TABLE of CONTENTS

MARRIED FOR MURDER

PARADE OF THE WOODEN KIMONOS

A HALF INTEREST IN HELL

First published in Ten Detective Aces, February 1935

Marty Quade leaned forward in the cab and tapped on the pane. "This is it, Moe. Number forty-two. Pull up right here."

The driver nodded, braked before the aristocratic old brownstone house. He said over his shoulder, as Marty got out, "Looks like they got dough, Mr. Quade. How do you always manage to get clients ents that are filthy with dough?"

It was the kind of house that inspired one with the feeling that its owners had lived in it for generations, and could live in a palace if they were not tied to this place by reasons of sentiment and pleasant association. Set far back from the building line, it had a well-kept lawn, which, In this section of high real estate values alone represented the price of a dozen buildings In a poorer neighborhood. The house reminded Marty of an old bottle of Napoleon brandy that might look musty and cobwebby, but was priceless.

As Marty got out of the cab, he stopped for a moment at the curb, glanced down the street. Moe followed his gaze, peering in the rear vision mirror on the fender.

"There they come, Mr. Quade," he said, as a maroon sedan swung around the corner, and slowed up, crawling down the block toward them. "They stuck like leeches."

Marty nodded. He waved the driver away. "Drive around the corner and park the cab with the flag down—I'll pay the tariff. Then come back, and if the birds from that sedan have come in the house after me, you just ring the bell hard, and beat it back around the corner. Wait for me there' and don't pay any attention if you bear shooting in there."

The driver said, "Okay, Mr. Quade. It sounds screwy to me, but I guess you know what you're doing."

Marty didn't bother to answer. As the cab pulled away, he walked up the short path flanked by tall umbrella trees, then up the short ftight of stone steps, and rang the bell. He stood sideways to the door, with his hand hallway across the white bosom of his dinner jacket, close to the butt of the automatic in his armpit holster.

He kept his eye on the maroon sedan, which had slowed down to a snail- like pace, was still half a block away.

He waited what seemed a long time, but did not press the bell button again. At last he heard light, faltering steps in-side. The curtain behind the glass panel of the old-fashioned door was pulled aside and some one peered out at him from the murky darkness of the interior.

Then the door opened, and Marty stepped into the dark hallway. He still held his hand close to the automatic, his whole body tense, ready for action. The door closed, shutting out what little light the street lamp had thrown into the house. Some one moved quietly beside him.

Marty caught the faint rustling of a dress, the sweet scent of a woman's hair. A soft body brushed him' a light hand fell on his sleeve.

"Come this way, Mr. Quade," a girl's voice said to him. "Hold on to me. I —I'm afraid to make a light."

Her voice spoke of refinement. Also, it hinted of nameless fear.

Marty put out a hand, touched a soft, cool, bare arm. "All right, Mrs. Boynton," he said. "Take me where we can talk."

He followed her through the dark hail and up a flight of stairs. She walked with the sure step of one who knew the house well, It was Marty's left hand that held on to her; his right was still free.

Down at the middle of the upper hall she turned and led him through a doorway into a room that was just as dark as the rest of the house. She closed the door, and Marty heard a switch click. The room was bathed in soft light from a small lamp on a writing desk in the corner.

Marty's eyes swept the room. He saw that it was large, thickly carpeted, expensively furnished. Heavy drapes coyered the two windows, permitting not a single streak of light to shine through.

The girl who had brought him here was tall, slim, with a slender throat and patrician features. She was somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-eight. Despite her slimness she had attractive curves; and Marty knew she was soft and pleasant to the touch.

"Well, Mrs. Boynton," he asked, "what makes you think you need a private de-tective?" Somehow, in that large room, his voice sounded hollow, almost unreal.

The girl was close to him. Her eyes sought his appealingly. She was breathing rapidly, shortly, almost in sobs. She spoke fast, tremulously, one hand clutching his sleeve.

"Were you followed here, Mr. Quade?" She didn't give him time to answer. "I'm sure they knew you were coming. I'm sure they've tapped my wire. They must have listened in when I called you."

Marty nodded slowly. "I was followed, all right; a maroon sedan. It's outside now." He took her arm, led her to a settee at the other end of the room, and sat down beside her. "Now, suppose you take a deep breath and tell me what's your trouble—and who they are."

She clasped her hands in her lap, looked around fearfully. "If they're outside, they'll come in, I'm sure, i'm sure!" Her voice rose, became slightly shrill. "I shouldn't have called you. I should have paid them. Now they'll come in and kill us-kill us both!"

Marty rose disgustedly. "Listen, lady, you and I will never get along like this. Now-do you talk sense, or do I go home?"

She bit her lower lip, controlled herself. She nodded. "I'm all right now,"' she said, low-voiced.

"Fine,'" said Marty. He sat down again. "Now spill it.'"

"It-it's my husband," she began. "Alan—he's a-a-bigamist!"

"Then he's crazy," Marty told her.

She smiled haif-heartedly. Even in her state of fear, she was, womanlike, susceptible to a compliment from a man like Marty.

He grinned. "Now we're getting the situation under control. So tell me when you found out about this, and what the birds in the maroon sedan have to do with it. Also why you're all alone here in the house, shivering in your shoes."

She was a little calmer now. Marty did that to people. His broad shoulders and square face that reflected power and reliability, his imperturbable, easy manner, seemed to inspire men and women with confidence, with a sense of safety.

She unclasped her hands, started to twirl the diamond wedding band around her finger. "Alan told me himself. He—he hasn't been home for three days. He called me on the phone day before yesterday. They made him marry this woman before a justice of peace up in Connecticut. But he can't prove that he was forced. They just stood there as witnesses, but they had their hands in their pockets, with guns; and they would have—killed him if he hadn't gone through with it!"

Marty's eyes had a far-away look. "Sounds like a new kind of racket to me," he said reflectively. He swung on her bruskly. "Go on. What happened?"

She had forgotten some of her fear now, in the telling of the story. She went on eagerly, "They've got Alan somewhere. He went with them willingly, so it can't be called kidnaping; Alan told me that on the phone. Then yesterday, they came to see me, showed me a photostat copy of the marriage certificate. They want a hundred thousand dollars, or they'll have the woman they married him to prosecute him for bigamy!"

Marty whistled. "It took brains to figure that one out. Who's this they?"

"Two men," she told him, "named Cuvillier and Serrano."

Marty started, tensed. "Cuvillier! I might have known he's the only one in town with the brains for such a stunt." He turned to her grimly. "What did you do?"

"I—I was willing to pay it, if they'd give me the original marriage certificate and a release from the woman. But no—they wouldn't do that. Cuvillier told me, with that maddening smile of his, that the hundred thousand was only the first installment-they'd be back for more in a year or so. They're going to hold that over Alan's head for the rest of his life!"

"So you refused to pay up?"

"I did." Her mouth set in a stubborn little line. "I won't have Alan bled- and-bled forever!"

Marty looked at her admiringly. "So what did my pal, Culliver, do?"

"He-he only laughed. He said he was letting me off easy. If I don't pay by tonight, they'll kill me-and Alan. And the woman will inherit all of Alan's estate. They'll get all his money at once?"

Marty's eyes were bleak. "He'd do just that, too. Cuvillier's got away with murder more than once in this town."

The girl stirred. Impulsively, she put a hand on his knee. "That's why I called you, Mr. Quade. I can't go to the police. Alan is vice-chairman of the League of Decency. He could never prove he was forced to marry the woman. Can you imagine the scandal?"

"Yeah," said Marty. "I can imagine." He rose, carefully brushed off the lapel of his coat, upon which he had detected a slight speck. "Where were you supposed to get the hundred thousand? Could you put your hands on it?"

She nodded. "I could sell some securities. The property and securities are all registered in our joint names." She got up, clutched his coat at the shoulder. "Please, please, Mr. Quade, do something. They told me if I called in any one they wouldn't wait. They'd start killing."

Marty growled, "What the hell can I do? Cuvillier has you tied up in a knot."

Her eyes were large, trusting. "You can do something. Everybody talks about you. They say you never fail in any case you take."

"Yeah," said Marty. "But I haven't taken this yet. I've had it in for Cuvillier for a long time, but this doesn't look like a spot. He's been too clever. Of course, if he should go in for murder-" his eyes regarded her somberly—"but that wouldn't do you any good. You'd be past enjoying it."

"Help me," she pleaded. "Help me. I—I'm so-alone. I'll pay you- whatever your bill is."

Marty shook his head. "I can't see it, Mrs. Boynton. You better do business with Cuvillier—and hope he slips some other time. It's-"

He stopped at the sound of stealthy movement from the hail door. He whirled, his hand streaking for the automatic; but he didn't touch it. For the door had been silently swung open, and out of the darkness of the hall a shadowy shape loomed, a hand with a revolver was thrust into the room. And the revolver was pointing at him.

"Don't do it, Quade," said a voice. The voice sounded a little worried. "Maybe we can talk this over."

Marty grinned, but kept his hand close to the butt of the automatic. "Okay, Cuvillier. I won't hurt you. Come on in."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Boynton, eyes distended and mouth open in terror; she was clutching his sleeve again, and would have made it a little difficult for him to draw and fire if he'd had to.

She said hoarsely, "He'll kill us both now!"

"Don't worry, lady," Marty reassured her. "Mr. Cuvillier won't do any shooting right this minute. If I thought he would, I'd have pulled my gun anyway."

The shadow from the hallway drew into the room, materialized as a large, paunchy man with a wide head and ears that stuck out at right angles. He wore a soft felt hat with a wide brim, which was intended to camouflage the large ears somewhat. There was a sharp cut to the hard chin, and a ruthless look in his eyes, which proclaimed Cuvillier to be a dangerous man. He was holding a revolver.

Behind Cuvillier there entered a small man with a shriveled face and black eyes set deep back under a high forehead. He was skinny and wizened, but the bony hand that held the automatic trained on Marty did not waver by so much as the sixteenth of an inch.

Marty laughed harshly. "Heilo, Serrano. I see you got a new job now. You're a sap. Don't you know it's poison to be Cuvillier's bodyguard? He'll leave you holding the bag, the way he did the others."

Serrano scowled. His nose wrinkled into ugly shape from the grimace as he said to Cuvillier's back, "Lemme give it to him, boss! What's he buttin' in for anyway? It's his own funeral!"

Cuvillier jerked his shoulder impatiently, barked, "Lay off, Serrano. I'll do all the talking." He kept his eyes on Marty. "Look, Quade—I don't want any fuss with you. I know you can pull that gun of yours awful fast. You'd maybe get me, too, even with us having the drop on you. But you'd be dead as a herring, and you couldn't make any more dough."

Marty reached over with his left hand and gently disengaged the girl's clutch from his sleeve. He felt better now. His fingers, splayed like talons, hovered over the butt of the automatic, which was already partly showing under his coat.

"So don't take this here dame's case," said Cuvillier. "You can get out from under. She's got to pay. There's no out for her or for Boynton. I got them sewed up tight. And believe me, when I say tight, I mean tight!"

The girl said to Marty almost under her breath, "No, no. I won't pay- unless they give me the marriage certificate and a release."

Marty sighed. "To be frank with you, Cuvillier," he told the big man, "I wasn't going to take the case. But now-"

He stopped as the doorbell downstairs rang loud and long. Serrano jerked around at the clatter of the bell. Cuvillier ordered, "Go see who that is. Chase 'em away. We're busy."

Serrano backed out of the door. "It might be Boynton an' Luella, from the car," he said. "Maybe Luella thinks we're givin' her the cross."

"If it's them, bring them up. We'll have Boynton tell Quade with his own tongue that he don't want any dicks mixing in here!"

When Serrano was gone, Marty grinned and said, "That's not your pals from the car, Cuvillier. It's just a little alarm bell of my own that I arranged for, in case you followed me in the house—only it came a little late." He lowered his hand slowly from the region of the shoulder clip. "You won't do any shooting now, Cuvillier. You were seen to come in by the man who rang that bell. And he'd make a swell witness to pin a murder rap on you."

Cuvillier breathed a sigh of relief, lowered his revolver. "I'd rather not trade shots with you, anyway. Wait'll Boynton comes up an' tells this dame here to pay over."

Marty cast a glance at tize stubborn set of the girl's mouth. She was standing tensely, her eyes lancing hate at Cuvillier.

Marty said to her, "What about it, Mrs. Boynton. You willing to pay, or should I take the case? I think that you can beat this frame of Cuvillier's. It's blackmail, and he can go up the river for ten years."

"If you prove it," Cuvillier pointed out. "I ain't said a word about blackmail. Why, it was her own husband that told her on the phone to turn over that hundred thousand."

"I can't understand it!" the girl ex-claimed. "That Alan should have let them force him to marry the woman-"

Marty patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Mrs. Boynton. It was a good stunt, but they won't get away with it. No one would believe that a man like your husband would actually go through with a marriage ceremony-commit bigamy with his eyes open!"

They heard Serrano opening the downstairs door, heard loud voices-a woman's shrill one, and a man's troubled, subdued tones. Mrs. Boynton said:

"That's Alan!"

There were footsteps on the stairs. In a moment Serrano appeared in the doorway, and behind him a woman, no longer youthful, with bleached blonde hair and rings under her eyes. She was poorly dressed, and Marty noticed a run in her stocking.

After her came a man in his late thirties, dignified, but with a harried expression on his face. As he entered, Mrs. Boynton cried, "Alan!" in a choked sort of voice, and started to run to him; but stopped, with her hand to her mouth as she saw something in her husband's eyes.

Serrano grinned, waved his gun to ward the frowzy woman, said, "Meet Luella Haines, ladies an' gents."

The woman brushed past him, put a hand on her hip, and stood as if flaunting herself before Boynton's wife. "The name," she said, "is Mrs. Luella H. Boynton-like it, or not."

Marty had been studying the husband, disregarding Cuvillier and Serrano. Now he turned to the woman, frowning at her. "You don't have to rub it in, Luella," he said. "In a racket like yours, you're supposed to treat the customers nice and gentle. All you want is the dough, Isn't it?"

She sneered at him. "Wise dick, ain't you? That's how much you know about It. We're getting the dough, and I'm rubbing it in. What do you think of that?"

Marty looked at her reflectively for a moment, and then he started to grin slowly. He saw that Boynton was squirming uncomfortably, and that Cuvillier and Serrano were red in the face. Serrano was fingering his gun suggestively as if he wanted to rake it across the woman's face.

Marty goaded him. "What's the matter, Serrano? Is your lady-friend talking too much for everybody's good?" He glanced at Cuvillier. "Your hired help seems to be getting out of control. There's more to this than just a blackmail racket, Cuvillier. Why don't you open up to me. I might be able to straighten out the whole jam."

Cuvillier threw a nasty glance at Luella, then hastened to assure Marty, "There's nothing to it, Quade. This is just the way it lines up. Luella here's been married to Boynton, and there ought to be some kind of settlement. Luella'll take a hundred grand and forget she's his lawful wedded wife-for a while. Of course, there'll be more payments due in the future; a guy as rich as Boynton can't marry two women cheap nowadays."

Marty was laughing silently, in Cuvillier's face. He turned to the bleached-blonde woman. "Come on, Luella, open up. If you have any rights, they'll be taken care of-without Cuvillier's assistance." He pointed a finger at Boynton, who had become very pale. "What about it, Mr. Boynton-won't you take care of Luella?" He demanded it sharply, imperiously, as if the answer had to be yes.

Boynton fidgeted, looked at the woman, then at his wife, then at Cuvillier. "Why—why—I guess so—of course." He squared his shoulders. "See here, Mr. Quade. Why should you mix up in this? My wife acted hastily when she called you in. I'm perfectly willing to deal with these men; it's the only way out."

Cuvillier nodded, grinning broadly. "That's the stuff, Mr. Boynton I Nothing like settling these things friendly like. You're a reasonable man!" He held out his hand, palm outward, to Marty, in a gesture of satisfaction. "You see, Quade? Just as I told you-you're not wanted here. How about fading out and leaving us to settle this between ourselves?"

Marty shook his head slowly, still grinning. "Can't be done, Cuvillier." He took Mrs. Boynton's arm. "The lady, here, won't agree. She's not going to pay out this hundred thousand till she knows the inside of the deal." He pressed the girl's arm. "Am I right, Mrs. Boynton?"

The girl's eyes were wide, fixed on her husband, with mingled concern and fear. She hesitated. "Well, if Alan-"

Marty increased the pressure on her arm, squeezed hard. "Am I right, Mrs. Boynton?"

The pressure of Marty's hard fingers seemed to reassure her, to give her courage. Her little chin went up, she swept the others with a disdainful gaze.

"I won't pay!" she said. "Unless they give up their hold on Alan. I won't! I won't!"

Marty shrugged. "You see, Cuvillier? Your racket is swell, but it's no good with this lady. Too bad-"

Cuvillier's face had assumed an ugly expression. Serrano swung his gun to cover Marty, muttering, "Troublemaker!"

It was Boynton who interrupted Marty. He said hastily, "Never mind. I'll pay the money myself. As long as my wife knows-"

Marty stopped him. "You can't, Mr. Boynton. You need your wife's signature. It's no good." He spoke to the husband, but he had his eyes on the bleached blonde. "How come you let them marry you to this woman? You don't look like the kind of guy that could be intimi-dated. And a dame like her-"

Mrs. Boynton broke in. She was looking appealingly at her husband. "Oh, Alan! Why did you let them do it? Why? Why? You've put yourself in their hands!"

Boynton veiled his eyes. "I'm sorry, dear. This woman—"

The bleached blonde had been listening to the conversation avidly, seeming to gloat over Mrs. Boynton's misery. Marty was watching her carefully, noting her reactions.

Now he said to her, "See? You're nothing but a tool of Cuvillier's. Boynton hates you."

The woman's attitude seemed to change at Marty's words. Her mouth twisted into a vicious line. Her eyes snapped venom. "He hates me, does he! He calls me this woman! I'll show him about this woman!"

She whirled on Boynton. "You—you—" She seemed to choke up with rage and hate. But her hands moved swiftly. She snatched a small-calibered gun out of her handbag, backed away, and pumped four shots into Boynton.

Marty got to her before either Cuvillier or Serrano, slapped her gun-hand down. Another bullet plowed into the floor. Serrano raised his gun, fired a single shot into the woman's body.

"Damn you!" he screeched. "A hundred grand gone!" He swung his gun toward Marty. "You too, you-"

Marty's right hand, which was free of the woman, streaked to his armpit. At the same time he dropped Luella, and sidestepped. His hand flashed out with the automatic, and flame lanced from it just as Serrano fired. Serrano's aim was thrown off by having to follow Marty's moving body, and he missed. But Marty's slug caught him between the eyes. He was slammed backward into the hallway, his convulsive finger holding down the trigger. His automatic continued to spurt lead, described a wild arc. And in the radius of that arc stood Cuvillier.

Cuvillier dropped like a log, shot through the throat by his own bodyguard.

Marty, breathing hard, looked over the room. It was a shambles. Mrs. Boyn- ton was standing stiff and frozen, shocked by the terrific explosions and the swift death that had come into the room.

Marty gripped her arm, led her to the settee. "Sit down and take it easy. It's all over."

Her eyes seemed to come to life, roved the room, and rested on her husband.

"Alan!" she moaned. "He's dead."

Marty patted her shoulder, went over and knelt by the bleached-blonde woman. Serrano's bullet had caught her over the heart. There was no life in her.

From outside came voices; a police siren.

Marty went swiftly through Cuvillier's pockets. He found what he sought-a long envelope, with two documents in it.

One was old and musty, the other brand new. Marty glanced only a moment at the old one, put it hastily in his pocket. The other he brought over to the settee, handed it to the girl.

She looked up at him with dull eyes. "It's the marriage certificate," he told her.

She shivered. "Alan's dead. What good is it now?"

"Don't you want to protect his name, and yours? You want this to get out?"

Heavy feet sounded on the stairs, commands in an authoritative voice.

She continued to look at him uncomprehendingly. "But-but how-"

"How to cover it up? You just follov my lead. Let me do the talking."

He turned to the door as a couple of uniformed figures burst in. They were the crew of a radio car. Behind them came Moe, Marty's taxi driver.

The uniformed men had their guns out, took one look at the place, and swung on Marty.

Moe shouted, "Hey, wait. That's Mr. Quade. He ain't one of the crooks!"

Marty said, "Thanks, Moe." To the cops he explained, "We had a little shooting scrape. Some people got killed."

"Yeah. So we see. How come?"

Just then another uniformed man, and one in plainclothes came in. Marty greeted the one in plainclothes, who was Detective Sergeant Sayre of homicide. "Hello, Dave. Late, as usual!"

Sayre scowled at the room in general, turned an inquiring glance on Marty. He grinned sourly. "I see you done your good deed for the day, Quade. Cuvillier, huh? I thought that bird was too slick to lay himself open to getting shot by you."

"He was," Marty grinned. "I didn't shoot him. Serrano did. Serrano also shot the woman, and the woman shot Mr. Boynton. I had to kill Serrano to keep him from doing further damage."

"Sounds screwy to me," Sayre growled. "That's what I said," Moe interrupted eagerly, "when Mr. Quade—"

Marty froze him with a glance. "It's not screwy when you know the facts, Dave. Those three were a gang. They threatened to kill Mr. and Mrs. Boynton. So I was hired to protect them. Only I came just a minute or two late. The shooting had started, and they they found out they were double-crossing each other, so they kept on shooting-at each other."

Sayre glanced at him suspiciously, turned to Mrs. Boynton. "What about it, Mrs. Boynton? Let's hear your story."

Marty raised a hand, looked outraged. "Why, Sergeant Sayre! You wouldn't subject Mrs. Boynton to questioning after she's just gone through such an ordeal!"

Sayre glowered at Marty, but the girl rose from the settee. She said brokenly, "It's all right, Mr. Quade. I-I'll answer the officer's questions." She turned her large eyes on Sayre. "You want to know what happened?"

"That's right, madam."

"Well, you see, these people were a gang. They threatened to kill Mr. Boyn-ton and myself if we did not give them money. So we hired Mr. Quade, but he came too late. They had already started to-"

Sayre turned away from her disgustedly. "Yes, I know-they had already started shooting. The woman shot your husband-" He swung around and glared at Marty. "How did you manage to coach her so quick?"

Marty said sharply, "You're nuts, Dave! This is murder. Are you hinting that I'm not telling you just what happened?"

Sayre said wearily, "Oh, all right. I'll take your stories as they stand, But I hope the bullets in the right bodies belong in the right guns."

"You can depend on it, Dave, they will."

"I guess you're right," Sayre agreed reluctantly. "I've never known you to condone murder."

"You're damn right!" Marty growled. He took Mrs. Boynton's arm, led her out. "We'll be in the next room when the inspector comes," he called back. "There's no need to keep this lady here any longer."

The girl seemed to be holding her own. She said, "In here, Mr. Quade, please," indicating a door off the hall. This was a sitting room.

She seated herself before a writing desk, drew a folding check book out of a pigeon hole. Marty could see that she was exerting supreme control over herself. Perhaps in an hour or two abe would yield to shock, perhaps not.

She picked up her pen, said, "About your fee, Mr. Quade?"

Marty shrugged. "I didn't do so much for you, Mrs. Boynton. I couldn't stop."

She raised her hand. "I think you're doing more for me than you want to tell me. What was that worn-looking paper you took out of Cuvillier's wallet, and put in your pocket?"

Marty started.

She smiled wanly. "I saw you take it." She held out her hand. "You might as well show it to me. I can stand anything now."

Marty was reluctant. "What's the use—If you don't show it to me, I'll guess—and it couldn't be worse—than my guess."

Marty looked at her for a long minute; then he nodded. "Okay."

He reached into his pocket, took out the old, crinkled paper, spread It open on the desk. It was coming apart at the folds. He smoothed it out, and they both read it. Then they looked at each other silently.

It was a marriage certificate, dated the fourteenth day of February, 1920. It certified that on that day, one Alan Boynton had taken to wife one Luella Haines.

The girl read it through twice more before she raised her eyes, full of questioning pain. She said very low, "Alan was already married to her. He really became a bigamist when he married me!"

"That's right," Marty agreed. "Luella must have caught up with him, and then told her story to Cuvillier. Cuvillier probably made his play to your husband, hit him up for heavy dough. But your husband couldn't draw that much money without explaining to you, so he figured out the stunt of staging a second marriage to Luella Haines, and then telling you he'd been forced to marry her. See it?"

There was a tear in the corner of each of her eyes. "I see." She swallowed hard. "Poor woman. How she must have hated him for deserting her!"

She threw her head back, dabbed at the tears with a tiny handkerchief, and picked up the pen.

"This check, Mr. Quade," she said, "is going to be good."

As she wrote the check, Marty slowly tore the marriage certificate into small bits.

THE END

First published in Ten Detective Aces, February 1941

In the dead of night Marty Quade was awakened-by two guns trained on his head. Marty was about to be shot for being involved in a case he hadn't heard of—yet. But Marty was in too much of a hurry to die just then, so he composed a bullet rhapsody—for a corpse parade.

CHAPTER 1

THE Japanese gentleman was very apologetic. He stood in the doorway of Marty Quade's hotel room, with a flashlight in one hand and a small twenty-two calibre pistol in the other. Right behind him there was a second Japanese gentleman, who had no flashlight, but who made no effort to hide the gun in his hand.

"I am so sorry to intrude, Mr. Quade," said the first Japanese gentleman, speaking very politely and in precise English. "Believe me, it is very necessary."

Marty sat up in bed and blinked at the two uninvited guests. The hair on his chest glistened in the beam of the flashlight. He slept only in his pajama pants, and the upper part of his body felt chilly in the cold draft which the open door was causing.

"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.

The first Japanese gentleman stepped farther into the room. His companion, right in back of him, felt for the electric light switch, and flicked it on. The light from the ceiling lamp revealed them both to be faultlessly attired in evening clothes, with white tie, stiff shirt-front, handsome dark topcoats, and opera hats.

The second of the two closed the door carefully, and double-locked it. Then the first one put away his flashlight and advanced toward the bed. Keeping the pistol pointed at Marty, he showed two gleaming rows of false teeth in a smile that was supposed to be dazzlingly genial.

"Please do nothing rash, Mr. Quade," he begged. "I am aware of your reputation for toughness. But believe me, if you should get out of bed, we would be compelled to kill you at once."

Marty looked at them soberly for a moment, then he began to grin. He propped himself up on one elbow, keeping the blankets over him. His other hand was under the blanket, gripping the thirty-two calibre automatic which he had picked up from the night table when he had been awakened by the fumbling at his door.

"Come right in," he invited. "Make yourselves at home, Mister—er—"

"Hito," supplied the first Japanese gentleman. "Matsuma Hito. And this"—he waved at his companion, who blinked owlishly from behind a pair of hornrimmed glasses—"is my assistant, Mr. Nugo."

"And what's the idea, Mr. Hito," Marty Quade demanded, "of breaking into my room at three o'clock in the morning?"

"We did not break in, Mr. Quade," Hito protested gently. "We merely opened the door with a passkey."

"Where did you get the passkey?"

Mr. Hito smiled once more and raised one shoulder slightly. "From the night clerk. The poor fellow saw fit to try to resist, and Mr. Nugo was regretfully compelled to kill him. We have put his body in the vault."

MARTY'S fingers curled around the butt of the automatic under the blanket. His eyes narrowed. Mr. Hito was certainly not bluffing. His calm statement about murdering the night clerk had been made too matter-of-factly.

"If you wanted to get in here," Marty said, "why didn't you just knock instead of going to the trouble of killing the night clerk?"

Mr. Hito smiled deprecatingly. "We hoped to catch you—napping, so to speak. We wanted no trouble with you, Mr. Quade. We thought it wiser to talk with you—with the advantage on our side."

To illustrate what he meant by "having the advantage on his side," he thrust his pistol a little closer to Marty's bare chest.

"Go ahead and talk," Marty said. "But don't expect that little pop-gun of yours to do you any good. I've been shown bigger guns than that."

Mr. Nugo, who had come around to the foot of the bed, snickered. But Mr. Hito remained very grave. "I have been warned that you are a dangerous man, Mr. Quade. That is why we took such precautions tonight. I do not think that we will have any trouble with you."

"Get down to business," Marty said impatiently.

Mr. Hito removed his top hat, flattened it carefully, using only one hand, and then sat down in the chair near the bed. He put the hat in his lap and held the pistol over it.

"You are a very unconventional private detective, Mr. Quade," he began. "You have no office, and you transact all your business from your hotel room here, or from any bar where you may happen to be. In this manner, you are always within reach of any client who has immediate and pressing need of your services. Perhaps one reason for operating in this peculiar way is that you have clients in so many different and out-of-the-way walks of life."

"Look, Mr. Hito," Marty said in an exasperated voice. "For the sake of saving time, you can assume that I know as much about myself as you do. Skip the biography and get down to the bare facts. I want to get some sleep tonight."

Mr. Hito smiled. "Have no fear, Mr. Quade. You shall sleep well, tonight. Very well indeed."

Mr. Nugo snickered again.

"I see," said Marty. "Curtains for me, eh?"

Hito shrugged deprecatingly. "No one dislikes bloodshed more than I do. But in your case, there is no other way."

"In plain English then, you're here to knock me off?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, yes. My humble apologies, but we must kill you in a few minutes."

"Why in a few minutes? Why not right now?"

"You do not understand, Mr. Quade. We are waiting for the telephone call."

"Telephone call? From whom?"

"From Andrew Gaxton."

"Ah!" said Marty. "Andrew Gaxton! But what has he got to do with all this. He's a writer of crime stories. And besides, he's in Mexico City—"

"You are mistaken, Mr. Quade. Andrew Gaxton arrived in New York by plane only a few minutes ago. We are quite sure that his first action will be to call you. He will ask you to meet him at once and act as his bodyguard. He has the utmost confidence in your ability to protect him, Mr. Quade."

"Thanks for the compliment," Marty said sourly. "But what's he afraid of?"

"Of me!" Mr. Hito said, with a show of becoming modesty. "He knows that I plan to—er—eliminate him, unless he complies with certain requests of mine. When he phones you, I shall let you answer. Then I shall take the phone, and inform him that I am here. I shall let him hear the shot which will—ah—deprive you of your life. When he understands that I have killed the one man upon whom he relied for safety, he will quickly come to terms with me."

Mr. Hito smiled, as if in appreciation of his own cleverness.

"You amaze me," Marty said. "You positively amaze me."

"Thank you," acknowledged Mr. Hito. "I always try to do a piece of work thoroughly. It is my profession."

"You mean you're a professional murderer?"

"No, no. I, Mister Quade, am a—"

Mr. Hito had no opportunity to say what he was, for the telephone on the night table rang.

Mr. Hito smiled, and bobbed his head. He waved toward the instrument with his pistol.

"Answer, please!"

A QUEER sort of tenseness seemed to take possession of both Mr. Hito and his assistant, Mr. Nugo. Nugo's breath left his lips in a sibilant hiss, and he leaned over a little, across the foot of the bed. His eyes, behind the horn-rimmed glasses, actually grew wider. The pistol in his hand moved forward, and the veins began to stand out on his skinny yellow hand.

Mr. Hito, however, remained outwardly calm, except for an almost imperceptible hunching of the right shoulder.

Marty pushed himself back in the bed, so that he rested against the headboard. He still kept his right hand under the blanket. With his left he reached out and removed the telephone from its cradle. He raised it and said:

"Quade speaking. How are you, Gaxton?"

There was a gasp at the other end of the wire. Then a voice said: "Marty! How did you know it was I?"

Marty Quade chuckled. "A little bird. In fact, two little birds. The name of one is Mr. Hito, and the name of the other is Mr. Nugo. They're here to kill me, so as to put a scare into you."

"Holy Moses!" Andrew Gaxton groaned. "I should have known better than to drag you into this. I could kick myself for having boasted, down in Mexico City, that my friend Quade would take care of me once I got to the States. You're as good as dead, Marty, and I am lost. That Hito is worse than a rattlesnake!"

"Tut, tut," said Marty. "Mr. Hito is easy to get along with. I'll take five to one that I buy you a cup of coffee at the lunch counter downstairs—in a half hour."

Mr. Hito and Mr. Nugo, who had been watching and listening very carefully, now exchanged glances. Mr. Hito nodded, and reached over and took the phone out of Marty's hand. He put the speaker to his mouth and said:

"Do not accept the wager, Mr. Gaxton. It is impossible to collect from a dead man. Listen closely now, and you will hear the shot—"

He nodded to Mr. Nugo, who snicked the safety catch off his pistol and thrust the gun all the way forward to bring the muzzle nearer to Marty.

Marty sighed, and took his own automatic out from under the blanket. The safety catch had been off all the time, and all Marty had to do was to pull the trigger.

He did so, and the gun cracked.

A big, round hole appeared in the center of the triangle formed by Mr. Nugo's eyes and the top of his forehead. Mr. Nugo let the pistol drop out of his hand. It fell to the bed. His horn-rimmed glasses fell off his nose. Then Mr. Nugo, looking quite bewildered, toppled forward. Blood spattered the white sheet. Mr. Nugo lay still. The reverberating echoes of Marty's shot bounced back from the four walls like the rumbling of a metal drum.

Mr. Hito was taken entirely by surprise. He had remained seated alongside the bed, with his opera hat in his lap, and the pistol held above it.

But he had been so sure that Mr. Nugo would be capable of handling the simple matter of murder, that he had devoted his entire attention to turning the phone in such a manner that it would catch the full blast of the revolver shot. Marty's swift and unexpected action had caught him flat-footed.

For a fraction of a second he certainly did not realize what had actually happened. Then, as Nugo fell across the bed, Mr. Hito uttered a sibilant sound and lifted his gun.

But Marty Quade was already swinging the automatic around. He could have shot Mr. Hito through the head, just as he had shot Nugo. And perhaps he later had occasion to regret that he had not done so. But instead of shooting, Marty merely struck down at Mr. Hito's wrist with the barrel of the automatic.

The sound of metal striking against bone was drowned out by the still- reverberating echoes of the gunshot. But the feel of it was very satisfactory to Marty. The barrel thudded solidly against Hito's wrist, and the Japanese gentleman opened up his fingers and dropped his pistol, as if it were white hot.

For a second he looked with uncomprehending eyes at the dead body of Nugo, and at Marty's grinning face. Then he jumped up from the chair, spilling his opera hat and dropping the phone. He turned, crouched low, and dashed for the door. He twisted the catch, and yanked the door wide open.

"Hey, you!" Marty yelled. "Stand still, or I'll shoot—"

Mr. Hito threw himself flat on the floor, wriggled forward a foot or two into the hall, and then rolled out of the line of fire.

Marty swore under his breath, threw the blankets off, and leaped out of bed. Clad only in his pajama pants, he dashed out after Mr. Hito.

HE SWUNG out into the hall and stopped still, his face going a brick red. Mr. Hito was already far down the end of the corridor, near the fire exit. But there was some one else, less than ten feet away, coming toward the door.

She was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty, with a short fur jacket and a pair of blazing emerald pendants in her ears. A red silk dress swished around her long legs and clung to her narrow hips like cellophane.

But it wasn't her legs or her dress or her earrings or her hips that Marty was noticing at that moment. He was noticing the heavy black Luger which she was holding in one slender hand.

Besides noticing that Luger, Marty was also supremely conscious of his own lack of clothing. He uttered a gasp, and turned and dived back into his room.

But the black-haired girl came after him relentlessly, and started shooting. She was a terrible shot, and the bullets went everywhere except in Marty's direction.

The Luger was entirely too heavy for her, and the recoil threw her aim wild. The gun boomed four times before Marty got inside the room, and then he took another step and tripped over something. It was the body of the dead Mr. Nugo, which had rolled off the bed and was lying on the floor on its face, directly in Marty's path.

Marty went down head first, and his temple struck a glancing blow against the baseboard of the bed. It knocked him groggy for a second, and he lay still, his hands outstretched, one paw still gripping the automatic.

He heard the black-haired girl fire two more shots behind him. One slug hit the bed, and the other plowed into the floor almost a foot from his head.

She was certainly the rottenest shot who had ever popped a gun off at Marty Quade. But she must have thought that she had hit him, for he heard her say with a strong Spanish accent:

"Let that be wan lesson to you, peeg. I, Esperanza Torres, 'ave keel you, weeth my own 'and!"

Then he heard her light footsteps swiftly retreating down the hall.

Marty wiped sweat from his forehead, shook his head to free it from dizziness, and got to his feet. He grabbed his robe lying on a chair, flung it around him quickly, then sprang to the door.

The Señorita Esperanza Torres was just disappearing through the same fire-door through which Mr. Matsuma Hito had made his exit a few moments ago. There was a flutter of her red dress, and then the fire-door closed behind her.

Marty started to give chase, and then realized that half a dozen doors in the corridor were open, and that people were peering out at him.

He swore under his breath, and gave up in disgust. He turned and went back into his room, shut the door behind him. Then, picking up the phone which Hito had dropped, he said:

"Gaxton! Hello, Gaxton!"

There was no answer. Marty scowled, and tried again. Still no answer. Then the hotel telephone operator cut in.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Quade?"

"What happened to the call I had on here?" he' demanded.

"I don't know, sir. Perhaps you were disconnected. Do you know the number? Perhaps I could call them for you?"

"I don't know the number."

"Then maybe the party will phone back—"

"I'm afraid they won't!" he mumbled.

"What's that, sir?"

"Nothing. Listen—have you seen the desk clerk down there?"

"No, sir. That's very funny. I just rang the desk clerk to get the list of morning calls, but there was no answer—"

"All right," Marty said wearily. "Maybe you better phone down to police headquarters. Get hold of Inspector Hanson of Homicide. Tell him to come right over."

"Homicide! Did you say homicide, Mr. Quade?"

"Homicide."

"But—but that means murder. Is—is there some one dead?"

Marty threw a jaundiced glance at the body of Mr. Nugo. "If he isn't dead," he growled, "he's giving the best imitation of it that I ever saw!"

CHAPTER 2

AT SIX-THIRTY that morning, Marty Quade was downstairs in the hotel restaurant, having coffee and ham-and-eggs with Inspector Hanson. The room upstairs was cleaned up, but there was a uniformed policeman on guard. Chalk marks on the floor indicated where Mr. Nugo's body had lain, and there was fingerprint dusting powder all over the place, and on the halls and stairways of the hotel.

Needless to say, Marty had not gotten back to bed that night. And Inspector Hanson was still firing questions at him, in between mouthfuls of ham and eggs.

"Damn it, Quade," he growled, "you say this Spanish dame fired at you six times, and we've found all six slugs. But it just doesn't sound reasonable that she should have missed you that many times at such close range!"

"All right, all right!" Marty snapped. "We'll do a re-take of it and have her hit me next time. Just get the dame back, and we'll give her another chance."

"Now don't get tough, Quade," Hanson barked. "I'm just trying to get a straight story, and I don't think you're giving me everything you know. We've checked with Pan-American, and they have no one by the name of Gaxton on their passenger list on the clipper last night. That was the only airliner that made connections with Mexico City. It's the only ship Andrew Gaxton could have arrived on. But they haven't got him down—"

"Maybe he used an alias. He was afraid of being knocked off. Maybe he tried to conceal his arrival by booking passage under another name."

"We're checking on that," Hanson told him. "There were nineteen passengers on the plane, and we've located eighteen of them. The nineteenth, a chap named Smith, didn't come in on the regular bus. He took a cab, and the porter heard him tell the driver to go to the Beverly Hotel, but no one registered there by that name-"

"Smith, eh?" Marty interrupted. "I suppose it never occurred to you that it might be Gaxton?"

"Sure it did!" Hanson growled. "But we haven't proved it. There are plenty of men whose real name is Smith. Every time you see a guy who calls himself Smith, it doesn't mean that he's traveling under an alias."

"All right, skip it," Marty snapped. "What about Mr. Hito? Did he disappear off the face of the earth, too?"

Hanson shrugged helplessly, "We've picked up a hundred and sixteen Japs for questioning in the last two hours. You've been down to headquarters and looked them over, and none of them is Mr. Hito. I'm beginning to think there never was a Mr. Hito, or a Spanish dame, or a call from Andrew Gaxton. I think you made it all up, to cover something else you're trying to hide from me."

"What about the telephone operator?" Marty pointed out. "She told you there was a call at three ten—"

"Sure. But it might have been from anyone. She didn't listen in. We've checked back on that call, and it came from an all-night drug store in Long Island City, which fits in all right, because Gaxton—or whoever he was—could have stopped off on the way from LaGuardia Airport to make the call. But that doesn't prove it was Gaxton."

"So?" Marty asked.

"So," Hanson finished, "you're still not out of the woods, Quade. If it turns out—"

Hanson stopped talking abruptly, his face going a dull red. He had been talking so loud and forcefully that his voice had been drowning out the voice of the newscaster, coming over the radio at the cashier's desk.

But just then a few of the announcer's words penetrated to their ears through Hanson's bellowing, and it was that which had caused him to shut up. The announcer was saying:

". . . . body has been identified as that of Andrew Gaxton, the noted writer of crime stories, who has been in Mexico investigating Fifth Column activities for a series of articles he was preparing.

"The taxicab apparently went out of control when a bullet fired from a high-powered rifle pierced the windshield and struck the taxi driver in the head. The cab was speeding across Queensboro Bridge at the time. It went wild, struck one of the steel girders, and immediately burst into flame.

"Fire-fighting apparatus from Welfare Island, in the middle of the river, immediately below the bridge, were rushed up by the elevator which connects the island with the bridge, but it was too late. When the taxicab driver and Andrew Gaxton were removed from the smouldering wreckage, they were burned to cinders.

"Mr. Gaxton was identified by a leather wallet which he must have been holding at the moment of the accident, and which was thrown from his hand, out of the car window on to the bridge roadbed. It will be recalled that Andrew Gaxton recently announced that he would return soon from Mexico City with information on Fifth Column activities there which would be dynamite . . . ."

Marty Quade's face was grim and tight as he listened to the radio announcement.

"So," he said softly, "They got him, after all!"

"Hell!" Hanson swore. "I should have been notified. It's a homicide—"

He was interrupted by a waiter who came to the table.

"Inspector Hanson?" the waiter asked. "You're wanted on the phone, sir. It's police headquarters."

Hanson nodded brusquely and got up. "That's the desk sergeant calling to report," he grumbled. "It's a wonder they wouldn't move a little faster. Don't go away, Quade. I got plenty to ask you yet."

HE WENT toward the phone booths, and Marty waited only until he was out of sight. Then he got up from the table, leaving the check for Hanson to pay, and hurried out the back exit of the restaurant, passing through the kitchen.

The night cook, a Greek by the name of Ulysses Macropulos, had his arms elbow-deep in a pie batter. He looked up and recognized Marty, and grinned broadly.

"Halloo, Mistair Ku-vade. I hearing dat you gatting caught oopstairs by does woman, vid half your pajamas on, hah?"

"Nuts," said Marty. "I never sleep in a coat. That's why I grow hair on my chest."

"Hah!" said Ulysses Macropolos. "Vat you do if dere is fire, hah?"

"Listen, Ulysses," Marty growled. "I got caught in worse than a fire last night." He passed the cook's table and got to the back door, which opened into an alley alongside the hotel. "Do me a favor, Ulysses, will you?"

The cook grinned, and winked. "Sure. I knowing w'at you wants. W'en dose cop come, I ain't seeing you. I catch wise, hah?"

"Good boy, Ulysses," Marty praised. "That's the idea. You do me this favor, and I promise to taste your meatballs and spaghetti tomorrow."

"You promise? Hah! I making special for you tonight. But don't gatting you'self keel today."

"I'll do my best," Marty told him, and slipped out into the alley.

He made his way along the alley and stepped out into the street, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. Hanson's police car was at the curb in front of the hotel entrance, and behind it was parked a small station wagon belonging to the homicide division, in which they carried their fingerprint and photographic paraphernalia. But there were no police in evidence out here.

Marty turned west toward Eighth Avenue. He threw a quick glance across the street, and his lips tightened. A small, wiry man had come out of the lunchroom directly opposite, and he began to pace Marty, keeping just a little behind, but remaining on the other side of the street. After that first quick glance, Marty didn't look again, but he had seen enough. The man was Japanese.

Marty kept walking steadily west, though he felt prickles along his spine. Those Japs had got to Andrew Gaxton swiftly and terribly. Now the only reason they could have for shadowing Marty Quade would be for the purpose of completing the task which Mr. Hito had left unfinished last night—that simple little job of murder. If Quade were taken out of the picture now, it would leave no one to testify against Mr. Hito.

At this unholy hour of the morning, there were only a few people out, all men, obviously early commuters, and laborers.

Marty slowed up, so that the man on the other side of the street was almost abreast of him. The man made no move to slacken his pace, but continued on, past Marty. But a little farther on, he stopped and looked in a store window displaying women's lingerie.

Marty grinned thinly, and continued on. He couldn't afford to lose too much time here, because Hanson would be coming out after him very soon now. But neither could he afford to let that Jap get behind him.

Just then, a taxicab which had been cruising slowly down the street, pulled up alongside Marty. Some one leaned out of the window and said: "Ps-st!"

CHAPTER 3

BY INSTINCT, Marty's hand streaked to his shoulder holster as he whirled. But he let the gun slide back when he saw whose face was framed in the open window of the cab. In fact, he almost slid through the sidewalk himself. For the face in the window was none other than that of Andrew Gaxton, the man who had just been reported murdered over the radio.

Gaxton had a round, cherubic face, and immense ears. He also had a flabby extra chin, which was jellying now, in his excitement. He thrust open the door of the cab and croaked: "Jump in, Quade. Quick, for Heaven's sake!"

Marty glanced across the street at the Jap. The wiry little fellow was still admiring the ladies' lingerie.

Marty stepped into the cab and pulled the door closed without slamming it.

"Get going!" he said to the driver, and then he dropped to the floor, crouching on hands and knees. "Pull that hat down over your face!" he commanded Gaxton. "And look natural. Keep your eyes straight ahead!"

Andrew Gaxton obeyed mechanically. "But—but—"

From where he crouched, almost at Gaxton's feet, Marty couldn't see a thing out on the street. "Take a gander across the way," he ordered, "and tell me if that Jap over there is wise to where I disappeared."

Gaxton looked, and exclaimed: "Oh, Lord! You didn't fool him, Quade. He's running toward us, and he has a gun out. He'll kill us both."

"Yeah?" Marty said, and poked his head up, sliding out his automatic at the same time.

The Jap had already reached the cab, and jumped on the running board. He was poking his gun in through the window, and Marty came up, his face only inches from the muzzle. The Jap grinned triumphantly and pulled the trigger.

The gun thundered. Flame belched from the muzzle, and a slug whipped out. But Marty's hand had come up at the same time as his head—the hand which held the automatic.

His automatic struck the barrel of the Jap's gun, driving it upward, and the slug instead of ploughing through Marty Quade's face, slapped into the roof of the cab, burying itself in the upholstery.

The Jap never got a chance to fire a second shot, because Marty smiled at him sweetly, and lunged with the muzzle of the automatic, driving it smack into the fellow's chin. It cut a gash an inch and a half long from the point of his jaw up to his lower lip. And it drove his head far back. The Jap gurgled, let go his hold on the window frame. He went toppling off the running board and rolled away, limply.

Marty swung to the cab driver, who had automatically stepped on the brake.

"Keep going, my friend," Marty said. He emphasized his point by touching the cold muzzle of the automatic to the back of the man's neck.

The driver got the point all right. He took his foot off the brake and put it on the gas. They shot ahead to the corner like a projectile out of a cannon's mouth, and crossed Eighth Avenue against the red light without losing an iota of their speed. At Ninth Avenue Marty said:

"Turn right, my friend, and go uptown."

At the next corner Marty took the muzzle from the driver's neck. "All right," he said. "You can stop here."

They got out, and Marty smiled winningly at the driver. "You did us quite a favor, my friend."

"L-listen, m-mister," the cabby stuttered. "I d-don't w-want n-no t- trouble—"

"No trouble at all," Marty told him, "as long as you keep mum about us." He turned to Gaxton and said: "Give him some money."

Andrew Gaxton nodded eagerly and pulled out a roll of bills which was so fat that he had difficulty holding it. He peeled off two twenties, handed them to the driver.

"You better forget you had us for a fare," Marty warned.

"M-mister," the driver said, "I'm b-blind and d-deaf and d-dumb—"

"S-swell!" said Marty. And then he snapped his fingers in disgust. "Oh, hell!

I'm doing it too! Get going!"

They watched the cab disappear up Ninth Avenue, and then Marty took Andrew Gaxton by the arm and hurried him down the side street, back to Eighth.

Gaxton tried to hold back. "We can't go right back, Quade. The police will be looking for us."

"Not at Eighth Avenue, they won't," Marty told him. "They'll figure we're miles away."

"But where can we hide? I don't dare let the police get their hands on me!"

"Why not?" Marty demanded. "Look, Gaxton, if you've committed murder, I'll have no part of you. I'm in Dutch with Hanson already."

"No, no, Quade. It—it's nothing like that. But if the police get hold of me, they'll grill me. I can't take it, and I'll talk. And if I talk, then Esperanza's brother, Juan, will get boiled alive in a vat of oil— "

"Whoa up!" Marty exclaimed. "You're running the film too fast. Did you say Esperanza? Is it Esperanza Torres, by any chance?"

"Yes, yes! How do you know?"

"I've met the young lady."

"You have! Good Lord, Quade, you couldn't. She's in Mexico City."

"Nuts," said Marty. "She talked to me right in my room, this morning."

"What—what did she say?"

"She said: 'Let that be a lesson to you, you peeg!' I'll never forget those words, Gaxton!"

"I don't understand," the writer murmured. "I left her in Mexico City yesterday." He looked up suddenly, and blurted: "Quade, we're almost at Eighth Avenue! I daren't take the chance."

"We're not going any further," Marty told him. "Here's where we turn in."

He steered him into the entrance of a seedy looking hotel which sported the name ARGUS on a hanging speckled sign over the doorway.

"This is where you hole up."

Reluctantly, Gaxton permitted himself to be steered over to the desk. There was a large sign on the wall which said,

ALL RENT PAYABLE IN ADVANCE
NO CHECKS
ROOMS RENTED BY THE DAY MUST BE
VACATED BEFORE THREE P.M.
PRICE LIST
Inside Room — 60c
Outside Room — 75c
Soap & Towel — 10c
Shower — Free

THE clerk at the desk looked up from a racing sheet when they came in. He grunted: "Hullo, Quade. Been a year since I seen you last."

Marty nodded. "Give us one of your broken-down rooms, Oliver. On the top floor, next to the fire escape."

Oliver nodded, and reached for a key. "Room seventeen. You want it with, or without?"

"With," said Marty.

"That'll be fifty fish," Oliver told him.

Marty glanced at Gaxton. "Give him fifty bucks."

"Fifty dollars!" Gaxton exclaimed. "That's outrageous. And what's this about with or without? I don't feel in the mood for—"

"Take it easy," Marty said. "We're just getting a room with silence. If the cops inquire about you, silence will be the watchword. Is that worth fifty bucks to you? Or isn't it?"

"Oh," said Gaxton. "I see."

He took out his roll and counted fifty dollars on the counter.

Oliver took the money nonchalantly and stuffed it in his pants' pocket. Then he came around the desk, led them to the elevator and said: "Step in, gents."

The old cage creaked miserably on the way up, and Gaxton fidgeted nervously. At the seventh floor they got out. Oliver gave them the key.

"To the right, at the end of the hall," he said. "The fire escape is right at the hall window, next to your door. If anything comes up, I'll ring the hall bell three times. That'll be your signal to scram."

Marty nodded and led Gaxton down the corridor. He opened the door of Room Seventeen, and they went in. There was a single old bed, a dresser without a mirror, and a table with a pitcher of water and one glass. There was no chair in the room, and no closet. A cord tacked to the wall had two coat hangars attached to it. The bulb in the ceiling light was twenty-five watts, to discourage late reading.

"Holy Moses," Gaxton said, "is this where we must spend the day?"

"You must," Marty told him. "Sit down."

He fairly pushed him on to the bed. "Now! Let's have the story. How come you're reported dead, but still alive?"

Gaxton shrugged. "It was a mistake. After I called you and heard the shots over the phone, I got panicky. I dropped the phone and ran back to my cab. I told him to drive me out to Forest Hills. There I hid out in a hotel room till six o'clock this morning.

"Then I couldn't rest any longer, and went out for a cup of coffee. In the dining car, I heard over the radio about what had happened in your room. It was only then that I realized you were still alive. So I decided to go to see you at once. I got another cab, and we started for the Queensboro Bridge. I was sure I had lost Hito's Japs, but I kept watching all the time, and sure enough, I saw a car parked just at the entrance to the bridge, with two of the yellow killers in it.

"They saw me at the same time, and as we passed them they started after us. I told my driver to hurry, and he raced over the bridge. We overtook and passed another cab, just like ours, and the Japs must have mistaken that one for mine. They blasted it."

Marty nodded. "They got the wrong man?"

"Yes. I heard the shot, and then the crash of the car. I looked back and saw the flames. I paid off my driver and let him go. Then I walked back to the burning cab and threw my wallet on the ground nearby. That's how they figured me for dead."

"I see," said Marty. "And what about the car with the Japs in it?"

"It must have escaped, back into Queens. I didn't see it."

"Are you sure those Japs didn't stick around and spot you leaving the wallet?"

Andrew Gaxton turned white. "You— you mean—they could have followed me—all the way—"

"Anything is possible," Marty told him. "1 suppose you never looked behind you once, all the time you were waiting in that cab for me to come out of the hotel?"

"Well, no," Gaxton admitted. He was nervously cracking the knuckles of his right hand by squeezing them with his left. "It never occurred to me that they might have picked up my trail—"

"Stop cracking your knuckles!" Marty barked. "You'll have me nuts in no time!" He waved angrily at the writer's hands. "What about Esperanza Torres? Where does she fit in the picture?"

GAXTON shook his head. "I don't understand it at all. I left her in Mexico City. I even kissed her goodby at the plane. She couldn't possibly have been here ahead of me, which is what she must have been, if she was at your hotel room while I was on the wire—"

"Is she a long and slinky dame," Marty asked, "with black hair and black eyes, slender and beautiful as all hell?"

"That's she!" Gaxton exclaimed. "It's incredible that she should have been here! She's my fiancée. It's for her that I'm doing all this—taking all these awful risks—"

"Doing all what?"

"Bringing the papers to New York."

He produced an envelope from his pocket. Out of the envelope he took a folded batch of onionskin papers, which he opened.

"Here is conclusive proof that the Japanese are conducting a Fifth Column campaign in Mexico and that they plan to establish bases down there, from which to launch an air attack against the United States!"

"Ah!" said Marty, taking the papers. "So this is Mr. Hito's profession. He's a spy!"

"Of course!" exclaimed Gaxton. "He'd do anything under the sun to get these papers back!"

Marty looked through them swiftly, and whistled. They were photo-static copies of original documents, mostly written in Spanish. One of them was a photograph of an order from the Mexican Division of the Imperial Japanese Secret Service. The order directed local commanders of Fifth Column units to report to Mexico City to receive orders for "Q" Day, which would be the day upon which an uprising was scheduled in the Province of Sonora.

Another was a copy of a letter from a Mexican official, asking for additional funds. Attached to it was the reply from the Chief of the Imperial Japanese Intelligence Service, instructing him that money had been placed on deposit in a certain bank to his credit. It was signed Colonel Matsuma Hito.

"Wow!" said Marty. "I should have shot that guy through the gizzard!" He swung angrily on Gaxton. "Why didn't you take this stuff straight to the State Department in Washington?"

"That's what I was going to do, but I got a radiogram while I was on the plane. It was from Esperanza. Here." He pulled the crumpled form from his coat pocket and thrust it at Marty.

The radiogram was in Spanish, but in between the lines, Gaxton had scribbled the English translation:

JUAN IN OIL IF PAPERS ARRIVE WASHINGTON. FOR MY SAKE GO NEW YORK AND MAKE DEAL WITH HITO WHO IS NOW THERE.

ESPERANZA.

"You see," explained Gaxton, "it means that the Japanese spies down in Mexico City have kidnaped her brother, Juan, and threaten to boil him in oil if I deliver these papers to the U. S. State Department. Juan Torres and his sister, Esperanza, have been collecting these documents for me.

"In fact, Juan Torres even posed as a traitor to Mexico in order to get into the confidence of the Japanese Intelligence Service. Now that they got him down there, it means that he'll die a slow death—no matter if I give up the papers or not. But I decided to see if I couldn't trick Hito into ordering him released. That's why I decided to get you to protect me while I carried on the negotiations."

Marty tapped the radiogram. "If Esperanza Torres sent you this from Mexico City while you were on the plane, she certainly couldn't have reached New York before you."

"That's right—"

Marty suddenly put up a hand to stop him. Out in the hall, the bell was ringing. It was muffled, so that it would not awake anyone asleep on the floor. But it was perfectly audible to anyone listening for it. It rang three times, swiftly, then three times again.

"The police!" Gaxton exclaimed.

"Worse!" said Marty, shaking his head. "Three times is the signal for cops. Two three's is the signal that something else has come up—also calling for a quick lam."

"The Japs!"

Marty nodded. "It looks like they trailed you, after all. Let's be going, Gaxton!"

CHAPTER 4

HE HUSTLED Gaxton out into the hall and over to the window. Behind them they could hear the old-fashioned elevator machinery creaking as the cage rose slowly.

"They're coming up!" Gaxton groaned. "Lord, we'll never escape them. They're devils—"

Marty wasn't listening. He was working like a Trojan at the window, trying to pry it up. It hadn't been opened in so long a time that it stuck stubbornly.

"Didn't I pay that Oliver fifty dollars for silence?" Gaxton demanded. "How come he's bringing those Japs up here? How come he talked? How come he told them what room we were in?"

"Mr. Hito's Japs have nasty ways of persuading people to talk," Marty said drily. "I don't blame Oliver at all. You wouldn't expect him to let his eyes be put out for a mere fifty bucks, do you?"

The window still refused to yield, and the creaking of the machinery became louder as the cage neared their floor. Desperately, Marty reversed his revolver, wrapped his hat around the butt and smashed out the window pane.

It tinkled against the fire escape outside, some of the broken glass spattering against the wall of the adjoining building, which was only a few feet across the alley. Marty trimmed off the jagged ends of the remaining glass, and pushed Gaxton out on the fire escape. He followed him closely.

Gaxton wanted to go down, but Marty pulled him the other way.

"Up!" he ordered.

"But we'll be trapped on the roof—"

"Up!" Marty repeated, glaring at him.

Gaxton was too scared to put up much opposition. He started climbing.

Marty remained at the fire escape, peering in through the broken window. He heard the elevator cage come to a stop, and saw the shaft door slide open. There were half a dozen wiry little Japanese men in there, and it was one of them who was operating the elevator. They started to surge out into the corridor, naked guns ominous in their hands.

Marty Quade's eyes were bleak and hard. He raised his automatic and pulled the trigger five times fast, sending a flailing barrage of death into the huddled group of men. Cries of pain and surprise rose among them, forming a sort of high-pitched threnody to the thundering chorus of Marty's automatic obbligato.

The smashing slugs from Marty's gun hurled those men back into the cage, threw them into a confused mass of dead and wounded. Some one fired over the prostrate bodies of his fellows. The bullet whispered in Marty's ear, then clanged an anvil chorus against the iron railing of the fire escape behind him.

Grimly, Marty fired twice more, emptying his automatic. Turning quickly, he dashed up the fire escape ladder after Gaxton.

The writer was waiting on the roof, trembling, in a cold sweat of fear.

"I—I was wondering what I'd do if you got killed—"

"If I get killed," Marty told him, "you might just as well jump off the roof! Now come on!"

He led the other at a run across the top of the building to the other side. Here, the roof connected with the roof of the adjoining building.

"This is the way all of Oliver's tenants make their getaway when the bell rings," he explained.

They crossed on to the next roof, and Marty pointed to a faint red line, drawn in chalk, with arrows spotted on it every ten feet.

"We just follow the red line," he told Gaxton. "Isn't it worth fifty bucks?"

The red line ended in front of a skylight, the door of which was swinging open. Gaxton eagerly lunged for it, but Marty pulled him away. "That's only for the people who follow us. We go around."

CIRCLING the skylight, Marty came to a stop in front of a dumbwaiter shaft. He opened the door, and there was the dumbwaiter, empty and waiting to receive them.

Some alterations had been made in it, so that it was twice as long as the usual dumbwaiter, with a sturdy, two-inch-thick shelf in the middle. Each compartment was large enough to accommodate a full-grown man, doubled over.

Marty stuffed Gaxton into the lower half and then climbed into the upper half, himself. He reached out and pulled the door shut. The daylight was immediately blotted out, leaving them in darkness. Marty felt around and, finding the rope, hauled on it cautiously. They began to descend, without sound.

Marty chuckled in the dark. "This is a remodeled tenement house," he explained. "Now it's a furnished-room house, and they don't use dumbwaiters any more. In fact, they've probably forgotten that there ever was a dumbwaiter in the building. Oliver owns it. While we're going down here to the cellar, those Japs—if any of them are still alive—will be trooping down through the skylight on the false trail."

"Look here, Quade," Gaxton said suddenly. "I begin to think you're going to get me out of this. A little while ago, I had lost hope. Now I'm beginning to breathe more freely."

"Don't get too optimistic," Marty warned, hauling on the rope. "This Mr. Hito is a very clever man. He may pop up where you least expect him."

They finally reached the bottom of the shaft, and Marty pushed the shaft door open. They rolled out of their cramped position, onto the basement floor. The dumbwaiter shaft was located in a corner of the cellar, and the coal bin had been built up in front of it, to screen it from observation.

They had to step gingerly over the coal, which slid and danced under their feet. Finally, however they managed to scramble out, alongside the furnace.

"Whew!" said Gaxton. "It's hot down here!"

Marty led the way toward the back door. "Go easy here," he warned. "This takes us out into the same back yard as the hotel. If Hito has posted any men out there, we'll have a fight on our hands."

As he talked he slipped a fresh clip into his automatic.

"Listen, Quade," said Gaxton. "I haven't talked about money with you. So far, you've earned more than I can ever pay you. If you get me out of this alive, just name your fee."

"Yeah!" Marty grunted. "I've had experience with guys who were willing to give me their shirt while the heat was on. But after I got them in the clear, they didn't remember how grateful they'd said they would be. Me, I like to get paid in advance."

"I've got plenty of money!" Gaxton rushed on, pulling out his roll of bills. "Just say how much!"

Marty looked at the roll, estimating its value. "So far," he said "I've given you about five thousand dollars' worth of service. If we come out of this alive, I'll probably earn another five thousand. I'll settle with you now for two grand."

"Make it three thousand!" Gaxton gurgled, and started peeling hundreds off the back of the roll. He thrust the money into Marty's hand.

Marty didn't count it, but slipped it casually into his pocket. He grinned in the semi-darkness of the basement. "Always strike while the iron is hot!" he said. "That's a damn good motto."

He led the way out of the cellar. At the back door he paused for a moment, peering into the back yard. It was a cloudy, sunless day, but there was enough light to perceive that the back yard was empty. Marty nodded, and stepped out, but did not relax his vigilance. Behind him, Gaxton crowded closely.

Marty nodded to the left. "There's an alley around the side of this building. We go halfway up the alley and then step in through the cellar door of the next house. That's the corner. We go out the front way, and we'll be on Eighth Avenue. We can mix with the crowd and grab a cab. Let's go."

They swung into the alley, and as soon as they had done so, Marty knew they had walked into a trap. At the far end of the alley there were two Japs with sub-machine guns. At the same time, Gaxton exclaimed:

"They're after us, Quade! Behind us!"

Gaxton's last words were drowned out by the thunderous roar of Marty's automatic. He hadn't waited for those machine gunners to open up, but had started shooting the moment he spotted them.

This time he conserved his ammunition, because he knew the fight wouldn't be over with the killing of those two. There were others behind them. He fired only twice, and the two Jap machine gunners went spinning backward, the weapons flying out of their hands.

They had been so supremely confident of the efficacy of their quickfirers ever Marty's pistol, that they had waited just that extra moment, to relish the taste of their triumph. And it was that extra moment which meant the difference between life and death to them. Marty hadn't waited to think. He had just started shooting.

He didn't wait now to see where those two Japs fell. He whirled around to see what was behind. At the same time he thrust Gaxton in back of him.

IN the rear of the alley were several wiry, yellow men, guns in their hands. The trap had been well-planned. Hito must have surveyed the ground, like a good general, and decided just where the enemy could retreat to if he should escape the killers who had gone upstairs. Then he had stationed men down here, to insure the success of his campaign.

The Japanese started shooting, and Marty, disdaining to kneel or crouch, faced them, spraddle-legged, and traded shots with them. Japanese, endowed with poor eyesight, are notoriously bad shots.

Their bullets sang all around Marty and Gaxton, caroming off the brick walls on either side, and ploughing into the ground. Marty shot carefully, picking them off one by one.

He yelled over his shoulder to Gaxton: "Get going! Find that side door and amscray!"

"But you'll be killed—"

"Get going, I say! I took your money, didn't I?"

There was no more opposition from Gaxton. Marty devoted his attention solely to the fight. The thundering guns drowned out any possible sound Gaxton might have made in retreating, so Marty couldn't tell whether he had obeyed or not.

He was down to his last cartridge. He had knocked over a couple or so of the yellow men, but more came crowding into the alley. They formed a solid line across the width of the alley, and began to charge. They came in at a run, their guns blazing in front of them.

Marty fired his last shot. This was the end. Well, it was all in the game. By his peculiar code of ethics, he deemed it his duty, once he had taken a client's money, to serve that client, even at the cost of his life. He had made plenty of money in his career, and he had lived a fast, full life.

But he had always known that the end would come like this one day, without notice and without preparation, and without benefit of clergy. Well, he was ready for it.

He smiled grimly, and went into a crouch, running to meet that charging line of death.

CHAPTER 5

FROM behind him came a frantic, desperate shout in a voice so distorted that he had difficulty in recognizing it as Gaxton's: "Down, Quade! Get down! Down!"

At the first sound of that voice, Marty caught the play. A great feeling of elation warmed his blood at the thought that Gaxton was coming through. He threw himself forward, flat on his face. He slid along the concrete walk for a couple of feet, toward the charging Japs.

And then, from behind him, there came the brittle staccato chattering of a sub-machine gun. Bullets whined above Marty's head. In front of him, the Japanese gunmen began to go down as if a high wind were carrying them backward irresistibly.

The charge broke up. Those in front fell, writhing, to the ground. Those behind turned to run, but were mowed down before they could take more than a few steps. The withering hail of lead from the sub-machine gun did not cease until the alley was entirely cleared of the enemy.

Marty jumped to his feet and turned to where Gaxton knelt on one knee, with one of the discarded submachine guns at his shoulder. Gaxton grinned broadly and threw the gun away. Then he came running toward Marty.

Marty dashed past him, knelt beside that sub-machine gun, and vigorously wiped fingerprints from the stock. Then, jumping to his feet, he seized Gaxton by the shoulder and propelled him toward the side door of the adjoining building. He pulled it open, yanked Gaxton in after him, and closed it.

Already, people were running toward the alley. Peering in from the street, Marty glimpsed their faces as he closed the door. Also, he heard a shrill police whistle, repeated over and over again.

He made sure the door was closed, then found the latch and turned it. Gaxton was breathing noisily behind him.

Marty took him by the arm and led him down a flight of stairs, then across the basement, and up another flight of stairs. They found themselves in the rear of a motion picture theatre.

It was dark in here, and the house was empty and deserted. The show wouldn't begin for hours. Marty hurried up the aisle to the front, found the small office which opened into the lobby. He turned the catch and pushed it open, and they stepped through.

In the street, a crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley, watching the uniformed policeman who had bravely gone in there with his whistle blowing. But none of the crowd dared follow him.

Just as Marty and Gaxton got out on the sidewalk, a police radio car pulled up with squealing brakes, and two more officers got out on the run. The crowd was growing thicker by the second.

Marty nodded, and piloted Gaxton down Eighth Avenue to the next corner. They found a cab, and Marty said: "Grand Central Station."

As the taxi wound through traffic, Marty put a new clip in his automatic. Then he looked at Gaxton.

"Andy," he said, "you're okay by me. That was a nice piece of work you did back there. I never figured you for so much guts."

Gaxton blushed. "Aw, hell, Marty, I had to keep you alive. With you dead, I'd have been in the soup for fair. I wouldn't have known which way to turn."

"All the same," Marty said, "you saved my life, when you could have got away clean. I won't forget it."

They got out at Grand Central Station. Inside, Marty led Gaxton over to the operator-serviced phone booths in the Concourse, and shoved him into one of them.

"You call the State Department in Washington," he ordered, "and tell them what you have. Make an appointment to meet some one there in a couple of hours. Then we'll go across the street to the Airlines Terminal and book passage in a Washington plane. We'll be out of New York before Hito's killers pick up our trail again."

"I can't do it, Marty!" Gaxton protested. "If I turn these papers over to the State Department, Hito's men in Mexico City will boil Juan Torres in oil. How could I face Esperanza, after having done that to her brother?"

MARTY nodded. He was beginning to understand the peculiar and steadfast loyalty of this Andrew Gaxton, whom he had underestimated. Just as Gaxton had been willing to pick up a machine gun and fight for Marty, he was willing to go to any lengths to save the brother of his sweetheart.

"All right, then," Marty said suddenly. "You get in there and put in a long distance call for Esperanza Torres."

"In Mexico City?"

"Sure."

"But you said you saw her here in New York this morning."

"I say I saw her in New York, and you say you left her in Mexico City. So suppose you call up and find out. Maybe she's crossing you. Otherwise, why would she want to shoot me in the seat of the pants?"

Shrugging, Gaxton went over to the operator and put through a person-to- person call for Esperanza Torres, in Mexico City.

"That will be seven dollars for three minutes, sir," the girl at the switchboard said. "Plus twenty cents tax. "

"Better give her twenty dollars," Marty advised. "You'll probably talk more than three minutes. You can get your change when you finish."

Gaxton gave her the money, and returned to the booth. It was only seventy- two seconds by Marty's watch when the connection with Mexico City was completed. Gaxton had to close the door so he could hear above the noises of the station.

Marty, watching him, saw him talking urgently and desperately, then he saw him become pale and taut. Gaxton took out paper and pencil and scribbled something down. After talking for another minute, he hung up.

He came out of the booth, shaken and trembling. He thrust the paper into Marty's hand. On it was written an address:

Bianca Torres, Hotel Hutton

"What's this?" Marty asked.

Gaxton seemed to be in a daze. "It— it's Esperanza's sister, Bianca. It was she who shot at you this morning. I'd forgotten that Esperanza ever had a sister. Bianca went to Spain to serve as a nurse in the Loyalist Army, and she was captured by Franco.

"She escaped, and wandered all over France for a year, then got passage on a refugee boat for New York. She's been here a couple of months. After I left in the plane, Esperanza cabled her that I was coming to New York, and that you would work with me. She also warned her that Hito was in New York. She said Bianca would co-operate with you and me—"

"She picked a fine way to co-operate!" Marty said bitterly.

"But that isn't all!" Gaxton exclaimed. Re stopped, and gulped, then rushed on. "Juan Torres was killed last night! They fished his body out of the bay. He had been dipped in a vat of hot oil, then tossed into the ocean. They—they didn't wait to see if I'd turn the papers over to the State Department!"

"The devils!" Marty said hotly. He gripped Gaxton's arm. "Now you are free to hand those papers over."

"No, no!" the writer groaned. "Esperanza got a call from Hito's representative down in Mexico City. The fellow said that Hito knew the whereabouts of Bianca here in New York, and would give her the hot-oil treatment unless I return the papers to him. Hito figures that we might let Juan die, but that we'd never let a thing like that happen to a beautiful girl like Bianca!"

"Oh, hell!" said Marty. "Let's go and find this Bianca."

He took Gaxton's arm and started to turn around, and some one said: "Why, you're certainly going somewhere, Mr. Quade. But not to find any dames. You're coming down to a nice clean cell in police headquarters!"

Marty stopped short, facing Detective Sergeant Sloane, of the homicide detail.

"Fancy meeting you here!" Sloane said, taking out his handcuffs. "We've been combing the city for you, but we never figured you'd be sap enough to come to Grand Central Station."

"That's what I figured you'd figure," Marty said sourly. "That's why we came here."

"Only by accident did I see you," Sloane apologized. "I'm just going off duty, and I'm on my way home to Larchmont. But I'll give up my time off— for the privilege of taking you in!"

"Don't bother," Marty said, and swung for Sloane's jaw.

HIS short punch had all the power of his shoulder muscles behind it. Sloane said, "Ar-gh!" and buckled at the knees.

Marty caught him and let him down easily, taking the handcuffs out of his hands and slipping them into his own pocket as he did so. A number of people turned to look. No one had actually seen the punch, and they thought Sloane was just another drunk. A uniformed station guard came running over, and Marty yelled to him.

"Officer! Officer! This man needs medical attention!"

The guard knelt hastily alongside Sloane, and Marty stood up. He gave Gaxton the high-sign, and they faded away. They went out the Vanderbilt Avenue exit, and Marty started walking hurriedly north.

"Where are we going?" Gaxton demanded.

"To check on Bianca Torres. Maybe we're not too late to stop Hito from grabbing her!"

"With every cop on the police force looking for us," Gaxton commented breathlessly, "we have a fine chance of blocking Hito! I don't understand why he should have killed Juan, and switched to Bianca."

"I do!" Marty barked, swinging briskly into a side-street, and heading east. "Bianca is in New York, while Juan was in Mexico City. Knowing you, Hito figures you'll make a try to save Bianca. And he'll be waiting for you, Andy. Make no mistake about that—if Bianca's still at the Hutton Hotel, then Hito and his killers won't be far away. They're waiting for us!"

"You think it's a trap?"

"Nothing else but!"

"Then why're we going?"

"Because there's nothing else for us to do. We can't wander around New York, waiting for some copper to pick us up. And we can't smack them all in the jaw, either. Our only out is to find Mr. Hito and have it out with him—win or lose, kill or die!"

"And I haven't even got a gun!" Gaxton said ruefully.

Marty grinned, and took a police service thirty-eight out of his coat pocket and handed it to him. "I did a little pickpocketing when I was kneeling alongside Sloane," he explained.

Gaxton took the gun gingerly. "I never handled one of these."

"You did all right with the submachine gun," Marty told him. "Just do as well with that, and we'll come out all night. Be sure the muzzle is turned toward the other guy when you pull the trigger."

Gaxton grinned. "Marty, I've been writing about crime and crime fighters for years. But today was the first time I ever held a gun in my hand. I like it. I think I'll become a man of action instead of just writing about them."

"Don't make plans for your future," Marty warned, "till you know Mr. Hito is six feet under ground."

They stopped in front of a small but highly conservative looking hotel, with a small brass plaque alongside the door. The plaque read:

HOTEL HUTTON

Marty took a quick look around. "No Japs in sight," he said. "But that doesn't mean they're not around. Keep your hand on the butt of that gun."

They entered the Hotel Hutton, and want up to the desk.

"We're calling on Miss Bianca Torres," Marty said.

The clerk raised his eyebrows. "Name, please?"

"Tell her it's Mr. Black and Mr. White."

"H'm!" The clerk coughed his disapproval, but went to the house phone. A moment later he returned, however, and said: "You may go right up, gentlemen. It's Suite 1212."

Marty nodded and led the way to the elevator. The cage took them up to the twelfth floor, and left them alone in the quiet, carpeted hallway. The walls were adorned with wallpaper, and imbued the place with an atmosphere of subdued respectability. But Gaxton shivered a little.

"I feel as if we were walking on a keg of T.N.T.!" he whispered.

Marty grinned, and stopped in front of Room 1212. He rapped twice, but there was no answer. He took out his gun, and pushed at the door. It was unlocked, and it came open, revealing a two-room suite with a little foyer.

He could see into the living room, and it was evident that there was no one there. At the right, a bathroom door was partly open, while at the left the door to the bedroom swung wide. Part of a bed was visible.

Upon it lay the motionless figure of a woman. A blanket covered her, but it came down only to her knees, exposing her dress. It was the same red dress Bianca Torres had worn that morning.

Marty cat-footed into the living room. He turned and whispered to Gaxton: "You stay right here in the foyer, and keep your back to the wall. Cover me."

Gaxton nodded, and gripped the police revolver tightly.

Marty crossed the living room, ignoring the open door of the bathroom, and stepped into the bedroom.

Almost at once, a head arose behind the bed.

IT WAS the familiar head of Mr. Matsuma Hito. Only his eyes showed, and one hand, which held a gun trained upon the temple of Bianca Torres. At the same time, two other Japanese heads arose from behind the two boudoir chairs in the room.

Guns appeared beside those heads, trained on Marty. At the same time, Hito whipped the blanket off Bianca Torres, revealing that her arms were tied cruelly behind her back.

"Good morning, Mr. Quade," Hito said pleasantly. "It was nice of you to come— so that I can complete my unfinished job of this morning."

"You fool!" Bianca exclaimed from the bed. "W'y you 'ave come? W'y you no 'ave let Andrew geev those paper to thee State Department, an' let me die!"

Marty glanced at the two Japs, barricaded behind the chairs on either side of him. Then he looked over at the cynical countenance of Mr. Matsuma Hito, behind the bed, and at Bianca's slim, bound figure. He grinned at her.

"You're certainly worried about me now—for a dame that tried to pump me full of lead this morning!"

"Eet was a meestake!" she exclaimed. "Thee cablegram from my sister—she 'ave been meex up in thee translation. Esperanza 'ave say that you work weeth Andrew, but thee translation 'ave say that you work weeth Hito. I 'ave theenk you are a traitor to your friend, Gaxton, an' I 'ave go to keel you."

"I see," said Marty. "And now we're all going to be killed by Mr. Hito."

"Quite so," said the Jap, still hiding behind the bed. "Mr. Gaxton will be taken care of in the next room, by my men who were hiding in the bathroom—"

From out in the living room there was a sudden flurry of shots. Marty could distinguish the deep booming of the police positive, throatily drowning out the spiteful bark of smaller calibre pistols.

Marty jumped forward into the bedroom, and the two Japs fired from behind their chairs. Marty paid no attention to them. He went for Hito. He leaped high up, on to the bed, alongside Bianca.

Now he was above the Japanese spy-master. Hito, squealing, raised his gun to shoot upward, but Marty slanted a shot downward from his automatic, and it took Mr. Hito right in the top of the head.

Marty bounced off the bed, amid a flying barrage of shots from the two Japs. He landed flat on the floor, snapped a shot at the right-hand chair, and saw that Jap's face disintegrate, then he rolled over and fired at the other Jap.

That fellow didn't seem to care much for the fight any more. He threw his gun away and raised his hands in the air. Marty's bullet had nicked him across the top of the scalp, and he looked groggy.

Marty grunted, sprang to his feet, and tapped the fellow on the head with the barrel of his automatic. Then he sprang out into the living room to see if Gaxton needed any help.

Two dead Japs were lying across the threshold of the bathroom, and a third was peering around the door jamb to get a shot at Gaxton, who had dropped to one knee. The Jap was hidden pretty well from Gaxton, but he was in full view of Marty. Grimly, Marty let him have one in the shoulder; and the fellow tumbled backward.

Gaxton sprang up and exclaimed: "Marty! We've won!"

Marty nodded soberly, and turned back into the bedroom. He went over to the bed and untied Bianca's arms. She smiled up at him, her lips full and warm.

"You weel forgeev me for that I 'ave shoot at you, no?"

"Baby," said Marty, "I'd forgive you anything!"

He helped her up and into the next room, just in time to greet a rushing deputation of uniformed police and detectives who barged in with drawn guns. It took him a little while to explain things, and by that time Inspector Hanson arrived, and he had to explain everything over again.

There were calls to the State Department, and the F.B.I., and to Mexico City, and at the end of it all, Marty took Bianca's arm with one hand and Gaxton's with the other and said:

"Let's go get some more breakfast. I never had a chance to finish my first."

Inspector Hanson came over and took his arm in a grip of steel. "There's only one place you are going, my fine-feathered friend. That's back to the hotel restaurant and pay that check you tried to stick me with!"

Marty grinned. "It's a pleasure, Hanson. I earned enough today to pay your salary for six months. I can afford a breakfast."

Bianca Torres pushed Hanson away, and wrapped her arm around Marty's. She snuggled close, and looked up at him with a warm smile.

"He shall go weeth none of you. 'E 'ave promise' that 'e forgeev me for that I 'ave shoot at heem. 'E mus' come weeth me. Eet shall take heem a long time— thees forgeeving!"

She thrust them all aside, and led Marty out of the room.

Watching him angrily, Hanson growled: "You always were a lucky skunk, Quade!"

Marty turned at the door, with Bianca on his arm, and bowed.

"Better luck next time, Inspector Hanson," he said, grinning.

THE END

First published in Ten Detective Aces, May 1941

1. BEWARE OF CLEOPATRA

At midnight, when Marty Quade returned to his hotel after a quiet evening, he found two telegrams waiting for him. They were from Connecticut. The first was time-stamped 11 P.M.:

M. QUADE HOTEL BALTIC NY. $600 WAITING FOR YOU IF YOU WILL BE AT MAX'S BAR OPPOSITE RAILROAD STATION IN BRIDGETOWN AT SEVEN O'CLOCK TOMORROW EVENING. ASK FOR SANDRA

There was no signature to that one. The other one was time-stamped 11:20 P.M. and read:

M. QUADE HOTEL BALTIC NY. DON'T COME TO BRIDGETOWN. SANDRA MEANS YOU NO GOOD. I AM WIRING YOU ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS CARE OF WESTERN UNION AS FEE FOR STAYING AWAY FROM BRIDGETOWN TOMORROW EVENING. (SIGNED) MADGE

Marty frowned at the two telegrams, and laid them back on the desk. "I don't think these are for me, Joe," he said to the clerk. "I don't know any Sandra, or any Madge in Bridgetown. In fact, I don't know anybody in Bridgetown. And what's more, I don't want to."

Joe Hazelton grinned. "They must be for you, Mr. Quade. There's no other M. Quade in the hotel." He glanced through the two messages. "They must be nice girls—Sandra and Madge. Looks like they have money to burn. I think I'd prefer Madge, if you ask me—"

"So I won't ask you," Marty growled. He took the telegrams, left the desk, and crossed the lobby to the Western Union counter at the other side.

"Have you got a thousand dollars for me, wired from Bridgetown by a girl named Madge?"

"Madge who?" asked the Western Union girl.

Marty shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Just Madge. Here's the telegram."

"I'll look," she said. "I just came on duty, so I don't know what's in the file."

She went through the remittance drawer, and came up with a paper. "Here it is, all right. One thousand dollars to M. Quade." She gave Marty a sly look. "Gee, Mr. Quade, the girls must certainly go for you in a big way. She sends a thousand dollars, and doesn't even give her last name. How will you have it? I can give you a Western Union check, or I can give you the cash—"

"Hold on to it for a while," Marty said thoughtfully. "I don't know yet if I want it."

"You mean to say you're going to turn down a thousand dollars?"

"Sometimes," Marty told her sourly, "it's cheaper to turn down cash —till you know what you're letting yourself in for."

He started away from the counter, toward the elevators. The telegraph operator at the machine behind the girl called out: "Hey, Mr. Quade. Here's another one for you."

Marty frowned, and took the form which the operator ripped out of the machine and handed him. As he read it, his frown deepened.

M. QUADE BALTIC HOTEL NY. DONT TAKE MADGES MONEY AND DONT BELIEVE A WORD SHE SAYS. BE SURE TO COME TO BRIDGETOWN. I AM TOPPING HER OFFER WIRING FIFTEEN HUNDRED JUST TO MAKE SURE YOU COME AND LISTEN TO PROPOSITION. WILL PAY YOU PLENTY MORE IF YOU ACCEPT. (SIGNED) SANDRA

"Gee!" said the Western Union girl, reading the form over his shoulder. "Some people have all the luck!"

The telegraph operator ripped another form out of the machine and gave it to the girl. "There's the authority to pay out fifteen hundred dollars to M. Quade."

Marty scowled. "If I keep on getting telegrams," he said, "I'll be a millionaire before morning." He waved the form at the Western Union girl. "Hold that money, too, till I decide which I'll take—if any." On the way to the elevator he stopped at the desk for his key.

Joe grinned. "The boys are upstairs in your room, Mr. Quade. They said it was all right for me to give them the key, that you wouldn't mind if they used your room for a little poker game."

"Oh, hell!" said Marty. He went up in the elevator and knocked at the door of his own room; and then opened the door.

"May I come in?" he asked sarcastically. "Do you boys mind very much if I disturb you?"

There were five of them in there; three plainclothesmen from the local precinct house, a safe-and-loft man from headquarters, and a sergeant from the homicide detail. A couple of times a week they crashed Marty's room for a quiet poker game, without even asking his permission. They had set up two bridge tables in the middle of the floor, and they had stacks of money and highballs around the tables.

"Come on, Marty," said Sergeant Gill of homicide. "We're saving a place for you."

"Thanks," Marty said sourly. "I'd rather sleep."

But he took off his coat, vest and shoulder holster, draped them over the back of a chair—and joined the game.

They played till four o'clock in the morning. The game would have lasted longer, but some of the boys had to report for the four-to-noon shift.

Marty left the stuff littered around the room, and started to undress. He was just getting ready to step under the shower, when a bellboy knocked at the door with another telegram.

Marty swore luridly under his breath. He gave the boy a quarter, and read the message on the way back to the shower:

M. QUADE BALTIC HOTEL NY. HAVE JUST LEARNED THAT SANDRA OUTBID ME. CANT RAISE MORE THAN THE THOUSAND I SENT YOU SO I GUESS SANDRA WINS AND YOULL COME TO BRIDGETOWN. IF YOU COME BEWARE OF CLEOPATRA (SIGNED) MADGE

Marty swore some more, crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it on the floor, took his shower and went to bed.

He didn't get much sleep, because at nine o'clock sharp his telephone rang. He pawed around blindly for it, and upset an uncorked bottle of Scotch which some one had left on the night table. It spread beautifully over the rug, and didn't put him in any better humor. He finally found the phone, picked it up and growled: "What the hell do you want?"

"Hello," said a woman's voice. "This is Sandra. I just wanted to make sure you're coming to Bridgetown tonight."

"No," said Marty. "I'm not coming." And he hung up.

He turned around and closed his eyes, and the phone rang again.

"Hello," said another woman's voice. "This is Madge. Can I induce you to stay away from Bridgetown tonight? I think I could raise another thousand dollars in an hour or so, and I'll wire it to you. That'll top Sandra's offer by five hundred."

"Listen," said Marty, "do you think this is an auction?"

"Well, I just thought if I pay you more than Sandra, you'll take my money and send hers back."

"Why don't you want me to go to Bridgetown?"

"For the same reason that she wants you to come here."

"I see," said Marty. "That makes everything perfectly clear. Send me the other thousand, and I'll promise not to come near your damned town for the rest of my life. Goodbye."

Once more he hung up and went back to sleep. The next time the phone rang, it was noon. The switchboard operator said: "Two gentlemen are on their way up to see you, Mr. Quade."

"Did you say gentlemen?"

"Well, yes. They're policemen. Sergeant Gill and Inspector Hanson."

Marty gave up in disgust. He got out of bed, went into the bathroom and stuck his head under the shower. He dried quickly, and started to dress. By the time he had his trousers on, his visitors were knocking at the door. He let them in, and waved to the chairs around the littered bridge tables. "Sit down. Have a drink. Make yourselves at home."

"I hope we aren't disturbing you," Inspector Hanson said, not sounding very much as if he meant it. He looked around the room, and grunted. "I see you were having a little poker game. Anybody in it that I know?"

Marty looked at Sergeant Gill, who reddened. Then Marty grinned, as he put on his socks and shoes. "Sure, inspector. They were all boys that you know."

"Well, well. No wonder you have so many inside lines to headquarters, Quade. Might I ask who they were?"

"You might," said Marty. "But I might not tell you."

Sergeant Gill breathed a sigh of relief, and flashed a smile of gratitude to Marty.

Inspector Hanson grumbled. He seated himself in one of the chairs. "All right, Quade, let's skip that. Gill and I are here on other business."

"Fire away," said Marty, sliding into his shirt.

"I want to talk to you about Felix Gildey," Hanson went on slowly, watching Marty carefully.

Marty stood in front of the mirror, knotting his tie. "Gildey? You mean the guy they're after for the Bronx payroll robbery?"

"Come off it," said Hanson. "You know damned well all about Felix Gildey."

"Sure," said Marty. "So does everybody else. It was spread all over the papers. Gildey's mob rubbed out a cashier and two guards, and got away with a quarter of a million bucks in small bills. So far, there's been no trace of him or his mob. So what?"

"So I have information," Hanson said heavily, "that Gildey double-crossed his mob, and lammed with the whole two hundred and fifty grand, leaving the rest of his boys out in the cold."

"I've heard that, too," Marty said. "Gildey's mob are after him, as well as the police. But so far, he's been able to outsmart all of them. Nobody can find hide nor hair of him."

"That," said Inspector Hanson, "is what we've come to see you about!"

"Me?" Marty finished patting his tie into place, turned around to face Hanson. "What have I got to do with it?"

"We got the dope from a stoolie," said Hanson.

"That Gildey is going to try to use you to square things up with his mob. He's going to offer them a settlement through you. He's afraid they're on to where he's hiding out, and he wants to buy them off."

"Well," Marty told him flatly, "your dope is wrong. Gildey hasn't contacted me. What's more, I don't know where he is. And what's more, if I knew where he was, I'd turn him in. There's a fifty—thousand-dollar reward on his head—dead or alive."

Sergeant Gill interrupted hastily: "That's what I told the inspector, Marty. I told him you'd never cover up for a murder rap. I told him he's wasting his time ribbing you on it, because you'd never lend yourself to such a thing."

Hanson smiled sardonically, "You have a lot of faith in Quade, haven't you. Sergeant Gill?"

"Yes, sir, I have!" Gill said hotly. "Marty is a friend of mine."

"All right," Hanson said, getting up. "Since you're such a good friend of his, he won't mind if you tail him. I'm assigning you to shadow him twenty-four hours a day, from this minute on. You're a cop above everything else, Gill. If you see anything auspicious about Quade's actions—anything that leads you to believe he's contacting Gildey—you'll report it. Otherwise, Gill, it would be too bad for both of you."

He went to the door, and put his hat on carefully. "Goodbye, Mr. Quade. I trust you will enjoy Sergeant Gill's company."

"Wait a minute," said Marty. "This stoolie—who is he?"

Hanson wagged a finger at him. "Naughty, naughty. You wouldn't want me to reveal the name of a stoolie, would you? But I'll tell you this—he comes from Bridgetown."

When the door had slammed after Hanson, Marty looked at Gill. "Johnny! Did he say—Bridgetown?"

Sergeant Johnny Gill nodded. "That's what he said, Marty. I don't know who the stoolie is. It's one of Hanson's private connections. But it's Bridgetown, all right. Hanson had a long-distance phone call from there, a half hour ago. That's why he came hotfooting over here."

Thoughtfully, Marty strapped on his shoulder holster, and checked his automatic. The phone rang. He reached for it, saying: "Yes?"

"Hello. This is Sandra. What the hell do you mean by hanging up on me? Give me a chance to talk, will you?"

"Go ahead and talk," said Marty.

"I sent you fifteen hundred dollars. It's waiting for you at Western Union. But I just found out that Madge is ending you another thousand. Well, look. I'll shoot the works. I'll give you five grand to come to Bridgetown tonight. You go to Max's bar and ask for Sandra, and there'll be an envelope waiting for you, with another thirty-five hundred in it."

"What will you want me to do for it?"

"Just listen to my proposition. If you don't like the proposition, you can turn it down and go back to New York and keep the five thousand to cover your time for coming up. If you like the proposition, and agree to do what I want done—I'll pay you more."

"How much more?"

"We can talk about that when you get up here."

"What's your last name?"

"We can talk about that, too—when you get up here."

"Who's Cleopatra?" Marty asked.

The woman laughed harshly. "That must be something Madge told you in her telegram. Pay no attention to it. You have nothing to fear from Cleopatra."

"All right," Marty said. "I'll be there at seven o'clock."

He hung up and looked at Sergeant Gill. He picked up one of the bottles of Scotch, and poured two drinks, and gave him one of them.

"I'm taking a little trip, Johnny," he said.

"A trip? Where to?"

"Bridgetown."

Sergeant Gill almost choked over the drink. "Say! Then Hanson's dope was right. You are mixed up with Gildey!"

"Not yet," Marty told him. "But I may be."

"I'm going with you, Marty. It's Hanson's orders."

"Not with me, Johnny. I'm going alone. But I can't stop you from following me. Only don't get in my way. Give me rope."

"I'll give you plenty of rope, Marty," Sergeant Gill said. "I only hope Hanson doesn't hang you with it."

2. [UNTITLED]

Marty didn't like the City of Bridgetown from the moment he stepped out of the railroad station. It was one of those newly prosperous boom towns, humming with defense orders. On one side of the railroad tracks there was a vast forest of spuming funnels, sending dense clouds of smelly smoke up to the heavens from half a hundred factories. On the other side of the tracks was the business and residential section, alive with new stores and theatres which were daily cropping up to cater to the swollen pocketbooks of the town.

Even the circus had come to town. A huge billboard on the side of a tall building announced:

Last Two Weeks
ESTERHAZY'S MAMMOTH CIRCUS
42 ATTRACTIONS
42 UNDER ONE ROOF
160 TRAINED ANIMALS
36 ACROBATS
24 CLOWNS
A FULL EVENING OF FUN
60c—75c—$1.00 at the COLISEUM!

Down at the next corner from the railroad station, Marty saw a glittering electric sign of the circus.

Marty didn't like the smell around a circus. He didn't care for the odor of the animals, or for popcorn or peanuts, either. He scowled and started across the street toward a sign on the opposite side which said:

MAX'S—NUFF SAID!

But some one tapped him on the shoulder and said: "Hi, Pal."

He turned around and saw a tall fellow with buck teeth and squint eyes, who was grinning insolently. "Hi, Pal," the fellow said again. "Stranger in town?"

"No," Marty said sourly. "I'm the mayor." He started across once more, and the fellow with the buck teeth grabbed hold of his arm.

"Ha, ha, Pal." he said. "You will tell jokes, won't you? Here's a good joke."

He showed Marty what he was holding in his left hand. It was a small, snub-nosed automatic pistol. "Very dangerous at close range, mister. It makes a nasty hole."

"You don't say," said Marty.

"See that alley across the street, next to Max's, mister? That's where we're going."

"Glad to oblige," said Marty.

Together they crossed the street and stepped into the alley.

Buck-teeth faced Marty, holding the nasty little gun chest high. He was so tall that he towered far above Marty. "Now we can talk, mister. I will tell you a few jokes."

"Go ahead," said Marty. "I'm always ready for a laugh."

"That's fine. Your name is Quade, and you come from New York, and the dope is that you're gonna contact Felix Gildey."

"Very good," said Marty. "Do you know any more jokes?"

"Sure," said Buck-teeth. "The joke is that you are going to take me and a couple of the boys to this place where you are to meet Gildey, because we arc very anxious to tell him a couple of jokes of our own."

"I see," said Marty. "You must be one of the mob that knocked off that payroll in the Bronx, eh?"

"Be that as it may, I am not saying yes and I am not saying no. But I am asking you—are you going to do what I ask, or are you going to give trouble?"

"I think," said Marty, "that I will give trouble."

He kicked Buck-teeth in the right shin, and at the same time he chopped down with the edge of his left palm upon the right wrist of the gunman.

The double result was instantaneous, synchronized, and entirely satisfactory. Buck-teeth jumped, yelled with pain, and dropped the snub— nosed automatic, all at the same time.

Marty smiled thinly, and drove a hard right up against Buck-teeth's chin, then followed it with a smashing overhand blow square into his face. He drove the gunman's head backward, so that it smacked against the wall of the building. The resulting thwack had a wicked sound, hut Buck—teeth did not hear it at all. He was in no condition to hear anything. His eyes just closed, and his lanky body slid down along the wall, like a puppet whose master has let go of the strings.

Marty rubbed his knuckles, and bent down and picked up the automatic. He wrapped it carefully in a handkerchief and started to put it in his pocket. And just at that moment, he felt a cold chill run up his spine.

Something warm and wet and rough was rubbing against the back of his hand.

Marty Quade had lived a pretty hard life, and he had had plenty of strange things happen to him. He had schooled himself to resist any impulses to panicky action. But this time he had the greatest difficulty in keeping himself from jumping away from that spot, fast. He knew that something was licking his hand. But he also knew very well that it was no animal of the domestic variety. He had owned a Great Dane once, and he knew just how it felt to have his hand licked by a Great Dane. He was familiar with the feel of a dog's tongue.

This was no dog's tongue.

He didn't pull his hand away. He kept it there, with the wet, warm tongue licking at it, and forced himself to turn around slowly.

And for the first time in a long and active life, Marty Quade didn't know what to do next.

His hand was being licked by a great, green—eyed, tawny lion.

Marty had read about lions, but he had never seen one outside of a cage. This was no good at all. He had heard that if you showed fear and ran away, a lion would catch you in a single leap and bite a nice morsel out of your jugular vein. On the other hand, if you stayed where you were, the lion might take the same notion.

This particular lion seemed to like the flavor of Marty's hand. And suddenly Marty realized the reason why. It was the hand where he had skinned his knuckles on Buck-teeth's incisors, and there were little flecks of blood there. It was the blood that the lion was enjoying.

Marty started to withdraw his hand. The lion growled deep in its throat, raised green eyes to him, baring its teeth.

Marty felt cold sweat along the nape of his neck. But he didn't run. Running would be useless, and besides he had always made it a rule never to turn his back on danger. So he balled up his left fist, and smacked the lion square in the nose.

At the same time he said: "Scram!"

The lion's growl died in its throat, then changed to a whine. It backed away from Marty, still whining, and turning its head away so as to keep its nose out of line with Marty's fist.

And suddenly, Marty heard the light tattoo of feet pattering toward him from the rear of the alley. A girl came running into view. Even in the semi —gloom, it was easy to see that she was the most lovely thing to be found in Bridgetown. She was no more than five foot four, and very slim, with gorgeous auburn hair struggling to squeeze out from under a stiff-visored cap. She was wearing a tight-fitting jacket over a red sweater. The jacket had silver buttons which glittered in the darkness.

Her skirt was red, to match the sweater, and barely came down to her knees. A whistle was hanging from her neck by a silver chain, and she carried a whip in her right hand.

She spotted the lion at once, and called out frantically: "Cleo! Down, Cleo!"

The lion was still crouching as far away as possible from Marty, and whining louder than ever.

The girl came up short, abreast of Marty, and said angrily: "You brute! What have you done to Cleo?"

"Nothing," said Marty. "I just socked him in the nose."

"Oh, you—you brute!"

"Now listen, sister," Marty said exasperatedly, "if this is your lion, take him away. What did you want me to do—stand here and let him chew me up?"

"It's a her—not a him," the girl said. "And Cleo is trained. She would never chew anybody."

"You should put a sign on her then. How did I know?"

"I'm sorry," the girl said, suddenly contrite. "Cleo got out of her cage. I chased her all the way from the Coliseum, and I wasn't sure which alley she'd gone into—"

She stopped abruptly, as her eyes lighted on the crumpled figure of Buck- teeth. "Oh! Did—did Cleo kill him?"

Marty chuckled. "I thought you said Cleo was harmless?"

"Well, not exactly. She has teeth—and claws. If she's annoyed—"

The girl knelt beside Buck-teeth, and Marty chuckled again: "Don't worry about him. I'm responsible for him. Cleo hasn't hurt anybody. Who are you —the animal trainer?"

She gave him an angry look. "I'm the lion tamer." She got up from beside Buck-teeth's body, and got a grip on the lion's collar. "Come on, Cleo. We're going home."

She started off at a lope toward the rear of the alley, with the lion running at her side like a mastiff, reaching almost to her shoulders.

"Hey, wait a minute," Marty called. "Is that lion's name Cleopatra?"

"That's right," she called back. "And I'm Madge, Come up and see us some time. The best seats are a dollar ten!" And then she was gone.

Marty stared after her for a moment, and then suddenly began to chuckle. "Madge, eh?" he whispered. "Not bad. I wonder if you're the baby who signed the telegrams—"

He heard some one coming into the alley from the street, and swung around. He recognized the broad-shouldered figure of Sergeant Johnny Gill. "Oh, it's you!" said Marty Quade.

"I followed you off the train," said Johnny, "and saw you talk to that lanky guy, and cross the street with him. I started across after you, but the traffic light changed, and I got stuck."

"That's right," said Marty. "Always obey the law. Never cross against the light."

Sergeant Gill came further into the alley, his eyes blinking against the comparative darkness of the alley. "What happened to that lanky guy—" He swallowed the rest of the sentence as he stumbled over the dark pile at his feet, which was Buck-teeth. "Hey—what's this?"

"That's what happened to him," said Marty, catching the sergeant's arm and steadying him. "Don't worry. It's not catching."

"Who is he?" Gill asked.

Marty Quade took out the snub-nosed automatic, still wrapped in the handkerchief, and gave it to him. "Here's your chance to earn yourself a promotion, Johnny, and put one over on the Bridgetown police. Take him down to headquarters. Say you made the arrest. Have him fingerprinted. I think you'll find that he's one of the guys that participated in the Bronx holdup."

"You mean—he's one of Felix Gilders gang?"

"Could be."

Sergeant Gill bent forward and brought his face close to Quade's. "Look here, Marty—then it's true, what Hanson said—about you being mixed up with Gildey?"

"Never think it, my friend. Don't you trust me?"

"Yes, I trust you," Gill said doubtfully, "but you pull such awful fast ones."

"Take my word for it, Johnny, that if I run into Felix Gildey, I won't protect him from the law. You ought to know me well enough for that. You even stood up for me to Hanson. Didn't you tell Hanson you didn't believe I'd ever protect a murderer?"

"Yes—"

"Well, then play along with me. I have a hunch you're going to come out of this with a lieutenant's stripes, Johnny."

"And I might get broke, too—put back on a beat. You could have the wrong hunch, you know."

"That's right," said Marty Quade. "It's the chance you have to take, Johnny. Nobody ever got anywhere by playing it close to his vest."

"Okay, Marty!" Sergeant Gill said decisively, "To play ball with you —all the way! What do you want me to do?"

"Take this lug down to the Bridgetown police headquarters, and have him held for the New York police as a fugitive from justice. Wire New York for extradition warrants for Gildey and every one of his mob that's known by name, so if this one turns out to be among them, you can take him back. And tell nobody where I am, or what I'm doing."

"Okay;" said Johnny Gill. "And where can I get in touch with you later?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Stick close to headquarters, and I'll try and give you a call. Now give me two minutes to get out of this alley, then do your stuff."

He pressed Gill's hand, and slipped out of the alley and into the street. He threw a quick glance to the right and left, made sure no one was watching him especially, and stepped into the entrance of Max's—Nuff Said.

It was two minutes of seven on the electric clock above the bar. The place was of medium size, with a bar in the front part, and tables in the rear. It was a long bar, and there were almost a dozen people at it, being served by a single bartender.

Marty stepped up and said: "Scotch—and the envelope."

The bartender had a bushy head of hair like a Russian violinist, and a scraggly moustache like the Count of Monte Cristo's before he visited the barber. He squinted at Marty from under thick, uncombed eyebrows, and said: "Scotch and—what?"

"The envelope," Marty told him. "The envelope from Sandra."

"O—ho!" said the bartender, in a voice like a foghorn. "So you're the guy Sandra's gonna meet. You're Quade, ain't you? Marty Quade from New York!"

Marty glowered at him. "What's your name?"

"Jones. Sidney Jones. Glad to know you, Mr. Quade."

"You're a nice, discreet guy, aren't you?"

"Sure. I never blab."

"No. You don't blab. You shout."

"What's that? I'm a little hard of hearing. Ever since the cops clouted me around five years ago."

"What did they clout you around for?"

"I used to be a knife thrower in the circus. Esterhazy's Circus— the same one that's in town now. I used to throw twelve knives at a girl. Well, one night I threw eleven of them, and the twelfth one I missed."

"You mean the knife hit the girl?"

"Yeah. It was a tough break. She had just got engaged to be married to one of the aerial trapeze artists. The knife got her right in the heart, and killed her"—he snapped his fingers—"like that!"

"Accident?" Marty asked.

"Sure. Sure it was an accident. But the cops, they had queer ideas. They said I did it a-purpose, because the girl had turned me down for the aerial trapeze artist. They took me downtown and grilled me for ten hours, and boy they smacked me around. Ever since then, I don't hear so good."

"Then they let you go?"

"Well, no. I had to stand trial, and the jury hung up. They couldn't agree. So the D.A. gave up in disgust, and never tried the case again."

"Too bad," said Marty.

"Eh? What's that? I didn't get it."

"Skip it," said Marty. "Where's the scotch? Where's the envelope?"

"Oh, sure. Sure." Sidney Jones produced a bottle and a glass, and while Marty poured himself a drink he dug under his apron and brought out an envelope which he slid across the counter.

Marty took it and put it in his pocket without even opening it, and downed the whiskey.

"Why, hello, Mr. Quade," some one said at his elbow. "Don't you even bother to count your fees?"

Marty turned around and looked at the woman who had come up alongside him. His eyes reflected grudging admiration. She was no whit less beautiful than the girl he had just talked to in the alley. But she was taller, and older. Perhaps five years older. Her hair was not auburn, but glistening platinum. Yet her features were disturbingly similar to Madge's. So much so that Marty was almost certain at first glance that they were sisters.

"So you're Sandra?" he said.

She was studying him, from under half-lowered lashes. She was wearing a light cloth coat around the curving lines of her tall and slender body.

"Yes, I'm Sandra." She shook hands, and her coat fell open. She was wearing skin tights.

She smiled, and picked up the drink which Sidney Jones had placed before her. "Here's luck!" she said.

Marty shrugged, poured himself another tumblerful, and drank with her.

"All right, Sandra," he said. "What's your proposition?"

She studied him for a moment longer, as if trying to decide the best way to appeal to him. Then she picked up her purse from the bar, opened it, and showed him that it was packed full of money.

"I'll pay you ten thousand dollars more," she said deliberately, "to be a clown at tonight's circus performance!"

3. DRESSED TO KILL

Marty put his glass down on the bar. "It was nice knowing you, Sandra. Look me up sometime, when you get to New York—"

"Wait. Don't go. I'll pay you more—"

"Sorry, Sandra. It so happens that I'm a private detective. I don't take odd jobs of being a circus clown—even at fifteen grand a night."

"You don't understand," she said. "This isn't just an odd job. This is" —she paused, coming closer to him so that he could smell the perfume of her hair—"this is a matter of life and death. I could have got a dozen men to take the job for tonight, for five or ten dollars. But I wanted you."

"Why?"

"Because the clown whose place you will take tonight is in danger of death. Some one will try to kill him tonight. Some one with a gun will take a shot at him from among the audience. I want you to wear that man's clown costume, and I want you to be ready with your gun. I want you to spot the person who will try to shoot—and to kill that person!"

"Ah!" said Marty. "I begin to see. And who is this person whose place I'm to take?"

She dropped her eyes. "My—my—husband." Then she hurried on, as if to avoid his asking further questions. "I told you, I could have hired any number of men to take his place tonight, and whoever took the job, would be murdered, in my—my husband's stead. But—"

"But that wouldn't be enough," Marty said, watching her out of narrowed eyes. "You want the potential killer removed—permanently. So that he'll no longer be a threat, eh?"

She nodded, without speaking.

Marty grinned. "All right, Sandra, suppose you break down. Open up."

She fumbled with the empty glass on the bar, avoiding his gaze. Then she started to talk, in a half monotone. "I'm Sandra Esterhazy. My father died last year, leaving the whole circus to my sister and myself. Madge is my sister. She handles the lion—taming act, and I do the tightrope number. We own the circus now, half and half. I was married two years ago—secretly. I didn't dare tell dad, because he disapproved of—of the man I married."

"What's his name?" Marty asked. "The man you married?"

She laughed, with a forced note. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," he told her. "It matters."

"His name is—Frank—Gray."

"Frank Gray, eh? All right. Go ahead. Who wants to kill this— Frank Gray?"

"We don't know. It's some secret enemy. Some one who must bear a grudge against him out of the past."

"How do you know they're going to try to kill him tonight?"

"I—I was tipped off."

"By whom?"

She hesitated a moment, still not looking directly at him. At last, she said swiftly: "It was an anonymous telephone call."

"Uh huh. And where's this Frank Gray—this husband of yours?"

"He went out of town. I made him promise to lie low till the danger was over."

"And you want me to take his place? You want me to be the target for some rifleman in the audience?"

Now she faced him. "Yes. That's what I want you to do. I read in the papers about you. I've heard you talked about. They say you take the damndest cases and the damndest risks—as long as you're paid well enough. All right, I'm willing to pay you well. Very well. If ten thousand isn't enough, say how much."

Marty smiled thinly. "My life is all I've got. I'll risk it— against all you've got. Nothing less."

"All right," she said. "I own a half interest in the Esterhazy Circus. I'll turn it over to you. But—but suppose you fail—"

"You mean—suppose I don't kill that marksman?"

"Yes."

"If I don't kill him," Marty told her, "he'll kill me. In that case, we'll put a clause in the contract that the half interest in the circus reverts to you."

"It's a bargain!"

"Let's go over to a table, then. You can write out the assignment, and our friend, Sidney Jones, can witness it."

It took only fifteen minutes for her to write it out, at Marty's dictation, and for Jones to attest their signatures. Marty folded the document, put it in his pocket, and gave her a sour smile. "All right, Sandra. You've hired yourself a clown for the night."

"Come on," she said nervously. "It's a quarter of eight. The performance starts in a half hour."

"What's your circus worth?" he asked.

"A hundred thousand dollars. But there's a mortgage on it for sixty thousand. So Madge and I have an equity of forty thousand. That makes my half worth twenty. That's what I'm paying you for shooting straight tonight."

"It's a high price, Sandra. You must have a tot to gain by keeping your husband alive—and killing his enemy."

"What do you mean?"

"Your husband a rich man?"

"He has—resources," she said evasively.

"What kind of resources? Cash?"

She looked at him queerly. "Just what are you driving at?"

"Sister," said Marty, "you must take me for an awful sap."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you think I'm wondering why you're willing to give up your interest in the circus? Don't you think I'm figuring that you have more to gain this way—far more?"

"Sure you are. But you don't care—as long as you get yours."

"I might care. I might be interested in just how much this husband of yours has in cash. The exact figure might be very interesting. Let's say it's a quarter of a million dollars."

Her face was suddenly white. "What made you mention that sum?"

"And suppose that your husband's name isn't Frank Gray at all—but Felix Gildey."

"What—makes you say that?"

"I'm only saying it," Marty told her imperturbably, "because I want to play fair with you. Fairer than you're playing with me. I want you to know that I'm taking this job, and I'll go through with it. But after it's over— if I'm alive—I'm going after Felix Gildey. I'm going to get him, and turn him in. Is that fair warning?"

Her eyes were veiled, her body tense and strained. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Marty shrugged. "Have it your way. Let's go."

They got up and went out of Max's. The calculating eyes of the bushy- haired, mustached Sidney Jones followed them all the way out to the street...

4. BIG-TENT TREACHERY

At eight-fifteen, Marty Quade stood in front of a mirror and surveyed himself, and said: "Oh, hell. I was a sucker to go into this!"

Sandra Esterhazy finished buttoning his clown's costume up the back for him, then came around in front and put the finishing touches to his makeup, with a brush from the dressing table. The white covered his entire face, and the red dabs which she painted on, across his forehead, under his eyes and down his cheeks made him feel like nothing human.

He said: "I never realized what a circus clown has to go through to make himself up."

Sandra Esterhazy didn't answer. She had discarded her coat while she worked over his face. Finishing with the makeup, she helped him on with his boots.

Marty asked: "What about this marksman—did you find out how he expects to pick your husband out of twenty-four clowns?"

"Yes. You're wearing my husband's costume. It has these red tassels on the shoulders. That's how the killer will know him—I mean, you."

A bugle began to blow out in the arena, and Sandra said hurriedly:

"There's the first signal. The parade of clowns starts in ten minutes. Better hurry!"

Marty nodded, suddenly grim. He picked up his automatic from the dressing table, and palmed it. "Here we go!" he said.

Sandra came up close to him. "I hope you kill him," she said.

Marty grunted. "And you also hope he kills me, don't you?"

She put her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips hard against his. Then she took her lips away, and looked up into his eyes.

"Yes, Marty," she whispered. "I hope he kills you!"

Then she dropped her arms, and stepped back.

Marty said nothing. He turned and walked out of the dressing room.

He made his way through a crowd of acrobats, trapeze performers, aerial bicyclists, Japanese jugglers and Hindu snake-charmers, and then hurried past the cages of the trained seals, the tigers and the lions. He passed the cage of Cleopatra, and she suddenly raised her paws, slapping against the bars, and growled at him. He stopped in front of the cage and looked at her. She kept on growling, and bared her teeth, as if her dearest desire were to rip him to pieces.

Marty scowled under his clown disguise. Madge had said that Cleopatra wouldn't harm anyone. And Cleopatra had certainly knuckled under to him. But now she seemed different. She seemed imbued with a kind of animal hate which he couldn't understand. He stepped a little closer to the bars, and some one called out:

"Get away from that cage, you vicious beast!"

He turned around, and saw Madge Esterhazy, still attired in her neat and natty uniform. Her beautiful, youthful face was flushed with anger as she ran toward him, brandishing her whip.

"Get away from that cage, you beast!" she repeated. "Get away, or I'll whip you!"

Marty looked at her, amazed. She was even more appealing in her anger than she had been in the alley. But he couldn't understand it.

She kept about ten feet away from him, holding the whip up above her head, ready to slash at his face. "I've warned you about tormenting Cleo," she said. "I mean it. You're a vicious beast, worse than any of these animals. Now get away!"

"Take it easy," Marty said. "Where did you get the idea that I was a vicious beast who tormented animals?"

At the sound of his voice, Cleopatra abruptly ceased her growling, and began to whine. The change in the lion was so startling that Marty might have wondered about it, if he didn't suddenly have something even more interesting to wonder about. That was the change in Madge Esterhazy's manner.

Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing. She let the whip slowly down, and came closer to him.

"I—I thought you were some one else," she said. "You're wearing his costume."

"That's right," said Marty. "I'm not Felix Gildey."

Madge's face was suddenly white and strained. "Who—who are you?"

"I'm the man you met in the alley this evening," he told her. "You invited me to come and see you and Cleo, so here I am."

"Where did you get that costume?"

"From your sister."

"Good heavens! Then you're taking my brother—in-law's place!"

"Yes. I'm Marty Quade. Remember me? You tried to give me a thousand dollars last night."

Her eyes were wide with consternation. "You're Marty Quade! Why didn't you say so when you talked to me in the alley?"

He chuckled. "You didn't give me a chance. Remember, you and Cleopatra walked out on me."

"Oh, if I'd only known who you were!" She put an impulsive hand on his arm. "You mustn't go out there in the arena, Mr. Quade. You'll be killed!"

Cleopatra, in her cage, seconded her mistress's appeal with a gentle little whine.

Marty turned and looked at the animal. "So you like me just a little, don't you, old girl?"

The lioness stuck her muzzle between the bars. Marty stroked her nose. He smiled at Madge, his eyes appreciating the petite slenderness of her figure, which was done ample justice by the cute little costume she wore.

"Why did you want to buy me off from coming here, Madge?"

"Because I didn't want an innocent man killed in my brother-in-law's stead. I knew what Sandra was planning to do. And I didn't want blood on my sister's hands."

"What was she planning to do?"

"She's doing it now, I see," Madge said bitterly. "She's sending you out there to be killed in my brother-in-law's place. She's hoping that you'll kill the assassin. But you haven't got a chance."

"It's Felix Gildey's old mob that's after him, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Marty Quade. I don't know who's after him. I only know you'll be shot to death if you go out there."

He showed her his automatic. "Not if I see the guy first."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Madge, you knew all along that the man your sister was married to was Felix Gildey. Why didn't you notify the police?"

She shuddered. "I didn't dare. I was afraid of what he'd do to Sandra—"

"Where's Gildey hiding out?"

"I don't know. He was hiding out here in the circus till yesterday, passing himself off as a clown, and sleeping in Sandra's dressing room at night. But when he learned that his old gang had caught up with him, he disappeared. He used to spend his idle time torturing the animals. Cleo was his pet victim. He'd stand outside her cage with a slingshot, and pelt her with pebbles. She hates him. That's why she growled at you just now. She recognized the costume."

"Does she know him when he's not in costume?"

"Yes, of course. I—I had even thought of letting Cleo out of her cage when he was around. It would have been the end of him."

Outside in the arena, the bugle sounded a second time.

Madge's eyes widened. "That's the final signal for the parade of clowns. That's your cue!"

Marty nodded. "Here I go."

"Heaven help you!" she said.

He left her, and reached the runway leading to the arena just as the last of the clowns were passing through. He joined the end of the procession, but kept a respectable distance between himself and the others. He didn't want the hidden marksman up there among the spectators to hit one of the other clowns by mistake. They weren't being paid to be human targets.

The other clowns fell into their usual routine, pirouetting, doing handstands and somersaults, parading in trick costumes to represent wheelbarrows, elephants, and whatnot. But Marty Quade walked sedately behind them, with the automatic palmed in his right hand, and his eyes surveying the sea of faces above the arena.

Among all those spectators who looked down now upon the antics of the clowns, there was one who had not come for pleasure, but for the grim business of murder. Where was he? From what side would the single shot come?

Marty felt prickles along his spine as he moved out into the center of the arena.

A small group of clowns got together and did a complicated acrobatic stunt, which ended in all of them tumbling to the sawdust in a tangled, comical heap.

Marty paid no attention to them. He kept moving around along the edge of the arena, watchfully, his eyes fixed on the opposite stands. By keeping close to the edge he obviated to some degree, an attack from the back, for if the marksman were in the seats directly above him, the man would have to stand up and aim downward. He would thus have a difficult shot, and at the same time attract the attention of the other spectators.

The Master of Ceremonies, attired in a gorgeous ruffled uniform, waved his hand in signal, and the trumpeter raised his instrument to his lips. A long, shrill note blasted from it, signaling the clowns to retire so that the first of the circus acts could go on.

Marty Quade knew that this would be the moment. A shot at this particular instant would be partly drowned by the notes of the trumpet. His eyes darted along the stands, seeking for a glint of metal which would betray the position of the marksman.

And just then, a woman's shriek sounded loud and shrill, above the blare of the trumpet.

The shriek came from the stands directly behind Marty, and above him. He acted without a moment's hesitation. Instead of turning to see what had caused the woman to scream, he threw himself headlong to the ground, hugging the framework of the stands.

Something whined past him, and a bullet ploughed into the ground at the very spot where he had been standing. Thanks to that woman's shriek, he had been warned in time. No doubt she had seen the marksman standing up to take aim.

Marty sprang up again, almost before the rolling echo of the high-powered rifle shot had had a chance to gather volume, and raised his automatic, swinging toward the stands. He saw a milling throng of men and women spectators up there in the fifth row, frantically struggling to get away from one man who was standing on his seat, with a smoking rifle in his hand. The audience had cleared a space all around that man. He was a stocky fellow with a bullet head, close-cropped. He was turning now, brandishing his rifle at the crowd, preparatory to making his getaway. But he saw Marty come to his feet, and swiftly raised the rifle for another shot.

Marty's clown face remained impassive, never twitching. He just extended his right arm, with the automatic gripped in his hand, and pointed at the rifleman. Then he pulled the trigger. His automatic blasted once.

The rifleman's arms flew up into the air, the long weapon slid from his grasp, and he went toppling off the bench. His body fell athwart the bench in front, and he lay, lifeless, with his head hanging down.

The echoes of the two shots—the long, whining bark of the high- powered rifle, and the deep—throated blast of Marty's automatic— mingled and rolled back from the vaulted roof in a thunderous blend of violence, only to be dwarfed by the sudden rising wave of screaming hysteria which swept the huge auditorium. The audience was on its feet as one man, gripped by the excitement of witnessing sudden death in all its bleak finality. They saw, hanging across the seat there, a man who, a moment ago had been living and vibrant and dangerous, and who was now nothing but a bag of bones and blood for the dissecting scalpel of the coroner.

In the midst of all the hysterical frenzy, one man made his way unobserved out of the arena. That man was Marty Quade.

At that moment, Marty felt no particular sense of elation, of victory, of accomplishment. He had risked his life and fought for a cause for which he had no sympathy. True, that man he had just killed had been a member of a vicious gang, hunted for robbery and cold-blooded murder. The man had deserved to die. But now that he was dead, Marty was no nearer the end of this strange case of obscure motives and hidden hatreds.

5. THE SLEUTH SHOWMAN

Sandra Esterhazy was waiting for him as he came out of the arena. He had torn the red tassels off the shoulders of his costume, so that now he was indistinguishable from half a dozen of the other clowns. But she guessed his identity, and verified it by the sight of the automatic in his hand.

"You killed him!" she said.

Marty nodded. "Yes, I killed him. Sorry I couldn't see my way to oblige you, and get myself knocked off, too. But I guess you've arranged for that, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know the name of your husband. Surely, Felix Gildey can't afford to let me say what I know! Isn't he around somewhere? Isn't he going to make a try for me?"

"No, no. You mustn't believe anything like that. Come. Come in here. I want to talk to you."

She led him toward one of the sideshow tents. It was the knife-thrower's tent, as the sign above the flap proclaimed.

The people from the sideshows had all come out of their tents, and were hurrying toward the runway to get a view of the excitement out in the arena. Somewhere, a policeman's whistle was blowing. At the other end of the quarters, the caged animals, aroused by the shouting of the humans, were baying, growling, whining—raising a cacophony of frightened animal sound which added a weird note to the hysterical din emanating from the arena.

But at the knife-thrower's tent, everything was quiet.

"Where's your sister, Madge?"

Marty asked as he followed her toward the tent.

"With the lion. She loves that damned lion. She's trying to keep it quiet."

She had hold of his left hand, and she was pulling him urgently toward the tent. As they approached the entrance, Marty thought he spotted a flitting shadow, just inside. He slowed up, holding her back, and raised his gun.

But just then, Sandra uttered a scream of fright, and threw herself against him, pointing in the opposite direction.

"Look out! The knives—"

Marty thought it was a trick on her part, to divert his attention from that shadowy figure lying in wait within the tent. But he nevertheless threw a quick glance in the direction in which she was pointing, and he cursed under his breath.

Sidney Jones—the bartender and ex-knife—thrower was there, not ten feet away from them. He had a knife in each hand, and two sticking from his belt. His right hand was raised, in the act of throwing one of the blades. His face was cold, expressionless, and entirely businesslike.

Even as Marty looked, that knife went sailing out of Jones' hand, straight and true for Sandra's heart.

And while that knife was still in the air, Jones raised the other one and hurled it.

Marty thrust Sandra out of the way of that speeding blade, and fired at the same time.

His bullet caught Sidney Jones high in the chest, and hurled the knife- thrower back in an awkward somersault. Simultaneously, Marty was conscious of the dark form from the tent looming up behind him, with a black jack upraised above his head.

Marty had no time to turn, no time to ward off that sap. It would come down on his skull with stunning force. His scalp tingled with expectancy of the descending blow.

But somehow, it never landed. There was a gasp from behind him, and the upraised arm sagged, with one of Sidney Jones's knives sticking in it. Marty had thrust Sandra Esterhazy out of line of that flying knife. It had missed her, but had found a mark in the arm of the mysterious assailant in the tent.

The wounded man ducked back into the tent, and Marty could hear the sounds of ripping canvas as the man cut his way out through the rear. The fellow must have yanked the knife out of his arm to use on the canvas.

Grimly, Marty started into the tent after him. But Sandra Esterhazy threw both arms around him, clung to him tightly, preventing him from moving.

"Let him go!" she gasped. "It's Felix. He has a quarter of a million cached. I'm going to join him. We'll give you half—"

"Let go!" Marty barked. He broke her hold, and thrust her away.

There was no use going into the tent now. That delay had given Gildey a chance to get out. Marty sprinted around to the rear, and caught sight of his man, running toward the animal quarters. He started after the man, shouting: "Stop, Gildey! Stop or I'll shoot!"

Felix Gildey didn't stop. He had his gun in his left hand now. His right arm was bleeding copiously above the elbow, and he was holding it close at his side as he ran, heading for the cages. He thrust his left hand out behind him, and fired twice, at random. The bullets sang harmlessly past Marty, going wide by several feet.

Behind him, Marty could hear the patter of Sandra's footsteps, following him. He slowed up and raised his automatic, aiming for the running man's legs. But just then Gildey snapped another shot behind him, and Marty heard a cry at his side. Sandra Esterhazy had just come abreast of Marty, and Gildey's slug, though it was wide for Marty, had taken her right over the heart.

She stumbled into Marty, spoiling his aim. Blood was spurting from her breast, staining the flesh-colored tights a deep crimson.

Marty's eyes were bleak as he caught her in his arms, and eased her down to the ground. He was oblivious of the crowd of people who were streaming from the arena, oblivious of what Felix Gildey was doing, oblivious of everything but what the dying Sandra was trying to say to him.

"Felix was on the spot tonight... We needed a man like you to hold the mob at bay while we escaped in the excitement." She paused a moment. "Then I hired Jones—to rub you out. But the mob—hired him to"— she gasped as blood welled in her throat, but whispered on—"to kill us both."

"I'm sorry, Sandra," said Marty. "Damned sorry—"

She was gasping in his arms. But she smiled wryly, trying to talk. "You're all right, Marty Quade—good man. Take care of Madge. Bend down closer. I'll tell you—where Felix hid the quarter million... In the floor—of Cleopatra's cage..."

Felix Gildey had taken cover behind the monkey cage, and he was firing at Marty.

Marty felt Sandra stiffen in his arms. She was dead.

Gildey's gun roared again, and another slug whistled past Marty's shoulder.

Marty gently lowered Sandra's dead body. Then he got to his feet, his mouth tight, his eyes hard and bleak. He raised his automatic and sent two swift shots at the corner of the monkey cage from behind which Gildey was shooting. But Gildey had left that corner, and was backing away. He was bent on escape. He had a clear path behind him, with no one to block it, except for Madge Esterhazy, who had suddenly appeared in front of Cleopatra's cage.

Marty saw Madge standing there, with only her whip to protect her against that madman brother-in—law of hers. He couldn't see Gildey, who was entirely hidden by the high flooring of the monkey cage. But he knew that Gildey was coming toward her, and would surely not leave her alive when he passed. A cold blast of hate for Gildey streaked through Marty's bones. He set out at a dead run to get around the monkey cage for a clear shot at Gildey.

He could see Madge plainly, standing with her back to Cleopatra's cage, her eyes wide upon what must be the approaching figure of Gildey the killer. Marty saw this as he ran, and cursed under his breath. Sandra was dead, yes. But it would be unbearable to see that slim little Madge, cold in death as well, all the honesty and vitality and love of life gone from her wilted body.

And just then he saw Madge turn to the cage and do something with the catch on the door, then swing it wide open.

Cleopatra, who had been pawing at the bars, uttered a deep-throated roar, and launched herself out of that cage like a comet, sailing through the air with her claws distended and her great teeth showing.

Marty raced around the end of the monkey cage just in time to see Cleopatra strike. Her hurtling feline form hit the running Gildey square on the chest. He had fired at her as he ran. Marty had heard the shot. But Felix had missed. Marty saw Cleopatra's claws rake Gildey's face and chest, then saw her great teeth sink into his jugular as all the pent-up rage and hatred of the beast was unleashed in one deadly, savage fury of attack.

By the time Marty got there, Felix Gildey was past all help.

He got hold of Cleopatra by the collar, and dragged her off the kill. She growled, licking her chops, but she did not resent his handling of her.

Marty led the lioness over to where Madge Esterhazy was standing, white- faced, with a hand pressed tight against her breast.

"Don't cave in, kid," he said. "This is no time to crumble. Put Cleopatra away."

She nodded mutely, and took hold of the lioness' collar.

"Put her in another cage," Marty said. "Not in this one."

"Is—is Sandra—dead?" she asked.

Marty nodded.

With her eyes almost a blank, Madge Esterhazy led Cleopatra away to a vacant cage further down the line.

Marty Quade turned around in time to see a flying wedge of bluecoats and detectives forcing their way through the crowd of frightened spectators, with Sergeant Johnny Gill of the New York Homicide Detail in the lead.

One of the detectives grabbed at Marty, and ordered: "Hand over that gun, you!"

Marty grinned, and rubbed the paint off his face.

Sergeant Gill yelled: "Marty! It's Marty Quade!"

He spoke swiftly to the detective. "He's all right." Then he turned to Marty. "What in hell's been happening here?"

"I think Sergeant Gill has been getting his lieutenant's stripes," Marty said. He led Johnny Gill to one side. "This all goes in your book, Johnny. I want none of the credit. You tell these Bridgetown cops that you planned the whole thing, and that you only got me in to help you, Gildey's dead, and so are at least two of his mob. The stolen payroll is cached in the flooring of the lion's cage over there. You can mastermind it out of there. Tell them you had private information. Or tell them you deduced it from clues. Anyway, it's all yours."

"There's a reward, Marty—fifty grand—"

Marty waved him aside, for he saw Madge Esterhazy returning, after having locked Cleopatra up again. She came straight to him, and he put an arm around her and led her over to where her sister lay dead.

"She made a mistake," Marty said. "She loved the wrong man. Now she's dead. Now you're the sole owner of the Esterhazy Circus."

"No," said Madge. "I'm not the sole owner."

"What do you mean?"

She looked up at him from the shelter of his arm. "You know what I mean, Marty Quade. You have a paper."

"Paper? What paper?"

Her eyes were misty. "Sandra told me—she gave you an assignment of her interest in the circus. You earned it. You're a half owner."

"Oh, no," said Marty. He took the paper out of his pocket, and started to tear it up.

She swiftly put a hand over his, stopping him. "Please, Marty. Don't tear it up. I want you to keep it. I want you for my partner. I'd never be able to run the circus alone, now, I need the protection of some one like you. I want to be partners with you. You needn't spend any time running the circus. If all the crooks and conmen and highbinders know you are part owner, they'll think twice before trying anything. Please—be my partner."

Marty smiled. His arm tightened around her shoulders.

"All right, Madge. I'm your partner—till you don't need me any more."

Johnny Gill came up to them. "Marty," he said, "that was damned big of you, giving me credit for this catch. I was just on the phone talking to Hanson, He's putting my name before the commissioner for a lieutenancy."

"Nice going, Johnny."

Gill's face expressed worry. "But the Bridgetown cops insist on sharing the reward. There won't be much left. What'll you get out of it? Not even credit—"

"You take the credit," Marty told him, "and I'll take the circus!"

THE END