12/23/2007

Red Goose

1934

and

Something for the Sweeper

1937

Two short stories by

Norbert Davis

Norbert Davs 1909-1949

Table of Contents

Red Goose

Something for the Sweeper

Red Goose

It was a long, high-ceilinged hall, gloomy and silent. The air was musty. Tall, barred windows on one side of the hall let in a little of the bright sunlight where it formed waffle-like patterns on the thick green carpet. There was a polished brass rail, waist-high, running the length of the hall on the side opposite the barred windows.

Shaley came quietly along the hall. He was whistling softly to himself through his teeth and tapping with his forefinger on the brass rail in time with his steps.

Shaley was bonily tall. He had a thin, tanned face with bitterly heavy lines in it. He looked calm; but he looked like he was being calm on purpose-as though he was consciously holding himself in. He had an air of hardboiled confidence.

A door at the end of the hall opened, and a wrinkled little man in a grey suit that was too big for him came hurrying out. He carried a framed picture under one arm, and had dusty, rimless glasses on the end of his nose. He had a worried, absent-minded expression on his face, and mumbled in a monotone to himself.

Shaley stepped in front of him and said: “Hello.”

“How do you do,” said the little man busily. He didn't look up. He tried to side-step around Shaley.

Shaley kept in front of him. “My name is Shaley-Ben Shaley.”

“Yes, yes,” said the little man absently. “How do you do, Mr Shaley.” He tried to squeeze past.

Shaley put out one long arm, barring his way.

“Shaley,” he said patiently. “Ben Shaley. You sent for me.”

The little man looked up, blinking through the dusty glasses.

“Oh!” he said. “Oh! Mr Shaley. Of course. You're the detective.”

Shaley nodded. “Now you're getting it.”

The little man made nervous, batting gestures with one hand, blinking. Apparently he was trying to remember why he had sent for a detective.

“Oh, yes!” he said, snapping his fingers triumphantly. “The picture! Yes, yes. My name is Gray, Mr Shaley. I'm the curator in charge. Won't you step into my office?”

“Thanks,” said Shaley.

Gray trotted quickly back down the hall, back through the door. It was a small office with a big, flat desk next to another barred window. Gray dodged around the desk and sat down in the chair behind it, still holding the framed picture.

Shaley sat down in another chair, tipped it back against the wall, and extended his long legs comfortably.

Gray held up the picture and stared at it admiringly, head on one side. “Beautiful, isn't it?” he asked, turning the picture so Shaley could see it.

“Too fat,” said Shaley.

Gray blinked. “Fat?” he said, bewilderedly.

“It's a picture of a dame, isn't it?” Shaley asked.

“It's a nude,” Gray admitted.

Shaley nodded. “She's too fat. She bulges.”

“Bulges?” Gray repeated in amazement. “Bulges?” He looked from the picture to Shaley. “Why, this is a Rubens.”

Shaley tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I suppose you had some reason for calling me?”

Gray came out of his daze. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes. It was about the picture.”

“What picture? This one?”

“Oh, no. The one that was stolen.”

Shaley took a deep breath. “Now we're getting somewhere. There was a picture stolen?”

“Of course,” said Gray. “That's why I called you.”

“I'm glad to know that. When was it stolen?”

“Three days ago. Mr Denton recommended you. Mr Denton is one of the trustees of the museum.”

“Denton, the lawyer?”

Gray nodded. “Mr Denton is an attorney. He said something about setting a crook to catch a crook.”

“I'll remember that,” said Shaley.

“I hope I haven't offended you?” Gray said anxiously.

“You better hope so,” Shaley told him. “I'm bad medicine when I get offended. There was a picture stolen from the museum, then, three days ago. What kind of picture?”

“The Red Goose, painted by Guiterrez about 1523. A beautiful thing. It was loaned to us by a private collector for an exhibition of sixteenth century work. It's a priceless example.”

“What does it look like?” Shaley asked.

Gray peered at him closely. “You never saw the Red Goose?”

“No,” said Shaley patiently. “I never saw the Red Goose.”

Gray shook his head pityingly.

Shaley took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Listen,” he said in a strained voice. “Would you mind giving me a description of that picture?”

“Certainly,” said Gray quickly. “It's twelve inches by fifteen. It's a reproduction of a pink goose in a pond of green water lilies. A beautiful work.”

“It sounds like it,” Shaley said sourly. “How was it stolen?”

“It was cut out of the frame with a razor blade. I never heard of such an act of vicious vandalism! They cut a quarter of an inch off the painting all around it!”

“Terrible,” Shaley agreed. “When was this done?”

“I told you. Three days ago.”

Shaley took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “I know you told me three days ago,” he said in a deceptively mild voice. “But what time of the day was it stolen-at night?”

“Oh, no. In the afternoon.”

“Where were your guards?”

“They were stopping the fight.”

Shaley made a sudden strangling noise. He took off his hat and dropped it on the floor. He glared at Gray. Gray stared back at him in mild surprise. Shaley picked up his hat and straightened it out carefully.

“The fight,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “There was a fight, then?”

“Why, yes,” said Gray. “I forgot to mention it. Two men got into a fight in the back gallery, and it took four of the guards to eject them from the premises. And then we noticed that the picture was gone.”

“That's fine,” Shaley told him sarcastically. “Now would it be too much trouble for you to describe these men who fought?”

Gray said: “I noticed them particularly, because they seemed a trifle out of place in a museum. One was a big, tall man with long arms and short legs. He had four gold teeth, and he was bald, and his ear-” Gray stopped, hunting for the word.

“Cauliflower?” Shaley asked.

Gray nodded quickly. “Yes. Thick and crinkly. The man interested me as an example of arrested development in the evolutionary process.”

Shaley blinked. He scratched his head, squinting.

“You mean he looked like an ape?” he asked.

Gray nodded again. “He had certain definite characteristics-the small eyes sunken under very heavy brows, the flattened nose, the abnormally protruding jaw-that have come to be associated with the development of the human race in its earlier stages.”

“That's nice,” Shaley said blankly. “What did the other one look like?”

“A nice-looking young man. A trifle rough-looking-but quiet and self-effacing. He had red hair and big pink freckles. The thumb on his left hand was missing.”

“That's enough,” Shaley said. “Have you notified the police of the theft?”

“Oh, no. Mr Demon advised us not to. He said the thieves might destroy the picture if they thought the police were after them.” Gray shook his head sadly at the thought of such an outrage. “Mr Denton said to tell you to get it back for nothing if you could; but that the museum was willing to pay up to five thousand dollars. The picture must be returned undamaged. It's a matter of honour with the museum. It would be a terrible blow to our reputation if the property of a private collector should be lost while in our possession.”

Shaley stood up. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Mr Denton said he would take care of your fee.”

Shaley said: “I'll take care of him. Calling me a crook.”

Shaley drove his battered Chrysler roadster into Hollywood, entered a drug-store and went into one of the telephone booths in back.

He took a leather-covered notebook from his pocket, flipped through the pages, found the number he wanted. He put a nickel in the phone and dialled.

“Yeah?” It was a thin, flat voice.

“This is Ben Shaley, Mike.”

“Oh, hello, Ben. Wait a minute.” The voice pulled a little away from the telephone. “Turn that radio down. How the hell do you think I can hear?” The voice came closer again. “How are you, Ben? Long time no see.”

“I'm okay, Mike. How you doing?”

“Damn good. I got the place all redecorated. I got a real bar now-a swell one-mahogany. Come on out, sometime, Ben.”

“Thanks, Mike. Listen, is that guy that writes for Ring and Turf there-Pete Tervalli?”

“Yeah. He's upstairs playin' blackjack. You want him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'll call him. Hold the phone.”

Shaley waited, tapping out a complicated rhythm on the mouth-piece of the telephone and humming softly.

“Hello, Ben. This is Pete Tervalli.”

Shaley said: “Pete, I want to ask you about a couple of guys. Number one is a big gook that looks like an ape. He's got gold front teeth, a flat snozzle, a thick ear, and he's bald. Know him?”

“Nope,” said Pete. “He's a new one on me.”

“All right. Here's the other one. He's red-headed and sort of quiet, and he's got big pink freckles on his face. He's minus his left thumb.”

“Sure,” said Pete. “Sure. That's Fingers Reed. He fights in prelims at the Legion stadium sometimes. Been on at the Olympic a couple times, too. Had a semi-final down to Venice once-got knocked out.”

“Where can I find him?”

“At Pop's gym down on main.”

“Thanks a lot, Pete.”

Shaley went up a flight of long, dark stairs littered with white blotches that were ground-out cigarette butts. He went along a short, dirty hall, through swinging double doors with frosted glass panels.

He was in a big high-ceilinged room that smelled strongly of tobacco, liniment, gin and sweat. A youth in a greyish sweatshirt was jumping rope in the middle of the floor. He skipped expertly and solemnly, first from one foot and then the other, counting aloud. In one corner a punching bag battered back and forth in a stuttering roar under the quick fists of a small, bowl egged Filipino. In another corner a fattish man made a rowing machine creak mournfully.

Shaley walked along the wall and entered an open door. It was a small office with a dusty desk in one corner. The walls were papered with the pictures of fighters in various belligerent poses.

Shaley said: “Hello, Pop,” to the man sitting at the desk.

Pop was a small man with a shiny bald head. He wore a celluloid collar so high that it took him just under the ears and made him look like he was always stretching his neck. He had a dead brown-paper cigarette in one corner of his mouth.

“Hello, Ben,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Where can I find Fingers Reed?”

“Fingers Reed?” Pop repeated absently. “Fingers Reed? I wouldn't know him. He a fighter?”

Shaley grinned. “Come on, Pop. Don't pull that stuff. I just want to give him twenty bucks. Which one is he?”

“Give me the twenty,” Pop requested. “He owes it to me for gym fees. He's in the ring.”

Shaley went out of the office, through another door and into a small room with seats in high, close tiers against three of its walls. There was a ring in the middle.

Fingers Reed, in a heavy sweatshirt and helmet, was sparring with a tall, spider-legged middleweight. The middleweight danced around very fancily, stepping high. Fingers Reed shuffled after him, his left poked out in front of him, his right held back shoulder high. He was much too slow for the middleweight. He crossed his right again and again-long, heavy blows that the middleweight slipped easily.

A little man in a chequered cap stood beside the ring. He had a watch in one hand and a string in the other. He pulled the string as Shaley watched. The gong boomed.

Fingers Reed and the middleweight patted each other on the back and started walking back and forth in the ring, breathing deeply and swinging their arms.

Shaley said: “Fingers!”

Fingers Reed stopped and looked down at him.

“I want to talk to you a minute,” Shaley said.

Fingers Reed nodded. He slid through the ropes, jumped down on the floor. With the thumb of his right boxing glove, he hooked a rubber tooth protector out of his mouth. He spat on the floor and ran his tongue over his front teeth.

“What?”

Shaley said: “Who paid you to put on that fracas at the museum?”

Fingers Reed pulled up the front of his sweatshirt. He had an inner tube, cut open, wound tightly around his stomach. He loosened the inner tube a little. Then he rubbed his nose with the back of one glove, squinting sidewise at Shaley.

“I had an idea there was something sour about that.”

Shaley said: “I don't want to get hard about it, but there was a picture lifted while you were having that little to-do, and I want to know about it.”

“Sure,” said Fingers. “Somebody tells me that they got some pictures of some old fight scenes over in his museum in Pasadena and, me not having nothing to do, I think I will go over and take a look at them. So I do, and they are pretty good pictures, too. After I am done looking at them I walk around to take a look at the rest of the stuff, and while I am looking up comes this big monkey and steps on my foot.” He stopped and nodded at Shaley.

“So what?” said Shaley woodenly.

“Well, so I ask him what the hell he thinks he is doing, dancing with me? And then he hauls off and pops me, so I pop him back, and pretty soon a few guys in monkey suits come along and toss us both out on our ears.” Fingers gestured with the boxing gloves. “So that's that.”

Shaley said: “You wouldn't know this big monkey's name?”

Fingers shook his head. “Never saw him before or since.”

Shaley took a twenty-dollar bill out of his vest pocket and folded it lengthwise and looked at Fingers calculatingly.

“That's too bad,” he said regretfully. He poked the twenty back into his vest pocket. “Well, I'll be going, then. Thanks.”

“Wait, now,” said Fingers. “Wait a minute. Don't get in a rush.”

Shaley took the bill out of his pocket and gave it to him.

Fingers said: “Here, Jig. Keep it for me.” He tossed the folded bill to the timekeeper.

“Let's have the real dope,” Shaley requested.

“Well, it's like this. The big monkey's name is Gorjon. He's the stooge for a gent by the name of Carter. The two of them come around the gym here a couple of times, and then they put this proposition up to me. Would I put on a phoney fight at the museum for ten bucks? I was flat, so I said sure, why not? So I did.”

“Where can I get hold of these boys?”

Fingers shrugged. “By me.”

Shaley said gently: “You wouldn't try to be smart with me, would you, Fingers? You wouldn't try to shake me down?”

Fingers held up one gloved hand, palm out. “So help me. I never see them but three times.”

Shaley said: “It'd be worth a hundred to me if I could locate them.”

Fingers blinked thoughtfully, rubbing his nose with the glove on his right hand. “Hm. The big boy is a fight fan. You might stake out the stadiums around here.”

“You do it. You might get some of your pals to help. I could make it fifty for the guy that found them and a hundred to you.”

Fingers nodded. “Okay.”

When Shaley came into his office, Sadie, his secretary, was tapping away briskly on the typewriter with glossy, pink-nailed fingers.

“Hi-yah,” said Shaley, tossing his hat on the hat-rack and heading for the inner office.

Sadie raised her sleek, dark head and watched him. She didn't say anything.

Shaley got to the door of the inner office, then turned around and came back to her desk.

“Well, what's your trouble?”

Sadie said: “A woman called you up. Who is she?”

“How do I know who she is? Who'd she say she was?”

Sadie sniffed. “She wouldn't tell me her name. Talked like a blonde though.”

“How'd you know she was blonde?”

“Humph! I can tell, all right. Talking baby talk-all about a red goose. Who ever heard of a red goose?”

“Did you get her number?” Shaley demanded.

“Certainly I did. I always remember to ask people their number.”

“Hell-Give me that number.”

Sadie shoved a pad of paper along the desk. Shaley picked up her telephone and began to dial the number.

“And my mother was saying just last night,” said Sadie righteously, “that she didn't think this office was the proper place for a young girl to work. All these questionable people coming in and out all day long and you swearing and yelling at me all the time and-”

“Shut up,” said Shaley absently.

“Hello.” It was a nice voice-small and clear and sweet-shyly innocent.

“This is Ben Shaley. Did you call my office?”

The nice voice said: “Oh, yes.”

“About the Red Goose?”

“Yes, Mr Shaley. I called the museum, and they told me you were in charge. Are you looking for the picture?”

Shaley said suspiciously: “Who're you? A reporter?”

“Oh, no. I'm the one that has the picture.”

Shaley nearly dropped the telephone. “What?”

“Well, Mr Shaley, I haven't exactly got it right here. But I can get it for you. Do you want it?”

“Where are you?” Shaley demanded. “When can I see you?”

“I'll be home tonight at seven-thirty. It's the Hingle Manor apartments on Harcourt just south of Sunset, in Hollywood. Apartment seven. The name is Marjorie Smith.”

“I'll be there, Marjorie,” Shaley said cheerfully, hanging up.

He put the telephone slowly back on Sadie's desk, frowning thoughtfully. He picked up her pencil and drew a pattern of squares on the desk-pad, still frowning.

“You know,” he said absently, “someway or other I didn't like the sound of that. It sounded just a little screwy. I wonder if somebody is trying to lay me an egg?”

“Humph!” said Sadie. “Blondes!”

Hingle Manor was a long, neat, two-storey stucco building with turrets on the four corners and blue pennants on each of the turrets. Floodlights placed on the front lawn and slanted up made the building look larger and newer than it was.

Shaley found the card that said: “Marjorie Smith,” and buzzed the bell under it. After a while the latch clicked. Shaley pushed open the door and was in a small, narrow hall, thickly carpeted.

He looked around, then went up a short flight of stairs. At the end of the hall an open door made a yellow square of light that was like a picture frame for the young woman standing there.

Shaley was reminded of an old-fashioned tintype he had once seen in a family album. The woman wore a neat blue dress, modest and plain. She had wide blue eyes and corn-coloured hair wound around her small head in thick braids. Given a sun-bonnet and a slate she would have been a perfect copy of a school girl of fifty years ago.

She smiled and curtsied a little and said shyly: “Won't you come in, please?”

Shaley went into a small, well-furnished living-room and stood there holding his hat in his hands and shifting from one foot to the other uneasily.

The woman came into the room, shutting the door. She sat down on a couch and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I'm Marjorie Smith,” she said, smiling nicely.

“I'm Ben Shaley.”

Marjorie Smith smiled up at him with admiring blue eyes. Shaley watched her uncomfortably. Something was wrong with all this. Marjorie Smith didn't fit in with the rest of the picture-with Fingers Reed and Carter and Gorjon.

“Who lives here with you?” he asked.

She shook her head, wide-eyed. “No one.”

“Are we here alone?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes.”

Shaley grunted. He scratched his head, scowling. He said:

“Listen, Marjorie, I'm just a nasty man with mean suspicions. The only kind of fairy stories I believe are the kind they tell about the boys who carry handkerchiefs in their cuffs. Just sit right here while I sniff around.”

“Oh, surely,” said Marjorie.

He nosed through the rest of the apartment-kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, closets. He shot the bolt on the back door. He came back into the front room, opened the front door, peered out into the hall. He sat down in a chair and stared at Marjorie Smith.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said blankly.

She put her hand up over her mouth. “Why, Mr Shaley!”

“Excuse me,” said Shaley. “But this is over my head like a tent. Let's talk business.”

“Oh, yes,” said Marjorie Smith. “Oh, yes. Business.” She leaned forward and watched him with big blue eyes.

“You've got the painting I want-the Red Goose?”

She nodded earnestly. “Yes.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“A man gave it to me-a man by the name of John Jones.”

“That was nice of him,” Shaley said.

“He said you would pay me two thousand dollars for it.”

“He's an optimist,” Shaley said sourly.

“It seems like a lot of money, doesn't it?” Marjorie Smith asked earnestly. “But John Jones assured me that it was worth that much. Have you got the money, Mr Shaley?”

“Huh!” said Shaley. “Where's the picture?”

“John Jones said I was not to give it to you until you gave me the money.”

“John's a smart fellow,” said Shaley. “But I can't give you the money until I know if you have the picture.”

“Oh, but I have got it.”

“Yes, yes. But I want to see it. Where is it?”

She shook her head regretfully. “Not until you give me the money. Then I'll give it to you. Really I will, Mr Shaley.”

Shaley took a deep breath and held himself in. “Listen, Marjorie, I don't want to get hard with you, but if I were you I'd hand over that picture right now.”

“But, Mr Shaley, I explained-”

“Once more-will you give me that picture?”

“But, Mr Shaley-”

Shaley jumped for her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her off the couch and shook her.

“Now, you little dummy-” he snarled.

She made no resistance. Her body was soft and relaxed in his hands. She moved just enough to bring her right hand up under Shaley's nose.

She held a small bottle in her hand, uncorked.

Shaley got one whiff of the contents of that bottle. He choked suddenly. He let go of Marjorie Smith and jumped backwards, gasping.

“Acid!” he said, one hand over his nose.

“Yes,” she said, smiling just as nicely as before. “Touch me again, and I'll throw it in your face.”

Shaley swallowed hard. The picture wasn't out of focus any more. Marjorie Smith fitted right in.

“Wow!” said Shaley in an awed voice, backing away from her warily. He backed clear to the door, keeping his eyes on the bottle.

“Now listen, boob,” said Marjorie Smith in her clear, childlike voice. “Let me tell you something-”

The door behind Shaley opened suddenly, bunting him forwards. He whirled around, one hand inside his coat, and looked squarely into the blunt, round muzzle of an automatic. His hand came out, empty.

“Take it easy, baby.”

Gray had given a good description. This man Gorjon looked like an ape. He had enormously broad, sloping shoulders, hunched forwards. He stood there, swaying a little easily. The gold front teeth gleamed as he grinned at Shaley.

Another man was standing in the doorway behind Gorjon. This man didn't look at Shaley. He was looking at Marjorie Smith.

“Double-crossing little tramp,” he said levelly.

He stepped around Gorjon and went towards her, walking springily on the balls of his feet. He was short and round and plumply dapper. He had thick red lips and a small black moustache. He wore a soft white felt hat. He was smiling a little.

Marjorie Smith had hidden the hand holding the acid bottle behind her. She watched the fat man. She waited until he put out a plump, white hand, reaching for her, and then she said something to herself in a tight whisper and hurled the acid at him with a quick sweep of her arm.

The fat man was astoundingly quick. He dropped into a crouch, ducking his head. The acid missed him, spattering on the wall in a bubbling brown stain.

The fat man bounced up again instantly and hit her with his fist. Marjorie Smith fell over a chair and lit on her hands and knees in the corner.

Gorjon hadn't moved either his eyes or the automatic from Shaley. He reached out one big hand and shut the door.

“Sit down, mister,” he said to Shaley.

Shaley sat down slowly and tensely in the chair in back of him.

The fat man picked up Marjorie Smith effortlessly and planked her down on the couch. He was still smiling.

She didn't say anything. She watched the fat man expressionlessly. There was a red mark on her face where he had hit her.

The fat man turned to Gorjon. “Take his gun.”

Gorjon reached inside Shaley's coat and pulled out the big automatic Shaley carried in a shoulder-holster. He hefted it, grinning.

“It's a.45. He goes loaded for bear. Maybe he's one of these here rough characters you read about in the papers.”

The fat man said: “Who is he, Marj?”

Marjorie Smith said sullenly: “Ben Shaley. He's a private peeper-from the museum.”

Shaley said: “And you are Carter.”

The fat man smiled at him. “So you found Reed, did you? I knew that dead-head would blab all he knew. Yeah, Carter is one of my names. Take a good look at me. Me and Gorjon are gonna be your shadows until you get that money from the museum.” He turned back to Marjorie Smith. “Where's the picture?”

“Try and find it.”

Carter said: “I will,” softly.

He picked her up by the front of her dress and slapped her in the face-quick, sharp slaps that rocked her head back and forth.

“Hey!” said Shaley.

Gorjon pushed his automatic into Shaley's neck. “I wouldn't poke my head out, boy.”

Carter said: “Well?” and stopped slapping Marjorie Smith.

She spat at him. He hit her in the mouth with his fist and knocked her back on the couch.

“Rap that boob on the nut,” he said calmly to Gorjon, “and take her shoes off. We'll have to get rough with her.”

Marjorie Smith wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips left a little smear of blood on her hand.

“I'll tell you,” she said thickly. “Tannerwell has it.”

Carter watched her thoughtfully. “Tannerwell, huh? You wouldn't fool an old Civil War vet, would you, Marj?”

“Tannerwell has it.”

Carter moved his plump shoulders. “So it was that artist sap, huh? I didn't think he had it in him. Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

Carter said very gently: “Where is he, Marj?”

She shrugged impatiently. “I tell you I don't know. I've got his telephone number. I can get him to come here.”

“That's just dandy,” said Carter. “What's the number?”

“Rochester 2585.”

Carter went over to the stand near the door and picked up the telephone. “I'll talk to him first, and then I'll let you. You tell him to come over here-and make it good. I'm going to be mad if you try something funny.”

Marjorie Smith said: “He'll come.”

Carter dialled the number. He waited, listening. Then he said:

“Hello, Tannerwell? This is Carter.” He listened, grinning at Shaley. Then he said: “Yes. Your dear old pal, Carter. Now listen, smarty, while I tell you something. I'm over at Marj's apartment. You get that picture and come over here, or something sudden will happen to her. She's going to talk to you.”

He held the mouthpiece of the telephone in front of Marjorie Smith.

She said brokenly: “Bill-Bill. Come quick. Bring the picture.” Then she screamed suddenly, so loudly it made Shaley jump.

Carter pushed down the receiver hook with his thumb and put the telephone back on its stand. “Dandy, Marj. You should go on the radio.”

“He'll be here in about fifteen minutes,” Marjorie Smith said, still sullen.

Carter pulled up a chair and sat down. He tipped his hat back and began to whistle softly and patiently between his teeth, watching Marjorie Smith unblinkingly. Gorjon stood just behind Shaley's chair.

Shaley said: “How about sitting down? You make me nervous.”

Gorjon chuckled. “Don't get too nervous, because if you start jiggling around this thing is liable to go off.”

“Do you think you're going to put this over?” Shaley asked Carter.

Carter stopped whistling long enough to say: “I think so,” and then began again. He stopped and looked at Shaley. “Just keep your nose out of this, baby. When I get that picture, then you and me will have a little talk. Until then you're just a kibitzer. Don't get the idea that anybody has dealt you a hand.”

Marjorie Smith moved impatiently on the couch. “Can I have a cigarette?”

Carter said: “I don't smoke, dearie. You know that.”

“There's some cigarettes in my right-hand coat pocket,” Shaley said.

Gorjon fished the package out and tossed it on the couch. Marjorie Smith took one and used the lighter on the table at the end of the couch.

Carter got up and turned on the radio. He found a dance orchestra, nodded approvingly, sat down, and began to whistle in tune with it, tapping his foot.

They waited.

It took Tannerwell sixteen minutes. His footsteps came up the hall noisily, running. He rapped loudly on the door.

Carter got up quickly and got against the wall beside the door. He nodded at Marjorie Smith.

She said: “Come in, Bill.”

Tannerwell came in with a rush. Carter pushed the door shut behind him.

Tannerwell didn't pay any attention to him. He went straight to Marjorie Smith and stood over her anxiously.

He didn't look like an artist. He looked more like a football player. He was tall, and he had wide, square shoulders. He was blond, and his features were evenly handsome, except for his nose, which had been broken and set crookedly.

“You screamed,” he said to Marjorie Smith.

She sniffed a little, sadly. “D-did you bring the pic-picture, Bill?” She looked woebegone and bedraggled. She looked like a hurt child, crying there on the couch.

Tannerwell jerked a roll of parchment from inside his coat. “Sure. Here.” He tossed it over his shoulder at Carter. He never took his eyes from Marjorie Smith.

Carter unrolled the parchment and examined it approvingly.

“Well,” he said pleasantly. “Here we are at last.”

“Marjorie,” Tannerwell said. “Over the telephone. You screamed. Did they hurt you?” He put his hands out in front of him. He had big hands with long, thick fingers. He moved the fingers a little. “Did they hurt you, Marjorie?”

She sobbed. “Y-yes. Look.” She pulled aside the neck of her dress and showed a round, ugly burn on the white skin of her shoulder. “Carter burned me with a cigarette to make me scream. He laughed when he did it.”

Carter looked up from the picture. “Here!” he said, blankly amazed. “What-”

Tannerwell stared at the burn on Marjorie Smith's shoulder. Suddenly his face twisted crazily. He spun around and grabbed Carter by the neck with both big hands.

“Hey!” said Gorjon, starting around in front of Shaley.

Shaley braced his arms on the chair and kicked him savagely in the stomach with both feet. Gorjon doubled over, grunting.

Shaley jumped out of the chair. He got hold of the barrel of the automatic and twisted it out of Gorjon's hand.

Gorjon straightened up. He was grinning. He hit Shaley's wrist with the edge of one palm and knocked the automatic on the floor. He reached for Shaley.

Shaley swung on him with both fists, backing away. He hit Gorjon five times as hard as he could, squarely in the face. Gorjon shook his head, still grinning. He shuffled after Shaley, reaching.

Shaley hit him some more. It was like pounding on a wall. Gorjon didn't even try to block the blows. He let Shaley hit him. He even chuckled a little, his gold teeth gleaming. He was like a cat playing with a mouse. He had forgotten all about Carter and Tannerwell. He kept shuffling after Shaley, one hunched shoulder pushed forward, sidling a little.

Shaley bumped into a chair, and Gorjon got him. He got one big hand in the front of Shaley's coat. He pulled him forwards and hit him with the other hand.

Shaley's coat ripped, and he went backwards. He bounced off the table, fell over a chair. He got up quickly. He was breathing in gasping sobs. Over Gorjon's shoulder he caught a quick glimpse of the rest of the room and realised that all this was happening in seconds instead of hours.

Tannerwell was still shaking Carter by the neck. Carter's plump face was beginning to turn purple. He was trying to get a revolver from his pocket, but apparently the sight had caught in the cloth and, with Tannerwell shaking him, he couldn't get it free.

Marjorie Smith was still sitting on the couch. And she was laughing. She was laughing at Carter, pointing her finger mockingly at him.

Shaley slipped along the wall away from Gorjon's reaching hands. Gorjon got too close, and Shaley began to hit him again, putting everything he had in each blow. Gorjon grinned and shuffled after him.

Shaley tripped over a stool and fell. Gorjon dropped on him. He got Shaley by the neck, loosely, and began to pound his head on the floor slowly and methodically, chuckling gleefully to himself.

The room rocked in front of Shaley in a red haze. His fingers scrabbled on the floor, touched the barrel of Gorjon's automatic. He twisted and squirmed, scraping at the automatic with stiff fingers.

The red haze began to get black slowly. Gorjon's face was a long way above him-like a gleaming pin-point that nodded and bobbed and leered.

Shaley got his stiff fingers around the butt of the automatic, pushed the muzzle against Gorjon's side.

At its blasting report the room suddenly cleared in front of Shaley's eyes. Gorjon fell over sideways, very slowly, and hit the floor and lay there without moving.

Shaley got slowly to his feet, staggering a little. His nose was broken. He could feel the blood running down his face. He started towards Tannerwell and Carter.

Carter saw him coming and finally got his pistol free. He slapped Tannerwell on the side of the head with it. Tannerwell dropped him and bent over, holding his head.

Carter took a quick snap shot at Marjorie Smith that pocked the plaster just above her head. Then he whirled and ducked towards the door. He still held the roll of parchment in his left hand.

Shaley dived for him. He hit Carter's knees just as Carter was going through the door. They rolled out into the hall.

Carter was amazingly strong and quick. It was like trying to hold a squirming ball of soft rubber. He got one leg loose, kicked Shaley in the face. He hit Shaley's broken nose, and Shaley writhed on the floor, swearing thickly, losing his grip on Carter's legs.

Carter bounced to his feet instantly. He ran down the hall towards the stairs.

“Carter!”

It was Marjorie Smith. She was standing in the doorway, and she had the.45 automatic Gorjon had taken from Shaley in one small hand.

Carter whirled around like a dancer and jumped sidewise crouching. Marjorie Smith shot him.

The bullet caught Carter and slammed him back and down in a limp pile. His arms and legs moved aimlessly. After a second he got slowly to his feet and staggered down the hall.

Marjorie Smith shot him again, deliberately, in the back. Carter collapsed weakly and slid down the stairs, bumping soddenly on each step.

A woman was screaming somewhere close by.

Shaley got up off the floor. He walked down the hall, guiding himself with one hand on the wall and trying to keep his feet from walking out from under him. He got to Carter and leaned over to pick up the picture. He fell down and got up again slowly, holding the picture.

Marjorie Smith came running down the hall. She was pulling Tannerwell along behind her. She looked calm, sure of herself, as if she knew just where she was going. Tannerwell was shaking his head foggily, and he staggered a little as he ran.

They went by Shaley without even looking at him.

Feet were pounding up and down the hall overhead. A half dozen people were screaming for the police into telephones and out windows.

Shaley climbed the stairs, shuffled slowly towards the rear entrance.

A man opened a door, looked at him blankly, said: “Good God! He's all blood!” and slammed the door.

Shaley got out the back door into cool darkness. He fell over a hedge, got up, and ran heavily through a weed-choked lot, swearing to himself in a mumbling monotone. A siren began to moan in the distance.

Shaley had a piece of white court-plaster over his nose. It made his tanned face look darker and thinner. He had his hat tipped forward over his face because the back of his head was swollen.

He walked down a long, gloomy hall and found Gray at the end of it. Gray was on top of a high step-ladder carefully dusting a painting with a brush about an inch wide. He dusted in quick, dabbing strokes, stopping every minute to squint sidewise at the picture through his thick, dusty glasses.

Shaley said: “Hello!”

Gray said: “How do you do, Mr Shaley,” without looking around.

Shaley leaned against the brass railing and watched him. “Well,” he said. “It's a long story. Want to hear it?”

Gray dabbed busily at the picture. “Certainly, Mr Shaley.”

“A guy by the name of Carter stole the picture. The fight was staged by a pal of his and another bird they had hired, to attract the guards' attention while Carter got the picture. Carter had spotted this scatter as an easy one to crack, but he didn't know anything about pictures. So he hired an artist to pick out the right one to steal. The artist selected the Red Goose.”

Gray nodded. “A good choice, I must say. It's a very beautiful painting.”

“Carter didn't care whether it was beautiful or not. He wanted something the museum would want back in a hurry-something that couldn't be replaced. So he took the Red Goose. But Carter had a girl by the name of Marjorie Smith. The artist fell for her. She got ideas. She stole the picture from Carter and lit out with it and the artist. She got in touch with me, intending to sell me the picture for the museum. But Carter found her, just about that time. Are you listening?”

“Yes, yes,” said Gray absently. “Go on.”

“The artist had the picture. Carter had Marjorie Smith. She pulled a fake screaming act over the telephone to get the artist to bring the picture to Carter. Then, when the artist got there, she double-crossed Carter again. She told the artist that Carter had actually tortured her to make her scream over the telephone. She had burned herself with a cigarette to make it look better. The artist is nuts about her, and he went screwy and tackled Carter. Carter and his pal got themselves killed in the excitement, and I got a broken nose, and Marjorie and her friend Tannerwell got away.”

“Tannerwell,” said Gray thoughtfully. “Tannerwell. Oh, yes! He's the man that brought back the picture.”

There was a long silence.

At last Shaley said: “Brought back-the picture?” in a strained voice.

Gray looked down at him. “Oh, yes. I must have forgotten to notify you. A man by the name of Tannerwell came around yesterday afternoon some time after you left. He had the Red Goose, and I paid him three thousand dollars for it. We had promised not to ask any questions about how he happened to have it-we only wanted the picture back.”

Shaley took the roll of parchment from his coat pocket with fumbling fingers. “What's this, then?”

Gray trotted down the step-ladder. He examined the picture, holding it up to the light and nodding in a pleased way to himself.

“Yes. Nice work. Of course it hasn't the depth, the colour blending of the original, but it's very nice work.”

Shaley said thickly: “It's-it's a copy?”

“Oh, yes. Couldn't you see that? Mr Tannerwell told me, after it came into his hands he had made a copy of the picture to keep for himself.”

Shaley said: “That little tramp. She had Tannerwell copy the painting, intending to shake me down with it. Then when Carter butted in, she just switched her plans a little.”

Gray smiled at him. “I'm sorry you were deceived, Mr Shaley. You could say that the Red Goose was a sort of red herring, couldn't you?”

“I could say a lot worse than that,” said Shaley.

Something for the Sweeper

Jones limped slowly along, his rubbers making an irregular squeak-squish sound on the wet cement of the sidewalk. He was not a large man and, walking as he was now, humped forward in an unconscious effort to favor his feet, he looked small and insignificant. He wore an old trench-coat with grease stains running jaggedly down the front. The sun was bright on the slick-black wetness of the asphalt paving, and he had his hat-brim pulled low over his tired eyes.

The houses on this street were gaunt, ugly and brown, and as alike as the teeth in a saw. They all had a wide flight of worn stairs leading up to the front door with another flight beside it leading down into the basement. They had all been built by one man, those houses, and he evidently was a person who believed in getting a good, plain plan and then sticking to it.

Jones was watching house numbers out of the corners of his eyes. He was coming pretty close now, and he began to walk even slower. His mouth twisted up at one side every time he came down on his right foot.

Ahead of him he could see a man's head and shoulders. The man was halfway down one of the basement flights of stairs. His head and shoulders moved back and forth in a sort of a jigging rhythm. Approaching, Jones saw that he was sweeping up the stairs of the basement. He swept in careful, calculating little dabs, as precisely as if he were painting a picture with his broom.

“Hi,” said Jones, stopping and standing on his left foot.

The man made another dab with his broom, inspected the result, and then looked up at Jones. He was an old man, small and shrunken and wiry, with white, smooth hair that was combed straight back from his softly plastic face. He nodded silently at Jones, solemn and wordless.

“Hendrick Boone live here?” Jones asked.

The old man sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Who?”

“Hendrick Boone.”

The old man considered for a moment. “Live where?”

“Here,” said Jones.

“Yes,” said the old man.

Jones stared at him sourly. “Thanks a lot,” he said at last.

“Oh, that's all right,” the old man said, and smiled.

Jones went up the stairs, grunting painfully, and, when he got to the top, leaned over and pinched the toe of his right rubber and muttered to himself under his breath. He straightened up and looked at the closed double doors ahead of him. There was a narrow frosted-glass panel in each one, and the pair of stiff-legged storks, with toothpick beaks depicted on them, leered disdainfully at him with opposite eyes. Jones looked around for a doorbell, finally located a little iron lever that protruded out of a slit in one of the doors. He pulled it down and then up again, and a bell made a dismal blink-blink-blink sound inside.

Jones waited, standing on his left foot, and the door opened slowly, squeaking a little. Jones touched his hat and said: “Hello. Is Mr. Hendrick Boone here, and if so, can I talk to him for a minute?”

“He's not here. He's really not here.”

“Oh,” said Jones.

She was a very small woman with gray hair that was puffed up in a wide knot on the top of her head. She wore thick, rimless glasses and behind them her eyes were a distorted blue, wide and a little frightened and anxious to please. She wore a long skirt that rustled and a white waist with lace stiffen the front. She had a timid, wavering smile.

“Where is he?” Jones asked.

“He's in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Jones repeated.

“Yes. He fell downstairs. Are you the man from the installment company?”

“No,” said Jones. “I'm a detective, believe it or not. I know I don't look like one. I can't help that. I didn't pick this face, and, to tell the truth, I don't think so much of it myself.”

“Oh, but he didn't do it! Really he didn't, officer! He couldn't have, you see. He's been in the hospital, and his condition is very serious, really if is, and he couldn't have done it.”

“Done what?” said Jones.

She moved her hands a little, helplessly. “Well-well, whatever you think he did. Was it-windows again?”

“Windows?” Jones asked.

“I mean, did you think he broke some windows, like he usually does?”

“He makes a habit of breaking windows?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. But only plate glass ones.”

“Particular, huh? What does he break windows for?”

Her sallow face flushed slightly. “He sees his image. You know, his reflection. And he thinks he is following himself again. He thinks he is spying on himself. And so he breaks the windows.”

“Well, maybe it's a good idea,” said Jones. “Is he ever troubled with pink elephants?”

“Yes, he is. He often sees them walking on the ceiling when he wakes up in the morning.”

“What does he do for them?”

“Oh, he always saves a half pint, and as soon as he drinks that they go away.”

“I should think they would,” said Jones. “I'm still talking about Hendrick Boone, by the way? Are you?”

“Yes. My husband.”

“Oh,” said Jones. “You're Mrs. Boone. Could I come in and sit down and speak to you for a moment? I've got some news for you, and besides my feet hurt.”

“Oh, yes. Surely. Excuse me, please. I was a little flustered when you said 'detective'-”

The hall was dark and small and narrow with a carpeted staircase running up steeply just to the right of the front door. The wallpaper was a stained brownish-black. There was a hole worn in the carpet at the foot of the stairs.

“Right in here,” Mrs. Boone said anxiously.

It was the parlor that stretched across the narrow front of the house. The furniture was stiff and awkward, mellowed with age, and there was a clumsy cut-glass chandelier that had been originally designed to burn gas.

Jones sat down on a sofa that creaked mournfully under him and looked down at his feet, wincing involuntarily.

“Now,” said Mrs. Boone. She was sitting primly upright, looking very small against the high carved back of the chair, with her hands folded on her lap and smiling a little, timidly. “Now-you wished to speak to me?”

Jones nodded, still thinking about his feet. “Yes. Your husband was born in Awkright, Idaho, wasn't he?”

She nodded brightly. “Yes.”

“Had one brother-by the name of Semus Boone?”

“Yes.”

“Not any more,” said Jones. “Semus Boone died a couple of months ago.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Boone. She was silent for a moment. “We hadn't seen him for over twenty years. He didn't like Hendrick. He invited us to a Christmas party, and Hendrick took a drop too much and broke the plate glass window in Semus' living room. Semus was very angry.”

“He must have gotten over it,” said Jones. “He left your husband all his money.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Boone. She smiled vaguely. “Was it enough to pay his funeral expenses?”

Jones nodded. “Yes. And a little bit to spare. About a million and a half.”

Mrs. Boone's hands gripped tight. Her eyes glazed behind the thick glasses, and her lips moved soundlessly. After a while she drew a deep breath. “You're not-joking?”

“No,” said Jones.

“You're-you're sure there's no mistake?”

“No,” said Jones. “I don't make mistakes-not when there's a million and a half in the pot. I've been hunting your husband for two months.”

“A million and a half!” said Mrs. Boone dreamily.

“Yes,” said Jones. “Your husband can't touch the principal, though. It's in trust. That's where I come in. I'm an investigator for the Suburban Mortgage and Trust Company. The company's the trustee-handles the principal. Your husband gets the income-he and his heirs and assigns and what not-for twenty years. Then the principal sum goes to certain charities. The income amounts to over a thousand a week.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Boone. “Oh!” Her eyes began to gleam behind the glasses, and she swallowed. “Sarah!” she called, and there was a gasping catch in her voice. “Sarah! Sarah!”

There was the flip-flop of slippers in the hall, and a girl came and stopped in the doorway. She had a wide red mouth and cigarette drooping in the corner of it that slid a smooth blue stream of smoke up past her cheek and the faded blondness of her hair. She was big and heavy-boned, but had a lazy, cat-like gracefulness. Her eyes were a deep-sea blue, set far apart. They were narrowed sullenly now, and she looked Jones up and down.

“Well,” she said. “And now what?”

She wore a blue kimono with the sleeves rolled back and was wiping her hands on a towel. Her forearms were white and smoothly muscled. There were birthmarks on both of them.

“Sarah,” said Mrs. Boone. “This gentleman here just came to tell us that your Uncle Semus died.”

“Too bad,” said Sarah. “What'd he do-bite himself on the tongue and die of hydrophobia?”

“No,” said Jones. “As a matter of fact he had a heart attack.”

“Somebody must have cheated him out of a nickel,” said Sarah. “That would do it, all right.”

“Don't speak ill of the dead,” Mrs. Boone said in a gently reproving voice. “He left your father a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“The income from a million and a half,” Jones told her.

Sarah's wide set eyes blinked once and then narrowed slowly. “Oh yeah? What's the gag, mister?”

“No gag,” Jones said. “I don't have anything to do with it. The trust company that handles the principal hired me to find you, and here you are. I'm through.”

“A million and a half,” said Sarah slowly. “About how much would that be a month?”

“Around five thousand.”

Sarah's breath made a little hissing sound between her white teeth. “Five thousand a month! The old man will drink himself to death in a week.”

“Won't make any difference to you if he does,” Jones said. “The income will go to your mother in that case.”

“Oh,” said Sarah thoughtfully. “It would, hey? That's something that needs a little thinking about.”

Jones got up. “I'll run down and see Mr. Boone before I leave town.”

Mrs. Boone blinked at him, worried. “He's in the City Hospital. But, I don't know. He's really pretty seriously ill. I don't know whether they'll let you in his room.”

“I just want to look at him,” Jones said. “I'll have to put it in my report. You say he fell?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Boone. “He came home late, and he was-”

“Fried,” said Sarah. “Drunk as a skunk. He crawled up the front steps and started walking around in circles looking for the front door and fell down again. He cracked his noggin on the sidewalk. He'll get over it, though, I'm afraid.”

“Sarah,” said Mrs. Boone. “Sarah, now. He's your father.”

“That's your fault,” said Sarah. “Not mine.”

“Well, I'll be going,” Jones said.

“Mr. Morganwaite,” Mrs. Boone said brightly, getting up with a sudden swish of her long skirt. “I must tell him! He'll be so pleased! I won't have to worry-” She hurried out of the room.

“Morganwaite?” Jones said inquiringly, looking at Sarah.

“He's an old stooge we keep around to clean up the joint now and then,” Sarah told him. “He takes care of the old man when he gets potted. You probably saw him when you came in. He was sweepin' the basement stairs.”

“Oh, yes,” Jones said. “Well, so long.”

“So long,” Sarah said. “Lots of thanks, mister, for coming around and doing a Santa Claus for us.”

Jones smiled. “I got paid for it.” He went down the dark hall and out the doors past the two storks that were still leering at him and the world in general.

The city hospital was a great square pile of brick, masonry and steel that covered a complete city block. Three hours after he had visited the Boones, Jones rode up and down on seven elevators and limped through a mile and a half of silent cork-floored corridors and finally located the section he wanted. He went in through a glass door in a glass partition that blocked off the short end of a hall. There was a middle-aged woman sitting behind a flat desk in a little cubby-hole off the corridor.

“Yes?” she said. Her voice had a low, practiced hush, and her face looked as stiff and white and starched as her uniform and cap.

“Hendrick Boone?” Jones inquired wearily.

She nodded. “Mr. Boone is in Room Eighteen Hundred.”

“Hah!” said Jones triumphantly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I see him?”

“No. Mr. Boone is allowed to receive no visitors except the members of his immediate family. His condition is very serious.”

“I'm not a visitor,” said Jones. “I just want to look at him. Don't worry-it's not curiosity. It's my job. I was hired to find him.”

“He's here.”

“Look,” said Jones. “How do you think that would sound in my report? I can't say I think he's here, or he's supposed to be here, or somebody by his name is here, or you told me he's here. I got to know he's here. I've got to see him. They're not paying me for guessing.”

The nurse regarded him silently.

“Just a peek,” said Jones. “Just open his door and give me a squint. I've got his picture and description. I won't say a word to him.”

The nurse picked up a precisely sharpened pencil, opened a leather-bound notebook. “Your name, please?”

“Jones,” said Jones.

“Your first name?”

“Just Jones.”

The nurse looked up at him, and her lips tightened a little.

“All right,” said Jones quickly. “Don't get mad. You asked for it, and that's really my name-just plain Jones. J. P. Jones. See, my mother had a lot of kids, and she always thought she ought to give them something fancy in the way of first names on account of there being lots of Joneses around. She named 'em Horatius and Alvimina and Evangeline and things like that. But she began to run out of names pretty soon, and she had an awful time with Number Twelve. She said: 'If there's any more, I'm not going to all this trouble. The next one is going to be just plain Jones.' So here I am.”

The nurse wrote in her book. “Address?”

“Suburban Mortgage and Trust-New York City.”She closed the notebook, laid the pencil carefully beside it. “This way, please.” She went along the hall to the last door on the right and, standing in front of it, turned to look at Jones. “You are not to speak to him. You understand?”

“Right,” said Jones.

The door swished a little, opening slowly. The room was a small one, and the high iron bed was in the corner beside the big window. The man in the bed made a bulging mound of the covers. He was lying on his back, and there was a white bandage like an adhesive and gauze skullcap on his head. There was something the matter with his face.

The nurse made a gasping sound, and her starched stiffness seemed to crack. She ran across to the bed, and Jones trailed right behind her. She fumbled under the covers, found the man's limply slack wrist. It was a thick wrist, big-boned, and the hand was big and square and powerful.

The nurse's voice was breathlessly small. “No-pulse. He strangled himself-”

“He didn't have to do it, himself,” Jones said. “He had some help.” He pointed to the red blotches, slowly turning dark now, on the thick throat.

“Pulmotor,” the nurse said, and started for the door.

Jones caught her arm, spun her around. “No. A pulmotor won't do him any good. Look at the color of those marks on his throat. Who came to see him this afternoon?”

The nurse jerked against his grip. “His daughter. She left a half hour ago. Said-he was asleep.”

“He was, all right,” said Jones. “You sure it was his daughter? Sarah? You've seen her before?”

“Yes-yes. Let go!”

“You sure it was Sarah?” Jones repeated. “You positively saw her?”

“Yes! She was veiled, but her arms-the birthmarks-”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jones. “Anybody else come?”

“No!” She twisted free, ran out the door.

Jones looked closely at the face of the man on the bed. It was Hendrick

Boone. Jones went out of the room. There was no one in sight in the corridor, and he went out through the glass partition and walked along the hall until he found a stairway and went down it.

In five minutes, he came out in the main entrance hall of the hospital and entered one of the public telephone booths beside the reception desk. He consulted the directory, finally deposited a nickel and dialed a number. He could hear the telephone at the other end ring and ring. It rang for a long time while Jones squinted at the black hard-rubber mouthpiece in front of him and muttered to himself inaudibly. Finally, the line clicked.

“Hello,” a voice said casually.

“Is Sarah Boone there?” Jones asked.

“Who?”

“Sarah Boone.”

“Where?”

Jones drew a deep breath. “Oh, it's you again, is it? Listen, Morganwaite, this is Jones, the detective that was there this morning. I want to know if Sarah Boone is there and by there I mean where you are. Now, quit playing around and answer me.”

“No,” said Morganwaite.

Jones choked and then recovered himself. “Are you saying no, you won't answer me, or no, she isn't there?”

“No, she isn't here.”

“Is Mrs. Boone there?”

“No. She left as soon as she got Sarah's message.”

“Message?” Jones said. “Sarah sent her a message?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Mrs. Boone told me.”

“When?”

“When she got it.”

“That's what I want to know!” Jones said explosively. “When did she get it?”

Morganwaite was silent while he evidently considered the matter at some length. “About a half hour ago.”

“What did the message say?” Jones asked.

“I don't know. Mrs. Boone didn't say. She just left.”

“What kind of a message was it? Telephone-telegraph?”

“No.”

“Well, what kind?”

“A written message-in an envelope.”

“Who brought it? Come on now, shake yourself and think hard.”

“It was a boy,” said Morganwaite pensively. “A boy in a gray uniform on a red bicycle. A small boy with freckles.”

“Thanks,” said Jones. He hung up, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Then he got up and walked quickly out of the hospital.

There was a taxi-stand across the street. Only one taxi was there now, and its driver was sitting disconsolately on the running-board cleaning his fingernails with a jackknife. He stood up when Jones approached and said, “Taxi?” in a not very hopeful voice.

“Is there a messenger service around town that specializes in red bikes and gray uniforms?” Jones asked him.

“Sure. Bullet Service.”

“Have they got a branch office near here?”

“Sure, on Court Street. Three blocks down and one to your right.”

“Show me,” said Jones. He opened the door of the taxi, climbed in, and plumped himself down on the seat with a sigh of relief.

It was a 'small, neat office with a big plate glass window that ran clear across the front and had an enormous bullet painted on it with red lines trailing behind to show it was traveling at tremendous speed. There were several people waiting when Jones limped up to the high counter and leaned on it with his elbow, looking as mysterious and hard-boiled as possible in view of the fact that his feet were hurting him more and more all the time.

A clerk with a polished haircut and a vacantly cordial smile stepped up to the other side of the counter. “Yes.”

“I'm a detective,” Jones sneered at him. “Don't act funny. Just be natural. Treat me like anybody else.”

The clerk gulped. “Police! What-”

“Shut up,” said Jones. “I said act natural. I want some information about a party who sent a message by one of your boys to Mrs. Hendrick Boone at Forty-five-fifteen Raleigh Street. Was it sent from this branch?”

The clerk nodded once, then again, and finally said, “Yes,” in a frightened stage whisper.

“When?”

“About-about an hour ago.”

“Did a woman send it?”

“Yes,” the clerk said. He swallowed and then said: “Her 'name was Sarah Boone.”

“So?” said Jones sharply. “And how do you know that?”

“Well, we have a rule about messages. A few months ago someone started sending poison-pen letters-anonymous-through our messenger service. Brought us a lot of bad publicity. Now, we require anyone sending a sealed message to sign it in our presence. This lady did.”

“What'd she look like?” Jones asked.

The clerk stared. “Well, she was a woman-I mean, sort of young, I think. She was veiled. I didn't notice. She had a lot of birthmarks on her arms.”

“Yeah,” said Jones absently. He squinted thoughtfully at the clerk for a moment, then suddenly pulled one of the blank pads of paper on the counter toward him, picked up a pencil, and wrote rapidly You're a liar.

“I'm not!” the clerk denied, instantly indignant. “You-”

Jones slapped the pad down. “I thought so! You're a shark at reading handwriting upside down, aren't you? That's the why of your signature rule, to give you boys a chance to spot a poison-pen letter before it goes out. Now, what did Sarah Boone's message say? Don't stall me.”

The clerk shifted uneasily. “Well, I can't repeat it, word for word. I didn't pay enough attention. I saw right away it wasn't anything like what we've been looking for. It was headed 'Dear Mother,' and it said something about a lot of serious trouble and for the mother to meet her right away at Ten-eleven Twelfth Avenue.”

“Where?” Jones asked.

“Ten-eleven Twelfth Avenue. I remembered that on account of the sequence of figures-ten, eleven, twelve. I was thinking that ought to be a lucky address-”

“Maybe not so lucky,” said Jones. “Keep this under your hat-if you have a hat. Thanks.”

Half the pickets were gone out of the fence, and it swayed backward wearily toward the wet brown square of earth that had once been a lawn. The house was gaunt and weather-beaten and ugly, and it had boards nailed haphazardly across the windows on the lower floor. It looked long deserted. A sign beside the gate said For Sale or Lease and gave the name of a realty company.

Jones looked from the sign to the house and back again, squinting thoughtfully. He turned his head slowly. There were no other houses within a half block.

Jones said, “Huh,” to himself. He dropped his right hand into the pocket of the trench-coat. He was carrying a pair of flat brass knuckles in the pocket, and he slid his fingers through the metal loops and closed his fist. He unfastened the middle button of the coat with his left hand and touched the butt of the.38 Police Positive he carried in his waistband. Then he nudged the sagging gate open with his knee and strolled aimlessly up the narrow walk.

There were some children playing in the street a block away, and their excited cries carried high and shrill in the stillness. Jones' feet made hollow thumps on the steps, on the damp-warped boards of the porch. The front door was open about an inch. Jones took his right hand out of his coat pocket and rapped with the brass knuckles. The echoes came back from empty rooms, hollow and thin and ghostly. Jones put his right hand behind him and waited. Nothing happened.

Jones closed the fingers of his left hand more firmly around the grip of the Police Positive and then suddenly kicked the door open and stepped to one side. The door swung in a dark, silent arc and banged against the wall. After about thirty seconds, Jones looked cautiously around the edge of the doorway and saw Mrs. Boone and Sarah.

Mrs. Boone was lying in front of the door. She wore a long, old-fashioned coat with a thin fur collar and an old-fashioned hat that sat high on her gray hair. The hat was tipped sidewise now at a grotesquely jaunty angle. She was lying on her back, and she had one arm thrown across her face.

Sarah was crumpled in a heap under one of the boarded windows, and the failing sunlight made a barred pattern across her broad face. A little trickle of blood on her cheek glistened brightly. One smooth white arm was flung limply wide. Jones could see the birthmark on it. The lax fingers just touched a stubby automatic lying there beside her.

Jones came inside the room, taking one cautious step, then another. He knelt beside Mrs. Boone. She was breathing faintly. There was a swollen, blue-black welt on her cheek. Jones leaned over Sarah and touched the smooth white arm. Then he suddenly spun around and ran out of the room. He ran down the walk, through the gate, on down the street. He ran two blocks to a corner drugstore, dodged into a telephone booth, dropped a nickel in the instrument, and dialed the operator.

“Ambulance,” he said breathlessly.

Dusk was a soft-gray smoothness closing down slowly over the row of houses that were just alike when Jones stopped on the sidewalk in front of the Boones' and looked up the steep front stairs at Morganwaite. Morgan-waite was sitting on the top step, leaning forward weakly, as if he had collapsed there. His broom was lying beside him, and he had the evening paper spread across his knees.

“Hello,” Jones said, and climbed the steps slowly and sat down beside him…

Morganwaite's hand was trembling a little, and he touched the paper on his knees with his forefinger gingerly. “This paper-I picked it up. The newsboy-delivered it just like any other night. It says that Sarah killed her father and tried to kill her mother and then-had an attack of remorse and killed herself.”

“It's mostly right,” said Jones. “Only Sarah didn't kill herself. She isn't dead.”

“Not dead,” Morganwaite repeated dully.

“No. They thought she was, at first. I did, too. I never saw anybody that looked deader. But the bullet was a small-caliber one. It didn't penetrate her brain. Gave her a multiple skull-fracture. It's a toss-up whether she'll pull through or not. The doc thinks she's got a good chance. Funny thing-she's in the same room her father was in at the hospital. That's the wing where they put the head injuries, and it was the only room vacant. She doesn't know it, of course. She's unconscious.”

“Mrs. Boone,” Morganwaite said. “There-there was no mistake about her? She's-all right?”

Jones nodded. “Just a concussion and shock. She's not even in the hospital. She's staying at a private nursing-home.”

“Sarah,” said Morganwaite. “I can't believe it. I can't think she'd do that.”

“People do,” said Jones. He stretched his feet out on the stairs, grunting painfully. “Chilblains-I get 'em every spring. They're killing me. Ever have 'em?”

“No,” said Morganwaite.

Jones sighed. “You're lucky. Can you look after things around the place here for a couple days? Mrs. Boone will be O.K. by then.”

“Yes,” said Morganwaite.

Jones got up. “Well-I've got to go. So long.”

Morganwaite didn't answer. He sat staring straight ahead with eyes that were wide and unseeing.

There were two big stone pillars on either side of the broad walk that led up to the entrance of the City Hospital. Jones was leaning against one of them, a thin indistinguishable shadow in the darkness, with his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was peering around the edge of the pillar, up toward the entrance of the hospital. After a moment, he stepped from behind the pillar, walked quickly up to the steps, pushed the plate glass door open.

A thick-set man with square, heavy shoulders was standing just inside the door. He wore a blue overcoat and a black felt hat, and he had a thin white scar on his face that ran from the corner of his left eye straight down across his cheek to the line of his jaw.

“Jones?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” said Jones in a surprised voice.

The scarred man stepped forward and picked up Jones by the front of the trenchcoat. He swung Jones around and slammed him against the wall.

“Careful,” said Jones. “Don't step on my feet, or I'll kill you.”

He said it in such a murderously calm voice that the scarred man let go of him. Jones straightened the front of his coat with a jerk and a shrug of his shoulders. “You don't have to tell me,” he said. “I know you're a cop.”

“Yeah,” said the scarred man. “Maybe you didn't think there were any cops in this town. Maybe you think you've been playing a little game of hide-and-seek with yourself. What's the big idea of trying to make us look like monkeys?”

“I can't help what you look like. You wanted to see me, you said.”

“All right. You've been in this case from the first. In fact, you started the ball rolling. You found Hendrick Boone. Did you stick around? No, you ducked out before we got here. You found the other two. Now, just what do you think you're doing?”

“Trying to find a murderer.”

The scarred man stared at him. “Are you so dumb you haven't figured it out yet? Sarah Boone did for her father and tried to do for her mother so she'd get the money her uncle left.”

“Did she?” said Jones.

“Why, sure. What-” The scarred man's hard eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you've got something else up your sleeve, have you? All right, then. Who is the murderer?”

“The person I was following. You can come along and take the credit for the arrest, if you don't bother me with a lot of dumb questions.”

The feet of Jones and the scarred man were soft and noiseless on the cork flooring. They walked side by side, tensely, and ahead of them was the bright, clean glitter of the glass partition that blocked off the short corridor where Hendrick Boone's room had been.

Through it they could see the nurse sitting behind her desk and looking up into Mrs. Hendrick Boone's thick glasses and shaking her head in a blank, surprised way. Jones nodded at the scarred man and then reached down and turned the knob on the glass door very softly.

“No,” said Jones. “Sarah isn't here. That was just a gag to see if I couldn't get you out from under cover. You really killed Sarah. She's in the morgue. Your feet are too big, Mrs. Boone.”

Mrs. Boone's skirt rustled silkily. Mrs. Boone's white-kid gloves made a blurred streak rising above the collar of her old coat, flipping down again. The knife was a flat, hissing glitter coming at Jones.

The scarred man ducked with an inarticulate cry. Jones dove under the knife and it smashed through the glass partition and rattled on the corridor floor beyond. Jones' shoulder hit against bony knees. There was a strangled cry, and Mrs. Boone's coat ballooned clumsily, falling…

Jones got up, drawing in a long breath. “You were a big help,” he said to the scarred man. “Thanks.” He looked at the white-faced nurse. “Sorry, Miss. I didn't figure on any knife-throwing.”

The scarred man pointed. “She-Mrs. Boone-she killed her husband and daughter?”

“No,” said Jones. “Of course not. Morganwaite killed them. What do you think I just tackled him for?”

“Him?” the scarred man said blankly.

Jones leaned down and picked up Mrs. Boone's glasses and loosened the collar of Mrs. Boone's coat and pulled it down. Morganwaite's face looked white and peaceful and kindly.

“Morganwaite killed Sarah and Hendrick Boone,” Jones said. “He did it so he could marry Mrs. Boone and live in comfort on her money. He had been planning it even before I turned up. Mrs. Boone had a little property. The news I brought about the trust fund just gave him added incentive. I don't think there's any doubt that he would have married Mrs. Boone had his plan gone through. She was a timid, trusting soul, beaten down by years of living with her drunken husband. She wouldn't be hard for anyone as clever as Morganwaite.”

“Well, how?” said the scarred man.

“Easy for him,” said Jones. “He's quite a female impersonator. Must have been an old-time actor. He looks like one. First, he got rid of Sarah. On some pretext, he got her to go to that old house on Twelfth Street. He'd picked out the spot a long time ago. He shot her when he got her there- in the temple, close enough so it would look like suicide. Then he dressed himself in Sarah's clothes, painted some birthmarks on his arms, came down here and finished Hendrick Boone. Then, still pretending to be Sarah and laying a nice plain trail, he sent a note to Mrs. Boone and signed Sarah's name to it, asking Mrs. Boone to meet Sarah at the house on Twelfth.”

“Huh!” said the scarred man. “You mean the old lady didn't even know her kid's writing?”

Jones held up the thick glasses. “Morganwaite thought of that, too. He stole Mrs. Boone's glasses. Look at 'em. They're an inch thick. Mrs. Boone couldn't read anything without 'em. Some neighbor read the note to her, or else the messenger did. Of course, she didn't question the writing. She went right down to the house on Twelfth. Morganwaite was waiting there for her. He hit her on the head as she came in, before she saw him, and left her there. The set-up was supposed to look as if Sarah had planned to kill her father and mother, but that, when she got to the point of actually doing for her mother, she had an attack of remorse and killed herself, instead.

“I was pretty sure of the set-up, but I didn't have any proof. So I went around and told Morganwaite Sarah wasn't dead-that she was here. Well, that upset his whole apple cart. Sarah knew he shot her, and, if she told, why there he'd be in the soup. So he came down to finish the job. This time he dressed up in Mrs. Boone's clothes to keep from being identified. He knew Mrs. Boone wouldn't be suspected, actually, because she was in a rest-home and would have an airtight alibi.”

Jones looked around. “If you've got any more questions, we'll have to go somewhere where I can sit down. My feet are killing me.”

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Date:

12/23/2007