that first meeting. There was a ehance of Fowler losing his head and shooting it out then and there with the man who'd killed his brother, and there'd been the chance of Chime going panicky when he faced him.

That was over. I told the boys to sit down and have a drink while they waited and they did. And then I went upstairs, to where Mrs. Chime and Marie were playing cards with the boy.

It was some sort of casino that the kid was nuts about. Both Chime and his wife played it with the kid all day long, and now they'd roped Marie in on it.

I said: "Mrs. Chime, you're to go down in the basement. You and the boy. Marie, you too,"

Mrs. Chime said: "What's wrong, Mr. Ryan? Where's Tommy? I thought you went with him— I heard him drive away."

I didn't explain but told her the one thing I knew would get her moving.

"There's going to be some trouble here in a little while," I said. "I want the boy out of the way."

She got moving right then. She and Marie and the boy were in the basement, locked in, inside of five minutes' time. If it had just been herself, there'd probably have been an argument, but there was none when the boy was in danger.

It seems like people think more of a crippled child than they do a well one.

FOWLER and I sat by the window, where we could watch the street. I was looking for it and so saw something Fowler didn't, There was quite a lot of shrubbery in the vacant lot next to Chime's house, and every now and then Fd see a movement there that didn't eome from the wind.

Then Boleo came— just as it was getting good and dark. It had taken him about an hour to make up his mind and collect his gang, and he came in force. There were two cars of them, and I saw Fowler lick his lips and figure out the odds.

He wasn't backing up on them, I'll give him that. There were five of us, counting me on his side, and Boleo had seven men with him, not counting Chime. I didn't know just how to count Chime, either. He was supposed to be out of it, but I knew it wouldn't work that way. I hoped it would work so that he'd be out of the first of the mess, but that was the best I could do for him.

Boleo and his crew came up the walk, first Boleo and Chime, side by side, and then Boleo's brother and the rest of them. They were in a huddle and a good man could have murdered the bunch of them with any sort of shooting, but that wasn't the plan.

Ht worked out as it should. Chime and Boleo came to the door and Chime opened it and stepped to the side, so the others could go past him. It was the natural thing to do and he did it that way. Just opened the door and stepped back and said:

"Okay guys."

By that time Fowler was against the wall, right next the door. The end drape from the front window covered him entirely. One of his men was behind the couch. Another was in the doorway leadmg to the kitchen and the third was clear up on the stairs leading to the second story. I was still by the window, but sitting at the side of it, and every man of Boleo's was inside before he saw me. Chime even had time to close the door behind them before Boleo spoke.

He had a gun in his hand but he didn't raise it. He must have been surprised, expecting to find me in the cellar, but he didn't show it.

He said: "Hah, Ryan. I thought Tommy said he had you locked in and that you had him locked out."

Then Fowler, who was behind them, said: "Let's go."

The shooting started and I went out the window. Boleo shot, but whether at me or at Fowler I didn't know. He could have hit the window glass but I was going through it shoulder first and there was no way of telling. I saw Chime running toward the street and his car, and I shouted:

"I'll see you, Tommy."

He raised a hand but didn't stop.

I COULD see Eberhard and his merry men breaking out of their cover in the next door lot, then. There were about ten of them. and one of them was carrying a gas gun— a short-barreled, nasty-looking thing that could do three times the work the old-fashioned kind could ever do. It sounded like every man for himself inside the house though, and I didn't think the boys were going to need gas to take charge.

There were eight men standing in the center of that small room, and Fowler and his boys were cross-firing into them. Fowler was taking a chance and knew it, but his men were under some protection. The eight in the middle of the room had none and it was just a matter of how much lead they could take and still shoot back.

I got to the sidewalk and started down it just as Eberhard got to the front door. Two of his men were at the side of the house— I could see that— and another couple were racing around toward the other side to blanket that as well. He'd have a pair at the back, too— I knew that without seeing them.

I didn't wait. I wanted to get down to Fowler's car before the man guarding Link had time to get worried and pull out of there.

And I just made it. I heard the starter grind when I was half a block from it and the guy was just putting the car into gear when I ran up beside it. He leaned his head out when I came up to the window, but if he was scared he didn't look it.

He said: "How they coming out? There's plenty of noise."

I hit him on the head, rather than argue with him. I wanted Link, not talk about him.

And then I drove the car back and parked it in front of Chime's leaving Link still tied in the back seat.

EBERHARD had things under control, but he hadn't had much of a job getting it that way. The boys had really shot it out.

Boleo and his brother were both dead. Boleo had been shot six times— the boys had sort of centered their fire on him it looked like. Boleo's brother Sam was hit twice but both were centered.

Of the other six men with Boleo, two were dead, one was dying, and the other three would live, barring accidents. They can do a lot with gun shot wounds this day and age.

Fowler was hit twice, both through the right lung, and that gave him about an even chance. One of his men had taken a slug through the arm— that was the one who'd been shooting out from the shelter of the doorway. The other two hadn't a mark on them and were handcuffed together.

Fowler was conscious when I went in, and if looks killed, I'd have been down on the floor with the Boleo boys.

"You kept Chime out of this," he said.

"Right."

"You double-crossing rat."

"You got enough for your money."

"I wanted Chime."

"You don't want anybody but the doctor, chum," Eberhard told him. "He's coming now. By the time you get out of the can, you'll have whiskers down to your knees. If you want Chime then, you can have him."

I did what I'd told Tommy I'd do for him, I was putting the blame on a dead man and so I didn't mind too much.

I said: "Listen. It was Boleo that killed Lauders. I saw him do it. It was Boleo that killed your brother, Fowler. It wasn't Chime— Chime just took the blame. It wasn't as though he was up in court accused of it— it was just talk. Boleo paid him to take the beef and he took it, that's all."

Both Eberhard and Fowler said: "You said it was Chime."

I said: "I just agreed with you when you said that. I should know— I saw Lauders killed. About your brother, Fowler, all you can figure is the same man killed him, too. That is if you go by the way the job was done."

I DIDN'T think it would stick with Fowler but it would keep the police away from Chime, and that's all I'd promised him. I knew Fowler would have men gunning for him as soon as he could get in touch with what was left of his crew. The protection would be off Chime and he'd have to depend on himself to stay clear, that was all.

I stayed there until I heard the ambulance siren sounding nearer, and then I went to the basement. I went down and found both girls huddling back of the furnace, with the boy still further behind them.

I said: "It's over. Mrs. Chime, Tommy got clear. He'll write me when he gets located and then I'll tell you where to go. He won't write you— you may be watched for awhile. I'll see you get out so that nobody follows you, and that's the best I can do."

Marie was shaking all over. She said:

"Good heavens, Mickey, what's happened?"

I said: "Nothing of importance. The town is out from under, that's all. No more of the Boleo brothers, which means the police can start in and do a little policing. The same will be true of Forest Lake— the boys just sort of cleaned up their own situations. It's a good thing for everybody— this town needed cleaning up and now it's done. Marie, if you'll get ready, we'll go back where we started from."

She started climbing out from behind the furnace then, but I wouldn't let them go upstairs until Eberhard called down to me that the house was clear.

That front room was nothing for a woman to see.

CHIME got free from the men Fowler put on him, but I didn't know it until I got a letter from him. It was mailed from South Africa and it said he was now a sergeant and he liked the Army fine but missed his wife. The letter had to pass the censor, of course, and so it didn't say a great deal, but I could read between the lines and guess what it was he wanted.

That night I made arrangements about it. I told Marie: "You and I'll drop over to Callenville, toward the end of the week. I got a letter from Tommy Chime and I've got to tell his wife about it."

By that time Marie knew all about it. She didn't know whether she approved of what I'd done, though, and now and then had things to say about it. She said some of them right then.

She said: "You let that man go, knowing he was a murderer, Mickey. You shouldn't have done it."

What to do had puzzled me, too. I'd crossed everybody but Chime, but I'd played it square with him. And he was the actual killer of both Lauders and Ducky Fowler, that I knew— and maybe others as well.

I said: "Look, kid! The guy had a wife and baby, and the only people he killed were better off dead. There's that angle. Another thing is, he's doing all right now. He's in the Army and he's been made a sergeant. That's swell. He'll come out of it okay, see if he don't. And working it the way I did, cleaned up that town all right, so it must have been partly all right, anyway. A man can work in that town and play around a little now, and still go home with money in his pants. So that's something, isn't it."

Marie said she thought it was.

"And I found Link, and the D. A. turned up his loot. That's something else. When it was a question of getting ten years and keeping the dough, or getting five and giving it back, he gave it back, didn't he?"

"Well, yes, Mickey."

"Then everybody won, didn't they?"

"Mrs. Chime didn't win."

"Tommy wouldn't have lasted another year, kid. Boleo would have killed him  because he knew too much. That was the way the guy worked. So Mrs. Chime won— Tommy's alive and making a hero out of himself."

The funny thing is that Mrs. Chime agreed with me She gave me a letter to forward to Tommy, that just in case any of Fowler's crew were still checking on her mail. Fowler couldn't— he was doing twenty to forty in the State pen.

She said: "I was going to sell the house, so that I'd be ready to join Tommy, as soon as I heard from him, Now I'll just wait until after the war."

"I'll get the guy to send you a picture, Mrs. Chime."

"Sonny would like that, too."

The kid said: "l bet my dad's a good soldier, too. It isn't everybody can be a sergeant, I bet you. Why that's higher than a captain, I guess."

Neither Marie nor I told him different. The way it was working out he'd find that a sergeant maybe wasn't as high as a captain— but he'd never find out what his old man really had done for a living, anyway.

I counted that on Chime's credit side, too, The kid would grow up thinking his daddy was a hero, rather than a gun man, and that was all to the good.

I was sort of proud of Chime myself.

___________________

10: Printer's Ink Runs Red

Speed Detective, Oct 1945

This late Torrey story in Speed Dective is an example of how the pulps, when pressed for space, leave things out. This story starts out without a chapter or chapter heading, then has chapter and chapter headings regularly from Ch 2 until Ch 5. Then, when the second half of the story ("continued on page 83")  is shuffled off to the back of the magazine, no further chapters or chapter headings. Eight chapters was typical of a Torrey story of this length.

I LIVE in an apartment house that sports a desk and a desk clerk, by this never means a thing. My little pals sail past the desk as it they don't see it, and the clerk who's shy, just gulps and lets them go. So I was sore instead of surprised when somebody started pounding on my door at a quarter after twelve. I'd been in bed an hour, and was just nicely asleep. I went to the door, but I was talking about having to go to it, and what I had to say was profane, not polite.

It was Jim Pender, who's in a way of being a friend of mine. And he looked as though he was seeing the little men that run around the base-boards.

I said: "Come on in, Jim. You look as if you need another one of the same."

He said: "I'm in trouble, Mickey. Bad trouble."

"Have a drink and tell me about it."

"I don't want a drink."

I said: "Dammit, I do. Come on in."

Once inside, where I had a chance to look at him, I could see that he was really up in the air. He runs a wholesale tobacco-and-candy company, and that business is a gold mine if it's run right.

And Jim Pender ran his business right. He knew everybody in town, had what amounted to a monopoly on his kind of business, and was running for the State Legislature on the Democratic ticket.

Which made him a cinch for election.

I made myself a drink with rye and ice and soda and Jim again refused one, and he was a drinking man, if not a lush.

He said: "I've got to keep my head, Mickey. I'm really jammed. I flatter myself that I've got as good a name as most men of my age, but I can't stare down what's looking me in the face."

I took a sip of my drink and said: "And what's staring you in the face, mister?"

He said: "Murder."

IF I HADN'T KNOWN Pender as well as I did I probably would have thought of the possibility of error. But when he said "Murder" I knew it was murder and nothing else. He wasn't the panicky kind. He was big and blond and placid, and this was the first time in my life I'd ever seen him upset.

I said: "All right, Jim. Take it easy. Now— who was killed and how are you mixed in it? Don't tell me that everything went black and all of a sudden you found yourself standing above the body, with a smoking gun in your hand. I won't believe it."

"Don't kid about it, Mickey," he said hoarsely. "I'm not fooling. It's murder, like I told you. It's Smiley."

"The guy who's running the scandal sheet?"

"That's right— that's the man. I had an appointment with him, and when I went to keep it, at his shop, I found him on the floor. Dead, with blood all over."

"How d'ya know he was dead?"

"I... I felt of his wrist. There was no pulse."

"Have you called the cops?"

"I couldn't, Mickey. I threw the guy out of my office earlier today. Right down the stairs. The police would certainly find that out. He was killed just before I got to his shop, because his wrist was as warm as if he'd been alive."

"If you threw him out of your office, how come you made an appointment with him at his shop? The police are going to ask you that."

"Maybe if I don't report it... if I let somebody else report it, they won't drag me into it."

Our town isn't so big, around eighty thousand, but that doesn't mean there's not some smart men on the force. He was a cinch to be dragged into the mess and I told him why.

I said: "Look, Jim! The minute the news comes out about Smiley being murdered, people are going to talk it over. Your throwing him out of your office will be remembered. You can bank on it. You'll have to tell why you did it. And why you agreed to meet him at his place, afterward. The cops aren't dopes... they find out things like that."

"But I can't tell why I agreed to see him."

"Why not?"

He got red in the face. He said: "He was trying to blackmail me. I'm running for office, Mickey. Now's no time for a scandal. I decided I'd advertise in his damned sheet. He propositioned me about it this afternoon, and when I told him I wasn't interested, he hinted he would publish a news story about me that I wouldn't care to see in print."

"And you got sore and threw him out."

That one got the faintest sign of a grin from him. He said: "I did more than throw him out. I picked him up from the chair he was cowering in, heaved him toward the door and grabbed him when he opened it, and then pitched him down the stairs. It's a wonder he didn't break his neck on the way down, and he was limping when he walked away. I don't think I was ever so mad in my life."

"I don't blame you."

"Then I got thinking it over and thought it might be better to go along on it until after election. It's next month... I thought I'd pay off that long and then tell him to go to hell."

"How does the blackmail tie in with the advertising? You said first that you were going to advertise with him and then you say he was trying to blackmail you."

Pender said bitterly: "That's the way he works it. It's legal. He finds out something about you and then comes up and asks you to advertise in his dirty sheet. He charges you blackmail prices for the advertising. In my case it was five hundred dollars an issue, and the sheet comes out as often as he wants to print it."

"He gets all his advertising that way?"

"Nobody in his right mind would advertise in that sheet unless he was forced into it, Mickey. Have you ever seen one?"

I said I had and started to get dressed. He looked a little more hopeful then and asked me if I had any idea of what was the best thing for him to do.

I slid into my pants and said: "I have. We're going down there together and discover the body. I'll call the caps. Our story is that you got a phone call from Smiley, whom you knew, asking you to drop in at the shop some time this evening. You happen to be with me and so I drop in with you. We find Smiley. And you'd be better off if you tell them about having an argument with Smiley this afternoon. They'll find it out, anyway. Tell them you loaned him money and that you asked him for it and he refused to pay you. And that you knew he had it, and that you got sore because he wouldn't pay you. That's how the argument started, you can say. Then tell them he called you a dirty name and you gave him the old heave-ho. Tell them you thought he called you to give you this money you loaned him... that will explain your being there at his shop. And me being with you will furnish you an alibi of sorts."

"That's swell, Mickey! I don't like to drag you into a mess, but I don't know anything about this kind of thing."

It was a back-handed compliment but I didn't mind. I get so few that any kind words are appreciated.

SMILEY'S PRINT SHOP was on a back street, a shabby neighborhood. I've noticed that a lot of print shops pick the same kind of location, and have finally decided that the reason for it is the noise they make. The presses rattle and clank and I can understand a landlord not wanting to rent to such a noisy tenant— that is, if his place was alongside quiet business houses. They'd move and he'd be stuck with his noisy renter and that would be his only renter.

In the section Smiley was in, noise made no difference. There were warehouses, garages, machine shops, and an ice plant, and all the noise that Smiley could make wouldn't be heard above the din.

There was a dull light coming from the front of the place and there also was a neat little hole through the right-hand front window. It was pretty, with cracks starring out from it in all directions. Some of them went clear to the edge of the pane.

Pender said: "The door's open— I walked right in."

"And left prints all over the place, I betcha. It don't make any difference, now, Jim. We dropped in together, we say. What would be more natural than your touching things?"

He said: "It's back there. By the biggest one of these. He jerked his head toward one of the machines, some kind of binder, I thought. And I also thought that Pender didn't know any more about the printing business than I did, and all I knew was that they used ink and paper to do it with. We went to the back of the shop and, in the shadow of this press, if that's what it was, was Smiley.

He was face-down and there was quite a lot of blood. He'd crawled, apparently blindly, at least ten feet, and five feet of that distance were turned from where he'd run into the press or binder or whatever it was.

I said: "He was standing by this gadget and somebody saw him through the window and took a crack at him. It was nice shooting."

"Shooting's too good for a man like that," Pender told me. "It's guys like that that make all the trouble in the world."

By that time I was squatting on my heels beside the body. I tipped its head a little and then got up.

I said: "Did you know he had a printer?"

"Well, no, Mickey. What's that got to do with the mess?"

"That's the mess," I said. "This isn't Smiley, dammit. This must be some guy that works here. I wonder where he keeps the phone."

THE NIGHT MAN on the desk was Sergeant Ollie McKinney, and we'd always got along.

I told him it was Mickey O'Connor and he said it was Desk-sergeant McKinney and then we got down to brass tacks.

I said: "Who's working tonight?"

He played it straight with: "In what department, mister?"

They kidded themselves into thinking they had their detective force in special categories, but that was a joke. The town isn't big enough to have what few cops we have left placed on special duty. Some of the boys enlisted and some were drafted, and the town's running as best it can with a skeleton force.

I said: "Homicide, sergeant.''

He did a double take on that one. He said: "Oh yes! That will be Lieu— Hey! Did you say homicide?"

"I did."

"You kidding?"

"I'm not. I'm calling from Smiley's print shop and we just came in here and found his printer dead. Shot. Somebody from the street potted him through the window."

"Olson's working. I'll tell him about it."

I said: "Do that," and started prowling the shop. And was lucky enough to stumble onto a file of previous issues, covering the past year and a half. I'll admit I stumbled into them where they were parked in a filing case, but I still think it was a coincidence. I was looking for the place Smiley kept his case records on the people he was shaking down.

I'd just got some of the old papers tucked away, under my shirt, when Smiley came beaming in. We were away from the printer's body then, clear up front and in another aisle, so Smiley hadn't seen a thing wrong.

He walked up to Pender holding out the hand of friendship, but he'd have looked more natural if there'd been a knife in it. He had a smooth and oily voice and I didn't like him and never had.

He said: "It's nice your coming down like this, Jim. What d'ya say we just forget about that little trouble in your office today? I will if you will, and no hard feelings between us."

Jim seemed to have gone blind, because he didn't seem able to see Smiley's hand. Smiley reddened a little but didn't speak out about the slur. Jim said: "You two know each other?"

We said we knew each other.

Smiley said to Pender: "I'm sorry I'm late. My pressman let you in?"

Pender -said: "Oh, sure. He was here when we got here."

I knew what was the matter with him. He'd been sure that it was Smiley whose body he'd seen, and here he was talking to the man himself. It was upsetting and Jim had already taken quite a bit that evening.

I said: "This pressman of yours, Smiley? I don't believe I ever saw him around town."

I'd known Smiley for the year and a half he'd been in town and we'd never made any pretense of having any use for each other. Of course I knew what he was doing, but no client of mine had had trouble with him and so I'd never tangled with him. I'd rather looked ahead to seeing him stretched out dead on the floor, though, just because I hate a blackmailer. I think blackmail ranks next to kidnaping on the dirty-crime list. While I don't approve of it, house-breaking is by comparison a good clean crime. Murder, in some cases, is almost justified, though by this I don't mean murder caused by greed. But the blackmail victim hasn't a chance. If he pays, he's bled dry; and if he toughs it out, he's pilloried.

Now, when I asked about the pressman, Smiley gave me a superior sort of grin and said: "I can see you don't know anything "about the printing business, O'Connor. These fellows come drifting along, work for a week or so, and then go drifting along again. They work enough to keep them with a roof over their heads and a bottle of whiskey in their bellies, and that's all."

''This one you've got now? Know anything about him?"

"My dear O'Connor! Why should I know anything about him, except that he's a good pressman? I'm not in the least interested in the man."

"You will be."

"Why?"

"He's back there dead," I said.

Lieutenant olson was a big bland man, who had a swell grin and the palest eyes I've ever seen. Even when he was laughing so hard he'd have to hold his sides, those eyes never softened a bit. He wore nothing but grey, except for tie and shoes, and these were black. He weighed at least two-twenty and was the star man on the police wrestling team. For that matter he was star man on the police pistol team as well, the regulation Police Positive our foree uses looks like a toy in his hand.

He said to me: "Now have I this right, Mickey? You were with Pender and you just went along with him when he kept this date? That right?"

"That's exactly it, Ole."

"It wouldn't be that Pender came down here expecting trouble, and that you came along to see he didn't lose?"

"It would not. You know I wouldn't lie to you, Ole."

"Not unless it paid you, you wouldn't I noticed something funny. Did you—?"

"Funny about what?"

"About this dead man. Didn't you get it?"

He'd caught it, so I thought I might as well admit I had, too. I said: "If you mean that from behind he looked like Smiley, I caught it. He had the same sloping shoulders and he was about the same size. Yeah, I caught it."

"I wondered if you did. And I wonder if Jim Pender did. And I know twenty other people I can wonder about, along with you two."

"You think somebody mistook this gay for Smiley? That it?"

Olson spoke as if talking with himself—as if he were thinking aloud. He said: "Here it is, Mickey. Here's a boomer printer come to town. A man who probably doesn't know a soul here... these printers are a clannish bunch. Why should anybody bust him through a window with a high-powered rifle? It doesn't add up. On the other hand we have Smiley, who this other guy resembles from the back. Here's Smiley who's been here a year and a half. Long enough to make enemies of half the town. I know twenty-five people who I swear would kill him like a flash, if they thought they could get away with it. If I was picking him up and he ran, Mickey, I don't think I'd shoot at his legs. And that's a hell of an admission for a cop to make."

"You know his racket then. Ole?"

He waved a hand the size of a ham. "Sure. Not that it does us any good. Blackmail's about the toughest thing there is to stick on somebody. We know how he works it and some of the people he's working it on, but what good's that? We run into scandal at the departmental! the time, naturally. Unless it can't be avoided, we keep quiet about it."

I'd run into enough scandal in my little private-cop business, and the bulk of my business was skip-tracing and petty stuff like that.

I said: "It must be a paying business. Smiley is certainly spending money and a lot of it. He's got two hundred dollars' worth of clothes on his back, and he's living at the Towers, which is the highest- priced place in town, if not the best. He's got five thousand dollars' worth of automobile, even if it's second-hand. And it must cost him nothing but money, this digging up the dirt on our good citizens."

Ole said: "He's banking about two thousand a week, Mickey. We've been taking an interest in him."

"Over this advertising-blackmailing thing?"

"Oh... things..." Ole said vaguely.

I knew that was as far as he'd go— but I also knew the cops were watehing Smiley for something more than the racket that was hitting Pender.

And so, in turn, hitting me.

2: I Find Murder

PENDER'S place was five miles out of town, built on a point that jutted out into the lake. It was too lonesome for my taste, but Pender and his wife and kids were nuts about it.

And I'll say it was a pip of a place.

The house had maybe ten rooms, with the biggest porch in front I ever saw. Glassed and screened, and they spent most of the summer out there. He had a man and wife living in a little cottage behind it, and they took care of the place so well that all Pender had to do, when he got home, was lift his drink up to his face. Both the man and his wife were better than green hands when it came to shaking up a cocktail. They were named Jules and Josie, and it wasn't a gag. That was really their names. Both French— Josie had been born across.

Pender and I sat on the porch, and I could hear Mrs. Pender bustling around inside— the front room opened onto the porch—and Pender had been almost going nuts, waiting for her to go inside so I could tell him the score. He was trying to keep it away from her and so we couldn't just go to his room for a conference.

I took a sip of my drink and said: "They're just about ready to hang it on you, Jim. You know where I got it from, but of course this isn't official. The guy you're running against is no fool and he's asking why you were down there at that hour to meet Smiley. He doesn't come out and say you killed this printer, thinking it was Smiley you were shooting at, but if the man he's talking with walks away with that impression, this rival of ypours doesn't worry. And there's been so much talk about it the police will act soon. They'll have to."

Pender swore but it was more bluster than temper behind this. He said:

"Mickey, I don't want this now. I can't win this election if I'm fighting murder charges. And I don't want to fight murder charges. I didn't do it and I don't want to be crucified for something I didn't do."

I said: "You know Ida Durstin? The gal that married old Simon Durstin? The department-store Durstin?"

Pender nodded and said: "I've heard of her. Who hasn't? When a guy sixty years old marries a girl twenty-five, and when he's filthy rich and she hasn't a dime, there's always talk. It's the sugar-daddy stuff carried to an extreme."

"She was around the printing shop before you were. She's got a Cadillac convertible sedan that's a bright blue, and she's got a long black bob and big black eyes and a shape."

Pender was staring. "Well, what of it? I'll bet there's lots of girls with black hair and eyes and a good figure. How d'ya know it was Mrs. Durstin?"

I grinned and Baid: "More stuff from my pipe line into the police department. The beat cop say the big car parked there, about a block from the print shop. Then he saw it cruising along when he made his next round. This went on until the beat cop got curious and jotted the license number down in his notebook. The cop remembered it when this printer got killed, and the cop told Lieutenant Olson."

"Well?"

I SAID: "About two months ago old Durstin came to the office and wanted to hire me to follow his wife around. He had a notion she was seeing too much of the chauffeur, if you know what I mean. He's a jealous old goat, believe me. I told him to wash his own dirty linen if he had any, but to do it at home. And I advised him to be sure the linen was dirty be-fore he washed it... or he'd put himself out on a limb that somebody would saw off behind him."

"I thought private detectives did that all the time. I mean get divorce evidence."

I said: "If the girl or guy was an awful bum, 1 might. Not in this ease. The old boy's almost crazy with jealousy. I wouldn't blame the girl, no matter what she did."

"There's that, too," Pender agreed.

I said: "What's got Lieutenant Olson down is the number of suspects. That's why I think he's going to grab you. He can place you on the scene just abont the time the crime was committed and he can't put any of the others there."

"What others?"

"Every man that advertises in that nasty little sheet of Smiley's is a suspect. That is, if you work on the theory of the printer being killed by mistake, by somebody who thought he was Smiley. Of course Olson's got the girl placed around there but he doesn't think she could do a job of shooting like that."

"I don't suppose she could," Pender said gloomily.

I grinned and said: "She was runner-up in the woman's part of the State skeet shoot. The only one that could beat her was once national woman's ehampion. If she can shoot a shotgun like that, you can bet she knows a bit about a rifle, too. Ole Olson may be cutting her out of his mind as a suspect, but I'm not."

"She probably had a date with some guy and was waiting around for him to Bhow up."

I said: "Could be."

Then Josie came out with a tray of fresh drinks and a wide grin. She told us, with quite a lot of accent, that the madame had ordered them for us and that dinner would be ready in about an hour.

Pender waited until she was back in the house and blossomed out with an idea that I already had thought of. He was even excited about it.

He said, smacking his knees with his hand and spilling part of his drink on the other knee when he did it: "By George! Mickey, she might have seen something. After all, a man standing in a car, and shooting through a shop window with a high-powered rifle, isn't a common sight. I know the policeman who was walking that beat didn't see anything out of the way, but he passes that way only once once an hour, I understand. It's just possible that she saw the killer."

I said: "Maybe I should talk with her."

"You certainly should."

I  laughed and said she was going to stop in at my place, after she attended the show with a bunch of other high mucky-mucks. That is, if she could get away from her husband.

I told him I was trying not to miss a thing that could help him, even if it meant browbeating a poor, helpless little girL

He didn't know why I grinned then, but I had reason. I'd called her and told her f wanted to see her and she'd naturally asked me what about. I'd said it concerned the printer killed in Smiley's shop, and that both she and others weren't in too good standing on the matter. Then she just about tore my ear off telling me what a heel I was to threaten a girl like that. She used language that would hare had our wire disconnected if the operator had happened to cut in on us, and I'd finally broken it up myself.

I said: "You be there as soon as you can. And let's have an end to the tough language. I think we're on the same side, you fool"

She said, and meekly: *TU be there as soon as I can make it," and I gave her my address again.

It was the first time I'd ever got tough with the wife of a couple million dollars, and I felt good about it

I LEFT Pender's about half past nine and with about half a load aboard. So much so that I decided to call on Smiley to see if he'd heard anything about his dead pressman. He'd offered to write to the guy's union and make inquiries about him, and an answer was about due. And I didn't want to go home and sit around an empty apartment while waiting for Mrs. Ida Durstin, who might or might not show up.

But when I stopped at the Towers and asked for Smiley, they told me he was out and had been out since early in the evening.

Then I got a bad break, although at the time I welcomed it.

Along came Lieutenant Olson, off duty. Of course he was subject to call at all times, but he'd put in his regular stint for the day and was just killing time.

He seemed glad to see me. He said: "I was hoping I'd run into somebody I knew, Mickey. What d'ya say we have a drink? Maybe two drinks."

I told him he should be at home with his wife and family and he grinned happily at me and told me his wife and the two kids were visiting her mother, back in Iowa. And that he was on the town.

Then one drink led to another and it was after eleven before I realized it, and it was half after eleven before I got out of the cab in front of my apartment house. And then I saw three police cars, the ambulance, and the medical examiner's big sedan— all up and down the street.

I got stopped in the lobby by a big cop whom I didn't remember but who seemed to know me.

He said: "No dice, O'Connor. There's nothing in this for the likes of you."

I said: "I don't get it."

"The gravy boat ain't landed. Orders is that nobody goes up. That means you, along with everybody else."

"I live here, mister."

"Three newspaper guys have tried to pull that on me already."

"Ask the desk."

The night clerk was a timid little guy but he told the truth. The big cop shouted over: "Say! This guy live here?" and the little guy squealed back: "He certainly does!"

I went upstairs then and found what all the commotion was about.

It was Ida Durstin— and she'd been killed just outside the door of my apartment.

3: Gun Missing

PENDER came up fifteen minutes later and in plenty of time to meet the police. I was standing in my doorway, watching them work, and I saw Pender when he stepped out of the elevator.

And even at that distance I could see he was excited. He stared at the hall full of cops and ambulance men and at the medical examiner, who had a white uniform coat on over dress trousers. Pender came up to me by sliding along the wall. An All-American full-back couldn't have ploughed through the crowd in the center of the hall.

He said: "What's it all about, Mickey?"

I said: "Listen! If you want to hear real language, listen to that medical examiner. He was on a party and they drag him out to look at a dead woman. He don't like it."

You didn't have to listen to hear the medical examiner. You couldn't keep from hearing him. He was about half- tight and he was as sore as a broken thumb. He was asking everybody why he couldn't be left in peace, just one single night. He was asking why in the so-and- so he had to be dragged away from his friends to state that a woman was dead and that she'd died from a knife wound in the back. He said, and loudly, that his mother's old Aunt Sarah could determine the cause of death in such a case— and that it proved his mother's Aunt Sarah had more brains than half othe police force.

The medical examiner had always been a profane man, but he was outdoing himself right then.

Pender said: "What is it? Who was killed?''

I said: "A girl named Durstin, I think. One of the cops thinks that's her name." And under my breath I said: "Pass it off, you dope! Play like it don't mean a thing to you."

The lieutenant in charge came over then and I introduced Pender to him with the usual: "Lieutenant Arne, this is Jim Pender, Jim, Lieutenant Arne. Arne does stuff like this every night."

Arne was a tall, thin man who looked as sour as a lemon, while actually he wasn't that way at all. He was the opposite, and I often had wondered how he'd held a job on the force and stepped up to that rating. He was the kind of guy who'd catch a pickpocket with a hand in the -Arne pocket and who, instead of taking the pickpocket to the station, would loan him a buck.

They shook hands with the usual glad- to-know-you stuff, and I asked the lieutenant in for a drink. He looked the situation over and said that he might take a small one, as everything seemed to be under control, and we went inside and I closed the door. And then, just as I was getting ice cubes out of the frigidaire, I heard a tremendous pounding at the door.

I put the ice down as I went through the living-room and past Arne and Pender, and when I opened the door I saw

Lieutenant Olson, whom I'd left not an hour before.

He said cheerfully: "I thought we should have a nightcap and I brought one along. See?"

He held up a bottle of whiskey in each hand and I decided he'd been just wolfing them down since I'd left him.

I couldn't do anything about it. I didn't want him to see Pender there, but there was no way I could avoid it.

I said: "Come on in, Ole. I can make a party out of this if company keeps coming in and if company keeps bringing their own liquor. Come on in."

Of course he did. He stared owlishly at Arne, who said: "Well, if it ain't Ole?"

OLSON lost a little bit of his drunkenness when he saw Pender, who stood up and shook hands with him. And he lost the most of it when Arne answered his question.

Olson said: "Who's out in the hall?"

"Who ain't?" said Arne, grinning. "That damn' medical examiner's better than a show. You should have heard him tonight. He always cries when he has to go to work, but tonight he's in the pink."

"I mean who's the stiff?"

"Some woman named Durstin, I think. At least one of the boys says he thinks that's who it is. There was no pocketbook or anything by her, so we don't know for sure, yet."

Right then Pender acted as though he was trying to put the noose around his own neck. He said nervously, to me: "I've been trying to get in touch with you for the last hour, Mickey. I was up here trying to catch you in, half an hour ago."

Olson was as sober as a judge right then. He asked Arne: "How long's this woman been dead?"

Arne told him: "Maybe half an hour, maybe three-quarters. That's what the medical examiner says, anyway, though when he gets on the stand and testifies he'll give himself a hell of a lot more leeway."

Olson asked me: "You and Mr. Pender find this body, too?"

I said: "Don't be like that, Ole. I never saw the woman in my life. The name's familiar, somehow, but I don't place her."

I was hoping that Olson had enough liquor in him to be a bit blurred, and that he wouldn't remember all he'd told me about the girl. But no luck. He was like an old-time fire-horse that heard the bell.

He said: "You place her all right, Mickey. It's the girl that was running around in Smiley's neighborhood, when that printer was killed. You remember that, don't you? You should— you found the body."

"Sure I remember."

Ole turned. "And you, Mr. Pender. Do you recall it, also?"

Pender said: "Why, of course."

"Do you happen to know anyone named Durstin?"

"I know Simon Durstin quite well," Pender said. "I seH him tobacco and candy for his counters. He's one of my best customers."

"That's his wife out in the hall— did you recognize her?"

"It so happens I didn't see her. Not that it would have made any difference. I've never met the lady. My relations with Durstin were entirely a matter of business."

"Sure of that?"

"Very sure."

I was proud of Pender then. He was standing up to Olson and holding his own, and that's a hard thing to do, with those pale eyes staring at you.

Olson said: "Now it wouldn't be that Mrs. Durstin, who was in the neighborhood of the Smiley print shop at the time the printer was shot and killed, it wouldn't be that she witnessed the killing, would it?"

Pender said: "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"She'd have reported it to the police, of course."

"Suppose she had everything to gain by Smiley's death. You notice I'm taking for granted that the printer was killed because he was mistaken for Smiley, I hope."

"I gathered that. I know of no reason, though, why the lady wouldn't have reported it. Whether Smiley's death would have benefited her or not."

"Did you see Mrs, Durstin at any time tonight?"

"I wouldn't have know her if I'd seen her, Lieutenant. I've never met the woman, as I told you."

That was all of that. Ole apparently decided he was getting nowhere and let it drop for the time being. And it was something he was going to pick up again, of that I was sure. He was going to pick it up and worry it the way a dog does a bone.

Arne said: "Aw, sit down, Ole, and have a drink.

"If the two cases tie together, we can figure it out later. This one's mine and the other one's yours, and we can work 'em out together."

Olson sat down then and joined the party, such as it was. I could see that Pender was relieved to have the questioning over and I could see Ole sitting there, trying to make two and two add up to five. And I also could see that Pender had something he thought was important, something important enough to take Wifi out of his house and downtown to see me at almost midnight.

It wasn't until almost three before Arne and Olson left, and by that time Pender was almost jumping up and down with nervousness. The minute the door slammed behind them he started in with what he had to say—and it was plenty.

He said: "I thought you ought to know about it at once, Mickey. My rifle's gone. A .270 Winchester, just about the same size gun that killed that printer."

I should have known right then who the killer was, but I muffed it.

If I'd pulled the handle, I'd have hit the jackpot then and there.

4: Loose Ends

SMILEY was in his office when I called the next morning, and he didn't seem glad to see me at all. I looked at his filing-cases, wondering just how much assorted dirt was in them, and then decided he'd keep the really juicy stuff either at home or in a safe-deposit box. Anything hot enough to collect on wouldn't be safe in a tin filing cabinet that could be opened with a can-opener.

He said: "All right, O'Connor. What is it? I've got a busy day ahead of me and I can't give you much time."

He'd started the act when I was with Pender, at the time when we'd found his dead printer, and I didn't like it then. I liked it less the more I saw of it, and I decided I'd had enough. I picked him up from bis chair by the front of his coat and shirt, and I slapped his face, palm on one cheek, back of the hand across the other, with half a dozen good solid smacks on each side. His arms were flailing away, but not at me. He was just trying to get his feet under him, trying to get a little balance.

Then I let him back in his chair and said: "No more of that, little naan. You're not big enough or tough enough to give me that kind of lip."

He said he'd have me arrested, and I laughed and waved a hand. He looked around his empty office, empty except for the two of us, and be got the idea.

I said: "If you get me arrested and I ever find it out, I'll do a hospital job on you. And you can quote me and see what sympathy you get from the cops."

He said: "I just asked you what you wanted."

"You know what I want. Did you hear anything from that printer's union?"

He said sullenly: "I have. But I don't know that I should show it to you. You have no official standing in the matter."

I told him he'd look pretty with no front teeth, and he softened up in a hurry. He tossed a telegram in front of me and told me to read it, then went over to the window and stared out of it. The wire read:

DONOVAN GOOD REPUTATION BUT HEAVY DRINKER. NO TROUBLE. FAMILY MAN. NO KNOWN ENEMIES.

It was signed by a union secretary.

I'd hoped for a little dope, but I hadn't expected any, so I wasn't too much hurt. I said: "Thanks!" and Smiley gave me a dirty look and didn't answer. I had a notion I'd be featured in his scandal sheet if he thought he could get away with it— and I didn't worry a bit. He wasn't the fighting kind, not with his fists at least, and so I didn't worry.

I forgot that when you hurt the pride of a certain type of man he cherishes a grudge. Amd if I'd remembered that, I don't know whether I'd have placed Simley in that group.

He was just a pain in the neck to me.

PENDER drove me out to his house— I'd used all my A-tickets and couldn't get any more gas until the fifth of the coming month, and I was complaining bitterly about this to him as we rode along.

I said: "It isn't right. My car is listed as being used for business and pleasure, but the O.P.A. board can't see the business part of it. You'd think I drove the thing just for transportation to the movies and to take a girl out riding. The old stall about running out of gas on the lonely road is a stall no longer. A girl's a fool to go out with a guy these days— he'll run out of gas and be telling the truth."

Pender said it had cut both his sales and delivery service just about in half.

I said: "There's plenty of black-market gas but I won't do it. Maybe they won't take me in the Army or Navy, but I'm damned if I'm going to burn gas they can use. Not unless I do it legally."

Pender swung around a truck and then back into the proper lane on the highway. He said: "There's bootleg coupons now for gas. The country's full of them. They're supposed to be good enough to fool the average man, too, and that would eertainly take in the average gas-station man."

I said I'd heard that, too, and Pender swung into the road leading to his point of land and house. We went inside, passed clear through the house, and then went downstairs to the game room.

A billiard table took up the center of the room, and there was a tiny little bar at one corner of it. Not over six feet long. The walls were hung with hunting prints, the lights were all concealed, and there was a fireplace that could take four-foot wood. Banked around it were deep leather chairs, and the room had a restful, pleasant air about it that made you feel good just to be in it.

Pender waved proudly and said: "Nice, eh?"

I said it was very nice and meant it. Then he pointed to the wall and said: "The gun was there. In the cabinet."

He had a section of the wall indented about six inches and there were a dozen or fifteen guns hanging there on pegs. Rifles, shotguns, and a couple of .22 target pistols. Pender pointed to a blank space in the rifle section.

"There," he said. "It was there. The best gun I had. A .270 Winchester with a Noske 'scope on it. Just the kind of gun somebody used on that printer."

I said: "It's a plant, all right. We've got to find it in a hurry."

He looked doubtful.

I said: "If the police find it before we do, you'll end that day in the pokey. There wouldn't be enough left of the slug for the ballistics man to determine whether it came from your rifle or not, but the man can and probably would testify it came from a gun of comparative power. If the cops find it in your place, it'll be you for it."

"But why should they find it in my place? The last time I noticed it it was hanging here where it belongs."

I gave it to him in simple words. I said: "You're being framed, Jim. And I'm afraid it's working. It's a surprise to me the cops haven't picked you up by now. Look at it. You're put on the spot when you found the printer's body. Somebody probably stole your gun to do that job. You walked into the girl's killing and that was pure accident, but it ties with you. The police will claim she was cruising around that section and saw you do that shooting. They'll claim you killed her to keep her quiet."

"I didn't even know the girl. I know her husband, that's all."

"You'd have a hell of a time proving that to a jury, mister. They're supposed to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt, but when the victim's a girl, they give the defendant the doubt the other way. The poor guy's got to prove himself innocent instead of the State having to prove him guilty. And the worst of it is that if they jug you and book you for murder, you'll stay there. You can't get bail for a murder suspect in this State."

"Why should anybody frame me?" Pender asked. "I've got business rivals but they're not enemies."

"Could it be that whatever Smiley's got on you has anything to do with it? I don't know what it is and I don't care, but is it anything that could kick back and be kicking back now?"

"Heavens, no. It's something that happened ten years ago. But my wife's both jealous and religious. She can't divorce me, according to her church, you understand. She'd be miserable and she'd make life miserable for me. And a thing like that, if it came out, would lose me a lot of votes with the church people. Here's what happened, Mickey. You can see that there's no chance of this trouble coming from it."

HE proceeded to give me much the usual story. He'd gone to the big town on a State lodge convention and he'd got himself taken drunk. In fact he'd been tight from the time he'd left until he got back. During that time he'd got acquainted with some gal, who he said was a good scout and as much there for a good time as he was. It was an old story and he told it as though he was ashamed of it— while the average man would have been bragging about his part in it. Nobody was hurt, it was over and done with, but somehow Smiley had dug the thing up and threatened to use it if Pender didn't pay his advertising-blackmail levy.

I said: "How would Smiley get hold of it after so many years?"

"Probably the guy that's running against me told Smiley. My current political opponent was there— he's a brother lodge member. He may have caught on to what was going on and now sees a chance to make trouble for me with it."

That seemed logical, all right. I said: "We don't make anything by mooning around here, Jim. Forget it. We'll keep digging and maybe something will turn up. First, we'll take that warehouse of
yours apart, looking for the gun. That would be a good place to plant it. You own a coupe— we'd better look in the rumble seat for the gun. It will be some place where the cops can find it easily, you can depend on that."

I was banking on the warehouse showing pay dirt on the gun business, and my only worry was whether the cops would find it before we did.

WE COULDN'T start any search as long as the warehouse was open and running, and so I spent some of our wasted time in looking Olson up. And found that I'd been right in worrying about Pender getting thrown into the pokey. In the first place, Ole Olson was sour as he could be. He claimed the only way he could have a bigger hangover was to put on weight. The one he had, he said, was as big a one as a man his size could support.

I was properly sympathetic and told him he should bring his wife home so she could keep him away from his wild bachelor friends. And he said: "Damned if 1 don't think you've got something there."

I said: "I saw Smiley and he showed me a wire from that pressman's union. They gave the guy a clear bill of health."

Olson said: "They're burying him, even. He had just seven bucks in his pocket and he owed that for room rent. If they don't bury him, the city will have to."

I said it was tough— that printer being mistaken for Smiley that way.

Olson looked thoughtful. He said: "That's sort of funny there, too. I asked Smiley if he wanted a police escort and he said to hell with it. But I know the little rat's a coward—so it doesn't jibe. I'd think he'd want an escort. He knows there's plenty of people gunning for him. I can name you twenty men he's shaking down, right now, and heaven knows how many turned him down. Every time you read a dirty little article in his paper, you know somebody backed up on him."

I said I'd figured out the same angle. And I handed over the file that held all the back issues of the sheet, since Smiley had started it a year and a half before.

Olson looked astonished when he saw what it was. And then said: "I hate a liar worse than anything in the world, Mickey. So I'm not going to ask you where these came from."

I said: "A buzzard brought 'em to me. A buzzard is the only bird dirty enough to touch the damn' things."

And with that we started looking through them.

Some were four pages thick and some were sixteen. The early issues were small, but the thing bad gradually built up. It was the size of a tabloid paper and printed on the same kind of newspaper stock. Its title was THE TRUTH —the title blazoned across the head in letters three inches high. The first issues had little advertising, but this had built up plenty during the year and a half.

It was a cinch to see how it went. In the first few articles Smiley had picked on our local slot-machine king. First veiled hints, and then when the guy still held out, he'd gone into names and dates and places. I remembered then that there'd been a drive against gambling and the one-armed bandits had disappeared for a little while.

Right after that the sheet began running ads of the Star Billiard Rooms, which was the front from which our slot-machine mogul operated. And I noticed the sheet had nothing more to say about the slot-machine menace.

The next one picked up a theater man who was putting up a new building. It mentioned wiring and foundation work that wasn't up to State specifications on the safety factor. This went on for less than a month, and then the sheet came out with advertisements about waiting for the grand opening of the new Palace Theater.

AND SO it went. There'd be a reference to some business man's trip to the city. In the next issue the same business man would have an ad in the thing.

It was vicious, and unless somebody made a complaint and backed it with proof, it was sure and certain.

Olson said: "If his advertisers get together and lynch him. I'll turn my back on it. I won't see a thing. Nobody on the force will. I don't say that some of the boys won't take a little honest graft, here and there, but this is slow death."

I said I thought the same.

He spoke along in the same voice then, trying to trap me. He said: "What's he got on Pender?"

I said that, as far as I knew, nobody had a thing on Pender.

Olson laughed at that one and I didn't blame him.

I said: "You'll find out, Ole, that the key of this thing lies with Mrs. Durstin. I don't know that it will ever be cracked, now that she's dead."

"It's an angle," he admitted. "And we've been working on it. We've been working on these others, too. I've had four men out trying to trace where all these people were that night and it's an impossible job. That neighborhood, where  Smiley's got his shop, is almost deserted at night. It's a wonder that beat cop saw Mrs. Durstin down there. There's only one thing to do and I'm going to do it."

"What?"

"Pick up Pender. If I charge him with murder— and I've got enough to make it stick before the Grand Jury right now— he'll maybe break far enough to give me the dope on this little rat of a Smiley. I could make things a lot easier for him if he'd sign a complaint against the guy."

"It takes proof to make a blackmail charge stick."

Olson stared and said: "In this town? Mister! The D. A. would pack the jury with people who'd been stuck or who were afraid of being stuck. They'd give that guy life for stealing a kid's bicycle. That's why I don't get it, this turning down a bodyguard."

I said I didn't understand it either and said goodbye for then. It was getting close to quitting time at the warehouse and I wanted to get that gun business cleared up before they took Pender away to the pokey.

And I wanted to tell Pender what to do and how to do it.

5: We Find the Rifle

PENDER was in his office, waiting for me, and he was in a fever of impatience. He said: "I thought you'd got lost, Mickey. The warehouse has been closed ten minutes now."

I said: "Take it easy. In the first, place, the cops are going to pick you up and charge you with the only thing they can hold you on. Suspicion of murder. You can't make bail on it. Then they're going to try and talk you into signing a complaint against Smiley, charging him with extortion. If you sign, they'll make it easier for you. Don't sign— don't do anything except keep your mouth shut. That clear?"

He said he understood and so we went out and down the street two block* to Pender's warehouse.

The place was big, very big. Pour stories high and covering half a block in floor space. The watchman was just starting on his rounds, and Pender let him go, telling me: "He's got thirty-odd clocks to punch and it'll be an hour or more before he's back. We might as well take the ground floor first."

And we did, and until that time I hadn't realized the job we'd taken on. We turned the work lights on and they made the place as light as day, but with crates and bales and cartons piled and scattered everywhere, there were ten thousand places where a rifle could have been concealed.

I said: "We might as well use our heads on this, Jim. The gun wouldn't be hidden where it would be hard to find. If it was, the cops would skip it and that's what the guy don't want. He wants them to find it."

Pender looked thoughtful.

I said: "We should go through the office, first. That's the first place the cops would look. You've got the cigarettes in a separate room, haven't you?"

"Why, yes."

"Then that's the second place."

We were at the back end of the place then and we ^started toward the front, where the office was. In the back, the place was stacked high with crates, with just a narrow aisle between each row of them, and we were talking across one of these rows, he being in one aisle and me in the one next to it. So when the shooters started to shoot, we didn't know whom he was shooting at— although I don't doubt that Jim thought as I did— that the Judgment Day had come.

I saw the man as I went into action. He was by the office door, down on one knee and with his cheek cuddled down into the rifle's stock. The gun slammed again, booming like a cannon in that low-ceilinged room, and then I knew whom he was after. Because the slug hit a crate right by my head, and splinters went every whichway.

I was going up like a monkey by then. I got my hands on the edge of the crate that topped the pile, and I really yanked. It came over and didn't break, but that wasn't enough. I got two more down, blocking the aisle, and all the time hearing that damned rifle blast away, and by that time I was praying that Pender was doing as I was. What was saving me was the lighting. The work lights weren't more than ten feet above the floor and they have a tremendous strength. Nothing like an arc light, of course; but a five-hundred-watt light, set into a burnished reflector, is bright. And the room was studded with them.

The shooter hao to face into this glare and he couldn't help being dazzled by it. The 'scope sight the gun was fitted with multiplied this three times, too, so I could understand how he was consistently missing as he was.

And then my barricade was complete and I started to have fun myself.

The lights were as bad for me as for him, of course. Probably worse, because he was slightly in shadow from the office hall behind him. I got down on my belly and eased my arm and gun, and then my head, from the side of my protecting crate, and I wasn't six inches from the floor when I did it. And then I turned loose and knew I'd missed at the same time the gun rockede back in my hand. And the worst part of it was I couldn't tell whether I was shooting over him or under him or pulling the shot to the side. The heavy lights above me blurred the Patridge sight on the rear until I couldn't see the square front sight clear enough through it to know whether I was centering or not.

IT DOESN'T take much error in sighting a short gun to throw a slug ten feet to the side at a distance like the length of the warehouse. And if the square front sight is above the square notch in the rear, I'd be more likely to hit the ceiling than the kneeling man.

Pender shouted something at me just as I shot the second time, but I couldn't tell what it was— not with the roar of the gun in my ears. And I was beginning to worry, too, and I was thinking of myself instead of Pender.

The guy had spotted the flashes of my gun and was putting them in at me close to the floor.

I ducked back away from that side of the barricade and this time heard what Pender was saying.

It was: "The watchman may catch him from behind."

There wasn't a chance of that. The watchman had barely started his rounds, but I got the notion all right. Pender wasn't used to being used as a shooting- gallery target and was naturally worried about it.

No more than I was, at that.

I said: "No chance, but maybe the rifle guy won't know that. He's not going to keep this up for long."

Pender said: "I hope not, O'Connor," and I gave him credit for keeping his voice steady. It's not many solid business men who can stand steady during a thing like that.

Then I took a chance. I figured I had to do something because the shooter was getting the range. I waited until he fired, and then, while he was working the bolt to throw another shell into the chamber of his rifle, I stood up and let the last four slugs in my gun loose at him, putting 'em in as though I was doing rapid fire on the range. I didn't think I had much chance of hitting him unless through luck, but I wanted to help make noise. It stood to reason that some cop would eventually hear the battle and would come running.

I dropped down again just as he shot and he took the top board off the upper crate I'd shot over, and I decided I wouldn't try that trick again. The guy was too handy with the rifle— he was snapping that bolt back and forth like a Camp Perry shark.

I stuffed fresh loads into my gun and tried him from the floor—and that time I connected. And solid. He spraddled out on the floor, falling over the rifle, and I heard Pender's whoop even above the roaring echo of the shot.

He said: "You got him, Mickey! You got him!"

I didn't answer, because I was getting out from behind my barricade and running toward the fallen man. There was a chance that I'd just clipped him hard enough to put him down for a few seconds and the closer I was to him if he came out of it, the better off I'd be.

I NEEDN'T have worried. My slug had caught him in the throat and had taken two inches of bone out of the back of his neck coming out. A big gun isn't pleasant to shoot in close quarters like that because of the muzzle blast, but if you hit something with one of them, the something goes down.

Jim Pender then did something I didn't think any sane man would do, and he did it before I realized what it was. He reached down and pulled the rifle from under the dead man.

And said: "My own gun, Mickey! The one we've been looking for."

I said: "Put it down. Or wait. You'd better give it to me— I can get away with a yarn where you can't."

He looked puzzled.

I said: "Don't you see, Jim? You're under suspicion now. I wouldn't put it past the cops, now, to claim you staged this business. That we shot the guy and fixed this up to look like a gun battle."

He handed me the gun and I leaned it against the wall, at the side. I said: "I grabbed it before I realized 'he guy was dead. Just to keep him from coming to and snatching at it. Protecting myself, you might say, and I'll certainly say it."

I'd been so busy that I hadn't been paying any attention to outside noises, but now I heard an axe hit the outer door of the place, and heard muffled shouting along with the smashing of the axe. 1 didn't think it was any fault of mine that I hadn't heard the racket before, either. We were in p hall that led from the office to the main floor, and the outside door was thirty-five or forty feet away and at least two inches thick.

And when you've shot and killed a man you're not at your best.

I said: "Here's not just the cop, here's a whole damned flock of cops. This is the riot squad coming in with the axes. Better let them in if you want any door left in this place."

And I went with him and called Lieutenant Olson, while Pender was letting the squad in and arguing them out of the notion of beating his head in for not de- ing it sooner.

They somehow had the notion they'd caught a burglar.

IF OLSON had had high blood pressure he'd have had a stroke. He stared down at the dead man and then eounted the empty .270 cartridges on the floor, where the gun had ejected them. There were nineteen of them. He looked at the gun standing against the wall, and I thought he'd blow his top then. And, of course, he blamed me for that, as I'd thought he would.

He said: "What the hell's the idea in that, O'Connor? Mean to say this guy got up off the floor and leaned the gun up there? And then went back and laid down? Your story stinks."

"He dropped, Olson, but I didn't know how bad I'd hit him. I got the gun out of his reach as fast as I could."

"Nuts! A blind man could see the guy was deader than last week's newspapers."

"You don't think so fast after a guy blasts at you that many times with a rifle. I wasn't taking any chances."

"Whose rifle?"

I spoke fast, before Pender could louse the thing up. I said: "Why, Pender's! He left it here because the gunsmith's place was closed when he took the gun down there today."

"This isn't his office, O'Connor. Why didn't he leave it in bis own office? I know where that is— I've checked it."

I tried to act like I was getting sore. I said: "Now look, Ole! His own office is two blocks up the street. That's his main office. This office in the warehouse, here, is also his, even if it's just used to check shipments in and out. Why should he lug the gun two blocks up the street when this place was handy? The gunsmith's place is just down the street." That was the truth and one break we were getting. Then Olson picked another touchy spot in the yarn.

He said: "And I suppose Mr. Pender"— here he stopped and bowed to Pender in a nasty way— "I suppose Mr. Pender also left a box of shells for the gun, along with it. Thoughtful, I'd say."

I couldn't answer that one and had to let Pender do the best he could with it. And he didn't do so badly at that.

"I can't explain that," he said. "The gun was empty, of course, and of course I didn't have a box of shells along with it. Why should I? I just wanted the trigger pull smoothed up a bit."

"I suppose the guy came furnished with his own ammunition," Olson said.

Pender said, and very calmly: "He must have. It's the only explanation. He possibly saw the gun in the office, here, and decided he could find use for it."

"Was he after you or O'Connor?"

I said: "After me, Ole. But I'm damned if I know why. You can tell that by the damage he did to the crates of goods I was hiding behind."

"Why would he be laying for you?"

"That I don't know."

"What you working on?"

"Not a thing."

"What about Mr. Pender's trouble?"

"I mean nothing besides that. And I'm just curious about that. I happened to be along when that printer's body was found, that's all. And I can see how the police can misunderstand Mr. Pender's position in this thing."

A plainclothesman named Ellis eame up then and said: "We've identified the guy, we think, lieutenant. We think his name's Richetti. There's not a thing on him that's got his name on it, but one of the boys thinks he knows him. He's got a gas station attached to a gyppo garage, out on West Ninth, we think."

"Check it, eh? Go out and get somebody from out there that knows him and make sure."

Ellis grinned and said he'd already sent out two men in a cruiser to do just that, and went back to where the police photographer was using flash bulbs.

Olson said: "All right, O'Connor! You know anybody named Richetti?"

"I do not."

"Ever get gas out on West Ninth?"

"Probably. I still don't know this guy. I never saw him before."

"You, Mr. Pender?"

Pender shook his head and said the same as I had.

Olson grumbled: "It seems a damned funny thing to have an absolute stranger turn loose at you people like that. In fact, it's impossible. It has to be impossible. There's a tie-up between you, somewhere, and I want to know where it is."

"So do I," I said.

Olson sighed and said: "I'm too softhearted for my own good. I should take you down, Mr. Pender, and book you for suspicion of murder. My boss told me to do just that, and before this last raniky-boo. Why I don't do it, I don't know."

I said: "I know," and he asked me why.

And I told him.

I said: "For one thing, Ole, you think as I do. You think somebody's putting a frame around Pender. And for another reason, you know you haven't got enough on him to hold him. It takes more than just suspicion to put a charge like that against a man as prominent as Mr. Pender, and no Grand Jury will bind a man over on what you've got. Just as soon as I can tie Richetti, if that's his name, up with whoever's framing Pender, we'll have something. And if we can put Mrs. Durstin in the thing, some way, we'll have it cinched. All I've got to do is put all this together."

Olson laughed sourly and said that a little job like that should be no bother for me at all. But he let us go, after telling us he'd let us know when to appear for the inquest.

I HAD company waiting for me when I got back to the apartment, and for once my rabbity little night clerk had made the company wait downstairs. It was Simon Durstin and a long lean man with him, whom he introduced as Mr. Neff. It seemed Mr. Neff was one of the Durstin lawyers. I hadn't had any use for Durstin since he'd tried to hire me to spy on his wife, but I was really glad to see him. His dead wife had been mixed up in the mess, and there was always a chance of him knowing something about it.

I said: "Well, Mr. Durstin! I was going to see you in the morning. I think we should compare notes."

Durstin was little and wizened, but he was no chump. All the matter with him was that he was a fool about women— and had been particularly a fool where his wife had been concerned.

He said: "Ah, yes! There are several things I'd like to take up with you."

I took them both upstairs and Durstin took a drink with me while Neff refused. Which surprised me, as I'd thought it would be the other way around. All that Neff did was sit back in his chair and watch me, as though I was a bug on a pin.

Durstin asked: "I'm sure you remember our previous conversation, Mr. O'Connor."

I said I remembered perfectly.

"You'll recall I suspected... well, to be brutally frank, I suspected my wife of being romantic with her driver."

"I remember."

"I didn't discharge the man, you know. I thought it better to keep him on, with the idea that by watching them, I could possibly tell whether my suspicions had any basis in truth."

Neff said: "Tell him the truth, Simon. He's guessed it anyway."

Durstin colored and said: "All right. If you must know, Mr. O'Connor, I proposed discharging him and Mrs. Durstin made an issue of it. You will understand that I had nothing but suspicion to go on and so let the man stay on."

I said I understood.

"The man had quit, Mr. O'Connor. Or shall I say he's dropped out of sight. With almost a month's salary due him. It doesn't seem in character... he was always after money. It's my honest opinion that Mrs. Durstin was giving him money constantly."

I took the chauffeur's description then. It seemed he was tall, dark, and good- looking, was named Robert Pike, and was somewhere in the early thirties. It also seemed that he'd done just about everything except spit in Durstin's eye, all during the time he'd worked for him, depending, I supposed, on Mrs. Durstin keeping him safe on the job.

I said: "What d'ya want me to do? Find him?"

Durstin said earnestly: "Mr. O'Connor, that man's got something to do with poor Ida's murder. I know it— I feel it. I want you to connect him with it."

"Maybe you're imagining things. I can see where you'd be prejudiced."

"I'm certain that he's involved in her death, Mr. O'Connor."

IT WAS evident that Durstin didn't know what had been going on and I couldn't see any harm in telling him some home truths.

I asked: "Did Mrs. Durstin ever ask you, or advise you, to advertise with a man named Smiley? A man running a little smut sheet?"

"She did. Naturally I refused. The man's rates were exorbitant—his nasty little paper was no medium for department-store advertising, and the whole thing was out of the question."

"Did she tell you why she wanted you to advertise with this Smiley?"

"Why yes. She had met him at a party and rather liked him. She told me he was having a hard time getting started in the town but that she thought he'd eventually build his paper up to something worth yhile. I read one copy of his paper and differed with her."

I said: "Mrs. Durstin was around Smiley's print shop, Mr. Durstin, at the time a printer, working for Smiley, was shot and killed. I will add that the printer was shot in the back, from the street, and that from the back he resembled Smiley. The police think as I do. We believe Mrs. Durstin saw and recognized the killer, and we believe the killer took steps to silence her. You understand that Mrs. Durstin was cruising around the neighborhood in her car, and that the printer, in all probability, was shot from a car. The killer used a rifle, you see, and he wouldn't be fool enough to wander around the streets on foot, sniping away like that."

Neff said: "That would explain Mrs. Durstin's checkbook, Simon. You see, O'Connor, Mrs. Durstin had drawn a considerable amount from her bank, lately. Far more than she had any legitimate reason to draw. We supposed she had been giving money to Pike, her chauffeur, but this may put a different construction on the matter. It's blackmail, Simon."

I said that Smiley had been blackmailing at least twenty-five people, but that knowing it and proving it were different things. That the cops had been trying to nail him on it for sometime and hadn't got to first base. And that the police theory was that some blackmail victim had got more than he could stand and had shot the printer by mistake, thinking he was doing away with Smiley.

NEFF asked: "What do you think, Mr. O'Connor?"

I said: "I don't know. It was dim in the shop and at a distance, and looking through a window, it would have been an easy mistake to make. If it had been Smiley who'd been killed, the police wouldn't be trying so hard to solve the case. I can tell you that. They'd make a pass at it, of course, but they wouldn't work too hard on it. But with the printer getting it, it's different. He was the innocent bystander that's always getting it in the neck, and the police are really looking for his killer."

Neff nodded and said he could understand that. Apparently he'd spent the first ten minutes in sizing me up, and now had decided he could talk in front of me and say something besides just words that meant nothing.

He looked over at Durstin, who nodded, and then went on with: "Mr. Durstin wants you to find the man who murdered his wife. It's hardly necessary to tell you if there's a blackmail angle to it, it must be hushed. He wants you to find this chauffeur, this Robert Pike, and find definite proof that he's either connected with Mr Durstin's death, or absolutely innocent, beyond a shadow of a doubt. You see, Mr. O'Connor, Mr. Durstin doesn't want to persecute an innocent man, but he's convinced that Pike's guilty.

Durstin said: "If you can prove him guilty, Mr. O'Connor, I'll pay you any bonus within reason that you ask."

I said: "You certainly must hate the guy's guts."

Durstin said: "When you are convinced your wife is playing around, month in, month out, and you see the man you suspect is her lover, day in, day out, you learn to hate."

Neff looked at him with no sympathy, and I could understand why. Here the old goat was crying about his wife playing around before her death, and he'd done nothing at all about it. That is, nothing but condone it. If I had Neff picked right, he'd have kicked the little woman out into the cold and cruel world, and I had a notion he'd do the booting fast and thoroughly.

I know that's what I'd have done.

I SPENT the next three days talking with some of the people who were advertising in Smiley's smut sheet, and found out several and many things. The first was that they were scared to death of what he could print about them if they didn't behave. The second was that they ene and all hated him and about half of them admitted it. And the same people also admitted; tacitly, that they weren't going to dor anything about it. I had a regular system worked out in talking with them, after the first half dozen.

I'd say: "I'm working on the Durstin murder. You know... Mrs Durstin, Simon Durstin, the department store man's wife."

They all either knew, her or about her. And they'd all say what a terrible tragedy that had been and how sorry they felt for poor Mr. Durstin,

And then I'd say: "We have reason to believe Mrs. Durstin was killed  because of her witnessing a murder that happened just before. A printer, working for Smiley. Of course you know Smiley?" About half of them, would, then deny they knew Smiley, this, in, spite of the fact they were advertising in, Smiley's paper. If they denied knowing Mm, Pd point this out and tell them, they'd forgotten the man, undoubtedly. If they admitted knowing him, it was just that much easier.

I'd say: "The police believe this printer was killed; by mistake. That the killer thought he was shooting at Smiley."

I'd then get the stock question. Whoever I'd be talking with would ask why should anyone want to kill Mr. Smiley. And then I'd give 'em the stinger.

I'd say: "Anyone of the many people he was blackmailing. Yourself for instance; Of course if you can prove where you were that night, say between ten- thirty and eleven-thirty....

The only ones who knew for sure where they were at that time were the homebodies, and that kind of alibi isn't worth a whoop. In a couple of cases I found men who'd had company in, for bridge er something like that, and, with these I could do nothing. But I could work on the ethers and did.

I'd' say: "Of course the police aren't working too hard on this— they're taking it the routine way. But with me it's different. I've got a client who wants his wife's murderer punished and he'll willing to go to any lengths to see that's done. You see the position it puts me in, of eourse."

None of them, saw, or they claimed they didn't see.

I'd say: "It's this. We believe Mrs. Durstin saw the man who killed that printer. We think the same man. killed her. It's a question of motive— it's only right that everybody that had a motive to get rid of Smiley is checked, That's just common sense."

From here on I'd get different reactions; Some of them would tell me to go to hell and dare me to try to prove they had anything to do with, Smiley, other than, advertising in his paper. Others would crack and! beg me not to drag them in it, and just about admit they were being blackmailed in. a legal way.

I'D GONE just about all the way down the list of advertisers before I really found gold. And I found it talking with a deacon of the church, who had a Sunday-school class that one day in the week andi who robbed the widows and orphans right and left the other six.

He said: "I'll admit it, Mr. O'Connor. I am paying a form of blackmail. I am paying five hundred dollars a copy for advertising not worth a fifth that. But I have no choice."

"What's he got on you?" I asked.

He told me and I wanted to laugh and had a hard time not doing it. He'd had some girl out; he and the girl had got themselves pie-eyed— and he'd tied his car up with a telephone pole. He and the gal had taken off across the fields and he'd walked all the way home, to find the cops camped on his front porch, waiting for him. He was still tighter than a tick and he'd admitted he'd been driving the car when, it had smashed.

So the cops took him down, to the pokey and held him overnight. In the morning he managed to make bail and get out, and by throwing his weight all around town he managed to get the charges squashed.

But Smiley had found out about it and showed the poor guy proofs on the little news story he was going to run about it. Though, according to Smiley, he'd never run a yarn like that about a good advertiser.

I could imagine what a story like that would do for a Sunday-school teacher.

I said: "All right, mister. A Lieutenant Olson of the Homicide Squad will be up to see you. Tell him just what you've told me. He'll keep your name out of it if it's possible."

"He simply has to, Mr. O'Connor. It would ruin me if it was known."

I said: "There've been two people killed. Maybe you think that's something that should be hushed up, too. And Lieutenant Olson will want to know where you were at the time both that printer and Mrs. Durstin were killed. You'd better tell him the truth, mister, or you're liable to be down in the jail with a charge against you that you can't make bail for."

I left him shaking all over and just right for Olson. I didn't think Ole could get enough from him to make a blackmail charge stick against Smiley, but it was a step in the right direction. And I hadn't been home in the apartment for more than five minutes before the deacon called me.

He said: "I just remember something, Mr. O'Connor. Possibly it has no bearing on the matter, but I remember seeing Mrs. Durstin talking with Mr. Smiley on the street once. This was a month or more ago."

I said that I knew Mrs. Durstin and Smiley knew each other. I did, too, but I couldn't very well have made it stick in court as proof. She'd agreed to come to my place when I'd told her it was about the printer being shot and about Smiley. She'd been in that neighborhood. She'd tried to talk old Simon into advertising with Smiley and she'd told him she'd met Smiley at a party.

The last didn't mean a thing. She wouldn't be either the first or last wife to lie to her husband.

WHAT I had to do was to have solid testimony and here was a bit of it. But at the same time I didn't want my church deacon to think he was giving me anything— I wanted to keep him worried and ready for Olson. I thanked him and hung up the phone, and it wasn't more than another five minutes before Olson knocked on the door.

He said: "We're getting some place now, Mickey."

I'd started making drinks as soon as I saw who it was, but now I stopped and stared at him. He sounded as if the end of the world was on him.

I said: "What the hell's the matter now, Ole?"

"At this rate I'm going to ask the undertakers for a cut. If I don't catch this damn' killer soon, we'll have to start a new cemetery. We'll have the old one full and overflowing."

"Who's it now?"

"Mrs. Durstin's chauffeur. A guy named Robert Pike."

"Well, go on."

He took down half the drink I handed him, with one swig. He said: "The guy's been dead about three days, the doc thinks. He was just out of the city limits, about ten feet in on an empty lot that's grown up with weeds. A couple of kids went by with a dog, and the dog found the body and started barking. The kids went in, thinking the dog had cornered a cat, and they found Pike."

"Was he shot there?"

Olson shook his head. "He was not. No blood. Shot three times through the body and once through the head. No, he was carried in there— we've traced where they dragged him through the weeds."

I said: "Tough. Well, at least I can tell old Durstin that I know where his missing chauffeur is. And I'll bet the old geezer'll be tickled to death when he finds the guy's in the morgue."

"No doubt, no doubt," Olson said wearily. "This has got me down. Oh yes! We checked on that guy you killed in the warehouse— and what d'ya think? The guy was running a gas station, all right. And he was running it with a bunch of these phony gas tickets. He was sellng them, right along with gas and oil. There's no doubt of it— he had tickets enough there to get two hundred thousand gallons of gas, at least. Mean anything to you?"

"Not a thing."

I thought he was going to say something more about it, but he didn't. He just held out his glass for a refill.

And I got on the phone and told Simon Durstin about his chauffeur being found dead in a field, and gave him what details Olson had given me.

Durstin seemed very happy about the whole thing.

I WAS BEGINNING to get a lot of ideas, but the trouble was I had too many of them. If I was right one way I'd be wrong in all the others, and one thought seemed just as sensible as the next.

For one thing, I was trying to do too many things at the same time. I wanted to stick Smiley for blackmail, for one thing. I wanted this so bad I could taste it. Naturally I -wanted to get Pender clear of any suspicion of murder and I could see where that job was getting tougher by the hour. Things were happening on that front that had no rhyme or reason behind them. Such as that attack on us in the warehouse.

That last really bothered me. I'd come out of that all right, but it was just luck that had taken me through. If somebody was trying to get me shot down and was using hired help on the job, it was just a matter of time before I'd go down to stay. It's tough enough shooting it out with a known enemy, but when you don't know who's after you, it's impossible to protect yourself.

One of the most logical suspects on the frame against Pender, of course, was the man who was running for the State Legislature against him. The guy was as crooked as a braided rope, that I knew, but I couldn't somehow figure him as being back of any murder frame. He'd take advantage of any trouble Pender got into, naturally, and would certainly make trouble for Pender if he could.

But murder's strong stuff— too strong stuff for the average politician to swallow, and that's what the man was. Just an average, run-of-the-mill, crooked politico.

Then I had Smiley. There was a chance, of course, that Smiley had been sore enough at me to hire somebody to put me out of the way, but the little cuffing around I'd given him was hardly reason enough for murder. He knew, too, that I was trying to stick him for extortion and blackmail, but the cops hadn't been able to pin anything on him— and so why should he be afraid of me?

The Durstin business was an added complication. I could understand how Smiley had been working on her— that was easy. The slimy devil had probably worked it through some of the help. He'd probably found there was more than smoke in the reported romance with the chauffeur, and he was the kind of operator who'd find the fire under it That I could understand; but I couldn't see why Pike, the chauffeur, had been killed.

That didn't tie in anywhere. Pike had nothing to lose except a job, and that's no loss in this day and age. He could have gone to work in fifty different places, the way the labor problem is these days. As far as any scandal hurting him, that was a joke. Old Simon Durstin could have sued him for alienation of affections, probably, and probably would have won a judgment, but a judgment against a man like that isn't worth the paper it's written on.

THE ONLY logical answer to that killing was that Pike was dangerous to somebody. The killer might have thought Mrs. Durstin had told Pike what she'd seen by the print shop, or the killer might have thought she'd told Pike something of it.

Anyway, he was out of the thing now.

Then I had at least twenty-five other people who had reason to hate Smiley. Any of them might have reached the breaking point and gone down to shoot Smiley and made the mistake of shooting his printer instead.

Against this, though, was Pender's gun being stolen. That went along with the frame against Pender, and none of the other poor guys who were getting the bite put on them would have anything to gain by framing Pender. For that matter, there was little chance of any of them knowing that Smiley had his hooks in Pender.

The Durstin woman was the key to everything, but I couldn't find any place where the key would fit. She'd had nothing to do with Pender; so she wouldn't be in any frame against him. Neither had Pike, the chauffeur.

But then Richetti, the man who'd tried to gun me out in the warehouse, had had no connection with either Pender or me, and he'd certainly done his best to put me in the morgue, along with the other victims.

The more I thought of it the more of a headache I got, and I finally said to hell with it and went to bed and tried to sleep.

I didn't do so well, though— I don't think I had more than three hours' sleep when Olson came up at ten in the morning and woke me.

OLSON had a hang-dog look and that's something unusual for the big Swede. He's a guy who bulls ahead on the theory that whatever he does is right and to the devil with anybody who doesn't like it.

He said: "You're not going to like this, Mickey."

"Not going to like what?" I asked, heading for the frigidaire for ice cubes. I like a drink when I get up in the morning, working on the idea of getting wide awake in a hurry. Certainly a stiff slug will either wake you or knock you out at that time, and either's better than running around in a fog.

Olson waited until I'd made a drink for each of us and then he said: "I picked up Pender at his office, just as he got there.

Make no mistake— I didn't want to do it.

But the police commissioner and the chief and the D. A. got together and I have to do what they tell me to do. You know how it is, Mickey."

I said I knew how it was and that I knew he wasn't trying to play heel with either Pender or me. And asked: "He charged yet?"

"The D. A.'s office is making it, Mickey.

On the old gag— the 'information-received' thing. I came up to tell you right off the bat. You'll want to get in touch with his lawyer, won't you?"

"Can't Pender use the phone?"

"Well... uh... I don't know, Mickey.

They had some talking about keeping the thing quiet for the legal forty-eight hours. If they do, they won't let him phone. They won't take a chance on having his lawyer getting him out with a habeas writ."

I said: "There's going to be a lot of hell raised about this, Ole. One good thing, though. If they keep it quiet, it won't hurt Him on the election."

Olson looked unhappy. He said: "And that's something else I wouldn't depend on, Mickey. There's cops in and out of the station all the time, and any one of them might let it slip. It's news, and some of the papers will pay for that kind of news. The guy that's running against him would pay. That louse of a Smiley would pay."

"You get anything from that Sunday-school teacher?"

Olson brightened a little. "He says he'll testify in front of the Grand Jury if we can get Smiley with something that will hold him. He'd do that with the idea of strengthening any case we can make against Smiley. But he absolutely refuses to swear out a warrant against the guy.

He says Smiley worked the racket in a legal way and that he won't put his neck out. And the hell of it is he's right."

I said: "I'll get that guy Smiley if it's the last thing I do. If it wasn't for that smutty sheet of his and the way he runs it, none of this would have happened. The man should be lynched."

Olson said: "If you start a lynching bee, do it on my day off, so I can go along with you. I'm beefy— I could put a tot of weight on a rope."

I PHONED Jim Pender's lawyer and told him what had happened and he told me he'd get busy and see what he could do. And then I had a bad few minutes phoning Mrs. Pender and telling her what had happened. She was nice about it. She said she knew I was doitig all I could for him, and that she was sure everything would come out all right, but she didn't sound optimistic.

It was then I decided to go whole-hog or none that night. I wasn't getting anywhere by playing it decently and legally, so the other way seemed indicated.

And then Smiley put out a speeial edition of his dirty little sheet, and if there'd been any doubt in my mind about what to do, the paper killed it. His lead story was a humorous little thing about Pender. He spoke of Pender as the town's "playboy," hinted definitely at what Pender had been trying to conceal, and ended the pretty little poison-pen thing with the information that Pender was in the bastille.

He didn't call him by name, but nobody in the town could mistake a thing in the article. Pender was too well-known for anybody to miss on who Smiley meant.

He even took a cut at me in the thing. He said that the only surprising thing was that the plug-ugly who was the pal of the jailed citizen wasn't in jail with him. And hinted that every hour I was free was just borrowed time.

I've seen men horse-whipped for less than he had to say about me.

Smiley lived at the Towers, the best apartment house in the town, and I knew better than to ask for Smiley. With the way he was operating, he'd have everything but land mines to keep possible trouble away. And I wouldn't have asked for him anyway— if I had any argument with him I didn't want anybody remembering me.

Getting into the place was no trick at all and I knew Smiley had the penthouse. And I'd been in the place enough times to remember that the elevator didn't make the last story to the penthouse, but stopped at the floor below.

I wait in at the service entrance and up the service stairs and I didn't meet a soul until I got to the fifth floor.

And then it was just a chambermaid working the night shift, and she gave me an incurious look and that was all. And I had my hat pulled well down and I don't think she'd have been able to recognize me five minutes afterward.

Just as I got to the last floor and had only one flight more to get to the penthouse, I heard the elevator grind to a stop, and I cracked the service door enough to be able to see Smiley and a flashy-tooking blonde come out of the cage and start up the stairs.

The blonde was going to be an added handicap, but I'd gone too far to back down then. Besides, I was getting madder by the moment— the more I thought of what was going on the more sore I was.

So I started up the stairs after Smiley and his blonde.

WHEN I was on the roof, with the door leading there closed, I felt better. Getting up there where I wanted to be gave me a lift and made me think that maybe things might break right for me after all. And so I looked around to see what I was up against.

In the first place I was in the open, with maybe twenty feet separating me from the penthouse itself. This was built to look like one of the model houses you see at expositions— flat-topped, with a lot of windows, and with what walls there were made out of glass brick. It had a terrace running along the front and side that I could see, and this was roofed. There were tables and lounging chairs along this, all modernistic. It was very neat, and the penthouse itself was much bigger than I'd thought it would be. I thought it would have at least six rooms, and possibly more.

I could hear muffled voices from the house and I took my Betsy gun from under my arm and started that way. And then I ran into a piece of hard luck. Or into a colored boy who looked like hard luck to me.

He came out on the side terrace with a tray of drinks and started putting them down on one of the pipe-and-glass tables. That's all they were— twisted pipe with a sheet of glass over the top. He didn't see me for a second and I moved in on him fast. Then he looked up and spotted me and the gun, and he dropped that damned tray about a foot. It landed on top of the table and it sounded as if the side of the house had fallen out.

Smiley called from inside the house: "What the hell's the matter with you, Johnson? What did you break this time?"

I didn't say anything— just raised the gun muzzle so it centered on the boy. And he used his head, even if he was scared into a delicate grey.

He called back: "Nothing, suh! I jus' slipped."

I heard Smiley yap about "damn' clumsiness" and then I was up to the boy with no time to waste. I hated to do what I had to do, but I had no choice. The thing was far enough along then so that I couldn't stop, and the boy could be the one to tip over the apple cart if he got loose.

I swung the gun against the side of his jaw, and put enough weight behind it to put him over to the side about five feet. I tried not to hit him hard enough to break his jaw, but I also tried to come close to it, and I got it just about right. He went down as though he had no knees and he cracked the back of his head against one of the chairs, so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about him for a while.

And then I went inside, in time to meet Smiley just as he came from another room.

I hit him and I didn't care whether I broke his jaw or not. I didn't— I landed too high. I could feel teeth breaking out from under the gun's muzzle, but it didn't knock him out. He squealed like a pig and raised his hands to his face, and I jammed the gun into his fat little belly as hard as I could and he brought them down again. On the next swing I caught him where I wanted, about halfway along his jawbone, and I had to step back to keep him from falling on me.

And then I went in the other room to take care of the blonde.

THIS ROOM was a honey— if you like 'em furnished screwy. Every other panel was a full-length mirror, and the blonde was in front of one of these, with both hands up to her head, fixing her hair-do. She saw me coming in from behind her— or saw my reflection— and it was apparent that she saw the gun. She kept her hands right where they were and she didn't raise her voice.

She said: "Just like good old Chicago, hey, Mac! My purse is on the table in the other room and there's about forty bucks in it. Take it and welcome. But you're a chump to knock over this place. It's going to take you too long to get out of it."

I said: "I'm cutting the manager in on the take. I'll have lots of time."

She had nerve enough actually to laugh at that one. She said: "And what did you do with Fatso, might I ask? He's got a safe here, though, Mac, so I don't suppose you'll get much pickings from him, either."

I could see a half-open door that led to a bedroom, and I motioned toward that. I said: "Inside, sister! I hate to do it, but I'm going to make you stand in a closet, just like you were a naughty girl. I can't watch you and everything else at the same time, and you're smart enough to make me trouble if you got a chance."

"Right you are," she said, now turning. "I'll see you do three to five for this little caper, Mac. It'll maybe teach you a lesson, too. You've got nerve but no sense. If you had, you'd pick a place where you could make a getaway."

I'd caught it by then and I wasn't having any. She was expecting somebody else to come in and was stalling me until they got there.

I said: "In the closet, Blondie. And pronto."

She went ahead of me and opened the closet door by herself, and I could see it was roomy, with plenty of air space for the time she'd be locked in it. And I also made sure the lock on it didn't operate from the inside. She waved to me as she went in and she was still carrying the thing off.

She said: "Don't run off and leave me, Mac. Because it'll sure as hell get stuffy in here by and by."

I said: "If I do, I'll phone the manager and tell him where you are. I won't let you smother— you're too good a sport for that."

She gave me a little curtsy for that and I closed and locked the door. I went to the kitchen and found a bottle of ammonia and into the bathroom and found a cold wet towel.

And then I tied the colored boy up with his own belt and hauled him out of sight, and finished the job by gagging him with a lemon I'd also found in the kitchen, tying this in with a kitchen towel. I'd dumped some of the ammonia on Smiley's shirt front and draped the towel over his forehead, and he was already starting to come around when I got through with his boy.

SMILEY was stubborn, but not for long. I didn't think he would be. If I was caught, I'd be stuck for assault with a dangerous weapon, attempted robbery at the point of a gun, illegal entry, and probably half a dozen other charges, and I explained to him that I had nothing to lose and plenty to gain by getting rough.

I said: "And it'll be a pleasure, you little toad. I'll love it. Just tell me again you're not going to do what you're told."

I'd raked him a couple of times with the gun, and his face was swelling in a couple of places. He was so scared that sweat was just rolling from his face, and when he tried to talk he did more stammering than anything else.

He said: "All right, O'Connor! You've got me. What d'ya want?"

"Who's coming up here?"

"I... a fellow named Joe Peterkin."

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think so."

I took a chance and asked: "Another hired hand? Like Richetti?"

He was so anxious to get out from under that he slipped and badly. He said: "Honest, O'Connor, I had nothing to do with that. That was Richetti's own idea."

"Who got the rifle from Pender's house?"

He looked stubborn again and I tapped another tooth loose. If I'd had dibs on the dentist bill he was going to have, I'd have been in the money.

He said: "Richetti. He took the rifle."

"About Ida Durstin. Who did she see shooting the printer? And don't tell me you don't know."

"Richetti. He... well, he and I got in an argument and he got sore about it. He got over it... we straightened it out."

He'd said this last like he'd practised it and I knew full well he was lying by the clock. But I didn't want to take time out to argue it.

I said: "Okay! On your feet!"

"What are you going to do?"

"You're the one that's going to do it. You're going in and open your safe for me."

"I haven't any safe here, O'Connor."

"Your blonde bombshell says different. Must we go through this again? Don't you want any teeth left at all?"

He managed to totter to his feet, and the things he called the blonde were marvelous. She'd have had to have been triplets to be all the things he said she was. And I got sore and slammed him across a kidney with the flat of the gun and I gave it all I had. I'd liked the blonde— at least liked the nerve she'd shown.

I said: "That'll be all. If there's going to be any cursing done here, pal, I'll do it. Get at the safe."

I didn't even know where it was, but he led the way into the bedroom and polled away a thick throw-rug from a corner. The next thing that came up was a section of flooring, about three feet square, and with this gone I could see a modern little cannon-ball safe, built into the floor. And I squatted right down next to him while he opened it, just, om the chance of there being a gun left right on top.

That's one of the oldest gags in the business and it's just as good now as the day some smartie first thought of it.

I SHOULD have caught wise before, but the second Smiley got the safe door open I knew the answer. The safe was jammed with gas-ration books and. being shut up in that small space they gave themselves, away. They smelled like fresh, ink so much that even I could tell what, it was. And I don't know any more about the printing business than a cat knows about heaven.

The funny part of it was. that Smiley thought that was what I was looking for.

He said: "There it is. But they don't hang you for counterfeiting coupons." The answers I'd figured; took care of that, too. It explained why the printer had been shot to death... and it wasn't going to be the dead Richetti who'd be blamed for that.

I said: "So that printer caught wise to you, eh? And you had to get him out of the way. or lose your soft snap? And you saw a chance to lay the thing on Pender, thinking the cops would think just as they did—t hat the guy was killed by mistake? By somebody who thought he was boating at you? Mister, they may not hang, you for making, phony gas tickets, but they'll sure as hell hang you for murder.''

"You can't prove anything. like that, O'Connor."

I said: "Nuts? If I can't. Olson can. We've been looking for the wrong people. We've been trying to place somebody you'd been blackmailing down in your print-shop neighborhood. Now we'll try and place you down there and that won't be hard to do. You're known down there and have a right to be down there, so nobody would think anything about seeing you around at that hour of might. Now that we know who to ask about we'll have no trcvdde finding somebody that saw you there. Think it over, smart guy."

Somebody from the door said: "You think it over yourself, smart guy. And drop that gun!"

I was sitting on my heels and I went back from them, spinning and rolling at the same time. I heard a gun blast from the doorway even before I saw who was standing there, but when I shot back, the man in the doorway went out of sight as though somebody had pulled him away. Smiley was flat on his face on the floor, and at first I thought he'd ducked to keep low and out of the line of fire.

That was before I saw the blood dribble out from under his head.

OLSON was in a fix and no mistake. He had his counterfeit gas tickets and he had the man who'd printed them, even if the man was accidentally dead from a bullet through the head. It seemed that the man in the doorway, one Peterkin hy name, had been startled when I'd done my rolling act, and had shot in too much of a hurry. He'd caught his boss, Smiley, right under the ear, and Smiley probably didn't even know he'd been hit.

It was a good thing for Smiley at that He'd have died in the chair for murder, certainly. With his blackmailing record no judge would show him mercy.

I'd caught Peterkin high in the right shoulder and he wasn't hurt too bad. He wasn't happy about it, of course— the slug had smashed up a lot of bone— but he was in no danger. And the D. A. was going to let him plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter in return for the information he had about what had happened and who else was in the gas coupon deal.

But Olson was jammed. I was guilty of at least six minor and major crimes, and, under the circumstances, had to admit it. I'd even called him up there and waited for him, so there wasn't a chance of my pleading false identification. The colored boy was there to testify that I'd smacked him down. The blonde was there to swear I'd pat her in a closet at the point of a gun.

And there was Peterkin, now a State's witness, to swear I'd shot him through the shoulder.

Olson couldn't do a thing except take me in, although he talked himself hoarse explaining he was forced into it.

He said: "You'll be up before the Grand Jury, Mickey, and I'll be called, too. I'll clear you there or break my neck trying. You did the work on this, even if you didn't do it legally."

I said: "I'm not fretting."

He asked why not and I gave him the angle I'd thought out.

I said: "Now look! You got the fake gas tickets, didn't you? But me, I got all the blackmail stuff that Smiley was holding over a bunch of the most prominent men in town. You couldn't get a Grand Jury that didn't have one or more of those guys on it, and if you think they'll return a true bill against me, after what I did for them, you're wrong. I'll go out of there as free as the air."

"There's that, all right," Olson said thoughtfully.

"And I gave them back their blackmail stuff and didn't charge any one of them a cent for recovering it. You know that, too."

"Well, yes. But it's been my experience, Mickey, that people forget favors done them, mighty quick. Maybe you shouldn't depend on that too much."

I grinned and said: "There's none of them will forget that favor, Ole. Because I read every word of the stuff before I handed it over and even made notes about it. And I told them so. I figured then that a bunch of prominent people might be a good thing to have on my side, and I was right."

He said I was no better than Smiley and that I had both larceny and blackmail in my heart.

PENDER gave a party for me but it was private. Just the two of us in his game room, and the refreshments were rye and soda, though from the way Pender talked and acted I could have had anything in the world. He'd bailed me out while I'd waited for a special meeting of the Grand Jury to be called, and I'd been lucky enough to have had him on it.

They did everything but give me a medal instead of an indictment, although Pender claimed it would have gone that way whether he was on the jury or not. He argued that Smiley had such a smelly name in the town that anybody getting rid of him could write his own ticket.

I said: "What with Peterkin knowing all about what went on, and turning State's evidence, it worked out very well. But who'd have thought Smiley had the nerve to do his own killing?''

Pender said: "He was forced. That printer got smart and caught him running oil a batch of coupons on his own press. So Smiley had to get him out of the way. And he had to get Ida Durstin out of the way for the same reason. She saw him stand up in his car, outside the shop, and do the shooting. And Smiley knew damned well she'd told Pike, the chauffeur, about it and so he had to get him, too. He was afraid of you, so he had Richetti try to do you in, but that didn't work out so well."

I thought of that shooting in the warehouse and how Richetti had blasted at me nineteen times with the rifle, and said that Richetti had almost scared me to death even if he hadn't managed to hit me. Even thinking of it gave me the shivers, and so I took another drink to counteract the chills.

Pender said: "He was just too smart. If he hadn't tried to implicate me you'd never have been in the thing at all. Olson would have run around and found out nothing at all and Smiley would have got away with it."

I defended Olson with: "Ole had nothing to go on. He suspected Smiley of being mixed up in that gas-coupon thing, but that was all. He knew like everybody else what Smiley was doing with his paper, but he couldn't do anything about that, either. If Smiley hadn't spent too much money, I doubt if Ole would have even suspicioned him of that gas business."

Pender said that all was well that ended well and I was inclined to agree with him. He was a cinch to make the State Legislature, something he'd set his heart on doing. He was out of a bad jam and he hadn't been hurt in it, to any extent. At least twenty-five good men and true were sleeping easier at night, with the evidence of their little mistakes in their own hands and so harmless. I felt badly about Mrs. Durstin getting in the way, but she'd asked for something like that when she'd started playing around with people like the chauffeur and Smiley. Smiley and a pair of assorted thugs were out of the way for good and all, and that was a fine thing for everyone concerned. They were together in a rotten black- market racket and they had it coming to them.

And I thought I was well ahead of the game. I not alone collected a nice fat fee from Pender, but I had at least twenty-five new and influential friends. And I knew they'd continue friendly, too.

Everyone of them knew I knew too much about them— it was be friends with me or else. I wouldn't have blackmailed any one of them for any reason, but they didn't know that and I didn't intend for them to know it.

I was going to try to play it cagey for once.

_________________

11: The Cemetery Slaying

G Men Detective April 1946

1: A Girls Life Pays

THE hurricane had passed but we were still suffering the effects of it. The power lines were down— the power company had fought a game and winning fight for years against putting them under- ground where they belonged— and as a result most of the town had no current. The old-fashioned ice-box was at a premium, with the poor suckers who had bought electric ice boxes and ranges from the power company eating in restaurants and talking about it loudly and profanely. And thieves were running wild. There was nothing to stop them— that was the trouble. Most of the people out on the beach, and that was the richest neighborhood in the city, had moved in to the better hotels and left their houses either deserted or with a single caretaker. Trees had fallen across every power line in that district and knocked out even the street lights.

Some of the water mains had burst and had added to the flood that came along with the hurricane so that some built-up areas were flooded. Many streets were completely blocked with hurricane debris, and alto- gether that part of town was in a state.

And that was where the firm I worked for carried a lot of Pan-American insurance, including a good many burglary policies. I was thinking of that while I was going through the paper, and it seemed there were two interesting articles on the front page. One especially interesting to me; and one to George, our Florida native "conch" porter. Mine was serious, and his was written in a kidding way, but the reporter had been kidding on the square as far as George was concerned,

Mine read "BEACH HOMES ROBBED," with a sub-heading stating there had been a series of burglaries in the beach district. It then went on to list about twenty of them.

George's read "THE CEMETERY DEAD," with a sub-head that simply added, "DEAD DRUNK!"

The story with it told how the caretaker of the Gates Ajar Cemetery which was located hear a sort of shack settlement of the "natives," just outside of town on the way to the Everglades, had discovered the cemetery office had been broken into and used as a flop-house by a bunch of drunks.

NOTHING was missing, the story said, the place was full of empty bottles, sandwich wrappings, and little odds and ends like that. The reporter who was by-lined as being named Dearing had made a good story of it, probably in an attempt to take the mind of the public away from real troubles.

George, the porter, didn't have that idea at all. He breathed heavily in my ear from where he was reading the paper over my shoulder, and his voice quavered when he spoke.

"That man's wrong, Mr. Grady" he said. "It says here that the people who fill a drunkard's grave in that there cemetery arise and join the party them folks in the office have. That ain't so. Them poor corpses get up 'cause they is mad about such goin's on, where they are restin'. I know— I've seen 'em."

"You saw what, George?" I asked.

"Well, maybe I didn't see it my own self, but I knows a man that done see it. He sees them dead people get right out of they graves and they is mad. They run right at him."

"The devil you say!"

"Yessir, Mr. Grady! My frien' he's fixing to shoot a little craps and he goes out. He aims to go to the barber shop— they's a feller named Josiah Meekins runs a barber shop out that away and he's got hisself a li'l game in the back room. My frien' goes out to see if he can make a pass or two and he goes by the cemetery. And some of them dead people run at him and they run him right back in his own house. Yessir! That boy shore don' shoot no craps that night."

"When was all this?" I asked.

"Night before last. And my frien' say he is through with dice, Mr. Grady. Yessir!"

I said I wished I'd been scared away from dice, cards, the horses, and the like when I was fourteen, and that if I had been I no doubt would be both rich and respected.

George went back to his mop and bucket and I forgot about it...

The only cheering thing about the robberies was that I knew one of the robbers. A lad named Simmy Williams, a local boy who had graduated into fairly big time. He had started small and learned his trade as all, good workmen should, and he had gone to reform school a couple of times while doing it.

That was a sort of apprenticeship for him. All he had done was break into a few service stations and grocery stores and pick up what- ever he found that was loose.

Then he grew up and extended his field of operations. This time specializing in hard- ware and sporting goods stores, where he could collect things that had value in the hock shops, The judge gave him five years at this stage of his career and he did three of it.

When he got out that time he thought he knew his job. He went first-class, hitting the jewelry stores and the furriers, and he kept away from the local hock shops as though the owners had leprosy. It was certain that he was sending his stuff North, to some fence up there, but not a single thing was ever recovered.

They caught him when he forgot to dis- connect the burglar alarm at Dixon's, one of the leading jewelry stores in town. He got a ten spot for that but was paroled in four years— our parole board being in the habit of doing funny things like that.

And now he was out and working at his trade again.

He had left fingerprints on two of the twenty jobs that I figured he had been in, and there was no question about it. They checked right with the local files, with the prison records at Raiford, and with the F.B.I. It was just a question of picking Simmy up, breaking him down to learn who had been on the jobs with him, and then sending him away.

With his record the chances are he would be away for a good long time, too. Even our odd parole board couldn't very well free a man serving his third felony conviction for breaking and entering.

THE only trick was to put the finger on Simmy, but it had turned out to be the kind of trick that can't be done with mirrors, Simmy was in town but nobody had  seen him— or at least that's what the stoolies told the cops.

Mine were telling me the same thing.

It was like that when John Baird, a detective-lieutenant working Homicide, dropped in.

Baird was sourer than ever and he never was a cheerful soul. He sat down, glowered at me, and bit the end of a cigar with teeth that should have been on a horse. They were that big and yellow.

"You hear the radio?" he said.

"Not since last night," I said.

"Another three places kicked in. All out on the beach."

"We've probably got at least two of them covered," I said. "There's no doubt I'll be hearing about it from the boss."

"You fellas got it easy," Baird grouched. "I hear about it from about a dozen bosses in the Department, and then I hear about it from the Commission, and then I read about it in the paper. You're lucky to hear it just from one."

I said it got monotonous, though, to hear it all day long. And asked what the devil breakings and enterings had to do with him.

He scowled at his cigar which must have been one he had bought for himself. Nobody, trying to get along with a policeman would have handed out a thing like that. It was both smelling and burning like a piece of Fourth of July punk.

"One of the places they took was old man Robinson's," he said. "There was nobody but a girl there— a girl named Maggie Christy. Margaret Christy, I guess it should be. Old man Robinson took himself and family up north, as soon as he heard we were going to have a storm. Well, the thieves went in through a window and they must have worked it with too much noise, because they work this Maggie Christy. We find her in the hall between the pantry and the dining room with her head caved in."

"Dead?"

"As mutton."

"Who found her?"

"Her boy friend. When he dropped in to see her this morning."

"I had Simmy Williams picked as heading these jobs," I said. "This don't sound like Simmy. He never took life before."

"There's always a first time," Baird said. "You got that Robinson account, Sam?"

"We have," I said and wished we hadn't.

"Okay!" Baird said. "Then maybe I'll be seeing you."

Which was just his way of saying he expected me to hand over any dope I got on either Simmy Williams or the Robinson theft.

2: Horse Player

SIMMY WILLIAMS was a horse player and I knew it. I'd known him between his first and second hitch at Raiford. He was hotter than a pistol and certainly knew it, so there wasn't a chance in the world of him showing up at the track in person, or for that matter going into one of the horse parlors.

But there was a good chance of him phoning in a bet or two, now and then, and that's what I started to work on.

I wasn't worried about the boys holding out the dope on me, either. Taking them one and all I'd spent money with them— not only had spent it but was spending it. They would have protected Simmy, at least to a certain extent, as long as he was just wanted for a little thieving and minor things like that, but it takes a pretty hard man to condone the murder of a girl.

And particularly that kind of a murder— a girl sapped out just because she happened to get in somebody's way.

The poor Christy gal had probably just heard some suspicious noise and got up to investigate— she had been in her nightie when found. Her getting killed because she was looking after the house, which she was being paid to do, put every hand against the killer.

And while it was hard for me to believe that Simmy was the man, Baird could be right. Simmy might have hit her either in panic or because she recognized him. She had been a local girl, and Simmy was a local boy.

I made the rounds and explained this thought to the bookies and I believed them when they said they hadn't heard from Simmy, or about Simmy, for a year or more.

And then I hit Juan Gomez's stand. Juan, a Cuban, had a cleaning and pressing shop and he actually cleaned and pressed. He even had a Hoffman press in the front of his store with a presser working away at the gadget, just to prove he was on the up and up.

His presser happened to be Mike Cooley, who had been a jock some twenty years back until the commission caught up with him and suspended him. Mike had put in time in half a dozen State pens during the twenty years following but he was a presser just the game.

I wandered in and didn't go through to the back room as usual. Juan grinned at me and asked me if I was fool enough to be bring- ing him a little honest business in the clean- ing and pressing line.

"Ym looking for Simmy Williams, Juan," I said.

Juan Gomez was short and sort of pear- shaped, and he showed me his middle-age spread by turning around and hiking up his coat tails.

"I haven't got Simmy Williams in my pants pockets," he said.

"Now, now!" I said. "I'm not a track cop. You see Simmy lately?"

"I have not. Mike, has Simmy Williams been in while I was out? Like to the bank or something?"

"He has not," Cooley said. "He owes me ten bucks since he was in town the last time. After I loan it to him he tips over some joint a man named Larkin owns and he makes a good score. But does he pay me my sawbuck? He does not. He comes in here, unless he's got that ten for me, and I'll heave this press at him. He'll either pay me or pay the doctor."

I put this down as wishful thinking, because the press weighed at least seven hundred pounds, besides being bolted down to the floor, and Mike Cooley not weighing more than a hundred and thirty with his pockets full of diving shoes.

I made it low so that Cooley couldn't hear, "Let's put it a different way, Juan," I said. "Has he maybe phoned in a bet or two?"

"I don't tell my business to people," Juan said

"He killed a girl last night, Juan. Or he was on a job where the girl was killed, if that's any better. Should you tell your business or not?"

"Whooey," said the Cuban. "A life-taker now, is it. Now I know I won't teIl my business."

"He caved the girl's head in, Juan," I said. "Or somebody with him did. It's one and the same thing."

HE SPREAD his hands palms up. "And I've got my own girls— that's what you are going to tell me next," he said. "So okay! What I tell you will not help. Simmy Williams phones in bets, yes. Just sometimes, not every day. Simmy was always a boy that followed a couple horses and bet "em when the track is right. He is now playing Suzanne, Oh Dear, and Dark Prince. He plays Dark Prince to win, always, and he plays Suzanne and Oh-Dear across the board. He always plays three notes on Dark Prince— and a hundred across the board on Suzanne and Oh Dear. Now do I help?"

"You've started, Juan. Where does he phone from?"

"That I do not know. Maybe from a drug-store. Maybe from a bar. Maybe from a store. Maybe from a phone where he is living."

"Hiding, you mean."

Juan shrugged.

"Don't he ever win?"

Juan showed me his palms again. "This is where I can not tell you. He wins, yes. Never yet on Dark Prince, but Suzanne and Oh Dear finish in the money once in a while, Then I meet him and we straighten out, He always owes me money, but after his horse comes in it is never so much. I meet him and he pays me, but only when he makes a score."

"Where d'ya meet him?" I asked.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sam. I never know. He telephones. He says drive out this place or that place and keep moving. I drive out and keep moving. He either runs me into the curb with his car or he flags me down. I tell him what he is behind. He pays me. I drive away."

"Flow often does this happen?"

"Three times— four times. Simmy has been in tawn for maybe one month before the storm. He is hot— I know it, but I cannot turn him in. Not even now, if I knew where he lived."

"Why not, Juan?" I asked.

I got a look at his hands again while he said:

"And I've got girls, like you were going to tell me. Suppose Simmy has friends? Suppose my giris get their faces bashed in? Not by Simmy— Simmy is not that way. But by his friends. They are rough people, Sam. That I know."

"How do you know?" I urged.

He shrugged. "I see them with Simmy, when Simmy pays me his bets. They are rough people."

"Can you describe them?"

"It was very dark, Sam. I can not."

That was all I could get from him and that was more than I expected. He wasn't telling me all he knew, of course, but that was because he was afraid to talk too much. And thinking about him having a family I didn't blame him too much.

Simmy was tough enough, even though I didn't think he was the kind who would kill a girl, but there was no telling just who he had picked up with.

Or rather, there was. He had picked up with somebody who didn't draw the line at killing, whether it was a girl or not.

On the way back to the Pan-American office I had a brainstorm and drove to the police station instead. I found John Baird in his office, with his feet on the desk and another one of his trick fusees in his face.

"I've got an idea," I said.

"I don't believe it," he said.

Then I gave it to him, knowing it didn't amount to much but knowing the police had enough men to put on the detail the idea would need.

It was simple enough— so simple that even.

Baird could catch the thought. It was just that Simmy, and whoever was working with him had knocked off a lot of places and had to do something with the loot.

THEY had stripped twenty or more houses of just about everything but the furniture— everything that was of any value— and none of the stuff had turned up in the local markets as far as it could be found out. That meant they were either shipping out the spoils or storing them, and I thought either could maybe be traced.

"Just about everything in this town is rented through agents," I said. "Check them, just for a start."

Baird looked bored and said: "We have. We've checked every rental made in the last three months. If the renters didn't have references, we looked 'em up and looked 'em over."

"And check the Express Company on what goes out."

Baird took his feet from his desk.

"Why, that's really a thought," he said. "The only thing, it'll take half my department to do it."

"They aren't doing much else, are they?"

"If you mean they're not finding Simmy Williams, they're not. The Express Company can tell us what are sure to be legitimate shipments, certainly. Like from the stores and places like that. All we'd have to watch for is odd lots and from strangers in town. Sam, you might have something there."

I said I certainly hoped I did and went on to the office. And to a bawling out from Sprague, the head of the claim adjusting department, who seemed to think that my not finding Simmy was just being done to spite him.

I didn't blame Sprague too much at that. He was paying out company money on the burglaries with both hands, I had no doubt but that the head office was raising Cain with him in turn,

I let him talk and just sent George, the porter, out for the racing sheets. Both scratch and form.

3: Gates Ajar

LOOKING 'em over I could see why Simmy Williams had gone for Suzanne, Oh Dear, and Dark Prince. On form Dark Prince was due, and he had always gone to the post with a nice price on him. Suzanne and Oh Dear were both steady performers and did as well as could be expected. Neither were good horses, but they wer st running against top competition, either, so they about broke even.

I didn't bet any of them, but I began to watch them.

Dark Prince ran two days after that and finished just out of the money. Suzanne ran the day after that and took show money but she only paid three-sixty on it and that wasn't enough to count.

But Oh Dear ran the fourth day and took place, and she paid seven-eighty and four-sixty, which made anybody playing her a hundred across the board a three-hundred-odd- buck winner.

I had a notion that would get Simmy out of his hole, and I was parked beyond Juan Gomez's cleaning and pressing place from five o'clock on. But I got no action until about an hour after it had turned dark— about eight o'clock with the es time we're back on,

Gomez was driving a two-tone '41 Buick, which made him an easy lad to tag— and tag him I did. A block or more behind him. He hit up toward Fort Gracey and I dropped back and let a couple of cars get between as. Then he turned left, just before he hit the city limits.

He was apparently following directions because he went two blocks over and cut back toward the city for four, before swinging left again. bad a good notion that we had passed Simmy Williams, probably sitting in a parked car along our route, but I carefully kept from watching cars along the curb. There was enough chance as it was of Simmy spotting me,

Then Juan Gomez came to Seventy-sixth Street and Fourth Avenue and went once around the block and parked.

I parked almost a block in front of him. Juan waited another ten minutes and took another circle around. That section is thinly settled and I could keep him in sight most of the time from where I stayed quietly in a patch of shadow. Headlights, at night like that, are almost as easy to follow as the car itself in daylight.

Then I saw him pull into the curb, just across the block from me.

I could have driven around and it might have been better if I had. But I was alone, and if I had to shoot I didn't want to try and do that and drive the car at one and the game time. It's one of the kind of things that don't pay off. You can make a noise with the gun, but making noise is the best you can do. The innocent bystander is in much more danger than the target you're trying for.

So I slid out of the car and eased across the lot. And got within about fifty feet of Juan before he started to pull away from the curb.

He had left two men standing there and they worked in masterly fashion. They separated, and I didn't know which one to take. But I decided on the one walking away from town and almost ran over to cut him off.

It was then he saw me and started shooting, standing still and laying them in at me and I wasn't more than thirty feet from him. And there was nothing I could do but shoot back. I couldn't run fast enough to get out of range, and I couldn't depend on him to keep missing me.  He wasn't a good shooter and I was. Or maybe I was just lucky, because he wobbled on my first shot and went down on my second. And he went down all spraddled out and I knew it was Katy bar the door.

The other man was a block away by that time and going strong, so I didn't even try to chase him. If he hadn't a car parked near there he could still either dodge me or Outrun me, and there was even a chance that he might lay doggo along the sidewalk and pot me as I went by.

I didn't want any part of him, the way things had worked out.

I WENT over to the man I had downed and turned a flash in his face, after kicking the gun he still held in his hand out of it and to the side of the walk. I had never seen him before in my life, and about the time I discovered that a bunch of the citizens around there located where the gunfire had come from and started to gather around. Then a prowl car came along and I went down to the station. They wanted pictures, diagrams, my life history, the dead man's gun, and statements from all the witnesses, these last totally lacking.

I got to the station about half-past ten, and found Baird waiting for me.

Baird cleared me, because after all I had given him a man who was almost certainly a pal of Simmy Williams. Of course I'd given him the man dead and unable to talk, and this galled him.

"You shouldn't have shot him, Sam, you really shouldn't have," he said seriously. "If we'd got him alive we'd have Simmy and the rest of 'em in an hour."

"I suppose I should have stood there and let him pop away at me,' I said.

"There must have been some other way, Sam."

"Sure there was. I could have beaned him with a rock, like David did Goliath."

He looked puzzled. "I don't place that one," he said. "David who? Was that a local case, maybe?"

I told him that it was out of town, but that it had caused quite a lot of commotion at the time it happened.

"When you send out this fella's prints you may get a line on who he played around with," I said then. "It's just about a cinch that Simmy picked him up somewhere up North, and imported him for these thefts. Maybe Simmy brought down a crew."

"Who were they meeting, Sam? And how did you get a line on it?"

I said I couldn't turn in my source of information and I held to it, though I thought for a while that Baird was going to put me in the pokey charged with obstructing justice or some such charge. He had a notion I'd got the dope from some stoolie and I was satisfied to let him think that.

I thought I'd put Juan Gomez far enough in the middle the way it was, and as soon as I got out of the station I gave him a ring and told him so.

"The best thing you can do, Juan," I said, "is take the wife and kids and a vacation, all at the same time. Until this thing tops off. Because you and the family can't keep a police guard on yourselves and depend on twenty-four-hour protection."

"And my business?" Juan said, running it up until "business" was almost a scream in my ear.

"Let Mike Cooley take care of the front and let the syndicate put somebody in back to handle the book," I told him. "Listen! You can't take that book to the grave with you."

He said he thought I might be right and called me some names in Spanish, for putting him on that spot.

"Just one question, Juan," I said, when he stopped for breath. "When you met Simmy, wasn't it usually pretty close to where you met him tonight? I mean fairly close to that same neighborhood."

He admitted it was and I hung up ahd went back to the station after Baird.

For one thing, I didn't know exactly what I was likely to run into, and for another, graveyards scare me at night. And I was planning on scouting the layout at the Gates Ajar...

IT WAS a black night, with the moon just a sliver in the sky and with clouds scudding past that and what few stars were in sight. Just a swell night not to go grave-yarding, but graveyarding we went. The Gates Ajar Cemetery was just about in the center of the various places Juan Gomez had met Simmy, to adjust their horse bets, and I'd remembered what George, our porter, had had to say about the dead people rising from their graves and running stray men away.

Not that it takes much to run a conch away from a graveyard.

It was an old cemetery, with the bulk of it cut up into family plots. Shantytown had moved toward it, slowly and gradually, but the people apparently didn't want to be nearer to it than a couple of blocks away. It was fenced with a high iron arrangement, all fretted and supposedly decorative, but it was both a style that suited the Nineties and a tough problem to get over.

Baird and I made it by propping planks and af empty wooden box we found in a vacant lot next to it against a supporting iron post. We didn't want to go in through the gate, just on the possibility of a lookout being stationed there.

I had a general idea of the route George's crap-shooting friend must have followed to get to the barber shop where the game had been, and so we headed for that section of the place. Most of the stones were so weathered they shone very little in what poor light we had, but occasionally we would pass something really fancy that stood out. Mausoleums or crypts or vaults or whatever they're called— little stone houses with shelves along the side for coffins. Sometimes just an entrance leading down to one of these things, although the entrance was always fancy enough in its own right.

It was the sort of thing that was popuylar when the cemetery was really the place to park the body.

We had passed twenty or more of these things and were almost at the fence running by the east side of the place when we heard the truck. And I almost broke a leg falling over Baird, while trying to hide behind the same tombstone he picked for shelter.

By the time I found one of my own and got straightened out, the truck was almost onus. It trundled by so close we could read "CITY TRANSFER" painted on its side.

"There's no City Transfer Company in town," I heard Baird mumble,

"Who says there ain't," I said, "There is, and it's Simmy's. We got here just in time. They're moving out tonight."

"That shooting's made 'em pull the pin," Baird said.

Then we got another shock. A man came strolling past us, coming from the direction of the main gate, and he passed within ten feet of us. If he hadn't been scuffing his big feet in the gravel, as though his shoes were two-sizes too big for him, he'd have heard us for sure.

And all he carried under his arm was a sawed. off shotgun. The clouds left the moon in the open for a moment and we could see the ugly-looking thing. He went by.

"I should of brought a squad," Baird said. "Just two of us, and how good do I know you are with a gun. And them mechanized with shotguns."

"I was fair enough with a gun earlier this evening," I said. "I was too good, according to you."

I was trying to pass off the whole thing, but I doubt if I made much of a job-of it. Seeing that scatter-gun had me shivering like zero weather. I don't suppose Baird felt a great deal better, either, but his voice sounded all right when he gave us the go-ahead.

"Let's get moving," he said. "If we can get 'em bunched it'll be better than taking em one at atime. I wish I knew how many of them there is."

I said that was something I had no idea of and we started moving toward where the truck had stopped, maybe a hundred and fifty yards from there. It had gone in without lights in spite of the darkness, but we could faintly see a gleam from its white body.

4: Out of the Tomb

BAIRD was a dilly. I found out afterward that he had been a scout and sniper in World War I. He went around those tombstones with no more noise than a ghost is supposed to make, and we ended not ten yards from the front of the truck and between it and the fence. And from there we could see what was going on.

One of those underground vaults was open and four men were loading the truck from it. They had the back of it open and a runway leading from that to the ground, and they were as busy as little beavers, trot- ting from the vault to the truck and back again. They were doing the actual loading in the dark, but we could see a faint shine from inside the vault— about as much light as a candle in a tin can would throw out.

"Ready?" Baird asked, and I tried to say I was and must have managed to make the kind of a noise he took as a yes.

None of the four truck loaders had the shotgun in sight and I kept wondering if the man who had had it was doing guard duty and maybe was behind me, with the thing centered in my back.

Baird stood up with his gun out and ready and went ahead, keeping the truck between him and the loaders. I tagged along.

And then— heaven be praised— the clouds left the moon alone for a moment and we had a little light for the pay-off.

Baird eased along his side of the truck and I eased along mine. We had separated to make two different targets. And then he must have stepped away from the truck, as we had planned, because I heard him, nice and clearly and sharply.

"Hold it, boys!"

I went to the side about ten feet, so that I wouldn't have the truck between me and the customers and went down on one knee, so that I would have so far to fall if one of the customers decided to shoot at me.

But they started shooting at Baird instead.

From Baird's position one of the boys was about half-way behind another, and this lad got a gun out of his right hip pocket. He was only about twenty feet from me and I shot him through just about where he had taken the gun from, Just as the gun kicked back in my hand I saw that the bar- rel of it was lined on the seat of his pants.

He sat down on where I'd shot him and I decided I'd probably broken his hip.

That started everything. One fellow whirled and started to run and I shot again, aiming at knee level. And I was lucky again because he sprawled ahead on his face and started screaming at the top of his voice.

Then both Baird and the two men still on their feet started in, and Baird worked through four shells in his gun so fast the sound they made almost blurred. I know I only managed to shot once during his fusillade, while one of the customers got one shot back at him and the other got two. And the only way I knew the last man shot twice was because I saw his gun, after the thing was over.

Baird was still standing, but tottery on his feet, and the two boys were down.

And then out of the vault came the man with the shotgun!

Baird had two shells left in his gun and I had three, and neither of us did any foolishness like shooting low. The shotgun man went falling back in the vault, shot five times through the middle.

I stuffed fresh shells in my gun and waited for Baird to fall down, But he managed to stagger over and prop himself against the truck and tell me to get to a phone and call both the wagon and an ambulance or two.

He said he could hold things down until I got back.

The second man I'd shot— the one I had taken through a shin— was Simmy Williams. And Simmy was one of the most talkative men I ever saw, after the police surgeon told him he'd give him no morphine unless he gave and gave out right.

His crew was a pick-up bunch from New York, all with records, and half of them hotter than the depot stove.

THE one I'd shot on the street, earlier, had been dead when he hit the sidewalk. So was the shotgun man who came out of the vault, and the two who shot it out with Baird.

The shot I'd taken at one of the last had centered him all right. I shoot a .44 Special and Baird shot a .38, and the hole my slug made was easily identified. But my slug hadn't been needed. Baird had already got the lug through the wishbone and through the neck. The other one had taken two of Baind's slugs through the middle, and Baird apologized for the poor shooting, explaining that he had been shot through the shoulder at the time, and that the shock had thrown him off his mark.

I thought he hadn't done bad at all.

The tough who had fallen back down the vault was a wreck. He was just shot to pieces. We had hit him from both in front and from the side, and he was scattered all around inside his clothes.

The guy I had plugged in the pistol pocket was more outraged than injured. I'd thought I'd busted his hip but all I had hit was fat.

Between what was in the vault and what was in the truck, the cops found the buik of the stuff that had been stolen during the hurricane thefts, And after Baird had his shoulder patched and we had listened to Simmy Williams tell all, we had a line on as pretty a little theft set-up as ever there was.

And all Simmy's idea about it.

He even bragged It had started in New York, three or four months before the hurricane season was due. Simmy had scouted around and found a bunch of congenial type thugs and put his proposition to them,

They had gone for it like a kitten goes for cream.

His idea was to wait for the first big storm and move right in. He had lived in our town most of his life and knew exactly what would happen when the hurricane struck, He had known the power would go, over at least a good part of the town, and knew the cops would be plenty busy with assorted rescue work and not have the time to do any proper policing. And that they would have nice dark houses to rob and nice dark streets to travel back and forth on with their loot.

The hide-out was Simmy's brain-storm and he was properly proud of it. He had known that the Gates Ajar was old and little used and that the natives who lived near shunned it like poison. He had even known the caretaker went home each night and that they would have the place to themselves. All he had to do was pick a nice underground vault that was set well away from the main traveled paths, break it open, and there he was.

His pals were not known in town and so they could live in hotels—and did— meeting at the cemetery in time to start the night's labor. But Simmy was known, so he just camped out in the vault, with the boys bringing him sandwiches and beer when they gathered before going to work,

They had got drunk, once, and put on a party in the caretaker's office, but Simmy said he had been against the party right along. He said he told the boys the party would make nothing but trouble and he got a sort of I-told-you-so look on his face when I told him that reading about the party was what had made me suspicious of the graveyard in the first place.

That and because they'd chased a crap shooter away from the cemetery one night.

Simmy explained the last and took no blame for it. He said the fellow had been too close, that if he had come any closer he could have seen them carrying a load of stolen stuff down into the vault. So they had to chase him. And I heard about it from George, our porter at the office.

Both Simmy and the lug I'd shot in the. pants swore that one of the dead men had killed the Christy girl, and after Baird had checked all the records it seemed likely this was the truth. The killer, or the man both Simmy and my victim swore was the killer, had a record that ran to way back as a strong-arm expert and as being half crazy as well.

ACCORDING to Simmy the girl had come out from her bedroom and run into this thug. And when she screamed he conked her with a gun-barrel.

He was the bird who had come out of the vault with the shotgun and there was hardly enough left of him to bury, much less enough to try for murder.

But the court made up for it with Simmy and his pal. Each got twenty to life, for armed robbery and complicity in murder, before and after the fact.

And I gave George, the porter, credit for the whole thing.

"George," I said, "the next time you hear of any ghosts walking, you tell me. For sure now. If you hear or see any of them you let me know."

"Mr. Grady," George said, "I maybe might hear of 'em but that's all. I ain't goin' to hear 'em, not ever. Nossir! And I ain't goin' to see 'em neither. Not George! If I think I'm goin' to see 'em or hear 'em, I'm jus' takin' off the other way, and a ghost will have to be fast on his feet to catch up with me. I'm jus' keeping away fom that there graveyard."

And when I thought of how I'd crawled around those tombstones and how a crazy lug with a shotgun had come out of the ground at Baird and me, I didn't know as I blamed him.

In fact, I figured I'd stay away from the graveyard right along with George.

________________

12: Murder Backstage

Private Detective Stories, August 1940

BACK stage was in the disorderly order that's usual before curtain time— and it was just like coming home. I hadn't seen it for six long months. I said hello to Leo Marks, the stage manager, and he said:

"Yeah! You been hiding?"

I said, "I'm making an honest living. I've quit acting."

He grinned and said that every time I'd ever taken a dime for walking on a stage I'd made myself liable for arrest on a taking money under false pretense charge. And then he asked:

"What are you doing?"

"I'm a private investigator," I told him. "I played a part like that in that show that folded over at the Grand, and all the guy had to do was walk around and look wise and every now and then say 'this is a difficult case to solve.' So I got myself a job with the Arnold Investigation Service. I eat steady now, which is more than I ever did in show business."

"What you doing here?"

"Some gal named Lois McAvoy called the office and asked for me. Already you see, I've got a reputation. Who is she?"

Leo rolled his eyes and made motions with his hands. "A pain in the neck! Her guy is the one that's backing the show, so she's in! A society tramp, no less! With a yen for show business! She smells! My God! She's driving me nuts already, and now she drags you in. I got trouble, and plenty, and now you."

I said, "I don't make trouble, Leo."

He grinned again and said, "If you could keep away from women, you wouldn't. I'll admit that. The gal's got dressing room number two, and the only reason she ain't got number one is because Mary Mars, and you know her, told the McAvoy menace that she'd scratch her eyes out if she asked for it. McAvoy believed her, thank God, or we'd have had murder back here. You know Mary Mars, Teddy."

I said I knew Mary Mars— and headed back for the number two dressing room and my client. Mary Mars was a demure looking little wench that wasn't much bigger than a drink of water— and who was hell on wheels. I'd worked in one show with her, and I'd run like hell every time she'd looked in my direction. She collected new men like some girls collect mink coats— but she wore them out a lot faster.

So I went past the first room, the one with the big star on the door— and knocked at the second, which had one almost as big.

MY CLIENT wasn't as big as a horse but wasn't certainly in the smaller pony class. She was in her stocking feet— and not much else— and she was at least an inch taller than I am. I'm five eleven, too. She made a pass at holding her dressing gown around her, missing the pass, and said:

"Ah yes! Teddy Rawlin! I've heard so much about you, Mr. Rawlin."

I said I hoped it was all good. I really meant it— the big gal was as pretty as she could be, in spite of looming up like the Statue of Liberty. Blonde. Built in proportion, which meant a lot of mama in a lot of interesting places. Maybe it was curiosity, but I right away started to go for her— I'd never been out with a gal the size of her. She sat down in front of the dressing table, showing me a lot of white and powdered leg, and started to do her face. She said:

"A lot of it was bad. Or good, if that's the way you look at it. I heard you were an actor who quit show business because he was always in trouble with women."

I said, "A man's got to protect himself in the clinches, don't he?"

She laughed at me in the mirror— and I started wishing the show wouldn't be on in fifteen minutes or less. She had that kind of eyes and laugh. She said:

"I'm broad minded. It's this. I'm going to wear real jewelry in the show tonight— a press agent gag— and I thought it might be better to have somebody to keep an eye on it. And I remembered hearing that you'd turned policeman, so I called your agency and asked for you."

"If the jewelry's on you, it'll be no chore to watch it," I said. "Just the opposite. I'd work for nothing, but the union wouldn't like it, Miss McAvoy."

"Call me Lois. I wish Harry wasn't so jealous, I really do. If he was back stage tonight, he'd have never let me get you."

"Harry?"

"Harry. Harry Brice – you've heard of him, haven't you – Mr. Rawlin."

I said, "It's Teddy, Lois. Yeah, I've heard of him."

HARRY BRICE had angeled more musical shows than anybody on the street— and always for the same reason. Some gal he'd be playing around with would want a job in show business, and Harry would back the show to get it for her. I didn't know him but I'd heard he was a guy of about fifty that held his age and had only that one weakness. Just women. Outside of that he was supposed to be as hard as nails and as tough in business as an Armenian. He watched how his money was spent— knew plenty about show business, and kept a finger on the show his money was in— and made money with four out of five of them.

About then my client shucked out of her dressing robe and climbed into an evening gown— and I couldn't tell whether she was just trying to tantalize me or really wasn't paying me any attention. She said carelessly:

"I told my maid not to come in tonight— I knew you'd be here. Help me with this, will you, Teddy?"

I buttoned buttons and snapped snaps and zipped zippers— and my hands were shaking so I had a bad time with all of them. Then I looked past her, in the glass, and saw she was grinning at me. I said:

"Oh hell! I'd be better if I was taking off instead of putting on."

She said she'd heard that about me. And then the call boy knocked and shouted, "Five minutes, Miss McAvoy."

I helped her powder her shoulders.

MARY MARS was just outside her own door when Lois and I went outside. She saw me and squealed and ran over to me, holding out both hands. She said: "Teddy! Teddy! Of all people!"

And then she gave my big client a dirty look and added, "And with what people! With a crowd, no less."

I felt sorry for the big girl— she'd probably taken plenty of those kind of cracks about her size, and Lord knows that wasn't her fault. But when I looked at her she didn't act as though she was upset about the dig at all. She looked frightened, rather. She said:

"I'm on right away, Mr. Rawlin."

I said, "And I'm going along." I said to Mary Mars, "Be seeing you later, Mary. How's things?"

Mary threw another harpoon on that one. She said, "Not so good! Half the time I think I'm working in Jumbo."

My client passed the elephant gag right along with the other. I followed her over to the wings, and she said, in a low voice:

"I'm really afraid of that girl. She's the most vindictive thing I've ever met. She really scares me silly— I don't sing half as well as I really can, just because she upsets me so."

I said, "Mary Mars is a cat if ever one meowed. An alley cat, at that. "

"Well, she's had to make her own way," the big girl said. "Maybe that's not fair to say."

"It isn't fair to the alley cat," I said. "I know Mary. I think I know a way to set her back where she belongs."

Miss McAvoy asked where the Mars girl should be set and I told her I really didn't know her well enough to go into detail on that.

Then the orchestra started the curtain music and she went out and took her place in front of the chorus line.

She wasn't bad— in fact, she was surprisingly good. She didn't look as big, out there on that big stage, and the line back of her were mostly show girls and not dancers— and they usually are fair sized gals themselves. She didn't stand out like a giantess in front of them. She had a nice voice, too. Big and throaty and full of the same sort of appeal the gal had so much of. The finale of the act was when the whole flock of them— the gal and the line behind her— all moved to front stage, taking a full chorus to do it, and with the show girls joining in with her one at a time. It made a nice climax... they'd picked the gals for looks, and they just set the big girl off to perfection. The curtain went down with her standing there, front stage center, and with a show gal close to her on each side, though maybe three feet in back. Far enough back so the audience would know whose song it had been.

And then it happened.

THE curtain barely hit the stage before it started up again, so the bunch of them could take their bows. They took just one, and this time the curtain was supposed to be left down long enough for the girls around Lois McAvoy to get away from her so she could take the next bow alone. I just saw them start to duck back and away from her when the lights went out.

And they went out all over. No mistake— the stage was as dark as the inside of a barrel, and the change from the glaring brightness of the foot and floods and spots all focused on white legs and shoulders was more than startling.

The girls on the stage all screamed— and I heard a noise that didn't sound much louder than a cap pistol fired a block away. More of a snap than a bang. And it could have come from anywhere. Somebody stumbled into me, and swore viciously, and I recognized the voice and said:

"What in hell's the matter, Leo?"

He said, "That damn electrician! He's drunk again! He's pulled the master switch, the—"

He crowded past me, and then I could hear the sound of the audience, cutting through the noise the girls on the stage were making. A sort of dull roar— the sound a lot of voices make when their owners are puzzled and a little frightened but still not panicky. I thought of what might well happen unless Leo got the lights out front on in a hurry and started to pray— one fool can start a panic at a time like that. I could hear Leo, still swearing, over by the switchboard— and then the lights went full on.

They were set just as they'd been when the master switch had been pulled down and so they lit the stage in the same blaze it had been before the accident. And the guy pushing the button for the curtain to rise had apparently done his stuff before— because the curtain was going up in the stately way front drops always do. That's what made it so bad. It gave the audience a chance to see everything that had happened— and to see the panic on the stage. The girls were all huddled toward the back of the stage, against the back drop, in a tight little mob, and with their heads all turned toward the front and center of the stage.

My client, Lois McAvoy was there, stretched out flat, with her evening dress up around her waist. Her upper body was stretched out and covered the face and shoulders of another girl— one of the chorus line— and already blood was showing on the polished stage floor.

Leo Marks was standing by the switchboard, with his hand still up and on the master switch. His mouth was open and he was staring at the stage as though he didn't believe what he saw. He wasn't paying any attention to the man who was lying by his feet. I got to him in a hurry, just as the audience started really to make noise, and I said:

"For God's sake, Leo! Get that curtain down. Get out front of it and tell them there's nothing wrong. Tell them it's just part of the show."

He gave me a dazed look and said, "Sure, Teddy, but it isn't."

"D'ya want a panic?" I said. "Get that curtain down. Get out in front of it and quiet them."

He just stared at me. I slapped his face hard, first one side and then the other, and the dopey look went out of his eyes and he shook himself a little. He shoved a button on the board that was marked CURTAIN— EMERGENCY, and it started to drop as he ducked out in front of it. I could hear him start with "Ladies and Gentlemen! There is no cause for alarm. This is..."

The curtain came all the way down then and the thick asbestos cut off the sound of his voice. And I went out on the stage and to the two girls.

FIRST, I lifted Lois McAvoy away from the other girl, and that was a job. I didn't know whether she was hurt or not so I had to move her gently— and moving a girl that weighs around one sixty gently, when she's limp as a rag, is a trick I don't know. There were at least twenty people from the show, standing around and watching, but nobody made any move to help. I got Lois to the side and spread her out the way she'd been, and then quit worrying about her.

There'd only been one shot and the other girl had taken the slug and no mistake. Through the neck, and where it had hit the jugular vein. The blood was pumping out in spurts and there was still a lot of it. I wadded up a clean handkerchief into a solid point and crammed that into the hole the bullet had gone in, then lifted her head enough to do the same with the place the bullet had emerged— and both handkerchiefs started to darken fast. Leo came back from in front of the curtain, white-faced and trembling, and I said:

"Leo! Fast! Get a doctor here! Call an ambulance, just as soon as you get the doctor— or better, have somebody else do it. This girl might live, if they can get her to a hospital and give her a transfusion in time. It's loss of blood that'll kill her, and she's still got some left. Hurry, man!"

He dashed off, toward the house phone that was by the switchboard— and I knew there'd be a doctor there in a hurry. They often leave their names and seat numbers at the box office, in case of a call. Mary Mars came up and bent down over the girl and said:

"Oh, the poor dear! Well, she would run around with that kind of a man."

I said, "What does that mean?"

Mary said, "Her boy friend was terribly jealous. I expected something like this— he beat her up something terrible last week."

I said, "Where were you when the shot was fired?" I made it low, right in her ear, and so nobody else could hear it. She said back as low:

"I've got to talk to you, Teddy! Come up to my apartment— I'm in the telephone book."

"When?"

"Any time after the show— we'll have to go on."

THEN a fussy little bird with a Vandyke and a medical bag came bustling through the crowd, shoving them every which way. He knelt down by the girl on the floor, and said both to me and to Mary Mars:

"Give this girl air. The ambulance will be here at any time."

He sniffed at the handkerchief plugs I'd shoved in the little holes the bullet had made going in and out and replaced them with gauze. He did say, grudgingly:

"The girl would have died without this rudimentary first aid. Who is responsible for it?"

I said, "I'm guilty."

He said, "Indeed!" and looked me over.

I asked, "Have you had any experience with gunshot wounds?"

He sniffed again and said, "My specialty is gall bladders, sir."

I told him I'd wait to hear what the police surgeon said. That I was trying to find out what the girl was shot with and from how far away and a bunch of technical stuff like that.

He said:

"I can tell you this, young man. I was in the audience and distinctly heard the sound of the gun. It was not loud, therefore I judge it was a small calibred gun. The girl shows little sign of shock, which also bears out my theory of a small calibred gun fired from a distance. It happened just as the lights went out, I may add."

The ambulance came then, and with it a lot of policemen. They put the girl on a stretcher and took her away— and they mopped up the blood on the stage and put on a sort of show. My client, Lois McAvoy, was in her dressing room all during it, with me with her, and I didn't get a chance to see it— but Leo Marks stopped in and told us that only about half the girls would go on stage and that the ones that did acted as though they were on it for the first time. I said:

"How was Mars?"

He said, "You know Mary. She's a tramp but she's a trouper. She'd put on a show if the walls of the theater were falling down. She's so damned tough I don't think this business tonight bothered her at all."

My client said, "And she's such a sweet looking little thing, too."

Leo said thoughtfully, "So's a bumble bee. It looks so nice and soft and fuzzy and what a sting the damn things have."

AND then a big, hard looking bird came in, without knocking, and said, " 'Lo, kid!" to Lois. And to us he said:

"Get out."

Leo started to head toward the door. I said, "Wait a minute, friend. Who're you?"

My client said, "It's all right, Mr. Rawlin. I'll... just have your office bill me, please."

With that she looked toward the door and I got the idea. I went out with Leo, and Leo said, "If it wasn't for that big slob having his dough in the show, I wouldn't let him back stage. Harry Brice! Harry Brice, hell! If it wasn't that he's got more dollars than Mr. Carter's got pills, they'd have him in jail for chasing kids. He's a louse! He's a rat! He's been nothing but trouble for me and this show since he angeled it. He comes every night, with about twenty friends, on passes, which is the front office's headache. It ain't mine, but I still don't like it because the girls all play to him instead of to the money seats. You'd think he was the Lord himself, sitting up in that box."

"I thought the girl had money. If she hasn't, how come the press agent stuff about her jewelry?"

"That's what it is," said Leo. "You called the shot— it's press agent stuff."

"No money?"

"Lord, no. Just another show girl that thinks she's getting a break. A nice kid, too, even if she is bigger than a small Jersey cow."

I gave up trying to get anything more out of him after fifteen minutes of trying— and went down to the police station. They'd asked me a few questions and I'd told them I'd stop down after I'd seen my client was safe at home.

And now this Harry Brice was beating me out of the job of taking her there— and I didn't like it a bit.

THE police had gotten a lot of action in a hurry. They'd found out that the electrician hadn't pulled the main switch and so had thrown the house in darkness. He'd been standing by his board, waiting for his cue, and somebody had slugged him from behind and then had yanked down on the switch handle. They'd found no fingerprints on the handle, which meant the slugger had worn gloves or had had a handkerchief over his hand. The girl that had been shot was going to live, barring complications, which was all right with everybody but the boys working on Homicide. They were sore because they'd lost a cast iron case.

I talked with Joe Ellers, a friend of mine in that department, and he actually acted ugly about it. He said:

"Now look! This girl that was shot was named Mitzi Mareaux. That is, for show business— her real name was Mabel Welch and she was born over in Brooklyn. She was running around with a guy named William Morris— we've got him downstairs right now, working on him. He beat the girl up, only last week— he's crazy jealous about her and has threatened her plenty of times. Everybody in the show will testify to that."

I said, "So-o-o!"

"So that's it. Cast iron, Teddy! This Morris has got a permit for a Colt Woodsman twenty-two Hatch Target pistol. Got it just a little while ago— claimed he wanted to shoot at targets, I guess. We found that out from some of the people in the show, too. He was in the audience, and he tried to get back stage and the doorman had to almost fight with him to keep him out. We picked him up right there— he was still trying to argue his way in, after we went looking for him."

I said, "I don't get that, Joe."

"Well, one of the people in the show told us about him— his name and about the gun and all. So we remembered the guy that was making the fuss at the stage door, and sure enough, it was this guy Morris. So we picked him up and took him down to where he lived and he couldn't find the gun there. He claimed it must have been stolen. Stolen, hell! We picked it up in a trash basket in the men's room. His prints all over the inside of it, but the outside wiped clean. You see the spot he's in."

"Looks bad, all right."

Ellers sounded disgusted. He said, "You still don't get it. The girl's going to live. All we can do is rap the guy for attempted murder and assault with a dangerous weapon and disturbing the peace and a few things like that. I don't think we can put more than five years on the guy, instead of burning him."

I said, "I'll be going. I wouldn't be too tough with the guy, Joe. He can bring suit for false arrest and make trouble for you boys if you're wrong."

He stared and said, "If we're wrong. How in hell can we be wrong?"

I told him I'd heard that people often made mistakes and left. I still had a date with Mary Mars and that was one date I was going to keep.

Harry Brice had knocked my other plans for the evening sky high. When he'd appeared on the scene to take Lois McAvoy home.

MARY MARS lived in the East Sixties, in an apartment she couldn't afford. Not even with the money she was making in the show— and she was drawing down plenty. I called her from downstairs, and a little colored girl let me in and took my hat when I went up, and then La Mars made her appearance. And what an appearance.

She was dressed in black— but it was black lace and you could see right through it. And Mary Mars was something to see. You don't get by as a lead in a big town musical show unless you've got what it takes— and Mary had it. Plus. She was little, but then, they put the most expensive watches in small cases these days. She ticked just like one of them with me— and I didn't like her and never had. But then I'm only human— and I could forget all about not liking her I found out. She smiled sweetly at me and held my hand with both of hers and said:

"Oh, Teddy! The time we've wasted! And after the play I made for you, when we were working together. I'd just love to do a love scene with you, Teddy. I mean on the stage, of course."

The way she said it didn't mean on any stage.

She turned then and snapped at the maid, with, "Don't stand there like a stupid. Bring in some Scotch and some ice and a siphon bottle. Hurry now."

I said, "I can wait for a minute, Mary. The gal don't have to jump out of whatever she wears under that uniform on my account."

The Mars didn't pay any attention to this piece of politeness. She was still clutching my hand as though she was afraid I'd get away, and she pulled me over to a chesterfield and almost shoved me down on it. And then flounced down alongside, swinging her feet up on the couch, as she did. She was afraid I couldn't see enough through the black lace thing she was wearing, so she let most of it slide away from her legs. Still holding my hand in the grip, she leaned over as far as she could, without actually climbing up on my lap, and said:

"I like you better because you're that way, Teddy. Honest."

"What way?"

"Hard to get."

I laughed. I'd quit show business because just the opposite was true... and she knew it.

The maid came in with the tray full of whiskey and ice and soda, and the Mars said:

"Go ahead, stupid! Mix two drinks. Make 'em both with a little authority."

The maid did, then started to take the tray back to the kitchen. The Mars said, "Leave it, stupid! I'll call you when I want you. Understand?"

The maid said she understood— and left. I said, "What's her name besides stupid?"

"Carlotta," said the Mars. "I have 'the damnedest time with maids. I just can't keep them. It's my temperament, I guess. Here's
your drink, honey."

SHE handed me the highball and I didn't tell her that temper was the word she should have used to account for her maid trouble. I took the drink and she snuggled down and said:

"You were so cross to me tonight when that poor girl was shot. That was terrible. It was lucky I knew about the trouble she'd had with her boy friend, and about how he had the gun, wasn't it? They might not have caught him like they did, if I hadn't told them."

"You were the one that told them, eh?"

"Why yes, honey! He had no right to shoot the girl like that. Not during the time the show was on, anyway. I always say the place for family troubles is at home."

This from the wench who put on scenes all over the town. I said, "Well, it's none of my business. I was just there looking after Miss McAvoy's jewelry."

The Mars said, "Oh that big horse! Imagine a wench that big in show business."

I'd have rather been with Lois McAvoy than where I was— but I couldn't see any sense in foolish wishing. Besides, I had something to do that came under the heading of business. I figured if the gal wanted to make a little love while I was finding out about the business, why that was all to the good.

And beside that, I'd always been a fool for women and I could see I hadn't changed. And I was glad of it. By and by she disentangled herself and whispered:

"I'd better tell Carlotta to go home, hadn't I, honey?"

I said I thought it was a good idea. It took her another five minutes to get clear, and then she went to the kitchen— and I heard her say:

"Go home now, Carlotta. And I want you back here at eleven in the morning."

I heard Carlotta say something in return, but I didn't catch what it was. I was too busy looking at a stack of pictures that had been put face down behind a chair. I'd been figuring them out ever since I'd been in the apartment, and I wasn't wrong. I got back to my seat on the couch, and the Mars came back and poured us another drink and snuggled down next to me and whispered:

"Let's go on from where we left off. Shall we, Teddy honey?"

I heard a door close and figured it was Carlotta going home. I waited a minute and said, "Let's not. Let's just hold that for a minute. Why the sudden rush of love for me, Mary?"

"I always made a play for you," said the Mars.

"You're sure it wasn't something that just came on you tonight? So I wouldn't angle around and ask questions about where you were when the electrician was knocked on the head?"

She laughed and told me not to be silly.

And I said:

"I'm not being silly, you tramp. It was a nice frame. The poor guy they've got down in the station was the patsy, for sure. Swipe his gun, for the first. Shoot Lois McAvoy for the second. Tell the cops about him having trouble with his girl and owning a gun for the third."

She said, in a very reasonable voice, "But, Teddy honey! McAvoy wasn't shot— it was the other girl. His girl. And what would I have to do with it?"

AND then Brice said, from the door,

"Don't stall him any longer, kid. He's wise." He was standing there with a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.

It had been him coming in instead of the maid going out. He said to her:

"Let's not have any noise here. Get me a wet bath towel. I can take him down the elevator in the back."

The Mars said, "Oh, Harry!"

He said, "Come on! Move!"

She got away from me and started for the bathroom, which was off the hall leading to the kitchen. She went through the swinging door that led to the hall— and then there was a sort of muffled squawk from that way and Brice turned his head for a second.

And then I shot him— and I don't think he realized for a minute what had happened to him. I'd aimed the gun low, thinking a bullet in the shin would knock the pins out from under him and that he'd drop his gun. But his leg buckled and he stood there on the other one, like a chicken does on a cold frosty morning, and just stared at me. I said:

"Drop it. Or I'll make it center this time."

His gun was out of line and mine was lined on his middle. He dropped his, and teetered a bit and said:

"Where'd you have the gun?"

I said, "Look, stupid! While I was making love to your gal, I took it out of the sling. It was in the way and I put it down alongside of me. Clear?"

He said, "Yeah!" And then fell down.

I picked up his gun and went out toward the kitchen— and there was a sweet sight. The colored gal was sitting on top of Mary Mars and was just beating her silly. She smacked her in the face a couple of times more, for good measure, and looked up at me and panted out:

"Mister, I is just sick and tired of this bad woman calling me names. I is quitting. I is doin' her what I been wantin' to do. My boy friend says he pay my fine when she jails me."

I said, "Look, Carlotta, let her up before you kill her. And there'll be no jail for you. It's her that's going there."

And then I went back and called the cops.

The last I saw in the kitchen hall was the colored girl bouncing up and down on La Mars stomach, straddling her like she was riding a bucking horse. And I'm damned if even in the middle of that excitement I didn't notice the colored gal had a nice looking pair of legs herself.

I should have been born blind.

JOE ELLERS, of Homicide, said in a disgusted voice, "Hell! I should have thought of that. Here I talked to the electrician and knew somebody back stage had knocked him out and never thought to tie it up with the shooting. I'm losing my mind. "

I said, "That's what made it so simple. I had the reason for it when Leo Marks made the crack about Harry Brice running around after kids. I never thought about Miss McAvoy being just a kid— I took it for granted she was older than she was— I suppose because she's so big. Brice wanted to get rid of her because he'd fallen for Mary Mars, but he thought the McAvoy gal would make trouble for him."

"She should be glad to get rid of the heel," Ellers said.

"Sure. But he's so damned conceited he didn't think anybody would give him up without a struggle. So he swiped this young fellow's gun— fixed it with the Mars gal to do tricks with the electrician and the lights— and lined the gun on the McAvoy girl. When the lights went out, he pulled the trigger— but in the excitement the girls had shifted and he potted the wrong girl. That's what he was figuring on, the smarty. He thought the cops would think the McAvoy girl had been killed by mistake— thought they'd think the kid had aimed at his girl and had missed her and hit McAvoy."

"You wouldn't think a cute little trick like the Mars girl would slug a guy, like she did the electrician."

"You don't know the Mars girl. Brice was big money and she was nuts about him. She made the play for me so I'd fall for her and not suspect her nor Brice."

Ellers nodded and said, "Yeah! We found the blackjack in her dressing room— and that broke her down. Ah well! I always said a man should never trust a woman. They'll both do a little time for it, anyway. What are you going to do now, Teddy?"

I slid off from where I was sitting on a Homicide office desk and straightened my tie and said, "I'm going down to the show and take the McAvoy home. She likes me— she thinks I'm a marvelous detective."

Ellers stared, then shook his head. He said, gloomily, "And you'll get in trouble, like you always do. Didn't you just get through telling me the gal is under age?"

I said, "Was under, Joe. The word is was. She had a birthday, just yesterday."

He shook his head again and said, just as gloomily, "She'll still get you in trouble."

It turned out, afterward, that he was right. But I'd never give him the satisfaction of letting him know about it.

__________________

13: Two Little Men

Super Detective January 1946

I HAD the highball half way up to my face when the big guy, on my right, jostled my elbow. Hard enough so that half the highball hit me on the shirt front. I put the glass back on the bar and turned, waiting for the usual "Pardon me" or something like it, but I didn't get anything like it at all.

The guy said: "What's the matter, stupid? Too weak to hold a glass?"

He was around two hundred but he didn't stand more than five-ten. His nose had been broken more than once and he would have been offered a bid on his left ear in any vegetable market

He said: "Mama's  'ittle boy ain't huffy, is he?"

I tossed what was left of the highball in his face and he didn't step back, which was all to the good. I was half turned from him and that gave me a lot more power when I hooked him below the belt with my left as I spun. He said, "OOF!" and started to buckle and that's what made me miss with the right I heaved at his jaw. I caught him high on the temple instead, but it was enough to upset him.

I took a step ahead, intending to kick what was left of his teeth out the back of his neck, but right then somebody grabbed both my arms, above the elbows.

The next thing would be either a knee in my back or a kick in back of a knee, and one would be as bad as the other. I kicked back with one heel, hoping to connect with a shin, but missed completely. Then I turned my head in time to see the bar man take the towel he'd been mopping up with and flick it past me, like he was snapping a whip.

The grip on my left arm loosened and the one on the right just wasn't there so I jerked free and spun around. The bird that had been holding me had both hands up to his eyes and I stepped on his foot and clipped him at the same time.

The first man was on his feet by then and going for the door, and I didn't think it was right that he should leave his little pal behind. Little pal was long and lean and rangy, and jail bird timber if I ever saw a board. And little pal was dead to the world.

I got him by the wrist with both hands and dragged him to the door and out, then dumped him in the gutter. The other guy was a hundred feet down the street by then, too smart to run but certainly walking fast.

I shouted after him: "Hey, chum, here it is. Come and get it if you want it."

And then went back in the bar and said: "Thanks, Murph! Do as much for you sometime."

Murphy, the bar man, said politely: 'Don't mention it, don't mention it, Riley. Always glad to help a friend."

He even gave me a replacement on the highball without charging for it.

I'D JUST stopped in Murphy's for a fast  one on the way to the office. I was an hour and a half late then, but it didn't make any difference because it was my own office and I wasn't working on anything at the time.

When you've got a girl in the office to take calls, a couple of hours in the morning don't mean a thing. A private cop doesn't get many morning callers—they usually come late in the afternoon. It seems as if it takes them all day long to make up their minds to see you.

My office is on the second floor of the Nye Building, and it's a fair location for the business. It's an old building but well kept. It isn't expensive enough to scare middle price customers away and it's decent enough so that the higher priced ones core feel they're slumming when they call.

Also there's a front, side, back, and basement entrance and exit, and there've been times when this has been handy. Some people don't want to be seen calling on a private investigator, and some more of them want to make sure they're not followed from his office.

Not that I'm in anything crooked, but the very nature of the business demands secrecy a good part of the time.

But that was one morning I wasn't having any.

I noticed the elevator starter looked at me oddly but I put that down to the new suit I was wearing. Light gray, with a dark blue shirt, and a maroon tie that set that shirt off nicely. And a brand new hat as well, the same shade of blue as the shirt. My Spring wardrobe and I was proud of it.

I said: "Hi, Jimmy!"

He said: "Morning, Mr. Keenan."

I went past him and I thought he was going to say something but he gulped and didn't. I went up the stairs— I never could see any sense in taking an elevator up one floor, and as soon as I got to the first door of my suite I knew there was something wrong. There were voices and too many of them.

So I stepped in and thought I was in Grand Central station at the time the commuters were heading for home. The place was so jammed they'd overflowed into my private office.

There were three uniformed cops, apparently just standing there. There were three others who couldn't be anything but plain-clothes men. There was a photographer and he looked official. There was a spare little man with an air of authority. And there was Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton, whom I knew and who I knew worked homicide.

And also there was Ella, my office girl, though she called it secretary.

SHE was a sight. She had one of the prettiest shiners I ever saw. It was already closed and already green and black and purple. The cheek bone on the same side of her face was swollen and that side of her mouth stuck out like a pigeon's breast. Her right sleeve had been torn loose from the rest of her dress at the shoulder, and, when I came in, she was trying to fasten it back with a paper clip. Her hair was every which way; she'd been crying, and if anybody ever looked like the original witch-woman it was Ella.

I said: "What goes on?" to nobody in particular, and the little man who seemed to be in charge was on me like a flash.

"You Keenan?' he asked.

"That's me. What's up?"

"Riley Keenan?"

"That's right. What's happened?"

Ella quavered: "Oh Mr. Keenan!" but nobody paid her any attention.

The little man said: "Come with me," and turned toward my private office, taking for granted I'd follow.

I followed.

That office wasn't quite so full of people as the outside one had been, but there still were too many in it for the size of the room. Six, not counting my fussy new pal or myself.

But it was the first two that I saw that set me back on my heels, Two men in neat white coats and standing by a long and narrow wicker basket.

One of the other men—all I could see of him was a broad back, with the rest of him hidden behind my desk, straightened and turned around. I knew him, too. Assistant Medical-Examiner Rosetti.

He said: "I'm through, inspector. I can do the P. M. late this afternoon, if that's okay."

"Sure," said the little man. And to the men with the basket: "You can have him in just a minute."

And then to me: "Come along."

I followed him until I could see back of the desk and what I saw wasn't pretty. There was a lot of blood and in the middle of it some man I'd never seen before in my life. A man, I'd say, in his late fifties, a tall, spare man whose hair had been a dull white. The blood had changed the color, except for a little right in front.

He'd bled all over the place. My office rug doesn't extend to the back of the desk and there'd been nothing to stop the flow. His face was bruised and out of focus, mainly because one temple was crushed. He'd taken a terrible beating, though of course I didn't know whether that was what had killed him or not.

"Know him?' asked the inspector.

"I do not."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"What was he doing in your office?"

"That I don't know: Miss Tompkins, my office girl, will tell you he's no customer of mine."

"No appointment with him?"

"No appointment with anybody. Miss Tompkins can also tell you that. She keeps a record of them."

"I'm not asking Miss Tompkins. I'm asking you."

"I mentioned Miss Tompkins because she's the only one who can verify what I say, inspector. That's all."

"Ever been in Hamilton, Indiana?"

"Not that I remember. I may have driven through it, coast to coast."

"Ever know anybody named Cyrus K. Winthrop?"

"Not that I remember."

"Ever hear the name?"

"Not that I can remember."

"You keep files?"

"Of course."

"Mind if I check them?"

"I DON'T mind your looking at the manila covers. I certainly object to your examining the contents of them. Of course if you find anything there that has anything to do with this, the objection is removed."

"I quite understand."

He nodded to the two men with the basket and they brought it behind the desk. I didn't see them load the body in it because I was showing the inspector where the W files were kept. And it didn't take him a minute to find I had nothing under Winthrop.

He thawed out a bit then. He said: "The man's name was Cyrus K. Winthrop and he came from Hamilton, Indiana. Staying at the Ramona, which is practically a residential hotel. Been there four days. Supposedly a stranger in town. Clerk says he asked points of interest to see. Not much money. A nut. Came all the way from Indiana to see this United Nations conference. A fanatic on the subject of world. peace, the clerk says. Talked to him about it all the time— talked to anybody in the lobby who'd listen to him about it. Clerk heard him."

I said: "If everybody would take an interest in it like that, it would be a good thing for everybody concerned. I should and don't, I'm sorry to say."

The inspector grunted, whether assent or not I couldn't tell. "Why should a man like that call on a private detective?"

"That I don't know."

"He was snoopy— we know the type. But why should he call on you?"

I shrugged. There was no answer called for.

"I'm putting Lawton on this. He tells me he knows you."

"I know Charley. Yes."

"You'll work with him?"

I wasn't sore but I was getting a little bit fretful. Two men had picked a fight with me for no reason. A man had been killed in my office. This inspector seemed to think I knew more about it than I did, which was nothing at all.

I said: "Inspector, I'll work with anybody on it. If you think I like murder done in my office, you're crazy. I'll work with Lawton or anybody. Did you find any prints or anything like that?"

"Not a thing. Lawton will no doubt tell you about that part of it, Keenan. He has the man's papers and identification and things like that—he'll turn them in to Property when he's checked them through for any lead."

"Okay. I'll help if I can."

He nodded and sailed out, without even bothering to say he'd be seeing me or any other one of the polite nothings.

The inspector was a busy little man and had an eye on his business.

2: One Little Man

LAWTON IS big and dark and quiet—  too quiet for comfort sometimes. In talking with him you get the idea that he knows more than he's saying, and that is upsetting at times. At the times you're holding something out.

He said: "It was like this, Riley. The man came in and asked for you, and Miss Tompkins, Ella, said you weren't down yet. He said he'd wait—that he had to see you at once. He sat down in one of those lounge chairs you have in the outside office, and Ella went on with her work."

"You mean, Charley, that she pretended she went on with her work. She don't write three letters a day."

Lawton grinned. "Well, she pretended then. Five minutes later the door opened and two big bruisers walked in. Ella says she never saw either of them before. One of them said to Winthrop, 'In the other office, bud' or something like that. Ella was pretty sure of the sense if not the wording. Winthrop just sat there—I don't think he had any idea of what it was all about. Anyway, Ella said he looked surprised instead of afraid. Ella said, 'You can't go in there. That's Mr. Keenan's private office'.

"She got up from the typewriter and stood in front of the door to your office then, Riley, and one of the two smacked her twice and knocked her down. It didn't knock her out but it dazed her. She saw them pick Winthrop out of the chair and shove him into your office then, and she heard them beating him up. She said he didn't cry out but once, and then in just a muffled way."

I said: "They probably had him out on his feet with the first sock."

Lawton nodded. "She was trying to get up on her feet when they came back through the outer office and one of them said to her, 'A present for Keenan, sister'. And then they left and she called in to the station."

"What did she say they looked like?"

He shrugged. "You know Ella. They could have been any two men in San Francisco, from her description."

I admitted that Ella wasn't quite bright and I was telling the truth. She could take a phone call, and if she wrote everything down right while she was taking it, I got it straight. If she tried to remember it, it sounded like code—and I'm not good at working stuff like that out.

So I have an office rule that everything is to be written down immediately.

She can type and very well, but this isn't much of a help to me. I have little business done through the mail. She knows nothing of short-hand, which would be a help to me. If she was good at that she could take down conversations between myself and the clients and I'd have a check on what was said.

However, she's nice-looking in a kittenish sort of way, and a nice kid. She's faithful, loyal, comes to work on time, and you can't have everything for the wages I can afford to pay.

So Ella stays on.

I SAID: ''I don't know what to make of it, Charley. I never saw the guy. Naturally I didn't see the killers. How was he killed ?"'

"Sapped silly and then knifed through the neck. Whoever beat him up was a little crazy— it was as brutal a job as I've ever seen. As long as they were going to put him out of the way with a knife, there was no reason for making pulp out of him before. One lick would have put him down so that he'd make no noise when they used the shiv. But they worked him over just the same. Even fractured his skull."

"I saw that. A sap wouldn't do that, Charley."

"The butt of a knife would. The dent was the right shape, too. I take it that one used the sap and the other the knife."

He put on his hat, going to the glass above the wash basin and being very careful about the way he slanted it to the side.

I said: "Where to now?"

"The Ramona. One of the boys got the dope there already, from the clerk, but I'd rather get it first hand. Be seeing you, boy."

He went out and I heard him telling Ella he'd see her in Heaven, or in front of the Paramount at eight, if she wanted to see a show with him. I didn't hear what Ella said, but I had an idea.

Lawton said: "Well, no harm in trying, honey. Anyway, I'll be seeing you."

Then I heard the outside door close and waited a moment and went out to see what I could see. I hadn't told Lawton about what had happened earlier in Murphy's place, and I didn't intend to for awhile.

At least not until I thought it tied in with my office murder,

ELLA looked like hell and knew it. I suppose she felt as bad, as well. Her shiner, by that time, was clear down on her cheek, and that eye was not only closed but puffed like a football. Her mouth was so swollen she could hardly speak. Her cheek-bone showed a nasty bruise through the swelling. Her good eye was red and angry-looking from crying, and though she'd tried to do something about her hair, she hadn't helped it much.

She had fixed her dress a bit— she'd found a safety pin somewhere and she had the sleeve tacked back on with it.

I sat on the edge of her desk, which was crosswise in a corner, and said: "Just a couple of questions, kid, and then you go home. I'll get a cab for you. Get straightened up a bit and then go to a beauty parlor and let 'em give you the works. Nothing will fix that eye except time, but they'll straighten you up a bit and you can wear dark glasses for a while. Okay?"

She said: "Oh, thanks, Mr. Keenan."

"Thanks for what? For fighting my battles for me? Even gives a bonus this week. Now tell me. What did those two guys look like?'

She gave me as vague a description as I ever heard in my life.

I said: "Now listen closely. Don't say yes unless you're sure. Was one of them short and stocky and did he have a broken nose? Heavy— heavier than I am? Did he have a funny looking ear?"

"I'm not sure about his ear, Mr. Keenan, but he had a broken nose. My brother's got one— it's got a sort of hump in it. This man had the same thing."

"Heavy?"

"Oh, yes!! That's the man that hit me."

"Was the other one tall and thin? Taller than I am but not as heavy?"

"You're very well built, Mr. Keenan. Yes, he was like that. And he had squinty eyes and looked as mean as he could be. It was him that said, 'A present for Keenan, sister'."

"Sure of that, now? You're not just thinking these were the men because I'm describing them?"

"No, I'm sure of it. Do you know them, Mr. Keenan?"

My right knuckles ached from where I'd hit the first one too high on the head. And I was willing to bet I had black and blue marks above my elbows, where the second one's fingers had bitten in when he'd held me.

I said: "I think maybe I've met them. But keep it under your hat. Now I'll call a cab and you go home and get straightened up. Got anything left of the pay-check?"

She colored and said she had, and I knew she was lying from the way she said it. I made her take a twenty dollar bill, over protests, then called a cab and got her started on her way.

AND then I went down to Murphy's which was two corners away. It was almost noon by then and Murphy had his bartender on the job. He was in the back booth, arguing with a beer salesman, and I gave him a nod and had a drink while I waited. The salesman either sold or didn't and left before I had time even to finish my highball, and I took it over to the booth and Murphy.

He said: "Ho, Riley! Lunch time already?"

I said: "I'm working. Really working."

He looked interested. And didn't ask a question. I'd been going to his place steadily, for the five years I'd had my office in the Nye Building, and he'd never asked a personal question during that time. He asked nobody personal questions— he just sat back and let them talk.

And found out more that way.

I said: "Ever see either of those two guys that made the fuss this morning?"

"Not before this morning, Riley. I won't let. 'em through the door if I see 'em again, either."

"Let 'em in and call me. Or call the cops. That'd be better."

He raised an eyebrow.

"They killed a man up in my office. Before I got there this morning."

"Sure it was them?"

"They fit the description my office girl gives. Or rather, when I described them, she checked it. They smacked her down—

I had to send her home."

Murphy said solemnly: "Now that ain't right, hitting a woman. I'd be sore about that myself. You say they killed a man?"

"That's right. A man I'd never seen before."

Murphy said: "See if I figure it the same as you do. They'd killed this man in your office. They start away. They see you turn in here. They follow you in—you remember they came in after you did. They pick a fight with you. I got a notion that if they'd got you down, they'd have put the boots to you. Right?"

I said: "That's right. It's the only way it could be. But how come they knew me? I don't know either of them."

Murphy said: "You've probably been pointed out to them at some time. They're hired thugs, hired killers. That's certain. They'd naturally keep posted on who was what. They probably know every quiet clothes men on the force. And probably every man that carries a private badge. I should know."

And he should. Murphy had done a three to five once, when he was little more than a kid, and I was one of the few that knew it. He'd got sensible then and played it decent, and there was less rough stuff in his bar than in most of the cocktail lounges.

I said: "Well, keep an eye out for 'em, will you, for me, Murph. Killing a man and smacking my girl around, all in my own office, I don't like."

Murphy said he'd keep his eyes open and I went back to the office well satisfied. I knew he'd do more than that. I knew he'd put the word out about the two men, and that coming from Murphy, the word might do some good. He could find out more in one day than all the police stoolies could in a week, because he'd kept his connections and the boys knew he wouldn't be running to the cops.

So I went back to the office and met the first one of the little men.

3: The Second Little Man

HE WAS very neat and dapper. Not over five-four and he wouldn't have weighed over a hundred and ten wringing wet. He walked as though he had lifts in his shoes and he probably did. He must have been kicking close to sixty, because his red little cheeks were wrinkled like a Winter apple. He wore a suit of grey cloth that was not only better material than my new Spring outfit but was better tailored. His white shirt looked as though he'd put it on not five minutes before, and his patterned tie matched his socks and his breast pocket handkerchief. He wore a grey homburg that fitted the rest of the rig to perfection.

If he'd been half again as big, he'd have looked like an advertisement of what the well-dressed man wears, Like something out of Esquire, by the New Yorker.

He said briskly: "Mr. Keenan?"

I said: "That's right."

"I'm Hatcherly. Robert M. Hatcherly. My card, sir."

His card confirmed him. Also, in the lower left hand corner it read Investments. It said nothing about his office address or telephone number. And it was engraved, not printed.

I said: "Glad to know you, Mr. Hatcherly."

He said: 'Before I state my business, Mr. Keenan, I must have some assurances. I understand that a private investigator is much in the same position as any other professional man. As a doctor or lawyer, let us say. Is that supposition correct, sir?"

I didn't know what I might be walking into so I played it safe. I said: "To a certain extent, of course."

"I refer to secrecy."

"That would depend. If a client confesses to a major crime, it would be my duty to so inform the police. If it was a minor matter, that could be arranged to the satisfaction of both parties— by that I mean if the injured person was satisfied— the matter could be handled secretly. It's a fine point and some members of my profession seem to fail to understand."

"Ethics, eh?"

"Exactly."

He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. "It's nothing like that, Mr. Keenan. However I wish it to be kept absolutely secret. I'm in this city on an important business matter. I'm not supposed to be here. If my, let us say, opponents knew I was here they would know the deal was ready to flower. They would move Heaven and Earth to block this merger I am arranging, and it is possible that they have power enough to do it. Am I clear?"

I admitted I wasn't much of a business man and that mergers and things like that were definitely out of my line.

He smiled, showing me teeth that were so good they were surely false. He said: "But you can appreciate the necessity of secrecy, surely."

"Oh, sure."

"I can depend on it then."

I DIDN'T like the way he was harping on the secrecy business but a client's a client and I could use one at that time.

I said: 'Certainly. Not a word to anyone."

"That's fine. It's about my brother, Mr. Keenan. My twin brother. I can't find him."

"No?"

"He was to meet me here. We always stop at the Fairmont, you see. He hasn't registered— the hotel knows nothing of him."

"Maybe he hasn't got here yet."

He started to reach to his inside coat pocket, then stopped. "I had a wire from him from here while I was en route. Saying he had just arrived. I naturally supposed he'd be at the Fairmont. Do you wonder why I am concerned ?"

I took a chance at master-minding myself out of the job and said: "Did he tell you for sure he'd be at the Fairmont?"

"Well, no."

"Then he's probably at one of the other large hotels. The town is crowded more than usual because of the United Nations conference, you see. It's possible that the Fairmont was full at the time he asked for a room there. It's possible that suddenly he decided to stop somewhere else. People take notions like that for no reason, I've found."

He shook his head. "I've called all the better hotels, Mr. Keenan. John is not the type to go to a cheap place, I may add. No, I fear something has happened to John."

"Then you should go to the police, Mr. Hatcherly."'

"Would my presence here be held a secret?" he demanded.

I had to tell him: "Probably not. The newsmen watch for such things. Personal interest stuff they call it. The police, at least some of them, would keep it as quiet as they could, if you requested it. Some of them, I'm afraid though, have a tie-up with certain newspaper men, and hand out bits of information they shouldn't. The minority, you understand, of course.'

He said: ''The rotten apples that spoil the barrel. Yes, I know. Will you try to locate my brother for me, Mr. Keenan?"

"Why, certainly."

"And your fee? I always think it best to have details settled in advance. It saves arguments later."

He looked, talked, and acted like money, so I asked double what I'd have to pay the leg man I intended hiring for the job.

I said: "Twenty a day and expenses. They shouldn't be much— some cab fare and a lot of telephoning will probably be all it will be."

He looked doubtful and asked: "Is that the usual charge, Mr. Keenan?"

"It is in this office, Mr. Hatcherly," I assured him,

HE hauled out an ostrich leather bill fold from a pocket inside his vest, having to unbutton it to get at the thing. His vest had white piping on it, I noticed. He counted out a hundred dollars and passed it over as though he hated to part with it, and I decided Mr. Robert M. Hatcherly might be in the chips but he wasn't letting them fly where they may.

He said: "On account, of course, Mr. Keenan."

I started writing him a receipt, and while I was doing it, I asked: "May I ask why you came to me with this? Instead of to one of the other agencies? It's just plain curiosity— it really doesn't matter."

He showed me a folded newspaper and said, in a surprised voice: 'Why, this, Mr. Keenan. Surely you've seen it."

I hadn't. My office murder had apparently been just in time to make the deadline on the afternoon sheets, and they'd given it a nice splash, DEAD MAN FOUND IN DETECTIVE''S OFFICE was the heading, and in the story itself they gave the thing quite a bust. And either the reporter or the rewrite man must have been somebody I knew—I know a lot of the boys, anyway—because he boosted me all over the sheet. I was "the well-known detective". I was "famous in crime-breaking circles", and the paper, while not quite coming out and saying it, implied I'd solve the murder before the police had time to get started on the matter.

The article, of course, would do me more harm than good with the cops, but it was swell advertising.

For example, it had already brought me a customer.

I said: "They give me quite a build-up, all right. If I could believe all I read, I'd be quite a guy in this racket."

He said: "Reading it is what gave me the idea of going to a private investigator. Frankly, I hadn't thought of it. I felt I had to do something about John, and had decided to go to the police. Knowing that in all likelihood it would spoil this matter I have been working on for months. But you were the logical answer, Mr. Keenan. I hurried right down."

"About John, now. Can you describe him?"

"Certainly. We are twins. I'm told people have difficulty in telling us apart."

"Any idea of how he'd be dressed?"

"John dresses, well, more sedately than I do. That is about all I can tell you. I haven't seen John for well over a year, you see, and I have no way of knowing what additions he has made to his wardrobe."

"John Hatcherly. Is that right?"

"John W. Hatcherly, Mr. Keenan, John William Hatcherly. I am Robert Morris Hatcherly. After the great American patriot, you know."

I remembered the name, faintly, from history lessons in the first year of high school, but I said that I remembered very well.

And then we shook hands and he went out.

Leaving me with a hundred dollar retainer and a definite suspicion that I was being played for a Patsy in some way.

SAN FRANCISCO is a big town, and hotel and apartment house town. I honestly think a higher percentage of people live in hotels, apartments, and furnished flats than in any other city in this country, with the possible exception of New York City.

I had no city directory to help me, because John William Hatcherly had only been in town three or four days, but I thought his recent arrival might lead to a break.

Coming in such a short time ago it wag just barely possible that some of the Fairmont people might recall his asking for a room. That is, of course, if he'd asked. So I thought I'd check that myself, before turning the routine over to one of the ten dollar a day boys who are always on tap.

I drew an absolute blank. Robert M. was registered, though not in. John W. had not been heard from. I took particular pains to hunt down each clerk who'd worked the desk during the last few days and none of them remembered him asking for a room.

For that matter, none of them remembered anybody named Hatcherly, except Robert M., my client. And they all had a little smile for me when they remembered him.

I took it Robert M.'s rather youthful way of dressing, along with his tinyness, had created an impression.

So I took a cab back to the office and called George Dixon—and he was over in twenty minutes. George works constantly making ten a day and what he can chisel out of the swindle sheet, and he never has a dime.

His bookie, though, is doing right well.

I said: "It's the missing person thing, George. And it's quiet. Nothing that anybody can put a finger on. Can do?"

He said: ''Can do."

"The name's John William Hatcherly. His brother wants him. He's worried about him. Here's what he looks like."

I then described Robert M. as best I could.

George said: "Sure he'll be under his own name?"

"As far as know, he will. Certainly his brother gave me no reason for thinking otherwise."

"And he was supposed to be at the Fairmont?"

"That's right. I've checked that, though, as I told you."

"The brother thinks he'd go to another good hotel?"

"That's right again. Only he tells me he's called all of them and still no brother John."

George stood up briskly and said: "If I work it right, I should get at least a month's work out of this. Give me some dough for expenses. What the hell is all this that happened in your office here this morning ?"

"A guy murdered, that's all. And Ella got pushed around."

George knew Ella. He said: ''That's a hell of a note. That kid's punchy right now. She can't stand much more pushing around, or somebody'll have to lead her on a string."

My poor little Ella.

4: The Bruisers

WHEN I stopped in at Murphy's the next morning for the morning's morning, he was, as usual, mopping away at the bar with a damp towel, and scowling at the world. I didn't blame him much. The usual morning trade in a bar is strictly hangover, and just looking at dying men like these would curdle anybody's disposition.

I said: "Hiya, Murph."

He brightened a little and said: "Ho, Riley. The usual."

I said the usual and he put out a glass of plain water, a shot glass, and the rye bottle. I can't drink the stuff straight. I've always been a sucker for laryngitis, and raw whiskey sets me talking in a whisper. We talked about the weather, the United Nations conference, about which we both admitted we knew nothing, about the movie Murphy saw the night before and the burlesque shows he'd seen in the past— the vote went two to nothing in favor of burlesque— and such chatter as that. I bought a bottle for the office— the office crock was running low I'd noticed the day before, and Murphy reminded me again that he wasn't supposed to sell packaged goods and that he'd lose his license if he were caught. And I reminded him again that I could always go down to the package store on the corner if he didn't want to make a buck on the sale.

We got along like that.

He had his back to me, making change for the ten spot I'd given him, and he spoke without turning around.

He said: "Yes, sir, Riley, the old Clayton rooming house, down on Howard, isn't a bad place to stay at all. At least not these days. Of course it's sort of a tough neighborhood and a man hadn't ought to go there without friends, but still and all it's a pretty good spot."

He turned then with my change and I took it and said: "Thanks, Murph! Do as much for you sometime."

He said politely: "Don't mention it, don't mention it, Riley. Always glad to help a friend."

And that was that. I'd asked him to do some locating and he'd come through. And in a lot faster time than I'd hoped for.

I WENT up to the office and here was Ella, who I hadn't expected to see for the next week. She was wearing smoked glasses and heavy make-up over her bruised cheek, but her mouth was still so puffed it looked as if she were pouting. But her blonde hair was fixed up with little ringlets— something new— and she looked as bright and chipper as a sparrow.

I said: "Hey! You're supposed to stay home."

She said primly: "And let my work get behind?" And then eagerly: "Oh, Mr. Keenan! Have the police caught those awful men yet?"

I told her I hadn't seen hide or hair of Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton and that he'd probably quit working homicide and had joined the United Nations conference, representing the San Francisco police department.

Ella carefully explained that this would be impossible— that it had to be a nation before you could represent it. It seemed Ella had made quite a study of the thing.

After hearing this and how she'd spent all the day before holding ice packs on her mouth to take the swelling down, I went into my own office and closed the door. The usual mail was on my desk— two circulars, one touting loaded. dice, marked cards of various kinds, hold-outs, with the best going cheap for only fifty dollars, and all this in addition to regular gambling house paraphernalia. It seemed I'd been recommended by a friend, who knew I'd be interested. The other was advertising police equipment, standard stuff that's regulation in almost all big towns.

The two made a nice contrast.

There was the notice about the rent being due and payable and I dumped that in the basket along with the circulars. I didn't have to worry about the rent until I got the one about it being overdue. There were four other bills, one small one which I thought I'd pay that day.

I filed the others in the waste basket, too.

And that cleared the decks for action.

I RARELY carry a gun except when I go to the police range where I've got a courtesy card. The gun's heavy and dragging on your shoulder, and you need one in routine work about as much as you  need another leg.

I've got two— a .357 Magnum with a five inch barrel, which is sheer murder at any distance a man can be hit with it. And it's also a brute to shoot. It bounces me back so hard it makes my teeth ache, and the muzzle blast in that short a barrel causes me to flinch after a dozen or so practice shots.

However, if a man was shooting it in a bit of an argument, little things like that would go unnoticed.

The other gun is a Colt Woodsman Target Model, a .22, of course. And it's the pet. It hasn't much shocking power, naturally, but neither has it any recoil to throw you off your aim. You can hit a running man with it and call your shot, right leg or left leg, shoulder or thigh, and with high speed hollow point shells, it's a deadly little gun if you want it to be. There are far too many kids killed accidentally with it, each year. Mostly because they're not taught how to use and properly handle a gun.

I picked this and the sling holster for it and was out of my coat and putting on the harness when Ella came in. She took one look at the shoulder rig, another at the big gun and the little gun on the desk, and then she started squealing like a pig.

"You're not going to do it, Riley— Mr. Keenan, I mean. You're not going to do it."

I said: ''Do what, kid? Clear that up for me."

"Whatever you're going to do. You're not going to do it."

I said: "Now, now! Any reason I can't go out to the range and punch holes in paper targets? That is, if I can hit the targets."

"You're not going to any range. You can't tell me that. If you were, you'd take your shooting kit. I know, all right. You're going to find those two men."

"I'm letting Lawton find 'em, kid. If I found 'em, I wouldn't know what to do with 'em."

She said firmly: "I'm not going to let you go.  'I'll... I'll..."

"Come on, don't weaken, kid."

"I'll call Mr. Lawton myself. He'll stop you. It's his work to catch those men. You're not a policeman—you're only sort of a policeman."

I said: "The license board would love that. Now you never mind, kid. Papa Keenan won't get hurt. He never does."

SHE said bitterly: "There's the time you tried to step on the running board of that hit-and-run driver and he pushed you off and you were three months in the French Hospital. There was the time that man broke in the window of Shreve's, and when you tried to stop him, he shot you in the leg. Two months in bed that time, too. No! You don't get hurt. Not Papa Keenan! I'm going to call Mr. Lawton, right now. He'll stop you— I know he will."

I put my coat back on and tucked the little gun in its clip. Then shoved the big baby into the waistband of my trousers, under my shirt. It made too much of a bulge but with the lower button of my nice new grey coat fastened, it wasn't noticeable.

Ella started to cry.

I said: ''Be back in about an hour, kid. Look after things."

She said: '"Boo-hoo, boo-hoo. I don't know what to do, Riley. You've got to take Mr. Lawton with you."

I said: "Lieutenant Lawton is far too busy a man to go out to the range and punch holes in paper targets. He's trying to catch those two men. Don't you remember those two men? Now run back to work like a good little girl."

"You... you know I haven't any work to do."

I said: "I've got something for you to do— I was going to ask you to get at it right after lunch. But you can start now just as well."

I took her telephone directory and turned it to Classified— Hotels. I said: "Start right at the A's and work straight through. Call every hotel in order. Just ask if John W. Hatcherly is registered there. He might sign under J. W. Hatcherly, so make sure the clerk gets it straight. Got that name straight now, Ella? This is important."

She quavered: ''Maybe I'd better write it down. I... I forget names sometimes."

She'd have forgotten her head if it wasn't fastened to her, but I didn't mention that. She acted as though she felt bad enough already.

THE sign, wooden, and with a fifteen watt bulb set in a gooseneck to show it up at night, read THE CLAYTON. This was over what looked like a hole in the wall, between a cleaning and pressing place on one side and a battery repair shop on the other. The hole turned into a tunnel running back maybe eight feet, and pie two steep stairs climbed to the second floor.

That was the Clayton, and a dirty, dingier dump I've never seen. And it looked even worse at that hour in the morning. Eleven o'clock sunshine made it seem even drearier.

I pulled my shirt out from my pants a little, so that I could tear it away with my left hand in case I had to get the big gun out with my right. I tried the little gun and it snapped out of the clip like it had a life of its own.

And then I said to myself, "Well, here goes nothing," and started up the stairs.

There was a table right at the head of them, and on it one of the kind of bells you ring by hitting a gadget on its top. Above this was a sign reading FOR MANAGER—RING BELL. Mrs. Keenan had always taught her little boy, Riley, to do as he was told, so I rang the bell. Nothing happened. I rang the bell again. This time a door well down the hall opened, and a big fat wench came waddling up toward me. She couldn't have been over twenty-five but she must have weighed all of two-twenty. And she wasn't more than five-six and carrying that weight. Really a Mrs. Five-by-Five.

I said: "You the manager?"

She simpered and said: "Who else, dearie?"

If she hadn't been so fat, she'd have been kind of cute. She had a round doll face and big blue eyes, only when she smiled, they crinkled at the corners and almost closed from the fat squeezing up from her cheeks.

I thought I'd try diplomacy first. I put a ten dollar bill down on the table and wad: "I'm looking for a couple of friends of mine. One's a big guy, an ex-fighter. Got a busted beak and a bad ear. The other is long and lean— I don't know his name. We used to call him Slim."

She looked at me reproachfully and said: "And do I look like a stoolie, dearie. I can smell copper on you and you stink to me."

I picked up the ten-spot, thinking there was no reason to waste it or my time any longer.

I said: "Okay! If that's how you want it. I try to play it nice and you get cute. Where are they, sister?"

She told me to go climb a tree. And I hit her with my open hand as hard as I could swing. She teetered like a pin the ball's just touched, but when she went down, it was with a crash. I picked her up by the front of the smock thing she was wearing—it took both hands and all the heft I had to do it—and rushed her into the wall and pinned her there.

I said: "I'm not fooling, sister. Where are they?"

HER face was working like it was a bowl of gelatine with somebody shaking it. Two big tears came out of her closed eyes, with one of them rolling over the nice red mark the palm of my hand had made on her cheek.

She said: "You... you hit me."

I said: "Sister, I'll put you down on the floor and I'll kick your teeth in unless you loosen up. What the hell is this? Sunday School? Where are they, I say?"

I put my left hand on her throat and stepped back as far as I could and still hold her. And then made a fist with the other hand, so that she could see it.

I said: "Okay, sister. Do I or don't I?"

She almost whispered: "One-twenty-one. Would you have hit me if I hadn't told you, dearie?"

I took my hand away from her neck and didn't answer. She said, in the same husky whisper: "You would have. I bet you would have."

I said: "Come on, show me one-twenty- one."

It was almost at the end of the hall, a room facing out on Howard. And I stopped just short of it.

I said: "Look, hon! Knock on the door. When they ask who it is, tell 'em you're the manager. They'll open up for you. But don't wait for them to open up. When you tell 'em who you are, you tip-toe to hell and gone away from here."

She said: "For you, sweets. They're both bad. Don't you take chances, sweets."

She knocked, and sure enough a voice I recognized said: "What th' hell is it?"

She said: "The manager, Mister Sayers. Can I speak to you?"

We heard a bed creak and then somebody coming toward the door, and the big girl picked up her smock thing showing me legs damned near as big as barrels. But she tip-toed away down the hall and didn't make a sound doing it.

I took the little gun from under my arm and went to the side of the door, the side where it would open. And went flat against the wall. The door opened and I heard somebody grunt, and then a head stuck out in the hall. I came down as hard on it with the butt of the little gun as

I could, and the man took a couple of pitching steps out in the hall as he started to fall.

And by that time I was in the doorway.

The light was in my eyes from that Howard Street window and it took me a second to see what was what. And then I saw the tall thin man, lying on the bed, and dragging a gun from under the pillow by trim.

A .22 Long Rifle cartridge doesn't make much noise when it lets go. Even in a pistol, and they're noisier than a rifle. It makes a sharp, vicious crack, but it's not loud, even in a room like that. The little gun made the noise and the man on the bed looked startled. That was all. He kept bringing out that under-the-pillow gun. I thought I'd been too far to the left and that I'd probably just burned his ribs, so I corrected with the next one.

He just put his head hack on the pillow, letting his hand fall away from the gun.

And then one ankle went out from under me and I went down to the hall floor, dropping the gun.

5: Dead Evidence

I FOUND out in the first place that I'd made a mistake. The broken-nosed man wasn't an ex-fighter—he was an ex-wrestler. He had me by the ankle and he went to work on it in a big way, and when I tried to squirm over to where the little gun had fallen, he yanked me away from it like Tarzan works on a monkey-man.

I figured to hell with it. I'd been trying to be quiet. I'd used the little gun, knowing it wasn't the proper caper for close-in work like I probably would have, and all this Just to make it a private quarrel.

And also I didn't want to have to kill either one of them. I wanted them alive so that I could find out why they'd killed the man in my office. But the guy inside had gone for a gun in the face of mine, and I was forced into killing him. It was shoot or be shot in that case, and I'd rather do the shooting when it comes like that.

It was the same right now. If I'd got my hands on the .22, I'd have taken a chance on crippling him. The way he was throwing himself, and me and my ankle with him, around, I couldn't pick my shot. I got the big gun out and tried to reason with him.

I shouted: ''Let go. Let go or I'll turn loose."

He looked up at me then and I'll always think he was crazy. I knew then who'd beaten the poor guy in my office so unmercifully. He was one of the kind that go out of their head when they're hurting somebody.

Right then he got my foot in both hands and bent it, and I almost passed out with he pain. I leveled the big gun at one of his thighs, that was motionless for a second, and touched it off— and the Keenan bad luck stepped in. As usual.

Just as the gun slammed out that cannon noise it makes he jerked back, I suppose with the idea of tearing my foot off. That  big slug took him through the right hip, plowed through his groin— and by that time it had hit bone and was spread out to about 60 calibre, and it kept on going until it broke his other hip.

He let go of me, I'll say that. I was almost deafened by the muzzle blast of that big gun, but I could hear him scream.

Just once, though. It sounded like a horse that had been hurt.

He was paralyzed from the hips down and what that slug, hitting at fifteen-ten velocity, did to his lower region must have been a pretty. He was on his belly, with the upper part of his body arched up from the floor, and he was beating at it, first with one hand and then with the other. His eyes were open but there were no expression in them. For that matter I doubt if he felt any pain —the shock from that much lead, hitting from that distance and at that speed, probably killed all sensation. It was enough to put him out, anyway, because his pounding stopped and he slid down until his face was on the floor.

And then I tried to stand up and found the leg he'd been working on wouldn't hold me.

I was half screwy by then, and not alone because of what he'd done to my leg. The pain from that was making me sick to my stomach, but rolling around on the floor with a man I'd just shot was making me a hell of a lot sicker.

Then somebody said: "I'll help you, sweets. Nell will help you."

She put a hand under my shoulder and heaved, but when I tried to help her by lifting up, I twisted my leg in some fashion and this time I knew I was gone. I could see things start to fade and that's the last I remember about the business in the hall.

I WOKE up on the fanciest bed I've ever seen. It was way up from the floor and very soft— there were three mattresses on it, though I didn't know it then. The spread was satin and thick, and I was surrounded by French dolls, at least a dozen of them. They were flopping on the pillow by me, they were at the side, against the wall, and they were down by my feet.

it was then that I noticed my new grey suit. Rolling around on that hall floor hadn't done it a bit of good, and the broken-nosed man had really done it damage. The leg he'd been so enthusiastic with was bare from my knee down, and what was left of that part of the pants looked like rags. I was blood all over— I took it that I'd either fallen or rolled where the ex-wrestler had bled, and blood on a grey suit isn't pretty.

And yet the big fat girl had put me, blood, dirt, and all, on top of her fancy spread. I thought she was quite a gal at that, and then she came through the door, carrying a pint bottle of whiskey.

She said: "I had to run down to the store for it, sweets. I didn't have a drop in the place. You feel any better, angel?"

I felt better but not much, but I said I was starting to feel fine.

She said: "You are a cop, aren't you?"

I said: "A sort of one."

She gave a relieved sigh and started pouring whiskey into a wine glass. She said: "Then it's okay. I thought it'd be all right, but I'd have had to do it anyway. With that damned cannon of yours blasting in the hall, everybody on Howard Street knows there was a shooting here. So when I passed the cop on the way to the liquor store— and he was sniffing around like a bird dog, trying to locate where the shooting was, I told him. He'd have found out anyhow. He's down right now, looking over the bodies. I told him I had you here and that you'd be here when the rest of the boys come along, but he don't trust me, the ——. He's looking at the stiffs with one eye, and up at this door of mine with the other, and he's got the old artillery out and handy, right in his hand. I had to tell him it was here, sweets. He'd have found out anyway, and I've got no backstairs to this scatter. You could never make it out with that gimpy leg."

By that time I had a wineglass full of whiskey inside of me and I actually was feeling better. The sick feeling had gone away, at least.

I faintly remembered hearing her call herself Nell, so I said: "What about my guns, Nell? Cop get 'em?"

She looked worried. "I've got 'em, angel. Now you're not going to try and shoot it out with the cops, are you? You wouldn't have a chance."

I said: "It isn't that— I'm clear. I've got a private license and I'm supposed to be helping a cop that's in charge of a murder that happened in my office. It's just that I don't want the cops holding my hardware while they make up their minds what to do with it. Did that guy ever come to?"

"No, no, no. He never will come to. I looked at him, while you was passed out. He's shot all to hell. He might have had a chance if you'd hit him way upstairs but not where you did. He'll never say a word."

"What about the other one?"

"Right through the heart. You got him at the side of it the other time. He won't talk, either."

I DIDN'T get it for a moment but she went into details. She said: "Here it is, sweets, and I'll swear to it for you. You knock on the door. These guys are wanted and they're nervous. One of them answers the door and takes a pass at you and you grab him and throw him out in the hall. We don't have to say you clunked him on the head, sweets. Then you look in the room and you see this guy coming out with the percentage from under the pillow. There's only one thing to do and so you do it. You go for your own and you beat him to it. We can say the front sight of his gun snagged in the pillow ease. Then the first guy grabs you and upsets you and the battle is on. Say! Is that big gun registered to you? Can it be traced back to you?"

"It can, Nell."

She looked regretful. "I was hoping it was hot. Then we could say he pulled it on you and that you took it away from him and that he got shot during the fuss about it. Oh well. The truth will do, I guess. So he was killing you and you let him have it. After warning him. I heard you do that with my own ears, angel. What you should have done is blown his head off without saying a word to him."

"I guess so,' I said, holding out the glass for more whiskey. '"There's just one thing more you can do for me, if you will. That's telephone the central station and leave word for Homicide-Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton to get down here in a hurry. I may have to have him to keep from being worked over a bit."

She bristled and said: ''They lay a hand on you and I'll have my own lawyer on 'em. They're not going to get rough with you, angel—don't you fret."

I said I wasn't worrying too much.

And then she laughed— a nice full-throated chuckle. She said: "It ain't you that should worry about getting rough. It'd be them. You are the most violent man I ever met— and how I love it."

And with that she waddled away to put in the call to Lawton—but she left the whiskey in easy reach for me.

LAWTON didn't get down to Howard Street and the Clayton for more than an hour, and by that time I'd had a damned sight more attention than I'd wanted. Two lieutenants, one of them homicide, the medical-examiner, who looked at my leg and told me I had both a bad sprain and bruised tendons, and that I'd be lucky if I walked on it inside of two weeks, and at least a dozen assorted policemen, both in uniform and quiet clothes, who looked in to see the killer at ease.

I was at ease, outside of them. I told the homicide man I was not only working with Lawton but waiting for Lawton, and I judged he called the station and verified the call my new big fat girl had put in for me. Anyway, he left me alone, just asked me how it happened. I told him the two were the ones that had killed the stranger in my office, and he looked sad about it.

He said: "One's dead and the other's dying. The M. E. says he hasn't got a chance to come out of the coma he's in. We never will know now what was back of that killing. I wish you hadn't shot as straight, Keenan."

I said: "Now what the hell! What was I to do? One of them's getting ready to shoot at me. I'm no clay pigeon. The other was pulling me in pieces and even then I tried to just break his ham. Is it my fault that just at that time he jumps back, trying to pull my foot off?"

Nell said: "You should let him alone until he's in shape to talk, lieutenant. I saw the thing, remember. That guy was tearing Riley apart."

The lieutenant grinned at me, then shrugged and left the room. With me and the whiskey and Nell all alone.

She said: "They're not going to badger my sweets. Nell won't let 'em. Nell'll tell em off."

I really had a lot of mama, I could see that. The cuff I'd given her had made her mine— and I was afraid for keeps.

I said: "It's okay! Lawton will straighten it out. I never tried to kill that last guy. I wanted him alive so that he'd sing.

She said: "I know, sweets. I hear somebody else talking, now. Maybe that's this Lawton man."

It was.

6: Poor Little Ella

LAWTON straightened everything up in short order, mainly because I had a deputy-sheriff's commission that had lasted over from the time of a general strike, a year ago. That made my going up after the two thugs an attempt at a legal arrest, something a private cop hasn't got.

Of course, he's got the same right as any citizen. He can arrest anyone that he secs in the act of committing a crime, but he can't just tap somebody on the shoulder and take him in on suspicion.

It's quite a distinction.

And then I made the M. E. out a liar. He'd told me I wouldn't walk for two weeks and I got up and hobbled out of there.

And my big girl didn't like it a bit.

She said: "Now, sweets! You stay right here with Nell. Nell will look after you. Nell'll see you're okay. You'll hurt yourself, walking around on that gimpy leg, angel, and you'll be only half a man."

I said that I had work to do, that I had a family to feed. And I thought she'd fall over her lower lip it drooped so.

She said: "Somehow, sweets, I thought you was a single man. You just ain't got that married look."

I said: "No wife. No kids. I've got a girl in the office, two landlords, a bartender and a bookie, and a guy out doing leg work for me. They're worse than a wife and kids because it takes more dough to feed them."

"A girl in the office?" she said suspiciously.

"Sure. To answer the telephone. These two guys beat her up, at the same time they killed the man."

"Pretty?"

I said I'd never stopped to think about that, but that I guessed she was fair-looking.

"Blonde? Like I am?"

Nell was more than blonde— her hair was almost straw-colored. Too much and too extreme bleaching does that, I understand.

I said: "No, sort of brown hair. I never paid much attention."

She said: "I bet. When you coming back to see me?"

"Ag soon as I get time, kid. I'll be busy on the rest of this business, though, and I don't know how long it will take to clear it up."

"It's all cleared up now. You've got the guys that killed the man in your office, haven't you?"

"Yes, damn it."

"Well then?"

I explained: "They didn't just follow the man in my office and kill him for no reason at all. There was something behind that, kitten. That I've got to find out. Killing the man in my office made it a personal thing. And the cops can't help but think I know more about it than I do. That's why the inspector suggested I work with Lawton. It gives Lawton a chance to keep an eye on me without tipping his hand by putting a tail on me or anything like that. You can understand."

She said: "I guess so, sweets, but you promise to come back to Nell as soon as you can. Now promise."

I promised. And if I kept my fingers crossed, she didn't see them.

I guess had a police car below, a sedan with no insignia on it. He pulled out into traffic, made a right turn at the next corner to hit Market, and then started to blister me in a nice way.

"You certainly made a clean sweep, Riley," he said.

"I couldn't do anything else."

"You shouldn't have gone alone."

"I was just working a hunch."

He jeered at that one. "Like hell you were. You mean to tell me it was a hunch that took you to that one rooming house out of all there are in this town. Hunch my eye."

"Well, maybe somebody gave me a hint," I said.

He was on that fast. "Who? If this somebody knew where they were, he might know who they are."

"You can find that out. They'll both have records and you know it."

"Maybe he'd know who they've been with. I want to know why they killed that man in your office. Who tipped you, Riley?"

"I can't tell you that. You should know that, Charley."

He admitted he knew I couldn't stoolie on my own stoolie.

And then he took a new slant. He said: 'What you working on these days, Riley?"

"Nothing. No work at all."

"You wouldn't be stalling, now would you?"

I said: "If I was working on anything, I could tell you about, you'd hear it. If I was working on something hush-hush, I'd have to keep it that way. I'd have to protect my client. If you can make sense out of that answer, why okay."

He could make sense out of it and I knew it. I'd the same as told him I was working on something I'd promised secrecy on.

He pulled up outside of the Nye Building then and asked: "Want me to give you a hand up to your office?"

I said: "The more I walk on this leg the better it will be. I'll send the girl out to buy a cane for me, if they still sell the things."

He said: "Tell her to go to that United Nations conference. The boys wear striped pants and canes and the works, part of the time. Maybe she could borrow one for you."

I said she could go out to the park and cut me one from a tree if she had to, and he agreed that she'd try it, anyway, if she was asked to do it.

He also said: "And if I know Ella, the tree she'd pick would be a poison oak. The gal's not bright."

I said: "But willing! Poor little Ella."

SHE'D been crying, but she had the phone in her hands and the directory in front of her. Even as I came in the door I could hear her ask some room clerk if a J. W. Hatcherly was registered with him. She looked up and saw me and automatically checked off the hotel she'd called before speaking.

She said: "Oh, Riley! Mr. Keenan, I mean. It came over the radio, not ten minutes ago."

She nodded toward the inside office, where I've got a set to pick up the news broadcasts.

"It said that a well-known private detective shot and killed the two men suspected of the earlier killing of a man in the detective's own office. It said that the detective was injured in the mel... mel..."

"Melee?"

"That's the word it said. It said the detective was released on his own recognizance, awaiting action of the Grand Jury. Is that right?"

"Sure, kid. There's so much red tape to go through when you kill a man."

"Did you really kill them, Riley?"

"One of them. The other was still alive. They took him to the receiving hospital, but he probably was D. O. A."

"D. O. A.?"

"Dead on arrival. He'd never stand the trip."

Ella shuddered and said: "I think it's horrible."

"I thought it was horrible to walk in here and find a man, first beaten half to death and then killed."

"Of course, Riley, Mr. Keenan, I mean."

"And I thought it was horrible to find you with a shiner and a busted face."

"Don't pay any attention to it, Mr. Keenan. It really didn't hurt very much. And it was sort of exciting."

I said: "You'd better make up your mind, kid. Either make it 'Riley' or make it 'Mr. Keenan'. You get me confused— I keep thinking there's a strange man in the room.

She gave me her best kittenish look and said she'd always liked Riley as a name for a man. And that somehow it fitted me. I went into my own office thinking I should be grateful that my folks hadn't named me Algernon. I didn't think I could live up to Algernon very well.

I HAD the office bottle about half way down and was getting so that I could almost forget the ache in my leg when Ella came in, all excited.

The successful lady detective in person, no less.

She said: "I've found him. I've found him, Mr. Keenan... Riley, I mean."

I said: "The same routine, only backwards. Now clear it up."

"It's Mr. Hatcherly. Mr. J. W. Hatcherly. He's at the Washington—it's on Bush Street, right by where you go to Chinatown."

I said I knew the place. It's an old hotel, medium-priced now but a good hotel in its day.

I said: "How'd you get down to the W.'s so soon?"

"I got tired going A— B— C. So I thought I'd start up the other way for a change. That way I'd meet myself in the middle, you see."

She had logic on her side, all right, and it had worked out.

I said: ''Well, that's fine, kid. Now see if you can get me Robert M. Hatcherly, at the Fairmont. Then put me on."

Hatcherly answered so promptly he might have been waiting for my call. I said: "I've located your brother for you, Mr. Hatcherly. He's at the Washington. I don't know whether he's in or not— I just found out he's registered there."

"Now that's fine, Mr. Keenan."

"About your retainer. There's been some expense, of course. Telephone calls, cab bills, salary for an extra man—I'm charging you ten dollars a day for him is all— and it will take a little time to determine the amount. If you'll stop in tomorrow, say about this time or later, you'll have a refund."

He said: "That's perfectly all right, Mr. Keenan. You have done a fine job and I believe a workman is worthy of his hire. Let's not speak of a refund. I thank you, sir."

I said: "I thank you!" and we hung up. I knew it was phony by then. I'd figured I was in the middle of something when he'd been in the office asking me to find his brother, but now I was sure of it.

Anytime people don't take a refund that's just the same as laid in their laps, there's something wrong. They usually not only take it but shout for more.

He had the refund coming to him and no mistake. I'd done nothing. And George Dixon hadn't done anything. I was just thinking of Dixon, and taking next to the last drink in the bottle, when he called in.

I said: "Nothing to report, eh, George?"

He said: "You took the words right out of my mouth. I see by the papers you've been having fun, down on Howard Street."

I said I'd just been having a swell time, and that he might as well call it a day. That I'd found the man we wanted —that he was at the Washington. And that if he hurried up, I'd take him down to Murphy's and buy him a drink.

He said he'd come running.

And then I went out in the front office and asked Ella to dinner that night. I thought the poor kid had earned it.

She'd found the second little man, which was certainly worth a dinner to me.

7: Lawton And The Little Man

LAWTON came in while George Dixon and I were waiting for Ella to come back from the corner with another bottle. I'd more than punished the one I had— I'd killed it. But it had taken almost all the ache from my leg, or maybe it was just that I was in no condition to feel pain.

I said: "Come on in, Charley. Ella will be back in a just a minute with the wherewithal."

He said: "I can't stay long," but I noticed he took off his hat and settled himself comfortably in his chair.

He said: 'Now if Ella don't get side-tracked, start buying a new hat or something with the whiskey money, she'll probably run her little errand successfully. Did you send her for whiskey?"

"Why, yes."

He said: "Chances are she'll come back with rum. There's more rum than whiskey in town, and Ella's the ideal gal to unload it on. Five'll get you two that it's rum she brings."

Knowing Ella, I kept my mouth shut. George Dixon also knew her but not as well— and he'd heard me tell her to get whiskey.

He said: "I'll take it, Lawton."

Then Ella came in with a paper bag and a bottle in it. And beaming. She said: "Oh Riley, I mean Mr. Keenan. It was the nicest man in the liquor store. He was having a special on rum, he said, so I got that instead. It was almost a dollar cheaper, too."

George sighed and handed Charley Lawton five of the ten dollars I'd just given him.

I said: ''Okay, kid. Now run back and get the bottle of whiskey."

She looked hurt. "Should I take the rum back, Mr. Keenan?'

"We'll keep it for emergencies. Think nothing of it, kid. You were saving money, and that's a good deed in a naughty world."

I gave her whiskey money and Lawton said: "You get a cane yet?"

"Forgot it."

"Cane?" asked Dixon.

I hadn't told him anything about the Howard Street fracas so I went through it in a hurry. And just finished with it when Ella came back with the hootch.

I SAID: ''And now, kid, one more thing and then you skip on home. D'ya suppose you can find me a cane? Something to lean on, mind you, nothing to twirl. Can you do that?"

She asked where she'd look for one and none of us knew. I finally suggested either the Emporium or the White House, knowing they'd have it if anybody would, and away she went. With me telling her again that I wanted it for use, not for show.

Lawton held his drink up to the light and said: "It'll be funny to see old man Riley Keenan doing the hobbling grand-father act with a cane."

Dixon said: "This I should see."

I said: "Old man Riley Keenan is lucky to have a leg to hobble with. I thought that—— was going to tear it off and beat me over the head with it."

Lawton said: "That's what I came up to tell you, Riley. The big one died on the way to the hospital. Never said a word. His name was Joe Meggs and he's done it in both Quentin and Folsom. The other was Harry Parrish. Another two time loser. Both of them worked guard when they were running whiskey between here and the South and both of them were in a bunch of hi-jacking. Meggs beat a second-degree rap back in '27, and Parrish beat three armed-robbery charges between '29 and '34."

I said, with hope: "Reward?"

"No reward."

I mentioned the Keenan luck, which was ever bad.

"And I talked long distance with the chief, back in Hamilton, Indiana. He said that Winthrop, the man who was killed here in your office, was an absolute stranger out here, as far as he knew. And that he'd known Winthrop all his life. That he knew of no enemies, although Winthrop was a fanatic on world peace. He could think of no reason why the man should have been killed. Said he didn't drink, but was ne Prohi. Unmarried, though he had been. Wife died five years ago. Didn't chase women. In other words, no rounder."

Dixon said: "If a man don't drink and don't chase women, what the hell can he find to occupy his time?"

"He sits home and reads a good book," I told him. And asked Lawton: "He have any money, Charley?"

"He did not. A small annuity which he got from his wife's insurance and by cashing in his own. The chief back there thought it would run around a hundred a month, He kept books in three or four small businesses back there— a day a week in each one. That sort of thing. He cashed in his own insurance because he had no relatives. When his wife died, it was useless to him."

"You got details on him, anyway."

Lawton said: "The call cost the City of San Francisco twenty-seven dollars and eighty cents. I've got to know as much about the man as I can find out, don't I?"

Dixon said: "Isn't it closed? Riley's got the two that did it. From what Ella says there's no doubt it was them. And they were hotter than a pistol or they wouldn't have tried to battle it out."

LAWTON said absently: "I guess they're the ones, all right. We'll have 'em cleaned up by tomorrow and she can look at them and make the identification. It isn't that. It's who's behind it. They were just paid killers and I want the man that hired them."

I said: "Don't look at me that way. I'm damned if I'll let a man shoot me to pieces just so you can ask him questions. Or let another one break my leg. That last one was an accident— I've said that right along."

"So you have, so you have," Lawton agreed.

I didn't like the way he said it but there was nothing about it I could put a finger on. And if I could have, I'd have kept my finger at home. A man had been killed in my office, and the police had only my word for it about not knowing him. I'd killed the two men who'd done it, and one of the killings might have been avoided, as far as the police knew. They had only my word for it about the man jumping back just as I pulled the trigger. I couldn't prove I'd aimed at his thigh.

Of course I had my big fat girl to testify for me, but in action like that it's the result that counts, not what a bystander sees or thinks he or she sees. Witnesses, during excitement like that, aren't reliable, even though they're telling the truth as they saw it.

It was easy enough to see why the police were keeping a suspicious eye on me, and I thought the best thing I could do was sing small and let it blow over if it would.

I poured another drink and Lawton took his down and was just getting ready to leave when Ella came back.

And came back just beaming. She had a long, paper-wrapped parcel under her arm, and she started talking as soon as she was through the door.

"I got one that's just beautiful, Riley, Mr. Keenan, I mean. Just simply beautiful. And only eleven dollars and fifty cents."

I'd given her a twenty dollar bill to shop with and I could see right then I'd made a mistake. I'd wanted and expected something simple, and while I didn't know the price of canes I'd expected the thing to be not over five bucks.

She unwrapped the package as though she was uncovering a statue to civic virtue then, and she brought out one of the most horrid looking things I've ever seen.

It was black and gnarly, and I will say it was built for use. It was about an inch and a half thick. But the handle was the curse.

It stuck out at right angles to the rest of it, and so help me, it was carved to look like a man's face. It finished in sort of a bulb, just about right to fit a hand, but this bulb was a man's face, profiles at the sides and full face on top.

And to cap it all the model the carver used, if any, must have been the homeliest man in the world. I could see why he'd have to have practically no nose—it would have stuck up in the palm of your hand if it had been in proportion. But the eyes were sunk in and the thing had chin whiskers. I suppose so they would help give a firm grip.

Lawton said: "My good God!"

Dixon looked at me and started to choke.

And I thought of how Ella had certainly done the best she could, and that she thought I'd be pleased.

I almost strangled but I managed to say: "That's fine, kid."

THE three of us went down to Murphy's then. As long as I had the damned cane, I thought I'd better use it. Murphy had two bartenders working, but he was strolling around, seeing that things ran smoothly. He saw me and started over, but I looked at Lawton and shook my head, so I got just the usual salve.

He said: "Hello, Riley! Want a booth— the back one's empty."

I said: "You know George Murph, And this is Lieutenant Lawton. This is Murphy, Charley."

Murphy said that yes indeed he knew Mr. Dixon and that he was glad to meet the lieutenant. He mentioned a couple other cops he knew that Lawton knew and they were chatting about that while we walked back to the booth. Lawton said he could stay only for a fast one and Dixon then said he had to see a man about a dog.

What he had to do was lay the five he had left out of the ten I'd given him with his bookie.

They left together, and then Murphy slid into the seat they'd vacated, and I told him about the shooting down on Howard Street. And asked him how he knew those two were holed up there.

He said vaguely: "Uh... I guess maybe I spoke of it to a geezer I used to know who done a little time up Folsom way. I figured that at least one of them guys would be a two time loser and a hard loser, so a Folsom graduate was the guy who might know."

Folsom is where they put most of the recidivists in California—with San Quentin for easier jolts.

I said: ''The guy must remember like an elephant to pick out a guy like that just from a description."

Murphy said, as vaguely: "Maybe he was a trusty or something and worked on records. Maybe filed 'em or something like that."

And that was all I could get out of him. What he'd done was put the word out that he wanted two men that looked like such-and-so, and some old pal of his had turned them up.

He said: "You certainly got action with 'em, Riley? You busted up bad?"

"Just shoved around some."

"I saw the cane and you hobbling."

"Some cane, eh?"

He said, with honest admiration: ''It's got class. Real class. I never had a cane in my life but I'm going to get me one. One like that.'

I said: "You can have this one in a week, Murph. I shouldn't need it after that."

"That's good of you, Riley. I'd sure appreciate it. I don't suppose there's many like it, either."

I agreed with him on that. I thought that whoever had carved it had probably lost his mind when he realized what he'd done.

SOAKING for an hour in a hot tub took away almost all the ache that was left in my leg, but it brought full value out of the whiskey I'd taken. I fell down three times getting from the tub to the bed, and I was mumbling so that I had to give the switchboard girl Ella's number three times before she got it straight.

I said: "You, Ella?'

She said: 'Yes, Riley. I think it's a bad connection. I can hardly hear you."

I said: "It's me. I over-estimated. We'll have to call it off tonight. Make it tomorrow night instead."

"Oh, Riley!"

"I'm just too tight to make it." And then I got a happy thought and added: "And my leg's going like a toothache. I don't think I could stand it."

Her voice changed and got actually motherly. She said: "You get right into bed and stay there and rest. And don't you dare come down to the office before noon. I'll call you if there's anything important happens. Now you go right to bed."

That was that. She hung up and I put down the phone and pulled the covers over me and passed out. And didn't wake up until eleven. Then I sent down for the papers and a pint of rye and some ice, and I made myself a drink before I even looked at the headlines.

And, in a full column, was my first little man. Picture and all, His name wasn't Hatcherly, but Higgins. He'd been cashier of a bank in Maysville, Indiana and he'd skipped out with sixty thousand dollars worth of cash and twice that much in negotiable securities.

But that wasn't all he'd done. That wasn't enough to win him the newspaper space he was getting. He'd had his throat cut, in his room at the Fairmont, and there was no trace of the money or securities he'd absconded with.

A caper like that will get space in every paper in the land.

8: The Other Little Man Again

THE WASHINGTON has a small lobby, neat but not gaudy, and I didn't have to go to the desk and ask about the second little man. He was in a lobby chair, surrounded by papers, and he looked like the wrath of God after a bad Indian.

He looked like his brother, but didn't, if that's plain. His brother had said they were twins and I thought they probably were, but where the brother had worn flash clothes and looked as though he took good care of himself, this one looked seedy and half sick. The first one had struck me as pushing sixty—this one looked at least sixty-five. The first one had red cheeks, this one's were greyish. The first one was trim and neat, and this one wore a suit of black cloth that looked like it should be seen coming down an aisle, on a deacon.

The other, I'd thought, had worn lifts in his two-tone shoes. This one wore elastic-sided Congress gaiters.

The first one was bright and chipper, with his shoulders back and a twinkle in his eye. This one was stooped and sad-looking.

I sat down by him and said: "Mr. Hatcherly?"

He said dully: "My name is Higgins, sir. John W. Higgins."

"I know it."

He didn't even show a sign of interest.

I said: "Your brother commissioned me to locate you, Mr. Higgins. This, when he didn't find you at the Fairmont, upon his arrival."

He said: "The Fairmont is dreadfully expensive, sir. I haven't the means to stay in such a place."

That brought that line of conversation to a dead end.

I said: "I read about your brother. Dreadful, isn't it?"

He said: "To think a Higgins a common thief. I dread to return to my home. In the history of the family, sir, and I have personally traced it back well over three hundred years, this is the first time such shame has fallen on us."

I said: ''I wouldn't call your brother a common thief, Mr. Higgins. Far from it. He was tops. Any time a man can nick a bank for as much dough as he did that Maysville outfit he worked for, he's not common by a damn' sight. I'd like to know how he got this far with it— they usually catch bank embezzlers before they get out of the state."

"It is not funny, sir. As far as Robert eluding the authorities, I know nothing about it. Robert was always clever— he was always a schemer. Even when we were boys together."

"D'ya live in Maysfield too, Mr. Higgins?"

"Why, no. My home is in Hamilton."

"Indiana?"

"Why, yes. Hamilton, Indiana."

I WAS starting to get a tie-up with the murdered man in my office, but I couldn't figure just how. g

I said: ''Your brother visit you much? I understand that Maysfield and Hamilton are not far apart."

"He visited frequently, sir. May I ask if you're an officer?"

"I am, of sorts." I pointed down to the paper he still held, where there was a rehash of the Howard Street shooting.

There was an old picture of me, looking like something out of the rogue's gallery, and I made a mental note to raise hell at my hotel until I found out who'd swiped the original out of my room. Some news-man had bribed a bellboy or maid to get it, that was certain. There were two morgue shots of the guys I'd killed, and even one of my big fat girl, Nell. This was captioned: ONLY WITNESS OF HOWARD STREET GUN BATTLE.

The article went on to give the names and records of the two dead men and ended with a pretty nice blurb for me.

I said: "That's me, getting some free publicity. I'm the one that looks more like a thug than the real ones."

He looked and said: "My, my, my."

And then read farther. He said: "This is the strangest thing I've ever heard of. Is this correct, sir?'

I asked: "What?"

"This article states there was a man murdered in your office. A man named Cyrus K. Winthrop? Is that correct?"

"That's right. I went to my office and found it full of city police. The man had been killed an hour before then, and my secretary had called them. These two men did it. They also smacked my secretary around, when she tried to interfere."

"Dreadful, dreadful," the little man said. "I knew Cyrus quite well, sir. It would be Mr. Keenan, wouldn't it? I have known Cyrus for ten years or more. Why was he calling on you, sir?"

"That I don't know. Would he have known your brother?"

"Possibly. I don't know. But Cyrus was a Hamilton man and Hamilton is where Robert and I were raised. Robert, who was always restless, left Hamilton while a young man, although of course he frequently returned. Sometimes just for a visit, sometimes to take a position there. He accepted the position in the Maysfield bank, I am sure, to be near Hamilton and his old friends."

I said: "I'm interested in this, Mr. Higgins. Robert, after all, was my client. He was murdered, as was this man Winthrop. There's a connection there, of course. That will explain any personal questions I ask."

FOR a moment he looked a little like his brother. That is, he had a little of his brother's fire. He said: "I do not feel obligated to answer any personal questions, sir. Robert did a disgraceful thing. He has been punished. I naturally grieve over Robert's passing, but I cannot help but feel it was best. To take advantage of his position, of his employers, was ingratitude of the basest sort. Money stolen like that is a curse."

"There's a point there, Mr. Higgins. The money and the securities were not found. Your brother was certainly killed because of them. It wasn't only murder, it was murder and robbery, with the second the motive for the first."

He nodded assent to what was self-evident.

I said: "I told him where you were, Mr. Higgins. Yesterday afternoon, about four. Did he get in touch with you?"

"I heard nothing from him. There was a message from him asking me to call him at his hotel. This was awaiting me at the desk, when I returned last night. I .... uh... I confess I am a motion picture fan. My one vice, Mr. Keenan. I saw the picture at the Paramount and at, I believe it is the California. It was after eleven before I got home."

"You call then?"

He nodded. "Eleven was not late for Robert, though long past my usual bed-time. I called but Robert was not in. At least he didn't answer his phone. By the account of his death, he was killed at approximately that time. Possibly a few minutes one way or the other."

"They can't set the time exactly."

"He was found this morning, you know, by a chambermaid. I have little sympathy for Robert—I feel he has disgraced the family name—but he met a terrible end. His throat cut like an animal's. I dread returning to my home."

'Married?"

"Oh, no. Neither Robert or I ever married."

I said: ''Then it shouldn't be too tough. It's not your fault what your brother did. How did you happen to come out here, Mr. Higgins?"

"It was Robert, Mr. Keenan. I should have known at the time that Robert was up to something. He came to visit me some weeks ago and we arranged this trip. He asked me to register at the Fairmont, under the name of Hatcherly, and this I agreed to do. But when the clerk at the Fairmont quoted me their prices, I decided a less expensive place would fit my pocket-book better. I am not a wealthy man, Mr. Keenan."

"What was the idea of the phony name? Did he give you any explanation? Of course we know now why he wanted it, but did he give you any excuse?"

THE little man actually blushed. He said: "Robert told me— this is in confidence, Mr. Keenan— that he had been having an affair with a San Francisco woman whom he had met in Chicago, while on a business trip. He did not want to become involved with this woman and so told her his name was Hatcherly, rather than Higgins. I did not approve, naturally, but I have always followed Robert's wishes in small things. Robert, I am sorry to say, always had a weakness for the opposite sex, and I am ashamed to say that I was, in a sense, grateful that he'd used an alias in this affair. I didn't want our name smirched, and from what Robert said, I judged this woman to be no better than she should be. In fact, I me the impression that she was a... a..."

"Bum? Tramp?"

He smiled faintly at me, showing me teeth as false as those his brother had worn. "'That's it exactly. I fear I'm not in the habit of using modern slang. The word I was thinking of was trollop."

I said: ''Well, it's a mess all the way around. About all you can do is hold your chin up and ride it right through. When you go back home, just act as though nothing had happened, and it will surprise you how little attention people will pay to it."

"I am thinking seriously of not returning for some time, Mr. Keenan. The thought of seeing friends and neighbors, with this cloud on my name, is almost more than I can bear."

The little geezer was getting on my nerves, with his prissiness. What his brother had done was no fault of his, yet here he was blatting about it like a little lost sheep.

I said: "You're going to have a tough time of it before you go back, Mr. Higgins. There'll be a homicide detective named Lawton up to talk with you, and probably some more of the boys from the same detail. There'll certainly be insurance men, representing the company that carried the Maysfield bank. They'll ask you more questions about your brother Robert than you think are in the book. The money and securities he took are floating around somewhere, and they're going to do their damndest to find just where. This affair with the woman will be aired, and they'll try to locate her, just in case she might know something that would be of aid. I'm afraid you're in for a bad time of it."

He said stiffly: "I will assist the law and the insurance company as best I can, Mr. Keenan. That I assure you. I shall ask them to respect my name and to avoid publicity as much as is possible, but I shall do everything in my power to assist them in finding the stolen money. If found and returned to the bank, it would erase some of the stigma Robert has brought on me. I'm sure you understand."'

I said: "Oh, sure," and that it had been a pleasure to talk with him.

And then I put in a call for Lawton and told him where to find little brother, and chat little brother knew more about the business than he was telling.

It looked to me then as though little brother was mixed up in the steal. He'd talked too damned much about the family name being shamed.

9: The Girl Friend

ELLA, outside of her eye, was almost back to normal. Of course her cheek was black and blue, but heavy makeup covered most of it. Her mouth had lost practically all the swelling, and her smoked glasses covered her shiner in first class shape.

I said: "Looking a lot better, kid. I'm sorry about last night."

She said: ''It was all right, Riley. You really shouldn't have gone out last night, anyway. You can barely walk, right now."

I was using the cane, all right, but my leg wasn't hurting too much. Time will take care of a lot of things. In fact, I was in more misery from my hangover than I was from my leg, but I didn't tell her that.

I said: "Any calls?"

"Just one." She started to look mad. "From a girl. From a girl named Nell."

I said: "That was my witness to the Howard Street thing, kid. I've got to keep friendly with that one, at least until after the grand jury meets."

Ella said firmly: "She sounds like a bad woman to me. Just the way she talked."

I said: ''You're wrong, kid. She's a swell scout. Anytime a girl looks after a stranger, who's come in her place and loused it up like I did hers, she's all right."

Ella sniffed and didn't answer and I went inside and looked over the usual collection of bills. I was through with them and trying to decide whether a drink from the office bottle would kill or cure when she knocked and came in without waiting for me to tell her off.

She said: "There's a woman out here to see you. She won't give her name. I think it's that woman that already called —that woman named Nell."

"Is she big and fat?"

"Why, no."

I said: "Then it's not Nell. Let's call this one Madame X. Will you send her in?"

Ella sniffed again and sailed out, and I decided that jealousy was a bad thing for a business office. And then Madame X came through the door, with a sort of Mae West swing, and I forgot about Ella for the time being.

The gal was fair-sized, probably running around a hundred and forty on her bathroom scales. As she was, she would go ten pounds over it—she wore that much fur. She had a short jacket, made out of some kind of animal that had resisted all attempts at dying, and over this she wore three fox skins. With heads. One head at each end of this throw thing and the third peeking out at me from behind her right ear. It looked like it was hiding in her hair.

This hair was a brilliant brassy blonde, or a sort of shade between blonde and red. It looked as coarse as rope. She had make-up plastered on so thick I wondered how she kept it from sealing. One patch on each cheek and one on her chin, and she hadn't blended these into the area around them.

Under the fur she wore a yellow silk dress, and it was really yellow. The most yellow dress I've ever seen. And this had bangles, if that's what you call them, spotted here, there, and everywhere over it. Not just buttons—they looked as if somebody had pinned them on the dress in the dark. Her shoes, which were of some kind of crinkly leather, had heels at least four inches high, and she teetered on them as though she were walking on stilts.

She gave me a smile that showed some gold bridgework and said: "I just know you're Mr. Keenan."

I said: ''Don't tell me—let me guess. A lady Sherlock Holmes."

She said: "Huh!"

"You picked me right out, didn't you? That's real detective work."

"I'm not here to fool, mister."

"Then let's get right down to business."

"A copper named Lawton sent me down here."

I said: "Good old Charley."

"He said you were working for Bobby Hatcherly. Only his name's Robert Higgins, instead."

"That's right."

"I want to know where I stand."

"I don't get it, miss. You'll have to clear that up."

"Do I get what money he left or don't I?"

I said: ''Off-hand, if it's found, I'd say the bank gets it. Or rather, gets it back. Stolen money is usually returned to the people it's stolen from."

She waved a hand impatiently. "I don't mean that money. I mean his money. If he had any, that is. He always said he did."

I said that so often men were liars, and thought that the late Robert Higgins had, undoubtedly, the vilest taste in women of any man I'd ever met. This battle-ax could bite through chain mail—she'd really have been an asset during the middle ages.

She said: "He promised me every dime he had, that is when he died, if I'd meet him here in 'Frisco."

I said: "It's San Francisco, dearie. Out here they call it by its proper name."

"Well, San Francisco, then, What I want to know is how I stand."

"You'd have to see a lawyer about that. If the money he took from the bank is recovered and replaced, I imagine the court will still take all expenses from his personal funds. That is, money to cover the investigation of the loss and the pursuit of him. Then, if there's anything left, you have a chance at it. If he left a will naming you, that is. If not, it will go to his brother. That's the way I think it will be, but you should consult an attorney to be sure."

She cursed the late Robert Higgins and showed a nice command of the dirtier kind of language. And finished with? "The little jerk! The only reason I let him play around me was because he said he had dough. It looks like I was just wasting my time."

"Did he look you up, since he got to town?"

"He did not. He told me to meet him at the Granada Rooms— we picked that place out of a 'Frisco, excuse me, I mean San Francisco, directory, one day in Chi. I mean Chicago. He was to meet me there. He never even called me. I didn't even know he was in town until I read about him in the paper this morning. Then I went down to the cops and they showed me around until this hick cop of a Lawton gets me and tells me to come to you. And you're not a damned bit more good to me than they were."

"How well did you know him?'

"That little jerk? Front and back and sidewise. If you must know, mister, he paid my rent for a year and more, in Chi. He'd come up from Maysville on what he called business, but it was done in my apartment, mostly. Do I know the little feist? Too damned well, mister. I should have had something down in writing, right from the start. Giving him my time and getting nothing but a lot of talk for it."

I'd been thinking, ever since I'd talked with little brother, and I thought I had the answers. And answers that fitted everything that had happened. The trouble had been that it was too simple. I'd been trying to complicate an easy situation, that was all.

I said: "Let's you and me take a little cab ride, sister. By the way, what is your name?"

She said: "Dolly La Varr. I was on the stage, Mister Keenan. In fact I practically quit my career to devote myself to Bobby Hatcherly, only his name is Robert Higgins."

"Let's not have secrets, Dolly," I said. "How long before you met him was it that you quit the stage? Now don't story to the old folks—just tell me how long it was."

"Well then, about five years. Maybe six."

She was in her forties and I wasn't giving her any of the worst of it at picking that age.

I said: ''Okay, Dolly. Let's go."

"Where?" she asked, suspiciously.

I said: "Just you ride along and see."

10: A Modern Lazarus

WHEN I ASKED FOR John W Hatcherly the desk clerk looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "He's in his room but he's talking with a police officer. The officer left strict orders that they weren't to be disturbed."

"A big, dark man?"

"Why, yes sir."

"I'm working with him. Put him on the phone, please."

In a moment I heard Lawton's irritated voice say: "Well! What the hell is it?"

"It's Keenan."

The voice eased. "Got something, Riley?"

"Wait until you see her."

"Her?"

"Her. The girl friend. Don't crack—I want to have a surprise."

Lawton sounded puzzled but all he said was: "Come on up."

I said: "Okay, Miss La Varr. We're going calling."

She said: "I hope to —— you know what you're doing. I'm damned if I do."

I said: "For one thing, I'm trying to get back a lot of dough for a bank. They give rewards for such things, Dolly. The Bankers Association does, and usually the bank breaks loose with something. And I use money all the time, first for one thing and then another."

"Where am I going to come out on this?"

"That's where you're going to have to see a lawyer, like I told you."

We rode up in an elevator that moved like slow motion and ended at the fourth floor. The bell boy jerked a thumb that needed washing and said: ''Down th' hall, mister. Seven-eight doors."

And then I knocked on the door and Lawton said: "Come in!"

I opened the door and, not out of politeness, waved Miss La Varr ahead of me. And Miss La Varr, once out of the little hall and into the main room, went into action with a speed no United States Marine would be ashamed of. She screamed: "You little jerk! Who th' hell d'ya think you're fooling?"

And then she tore at little brother like a wildcat, with her fingers curved like claws and with her blood red finger nails ready to slash.

Little brother ducked behind a chair and Lawton caught her. He said: "Now what's this?"

I said: ''All right, Dolly. Look him over. Is it or isn't it?"

She said: "I'd know the little jerk if I met him in the dark. I know the lying little —— well enough, don't I? So you were going to meet me, were you, Bobby? What was yours was mine, was it? I give you one of the best years of my life and I don't even get what the chickens picked at. You little ——! I'll tear your eyes out and make you swallow 'em."

I WINKED at Lawton, who plainly didn't know what it was all about.

The little man quavered: "Madame! You are in error. I'm not Bobby, I'm John. His twin."

She said: "Twin my eye! Don't tell me, you little jerk. You can maybe fool a bunch of dumb coppers but you can't fool me."

Lawton, still holding her, said: ''Now what's this, Keenan?"

I said: "The little guy isn't John, that's all. He's Robert. John is the guy they found up in the Fairmont, dressed in Robert's clothes. They may have been identical twins, but it's certain that one or the other had some slight accident at some time that left a scar, and a tracer back to Hamilton, Indiana, will bring that out. That'll be your proof, though I think little smartie-pants will break down and tell all, if you leave him with his lady-love a little while."

Dolly La Varr said: "I'll make the little jerk tell the truth if I've got to pull him to pieces. He can't play with my affections, the little—"

I said: "You see, Charley, he knew the bank and the insurance companies and the cops would be after him for the rest of his life. He couldn't skip the country because there's a war on and travel is watched and limited. So he gets his twin out here, kills him, dresses him in his fancy clothes, and tries to make it look as though he'd been murdered for the dough he'd looted from the bank. His brother is quiet, and he's flashy. All he thought he had to do was act quiet for two or three years, back in his brother's place, then leave town and start spending his loot."

"What about the guy killed in your office?"

"That's the pay-off. The guy rode out with him. The minute he heard about the embezzlement he'd have gone to somebody with the story about riding out with Higgins. As it was, he must have been suspicious about it, or he wouldn't have come to my office. If he'd known anything was wrong, for sure, he'd have gone to the cops, so he must just have had a hunch something was wrong. Something wrong enough to maybe interest a private cop, but nothing definite enough to take to the police. That's only logical. But Higgins saw a squawk coming and hired those two thugs to put him out of the way before he could talk. They followed him to my office and did the job there. He'll confess to it, if you give him a choice between that and talking with Dolly, alone here, for an hour or so."

Dolly said earnestly: "You give me ten minutes with the little jerk, will you, copper? I'll kill the little ——"

I said: "Only two things, Higgins. How much did you pay 'em and where did you meet 'em? You might as well talk— you're sunk."

He said: ''I met them in a Howard Street bar and I gave them a thousand dollars apiece. You'd prove I was Robert, anyway. I broke my leg in a car wreck, three years ago, and it shows. There's no object in fighting, when it does no good. I'll say now that I'm sorry about Cy Winthrop being in it—I always liked Cy. But I've hated my brother since we were kids together and I don't regret killing him a bit. He was a smug, Psalm-singing Prohi, and I'll hang happy, knowing he went before me."

Charley Lawton said: "Well, you'll hang! But whether happy or not I won't say."

Miss La Varr said: ''And serve you damned well right, you nasty little jerk. To think of the time I wasted on you!"

Higgins looked as though he were glad Lawton still held her.

THE money was in a safe deposit box in the Anglo-London-Paris National Bank. Higgins quite cheerfully told us where it was, and released it the next day. He hadn't spent a cent of it—he'd been operating on his own savings up to that time. I put in an official claim for reward money at the same time the insurance people and the cops took it from the bank —and there'll be no trouble in getting it.

If it hadn't been for the red tape, I think the insurance people would have paid me in cash, out of the box.

Higgins got life, I suppose because he pleaded guilty and didn't fight his case at all. A break for him that he didn't have coming. Lawton got a citation for clearing up his ease so quickly, but it was nothing he could cash at the bank or buy groceries with.

The only bad after effect on the whole thing happened to me. My big fat girl, down on Howard Street, calls me at least every other day. And we go through the same routine.

She will say: "This is Nell, sweets. When
you coming down to see me?"

I say: "Just as soon as I can get a minute's time, dear."

Then Ella will hiss: "That dirty fat slob!"

Nell will say: ''Now you promise me, angel."

I say: "I promise, hon."

Ella will say: "Why don't you go down and see that big cow? Why don't you?"

Then Nell and I hang up and Ella goes into a tantrum, claiming all men are beasts. And on and on and on.

Sometimes I think it's a mistake to have a girl working in an office at all. A man may not be as pretty to look at, but at least they don't break out in a jealous rage with little or no provocation. In fact, if Ella keeps it up, I'll probably be down at Howard Street, in spite of Nell going around two-twenty or up on the hoof.

She wouldn't nag, anyway— and after a course of Ella, that two-twenty don't look near as big to me. At least I'd have peace, which is more than I'm getting in my office.

_____________________

Table of Contents

- 1: One Escort— Missing or Dead
- 2: Justice Borrows Bullets
- 3: Murder By Accident
- 4: Dice and No Dice
- 5: Ticket to Death
- 6: Black Murder
- 7: Three Dead Men
- 8: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder
- 9: The Missing Mr. Link
- 10:  Printer's Ink Runs Red
- 11: The Cemetery Slaying
- 12: Murder Backstage
- 13: Two Little Men