TABLE of CONTENTS

A CUE FOR THE CORPSE

IN THIS CORNER - DEATH

THE MANCHU SKULL

First published in The Spider magazine, October 1934

ED RACE heard the little bang while he was shaving, but he paid no attention to it. It might have been the back-fire of any one of the ten thousand cars passing on Broadway, eight floors below; or it might have been a guest in one of the other rooms committing suicide—or getting murdered. Whatever it was, Ed didn't intend to investigate.

There was a midnight show at the Clyde Theater tonight, and his act was due at one-ten. It was eleven-thirty now, and he wanted to dress and eat before he went on. So he finished shaving, and then went into the bedroom and put on his shirt and tie and vest.

Over the vest he strapped the twin shoulder—holsters containing the two heavy .45 caliber hair—trigger revolvers which he used in his gun-juggling and marksmanship act. Then he put on his coat and hat and turned out the light. With the light out in the room, all the glittering incandescence of Broadway surged up through the window. Electric lights flickered and flashed from hundreds of huge signs. Two blocks down he could see the marquee of the Clyde Theater, where his own act was headlined:

THIS WEEK ONLY
THE MASKED MARKSMAN
THE MAN WHO CAN MAKE GUNS TALK!
IN PERSON!

Ed grinned at that. He was used to it now, though it had been a little thrilling for the first couple of years. It was ten years since he had first gone up in electric lights. And now he was the highest-paid performer on the Partages Circuit. He liked it. He liked to juggle those heavy guns, and bring down the house in thunderous applause when he shot out the flames of a dozen candles in succession thirty feet across the stage. Every night it was a new thrill.

He pulled open the door and started to step out into the corridor. But he suddenly stopped with his hand on the knob, and said in surprise, "Well, for the love of Pete!"

There was a girl in the hall, and she was lugging a dead man by the feet!

She was hardly more than seventeen or eighteen, and her figure was slender and supple in a thin silk dress. She must have put it on in a hurry, because, even in the dim light of the hallway, it was easy to see that she wore nothing at all underneath it. And she had no shoes or stockings on, either.

He stared.

She was dragging the man by the feet. His shoulders bumped along the floor, and his arms did a crazy slithering act on the wine-colored rug. He was on his back, and there was a large black hole in his left temple. The blood was dried around the wound. His eyes were open and glazed, and his jaw hung slack. There was no doubt that he was dead.

The girl apparently had dragged him out of Room 814 across the hall, because the door of that room was ajar. When she heard Ed Race, she dropped the man's feet as if they were scorching hot. Her eyes became wide and round. Her lower lip was trembling, and her small breasts were rising and falling with trip-hammer speed.

She stared at Ed Race without speaking.

Ed said gravely, "Why, you're only a kid. How come you're lugging a corpse? Don't you know you mustn't touch dead men till the police come?"

"I want to get rid of the body," she told him matter-of-factly.

"I guessed as much," he said dryly. "Who killed him?"

"I killed him."

Ed raised his eyebrows. "With what?"

"With a gun."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because he was no good. He's a gunman—Lefty Mott. I'm—I was his gun moll. We had a fight and I shot him."

Ed looked at her thoughtfully. "A gun moll, eh? Aren't you a little young to be a gun moll?"

"I'm twenty-five!" she lied defiantly.

Ed grinned. "Twenty-five, eh?? A pretty ripe old age at that. Do you mind telling me what you were going to do with Mr. Lefty Mott?"

"I was going to put him in the incinerator," she said.

"There isn't any incinerator here. This isn't a housekeeping hotel."

Her eyes widened. "But—but I thought every New York building had an incinerator."

"You haven't been in New York long, have you?" Ed asked.

"I have so! And I'm a moll, too. I'll prove it. Want me to prove it?"

"How?"

"Like this," she said.

She knelt swiftly beside the dead man, and thrust a hand inside his coat. She brought it out holding a huge automatic which she had taken from under the corpse's left armpit. It was so heavy she had to hold it in both hands as she pointed it at Ed.

"You do as I say," she blurted, "or I'll p-plug you like I plugged him. Get hold of his feet and pull him into your room!"

Just then they heard the clanging of the elevator doors around the bend in the corridor—and then voices, approaching. Two men were talking. One was whining, the other gruff and unyielding.

"I tell you, Inspector," Whiny was saying, "Inness plugged Lefty Mott right in his room. I seen him do it from my window across the street. He shot him in the head! And Lefty didn't even have a gun!"

The other voice was lower, but clear and authoritative. "All right, Gimp. We'll see for ourselves. There's an alarm out for Inness already. You better be giving me a straight steer, or it'll be just too bad for you!"

"Don't worry, Inspector. I know better than to try anything on you."

There was only a grunt from the Inspector.

Ed Race didn't recognize the whiny voice, but he certainly did know that other, authoritative voice. That would be Inspector Hansen, Chief of New York City Detectives. Hansen was a hard man, brilliant and unemotional. He and Ed Race had never been able to get along together.

Ed looked at the girl, and saw that she was trembling. Her two hands were shaking so that the muzzle of the heavy automatic was wavering in a wide arc. If she fired it, she would be sure to hit anything but Ed. Also, Ed noticed with a grin, that she didn't even know enough to snap off the safety catch. But she was holding to her bluff. Her voice assumed a villainous whisper.

"Hurry up and drag this corpse in there, or I'll shoot!"

Ed said, "Well, well. I guess you've got me cold, sister." He whispered it so that the two men coming down the hall wouldn't hear. And then he took two steps forward, bent down and seized the defunct Mr. Lefty Mott by the feet, dragged mightily, and pulled him into the room.

The girl uttered a deep sigh of relief and ran in after him. Ed swung the door shut just as Inspector Hansen and his stool-pigeon came around the bend of the corridor. He left the door open just a crack, so as to get a glimpse of them. Behind him he could hear the girl's quick, labored breathing.

Hansen and Gimp passed right by his room and went directly to the open door of 814.

Ed watched, saw Hansen look in, then turn and scowl at Gimp, without saying a word. Gimp looked, in his turn, and exclaimed, "My Gawd, Inspector, I swear I seen Lefty Mott get shot in there. Someone must have taken him out!"

Hansen said, "Yeah. I suppose they took him out through the whole hotel, and then down in the street, and just loaded him in a car, while all of Broadway watched!"

Gimp shrugged helplessly. "Maybe they dragged him in some other room on the floor."

Hansen snapped his fingers. "You may be right at that! I'll call downtown and get some men. Then we'll search every room."

Very slowly and very carefully, Ed closed his door and locked it. He turned and faced the girl. She had heard what Hansen had said. She was staring at Ed, wide-eyed. She still held on to the automatic with both hands.

Ed smiled at her. "Well? You've got me in a nice jam now. When Hansen searches the floor he'll find this body here and then he'll arrest me for murder."

There were tears in the girl's eyes. "I—I didn't want to do that to you. I—I only wanted to get rid of the body."

Ed put out his hand and took the automatic from her. She didn't resist. He turned it around and showed her the safety catch.

"For a gun moll, you certainly are ignorant of firearms," he said. "In the future remember, if it's an automatic, it won't shoot unless you snap this little doo-dad."

He led her to a chair and sat her in it. "All right. Now suppose you tell me all about it. In the first place, I know you're not a gun moll. In the second place, I know you didn't kill Lefty Mott. In the third place, I know you're in a lot of trouble. Maybe I can help you out."

She sagged back helplessly in the chair, and looked up at him with a pair of hopeless eyes. "Nobody can help me. You heard what they said in the hall. That man, Gimp, lied. He told the Inspector that my brother—that's Jack Inness—killed Lefty Mott. Well, Jack didn't kill him. I found Lefty dead in Jack's room, and I knew someone was trying to frame my brother, so I decided to drag the body out of there. I—"

She was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. "Police Department!" a voice rasped. "Open up in there!"

Ed whispered to the girl, "That'll be Inspector Hansen. If he finds you here, your brother will be connected with the murder. All your trouble will be wasted. And if he finds me in here he'll surely take me downtown for questioning, and I won't be able to appear for my number at the Clyde Theater tonight."

Her eyes opened wide. "You—you're an actor?"

He nodded.

Hansen's knock was repeated, this time more loudly. "Open up, I say! I know there's someone in there. I know you've got a dead body in there. There's blood on the door-sill here!"

The girl was on her feet in a panic. "What—what'll we do?"

Ed leaped across to the closet, pulled one of his topcoats off a hanger, and threw it over her shoulders. "Put that on. You can't go out in the street in that thin dress."

He seized her arm, dragged her to the window. Hansen kept on knocking at the door. Now he was using the butt of his revolver "Better open up. It'll go hard with you, whoever—"

The rest of his voice was lost because, Ed had the window up, and had pushed the girl out onto the terrace, and was out after her. He closed the window from the outside, leaving Lefty Mott in there all alone, in the majestic splendor of death.

The girl shrugged into the sleeves of the topcoat, and Ed led her all the way down to the end of the terrace. The next to the last window along the terrace opened on to the corridor near the freight elevator shaft. Ed slid the window up, crawled in, the girl following. They were around the bend of the corridor now, and they could hear Hansen still hammering at the door.

Ed grinned and said, "I hope my friend the Inspector doesn't get high blood pressure over there!" He led her past the freight elevator doors to the fire-door. He pushed it open, and they both ran down the stairs to the seventh floor. On the seventh, Ed slowed up to a walk. He looked at the girl. "That's a man's topcoat you're wearing, but I guess it'll pass. Come on."

He went to the passenger elevator shaft, and rang the down button. In a moment a cage arrived, and the door opened. Ed and the girl stepped in, and the elevator descended. The elevator operator said, "Hello, Mr. Race. What you doing on the seventh? I thought you was on the eighth."

"I had to pick up Miss Smith here," Ed told him.

"You missed some excitement," the operator said. "Seems like there's been a killing up on your floor. There's a police inspector up there, and he's going through all the rooms."

"Is that so?" Ed said. "I wonder who killed whom." He took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, folded it into a small wad and gave it to the operator. "Look, Sammy, do you think this would improve or spoil your memory?"

Sammy peeked at the denomination of the bill, and grinned. "It would make me suffer from amnesia, Mr. Race!"

"Okay. Just forget you saw me and Miss Smith. Oke?"

Sammy winked. "Oke." Suddenly he became doubtful. "But if it's murder —they can give you the chair for being after the fact—"

"Don't worry, Sammy. I didn't do murder. Neither did Miss Smith."

"Well, Mr. Race, if you was to make it twenty—"

Ed sighed and took out another ten-dollar bill. "All right, Jesse James."

They were on the ground floor now, and Sammy grinned, pocketed the extra ten, and opened the sliding door. Ed stepped out, holding the girl by the arm. He started to cross the lobby, and then stopped, making a little grimace of disgust.

Three men had just come in, and were hurrying toward the elevators. "Those are Inspector Hansen's men," he told the girl. "Sergeant Bickert and two detectives. They'll tell Hansen they saw me coming out. And he'll learn that it's my room the body is in—"

The three men stopped directly in front of Ed and the girl.

Sergeant Bickert's eyes flicked swiftly over her, then swung to Ed. "Why hello, Mr. Masked Marksman. Fancy seeing you here—at a time when there's been a killing, too. Don't it beat everything how you're always around when there's a murder!"

Ed looked very innocent. "Murder, Bickert? Has some one been murdered in this hotel?"

Bickert was looking at him suspiciously. "Yeah. On the eighth floor. Might I ask, Mr. Race, what floor is your room on?"

Ed gave him a grin. "You might ask, Sergeant, but why should I reply? I have no intention of inviting you up for a drink. And now—" he took the girl's arm and started to push past the three detectives—"if you'll excuse me, Miss Smith and I have a little business to attend to."

Bickert put out an arm to bar his way. "Just a moment, Mr. Masked Marksman. This Miss Smith here—what is she, some kind of a back-to- nature girl?"

Ed scowled. "What do you mean?"

Bickert snickered. "I've heard of people walking barefoot in the country. But—" he shook his head sympathetically "she's gonna find it tough walking on the pavement without shoes or stockings!"

For the first time Ed remembered that the girl was barefoot.

"Miss Smith is a toe dancer," he said stiffly. "She's joining my act tonight. She dances with two candles in her hair, and I shoot the candles. She always walks barefoot, to perfect her toe dancing."

"Well, well," said Bickert. "A toe dancer, huh? This whole business looks very interesting. Suppose we all go up to the eighth floor and talk to Inspector Hansen. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

The sergeant put out a big ham-like hand and took the girl's arm. "Come on, Miss Toe Dancer. We're going up. And you, too, Race!" He motioned to the two detectives and they filed into Sammy's elevator.

Bickert jerked his head at Ed. "You next, Mr. Masked Marksman."

Ed said mildly, "You are really an unreasonable fellow, Bickert. I'm sure you'll never forgive me for this."

He wrenched Bickert's hand off the girl's arm, then gave him a hearty shove which sent him hurtling into the elevator cage to collide with the two detectives. Then Ed winked at Sammy.

Sammy returned the wink and slid the door shut, cooping the three detectives in the cage. Then he sent the elevator up. Ed saw the indicator go to five before it stopped. He grinned.

"Sammy is a good boy. I owe him another twenty for that!"

In the meantime he was propelling the girl swiftly out of the lobby, and into the street. "We only have about a minute and a half start on Bickert and his boyfriends," Ed told her. "They're on the way down already!"

There was a police squad car parked at the curb, right alongside the "No Parking" sign in front of the hotel. It was the car that Bickert had come in. Ed looked for a cab, saw one cruising toward the hotel entrance, and started to hail it. Just then some one said, "In there!"

He felt something hard jabbing into his back. Two men had come up on either side of himself and the girl. One man was at his left, and it was he who was jabbing a gun into his ribs. Another man on the girl's right, had hold of her arm, and he was poking a gun at her out of the pocket of his topcoat.

The man next to Ed jerked his head toward a limousine that had pulled up just behind the empty police squad car. He was short and skinny, and he had wide, bulging eyes, and buck teeth. There were hundreds of people passing, but no one noticed the concealed guns in the hands of Bulgy—eyes and his companion.

Grace Innes was staring at Bulgy-eyes. "You—you were in my brother's room talking to Lefty Mott. You killed Lefty!"

"Snap it up!" Bulgy-eyes snarled. "Or I'll let you have it, too!"

"Now isn't that nice!" said Ed. He swung suddenly to the left, his elbow jamming the gun out of alignment with his ribs. And he continued that motion, bringing his right fist all the way around to connect in a vicious smack to the side of Bulgy-eyes' head. Bulgy's gun exploded into the pavement, and he went cascading backward into a group of passers-by, clawing to regain his balance.

Ed whirled back to the right, snaking the .45 out of his left-hand holster. But he was too late. The other man had hustled the girl across the pavement and into the waiting limousine. Just as Ed turned, the limousine's door slammed shut and it spurted away from the curb with wide-open accelerator. For an instant, Ed caught a glimpse of a face at the back window of the fleeing car—a long, thin face with black hair parted slickly in the middle. It was a face he knew.

"Sandoval!" he exclaimed, under his breath.

The limousine was out in traffic now. Another car came up behind it, and Ed couldn't shoot at the tires. The rest of Rick Sandoval's car, he knew, would be bullet-proof. And then the limousine was gone from sight, turning the corner into the side street.

There was a shout behind Ed, and he swung around to see Sergeant Bickert and his two detectives erupting from the Longmont Hotel. They had seen Ed and they started for him, but Bickert collided with Bulgy-eyes, who was just scrambling to his feet, picking up the gun he had dropped. A crowd of passers-by was surging around, all trying to keep as far away as possible from the guns in Ed's hand and in that of Bulgy—eyes. And in their efforts to escape, they impeded the progress of Bickert's two side-kicks, who were trying to get to Ed Race.

Ed seized the opportunity to turn and run. He kept his revolver out, and weaved through the crowd toward the Fiftieth Street subway kiosk. Men and women got out of his way and he raced down the steps. A local train was roaring into the station, but Ed didn't make for it.

He ran past the cashier's booth to the other stairway at the south end of the station, and mounted the steps two at a time. They brought him up at the southwest corner of Fiftieth. He looked across the street and saw a crowd gathered in front of the other kiosk. They were looking down there, apparently after the detectives who had pursued him, and someone in the crowd shouted, "He got away on the train!"

Ed grinned sourly and turned away. He headed west along Fiftieth Street. He wasn't by any means out of trouble. Hansen and Bickert could easily pick him up tonight when he went on the stage at the Clyde.

He had struck his chin out this time, for fair. There was no sense in it. A girl he had never seen before was in trouble. Her brother was involved in a murder. Rick Sandoval, New York's Number One Gambling Baron, was interested in it somehow. That was all Ed Race knew of the setup. And with that little knowledge, he was in it up to his neck.

Thus far he was guilty of hiding the corpse of a murdered man, aiding a suspect to escape, assaulting a police officer, and creating a disturbance on a public street. Inspector Hansen would throw the book at him. And he had to face the music.

Ed Race was too well known to just pack up and run away. Besides, he would never do that. Somehow, he was convinced that the girl and her brother were the victims of some kind of elaborate plot on the part of Rick Sandoval. All he had to go on was the fact that he had seen Sandoval's face for an instant in the limousine. But when Hansen and Bickert picked him up tonight at the Clyde, he wouldn't be able to offer a word in his own defense.

He was half way down the block when he discovered that some one had fallen into step alongside him, at his left. It was a man of about thirty-five, with sharply chiseled features. He had a straight nose and thin lips, and a stubborn chin, and brown hair which was thinning a little at the top. He had his hat in his hand in front of him, and he raised the hat a bit to show Ed the snout of a snub-nosed automatic underneath it. The automatic was pointing at Ed.

"Just keep walking!" he ordered grimly. "I want to talk to you."

Ed Race sighed. This was the third time within twenty minutes that a gun had been pointed at him. The fellow looked hard and coldly efficient, so Ed kept on walking. His hands swung free at his sides, ready for a lightning flash to one of his shoulder holsters.

"Go on and talk," he said.

"Where did they take my sister?" the man asked. "You fingered her for Rick Sandoval to grab. Well, you better cough up the dope. I want to know where Sandoval took her. In case you don't tell me quick, I'll give you a nice piece of lead in the stomach. And you know lead can't be digested."

He spoke coolly, but Ed could see a deep burning desperation in his eyes.

"You're Jack Inness," he said.

Inness's lips curled. "Maybe you didn't know it! Don't stall. Where did Sandoval take Gracie?"

They were walking down the street just like two acquaintances conversing amiably. None of the passers-by gave them a glance. But the hat in Inness's hand came up a little, and the muzzle of the automatic centered on Ed's stomach.

"You sap," Ed told him. "I was trying to help your sister. She found a dead body in your room, and she dragged it out into the hall. The police came along, and I helped her get the body into my room just in time. Then I took her downstairs. Sandoval was waiting in the limousine, and they grabbed her."

Inness's eyes widened. "A dead body! Who?"

"Lefty Mott."

Inness cursed under his breath. "Lefty was my trigger man. They got him. And they figured to frame me for it!"

Ed Race looked disgusted and puzzled. "Your trigger man! My God, what is this? First a seventeen-year-old girl tries to convince me that she's a gun moll. Then some muggs of Sandoval's try to convince me they're tough guys. Then you come along and try to tell me you're a big shot, with a trigger-man of your own. If this is a comedy of some kind, I know one guy that isn't enjoying it, Lefty Mott. And you can't be such a big shot. Because I never heard of anyone named Inness in the rackets."

Inness sighed, took the gun from under the hat and thrust it in his pocket. "I guess you're on the up-and-up," he said. "Maybe you never heard the name Inness. I didn't use it. But you've heard of 'Gentleman Jack' English?"

Ed nodded. A sudden gleam of understanding came into his eyes. "I should have known. You used to run the gambling racket in this town. Then the Federal Government caught up with you on income tax evasion, and you went to Atlanta for three years. You were paroled just a few weeks ago."

"That's right. I used the name of English instead of Inness, because I didn't want my sister Gracie mixed up in the rackets," was the reply. "Gracie thinks I've been traveling in South America for the past three years. When I wrote her that I was back in New York, she came here from school to meet me. I didn't want her around, because I knew there was going to be trouble with Sandoval. Rick Sandoval—" Inness's lips twisted, "took over the racket while I was away. The mob went with him. Lefty Mott was the only one that stuck with me. It was Lefty that sent my sister Grace the letters and money from South America during the three years I was in the pen."

"I see," Ed said slowly. "And Sandoval's crowd killed Lefty Mott in your room, so the police would arrest you for it. Even if you aren't convicted, it'll break your parole, and automatically send you back to the pen. And Sandoval will still have a clear field!"

Gentleman Jack English nodded bitterly. "When Grace showed up in New York, I acted like a sap and took a room for her right next to my own. I forgot that Sandoval had seen her picture lots of times in the old days, and would recognize her. She doesn't even know that her brother is Gentleman Jack English. I've kept her in a convent school all these years."

"Something tells me," Ed said dryly, "that the girls in that school smuggled in a few detective stories on the side. She knew a lot about gun molls and burning bodies in incinerators—just the kind of stuff they get in some books."

"I don't understand what Sandoval wanted to snatch Grace for," Jack English said. "He had me framed okay without that—"

"I'll tell you why," Ed said with a harsh note creeping into his voice. "Grace got a glimpse of the murderer!"

Gentleman Jack stopped short in his tracks. All the color drained from his face. "Then they'll kill her!" he said, very low. "They'll surely never let her live!"

"If they kill an innocent little kid like Grace—"

Gentleman Jack Inness uttered a hoarse, tortured laugh. "You don't know Sandoval. He's running the rackets worse than I ever ran them. He'll stick Gracie's feet in a slab of concrete, and drop her in the river!" There was a hot, mad light in his eyes. "God!" he muttered. "All the things I used to do are coming back at me now. That boathouse I used to have on the Hudson, at Sixty—eighth Street—Sandoval's still using it. God help me, Race—I've done plenty of bad things in my time in that boathouse. And now—" there was a sob in his voice—"it's my own sister's turn!"

He went to the curb, and waved wildly to a cruising cab.

Ed Race put a hand on his arm. "What are you going to do, Inness?"

Gentleman Jack's teeth showed in a snarl. "There's an alarm out for me for the murder of Lefty Mott. I can't ask the cops to help on this. I'm going up to that boathouse and take it apart myself!"

He jumped into the cab, yelled to the driver: "Foot of West Sixty-eighth Street!"

Ed Race exclaimed, "Look here, Inness, I'm going with you—"

But Gentleman Jack slammed the door shut in his face. "Nothing doing, Race. Stay out of this. It's my headache."

The cab spurted away from the curb.

And just then, a radio patrol car came cruising past.

Ed Race saw it all from where he stood at the curb. The radio car contained a sergeant and a driver. Ed saw the sergeant stare into the cab where Inness was sitting. He heard the sergeant exclaim, "There's Gentleman Jack!"

The driver of the police car swung in to cut off the taxicab.

Gentleman Jack opened the door of the car, leaped out and started to run.

The sergeant in the radio car deliberately raised his gun and fired once.

Gentleman Jack sprawled headlong on his face, with blood spurting from a wound in his back just over the heart.

Ed Race cursed softly to himself as he ran over to where Inness was lying on his face. The sergeant had also reached Gentleman Jack, and Ed helped him turn the dying man over on his back.

Gentleman Jack groaned. His lips were flecked with blood. He knew he was dying. His eyes swept past the sergeant, and locked with the staring eyes of Ed Race.

"I got what was coming to me. But Gracie—for God's sake, don't let her get it, too..."

Ed Race gulped. He pressed Gentleman Jack's hand, and nodded an unspoken promise.

Inness smiled. He closed his eyes. His head dropped back into the sergeant's arms. He was dead.

The sergeant looked at Ed. "What the hell was he talking about?"

Ed shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I'm just a passer-by."

A crowd was pressing close about them. Ed slid out inconspicuously to the edge of the crowd, and moved over to the taxicab out of which Inness had jumped. His eyes were bleak. "Foot of West Sixty-eighth Street!" he said to the driver.

As the cab pulled away, Ed saw the police sergeant getting up from beside the dead body of Gentleman Jack Inness, and staring after him. The sergeant was just realizing that Ed Race had been more than an innocent bystander, that he must in some way have been connected with Inness. Several bystanders had heard Ed's order to the cab driver, and Ed knew that the police would not be far behind him.

As the cab swung west, Ed stared ahead grimly. His word was given to a dead man. And even if he had not promised, the thought of innocent little Gracie Inness sinking helplessly to the bottom of the river with her feet buried in a slab of concrete, would have impelled him to go ahead. He knew that what he had to do, he must do alone. For at this moment he could not call upon the police. Inspector Hansen or Sergeant Bickert would cap him in jail first, and question him.

To send the police on a raid of the 68th Street boathouse would be equivalent to signing Grace Inness's death warrant. For Rick Sandoval would be sure to see to it that she was the first to die. Sandoval and his gang could not afford to have her remain alive to identify the killer of Lefty Mott.

At 67th Street and Twelfth Avenue, Ed Race dismissed his cab, and walked a block north. He spotted the boathouse at once. It was a low, well— kept structure jutting out into the river. A sign across the door read:

SANDOVAL BOAT CLUB

Jack Inness had once owned all that property. Ed recalled hearing through underground rumor, that, when Inness went to jail, he had deeded all his holdings to Sandoval to administer for him. And Sandoval had immediately proceeded to double-cross his former chief and to use all this property as his own.

This same boat club had figured in the death of many a man who in the past had dared to defy the underworld rule of Gentleman Jack Inness.

Ed Race came to a stop directly across the street from the Boat Club. There was a single dim light at the side of the building, and he could see that a long, sleek cabin-cruiser was tied up at the dock alongside the low building.

Ed Race's eyes were bleak as he crossed the street. His hands swung low at his sides. As he reached the entrance of the building, a dark figure separated itself from the shadows, and barred the door.

"Hello, Butch," said Ed. The blood raced in his veins. Now he was sure that Gentleman Jack had not been mistaken. This must be where they had taken Grace Inness, otherwise why would Butch Halsey, Sandoval's personal bodyguard, be on watch here?

Butch Halsey had his hand in his coat pocket. "What you doin' here —Race?"

Ed smiled thinly. "Just going in to see Rick Sandoval," he said.

"Sandoval ain't here," Butch told him.

"I'll see for myself, thank you."

Ed started to go in, and Butch barred the way. "Scram," he said. His hand came out of his pocket with a wicked little gunmetal automatic.

But he had no chance against Ed Race, whose exhibitions of lightning draws nightly amazed the audiences at the Clyde Theater. Ed's right hand streaked in almost imperceptible motion, and somehow as if by magic, a huge, long-barreled .45 was coming down in a short, wicked arc. The barrel smashed against Butch's wrist, and he dropped the automatic.

Ed was smiling casually, but there was a deadly glint in his eyes.

"Now," he said softly, "turn around and open that door and go in."

Butch gulped. He was no longer the tough gangster bodyguard. He had no guts to buck a lightning draw like Ed's. "The—the door is locked," he gulped.

Ed's eyes rested on a bell alongside the door. "All right. There must be a signal to get the door open. Ring that bell properly."

Butch hesitated for the space of ten seconds. He looked into Ed's eyes, and what he saw there made up his mind for him. Slowly he turned around and put his thumb on the bell button. He pressed it twice, then stopped, and pressed it three times swiftly again. Almost at once, a buzzer sounded. Butch pushed the door open. Ed took out one of his guns and nudged him in the back. Butch understood, and led the way down the dark hallway. There was a light at the far end of the building, and Ed urged the husky bodyguard ahead of him toward that light. They could hear voices inside. Someone called out, "Hurry up, Butch. Give us a hand with this!"

Ed and Butch reached the entrance to the room at the rear. The far end of the room had sliding doors which opened on to the pier. Three men were standing around the figure of Grace Inness. For a moment, as Ed looked at that tableau, it seemed to him that little Grace Inness was taller than any of the three men.

Grace Inness was not standing on the floor. Her feet were resting in a slab of concrete about three feet square and three feet high. They were buried up to the ankles, in the concrete. Rick Sandoval and two of his men were pushing the heavy slab out on to the pier. It was evidently their intention to get their victim on to the cabin-cruiser, take her out into the center of the river, and drop her over.

The gaunt face of Sandoval looked up at Butch, who was in the doorway in front of Ed Race.

"Come on, Butch," he called. "You have the shoulders for this."

And then Sandoval saw Ed Race behind the big bodyguard. He uttered a shout of warning to the other two men, and dropped to the floor. A gun came into his hand. The other two men went to their knees behind the suddenly huddled figure of Grace Inness. Butch Halsey squealed as shots from their three guns came thundering at the doorway. They weren't worried about Butch.

Halsey took the first fusillade in his chest, and fell forward, leaving Ed alone.

Grace Inness was staring in Ed's direction, unable to move out of the concrete bed in which she had been encased. She was a perfect shield for Sandoval and the two gunmen. That is, she would have made a perfect shield against anyone except The Masked Marksman.

Ed Race stood spraddle-legged.

The two hair-trigger .45 caliber revolvers were in his hands, bucking and roaring as he fired carefully.

His first shot chipped an edge off the concrete block, sending the splinters into the eyes of one of the gunmen. The man dropped his gun and screamed.

Sandoval and the remaining thug kept on shooting. But they were not aiming. They were just triggering their guns in blind fear. Both of them knew who Ed Race was. They had seen The Masked Marksman on the stage.

They knew that if Ed could see only an inch of their bodies, he could hit that inch. So they squirmed close to the ground, pressing together behind the three-foot concrete slab, seeking all the protection they could. And from that position, their shooting was none too certain.

Ed saw a shoulder and fired once, hitting it. The gunman with Sandoval squealed and fell flat on the ground. Sandoval cursed, and raised his gun, pointing directly up at Grace Inness.

"Stop shooting, Race," he yelled, "or I'll kill the girl!"

Ed Race laughed harshly. All he could see of Sandoval to shoot at was the barrel of his gun jutting up from behind the concrete slab, and pointing at Grace. That barrel was no wider than a candle.

The two slugs whined through the air, converging upon that tiny target. The gun was smashed from Sandoval's hand, and went spinning across the floor. Sandoval cursed, and rolled over. In his left hand he seized the gun dropped by one of his men. But Ed Race had already leaped across the room toward the slab.

He pulled the trigger of his right-hand gun four times in quick succession. The four slugs smashed Sandoval's right wrist.

"Don't—shoot any more!" he begged.

Ed's eyes glinted with a bleak light.

Abruptly, the sound of a police siren cut through the air outside, accompanied by the screaming of tires on pavement. In a moment, uniformed men flooded into the building, headed by Hansen.

Ed Race holstered his guns. "You can arrest me now if you want to, Hansen," he said dryly. "But I think you've got bigger fish for your net!"

He turned, just in time to catch the slumping body of Grace Inness as she fell.

"By God," Inspector Hansen exclaimed, "what's been going on here, Race?"

"Nothing much," said Ed. "Except that you've got Rick Sandoval cold for attempted murder. And when Grace Inness comes out of her fainting spell, she can identify the murderer of Lefty Mott. Now, you might get some pick-axes and chip this concrete off her feet."

Hansen swore softly. He motioned to his men to find axes. Then he looked at Ed. "You shot it out with this mob?"

Ed nodded. "I had to do the job myself. You wouldn't have given me a chance to explain."

Inspector Hansen grunted. "Frankly, Race, I don't like you. But I got to give the devil his due. You did a nice piece of work."

"Thanks," said Ed, starting for the door. "I'll be down at headquarters later, to sign a statement. In the meantime, take good care of Gracie. I'm going to see that she gets a good start in life—the kind her brother would have liked to see her get."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Hansen yelled. "Where are you going?"

"It's one o'clock," Ed called back from the doorway. "I have a curtain call at the Clyde at one-ten—to put on an exhibition of real shooting!"

THE END

First published in Ten Detective Aces, April 1943

CHAPTER 1

Driving down Central Park West on Monday morning, Tom Atherton suddenly realized why he had been feeling restless and discontented for the last few weeks. By rights, he should have been supremely satisfied with himself. He was a young and successful real estate lawyer. His income, after three years of practice, was now large enough so that he and Sally Blaine had been able to set their wedding date for the early part of May. He was a respected member of the Bar, and they were even talking of running him for the Assembly in the 1943 elections. But Tom Atherton wasn't happy. As he automatically tooled the coupe down Central Park West, his big hands tightened on the wheel, and he found his thoughts dipping fondly back to the years preceding his admission to the Bar. In those days he had worked his way through Law School by boxing every Friday night in semi-pro bouts all around New York. Tom's manager, old Jerry Flynn, had almost cried when Tom quit boxing to take his bar exams.

"Tommy, my boy, it's breaking my old heart you are. You're throwin' away the makings of the heavyweight champion of the world. And for what? For a dusty law office! Stick with me, Tommy, and I'll make you champ in three years!" But Tom Atherton, with high resolve, had put all that behind him, and become a respected attorney. Now he pushed his foot down savagely on the gas and sent the coupe spurting through traffic, wishing he'd taken Jerry Flynn's advice. He was bored—fed up with humdrum existence.

And abruptly—as if the gods had favored his wish—Tom Atherton's humdrum existence came to an end.

There was a pigeon-blue sedan ahead of him proceeding very slowly and straddling the white line in the middle of the street so that it was impossible to pass. Tom scowled with impatience, and put a finger on the horn button to honk it out of the way. But just as he was about to press the button, he noticed something very queer about that pigeon-blue sedan.

There were four men in it, two in front and two in back. All of them, including the driver, were visible to Tom through their rear window. He could see that they were peering very tensely to the right, in the direction of a large and expensive apartment house. A stocky man in a dark suit and a panama hat was coming out of that house, lighting a cigar.

The thing that made Tom Atherton catch his breath was the fact that one of the men in the rear seat had the window open, and was pushing a queer- looking instrument out. Tom had never seen a real sub-machine gun, except in the movies. But he recognized this. It was pointing directly at the stocky man in the panama hat.

The machine gunner in the pigeon-blue sedan was twisting around sideways and sighting along the gun, with his finger on the trip.

Trained to quick instinctive responses to danger by his ring experience, Tom was already reacting without thought of his personal safety. He stepped down hard on the gas, sending his coupe forward like a shot. He swung to the right, bringing him alongside the pigeon-blue sedan. Then he twisted the wheel violently to the left.

The left end of his bumper tore into the running-board of the sedan at the very moment when the gunner let loose the first burst from the sub-machine gun, filling the air with its rapid, staccato drumbeat of murder.

But Tom's swift maneuver achieved its purpose. The crash of his coupe jotted the sedan hard, The muzzle of the machine gun was thrown violently upward, so that the hail of lead spattered into the air instead of cutting the stocky man in two as had been intended.

Tom didn't see what the stocky man was doing, for his own hands were suddenly full. The four in the pigeon-blue sedan turned their attention to him. The gunner swung the muzzle of the weapon around to bear on Tom, and his finger pulled the trip again.

Tom Atherton's blood was racing with jubilant excitement. His bumper was locked with the sedan's running board, so that his window was in line with the rear window of the sedan through which the gun muzzle was pointing. He twisted his door handle and flung the door open violently at the same instant that the gunner pulled the trip of the machine gun.

Lead blasted from the muzzle, but it was sharply deflected by the opening door. Instead of riddling Tom, the scorching lead spattered into the framework of the coupe.

At the same time, Tom Atherton leaped out from behind the wheel and put his whole body behind a straight-arm jab into the gunner's face. He hit the man in the mouth and the fellow's head slammed backward. He let go of the machine gun, and it toppled out the window to the running—board at Tom's feet.

The gunmen yelled and scrambled out of the car on the opposite side. Tom jumped out from between the two cars, coming around after them.

Then a police radio car siren uttered a shrill scream and came tearing into Central Park West from a side street two blocks south.

The gunman swung around in sudden alarm. One of them yelled something in a foreign language.

The four of them turned and ran across the street to the park. They vaulted the stone wall and disappeared into the shrubbery on the other side.

The police car pulled up with screaming tires, and two bluecoats emerged with drawn guns. There were several spectators around, and they pointed in the direction taken by the fugitives. The cops went over the wall after them and the crowd thronged to the fence to watch the chase.

FOR the moment, Tom Atherton was forgotten. Not a soul was looking at him. In the distance, there were other radio car sirens, but all traffic on Central Park West was halted and everybody was absorbed in the chase that was going on in the park.

Tom threw a quick glance over toward the apartment house, but the stocky man in the panama hat was gone. Tom frowned. He knew who that stocky man was. He had seen the man's pictures in the papers many times. Gustave Bennetz had been tried for sedition more than a year ago, and had been acquitted by a fluke, together with five or six other defendants.

His picture had cropped up in the papers only this week again, in connection with the current trial of one of his friends in the state court, on a charge of having stolen weapons from a State Guard Armory.

Ruefully, Tom Atherton realized that he had risked his life to save a most unsavory character. There had been ugly rumors of vicious murders and reprisals being carried out by secret branches of foreign organizations. And the papers had printed a long statement by Gustave Bennetz, to the effect that a certain secret society, was really responsible for the crime for which his friend was being tried.

Tom told himself that he certainly shouldn't have stepped into this feud. He didn't want any publicity like this, because he knew how it would affect the few clients he now had. He threw a quick look around and saw that he was unobserved.

He dropped the machine gun and slid into his coupe. He stepped on the starter and backed up, ripping it out of the fender lock with the pigeon —blue sedan. Then he threw the car in first and shot forward. In a moment he rounded the corner.

He sped west for two blocks, then turned north on Amsterdam Avenue. He breathed a sigh of relief to think that he was well out of the mess. He turned on his dashboard radio, tuned it in on police signals, thinking that he would enjoy listening to the reports on the fray. He drove for ten minutes, and then his equanimity was rudely shattered as a police announcer's voice blasted from the radio:

"Signal thirty-three! Black coupe, license number 8V 282! Attention, all cars! Cars 21, 22 and 26 converge on Amsterdam between 72nd and 86th. Apprehend driver of this coupe, believed to be dangerous killer. This man just escaped after gunfight on Central Park West. Use caution. He may be armed and dangerous. Coupe has bullet marks from machine gun..."

Tom Atherton felt a queer sensation up and down his spine.

That alarm was for him. He—Tom Atherton—was being called a dangerous killer. And the machine-gun bullets. He had forgotten them. Any policeman he passed would notice them.

He pulled over to the curb to give himself a chance to think. He had been a fool to run away. Better to have adverse publicity than to be hunted as a killer. The thing to do was to go back and explain.

He reached the decision and immediately started to carry it out. He shifted to first and prepared to turn around and drive back. He started to pull away from the curb. There was a long low hiss of escaping air. The car settled down on the left side, With a frown, Tom got out and went around in front. Sure enough, the left front tire was flat. The crushed fender had cut into it as he drove.

There was no sense in stopping to change the tire now. There was a drug store diagonally across the street. Tom started across, deciding to phone headquarters at once to tell them the truth about the fracas on Central Park West.

But just as he got started across the street, a cruising police car came racing around the far corner. Abruptly it swerved into the curb as the policeman alongside the driver pointed toward Tom's coupe.

The police ear screeched to a stop. A cop leaped out with a service revolver in his hand. He ran up to the coupe and looked inside, then turned disgustedly and called to his partner:

"It's the car, all right, Mac. But the guy's gone. Ditched it!"

Tom's first instinct was to go over and tell the policemen who he was. In fact, he had already started toward them, when Mac shouted from the police car, "We better get that guy before those Greeks get him. If they lay their hands on him, there won't be enough left of him to question!"

Tom Atherton's jaw hardened. So he wouldn't be through even after he explained to the cops! The rumors had been founded upon truth then! If there was some sort of secret Greek society bent on exterminating suspected pro —Nazis, they'd surely believe he was in league with Bennetz. Tom Atherton would never have peace!

Automatically he kept going across the street and entered the drug store. An idea was beginning to shape itself in his mind. He went into the phone booth and dialed Spring 7-3100.

"Police Headquarters?" he said when he got his connection. "This is Thomas Atherton, an attorney. I want to report my car was stolen this morning!"

"You'll have to go to your precinct station and report it in person," he was told.

"All right," Tom said, "I just wanted you to make a record of it."

He hung up, feeling clever. He had known that they would tell him to go to the precinct house. He wouldn't go there till the evening, but meantime the supposed theft was on the record. Now they'd keep on looking for an unidentified gunman whom they would never find.

Very much satisfied with himself, Tom went out of the store and almost collided with the bluecoat, who was hurrying in to report finding the coupe.

Tom walked across to Broadway and took the subway down to his office on Worth Street. His mind, as the train rumbled on, was upon the fight in Central Park West. It was several minutes before he realized that he was being observed.

Two men were sitting at the end of the car, watching him. He had not seen them when he entered the car, so they must have come in behind him. They were big fellows with swarthy complexions. One of them wore a black derby, while the other had a gray slouch hat. The one with the derby had a nick in his right ear, as if a bullet or a knife had taken a piece off it. The one in the slouch hat was chewing a toothpick.

They both had their hands in the pockets of their topcoats. When they saw that Tom Atherton had noticed them, they both got up, crossed the aisle and sat down on either side of Tom. There were four or five other passengers in the car, but no one seemed to pay any attention to them.

They both pressed up close against Tom. He could feel the pressure of the guns in their pockets.

"Good morning, my very good friend," said the one in the derby. "Packy wants to see you."

Tom frowned. "Who's Packy?" he asked.

The one in the derby started to laugh very heartily. He leaned across Tom and shouted to his partner above the rumble of the subway train. "He wants to know who's Packy! What you think of that, Achilles?"

The one who had been addressed as Achilles did not laugh. He gave Tom a sour look and said to the other, "I theenk we geete heem those works right here, hah, Julius? W'at's the use breenging heem to Packy? We geeve heem one- two shoots right now. Weeth the loud noise een thees subway, no one hears. Wat you say, Julius, hah?"

Julius shook his head. "Packy wouldn't like it. It would be better to let Packy question him. Then we might find out more about Bennetz."

"Oh," said Achilles. "I have not theenk of thees. You are vairy smart, Julius."

"Listen, you two," Tom said desperately. "What the devil are you talking about?"

Julius gave him a nasty grin. "We saw you, my very good friend. Only for you, our men would have finished off Bennetz. You must be in the pay of those Nazi dogs. For a whole week we have planned the death of that rat. And then you stepped in and ruined it all. You must come with us till we find out more about you."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Tom exclaimed.

Julius frowned. "Did you hear that, Achilles? He won't come!"

"Bah!" said Achilles,

"You see, my very good friend," Julius said in a reasonable manner, "Achilles and his family were in Athens when it was bombed. They all died there. He escaped. He would rather kill Nazis than eat or drink. He already get fifteen of them in the old country. You've read in the paper about these pro-Nazis escaping trial recently. We intend to bring justice to them anyway."

A light broke on Tom. "You mean to say that you fellows have been planning all that?"

Julius shrugged. "I leave it to your imagination. Achilles wants to finish you off right here. So maybe you'll change your mind about coming along?"

The guns of the two men nudged into Tom's ribs.

The train rumbled into the station. They got to their feet.

"Well?" said Julius.

Tom looked up at Achilles, and saw that the big fellow was just itching to pull the trigger of the gun in his pocket. He shrugged. "All right," he said. He got up, and they ranged themselves on either side of him. The train came to a stop and the three of them marched out on to the platform.

Just outside the door, Tom came to a stop. "Wait a minute," he said.

The two killers stopped, keeping close on either side of him. The door of the train started to slide shut.

Tom took a quick step back. His left fist flicked upward, and caught Achilles just behind the right ear in a beautiful rabbit punch.

Julius cursed, yanked the gun out of his pocket.

Tom Atherton shoved Achilles into Julius, then leaped backward through the quickly narrowing aperture of the sliding door. He got into the vestibule of the car. The door slid all the way shut behind him.

Julius jumped clear of the falling Achilles. He raised his gun and fired three times quickly through the glass at Tom.

Tom dropped to the floor and the shots crashed over his head to the accompaniment of smashing glass. But it all blended with the roar of the train. Several passengers from inside the car looked over toward the vestibule. Two or three of them came out to help Tom to his feet. They saw the broken glass, but did not know it had been caused by gun-fire.

"You want to sue the subway, mister," one of them said. "I'll give you my name in case you want me for a witness!"

"No, thanks," Tom said. "I guess I'm all right."

He breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out of the station. That had been Fourteenth Street, and the next stop was Chambers Street, where he got out. As he ascended the stairs into the street, he glanced around quickly to see if the two gunmen had gotten there by taxi to intercept him, but there was no sign of them.

Tom hurried toward City Hall Square to his office on the twelfth floor of the Bridge Building.

Sally Blaine was already at her desk when he came in. Sally was five- feet-two of trim loveliness, with richly tinted auburn hair and merry blue eyes. She had just gotten her own degree of Bachelor of Laws, and was clerking in Tom's office for her year of apprenticeship before being admitted to the Bar.

Tom leaned over the typewriter and kissed her. She made a wry face, wrinkling up her nose.

"Not in business hours, Tommy," she said.

He grinned down at her. "When we're married, I'll kiss you before breakfast every day. Now I have to be satisfied with kissing you before lunch!"

The telephone rang and she answered it. A look of puzzlement came into Sally's pretty face.

"It's for you, Tom, It's the Police Department. They say they found your stolen car. I didn't know it had been stolen—"

"It just happened, Sally!" Tom said hastily, snatching the phone from her.

"This is Sergeant Griffin talking," the officer at the other end said to him. "We just picked up your car. It was used in a shooting. Want to come down and look at it?"

"I can't get down right away," Tom said. "I—I have to take care of a case in court this morning. I'll be over in the afternoon."

When he hung up, Sally Blaine frowned at him. "Tom Atherton, what's this all about? When was your car stolen? And why did you lie to that policeman on the phone? You know perfectly well that you have no case in court this morning—"

"Yes, he has, lady!" a heavy voice said from the doorway.

Sally's glance sprang to the door and she uttered a little gasp. Tom swiveled around.

The man who had just come in was the man in the panama hat whose life Tom had saved—Gustave Bennetz.

CHAPTER 2

Bennetz was not alone. Four men filed into the office behind him— silent, tense men, heavy and sour of expression. Their eyes never left Tom Atherton. The last one in kicked the door shut and locked it.

Tom's face flushed a dull, brisk red. "What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

For a moment, Bennetz did not answer. Then he nodded.

"Yes, Joseph," he said to one of the men behind him. "This is the one who saved me. It is good that you got his license number."

Tom took a quick step forward. "What are you doing here—"

Bennetz raised a mollifying hand. There was a faint hint of a twisted smile on his heavy face. "I have only come to thank you, Mr. Atherton, for saving my life. These are my friends—" he indicated the one he had addressed as Joseph—"Joseph Cleve"—then, nodding toward a second—"and Nikolas Tresca—"

"I'm not interested in you or your friends," Tom said firmly. "I've read all about you in the papers—"

"But, my dear Mr. Atherton! You must remember that I was acquitted—"

"Only because the witnesses had relatives in Europe!" Tom broke in. "And now, please go."

Bennetz frowned heavily. "Yon are not very judicious. I have come to repay you in some small way, for saving my life. Suppose we go into your private office. I would like to discuss some business with you. Surely you will not refuse me a few minutes of your time?"

Tom glanced sideways at Sally. She was white-faced and tense, puzzled by the whole thing. '"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

Bennetz spread his hands. "It is not something we should discuss in the presence of your secretary."

"You may talk in her presence. She's my fiancée."

The moment he said it, he regretted it. He saw a swift and cunning look come into Bennetz's eyes.

"Ah!" said Bennetz. "Your fiancée!" He jerked his head at his men. "Cleve! Tresca! You know what to do!"

The two men moved forward swiftly, their guns coming into their hands. At the same time, the other two men stepped around the desk and seized Sally by either arm.

Tom felt the hot blood rush to his head. He went straight in at Cleve and Tresca, disregarding their guns. His left fist smashed through past Tresca's gun hand and landed with a wicked thud squarely in the gunman's face. That left of Tom's was what had put him in the top running for the heavyweight championship. He used it now as he had never used it in the ring.

Tresca went backward, almost in a somersault. Tom sidestepped Cleve's swishing gun barrel, which was coming down toward his head. He caught the blow on his shoulder, smashed out again with his left. He felt his fist land, but at the same time something came down on the back of his head like a trip hammer.

He fell forward, banging on to Cleve, clinching as he had often done in the ring to conserve his strength. He wasn't out by a long shot, but at the moment he couldn't coordinate his muscles effectively.

He heard Gus Bennetz say, "All right, don't hit him again. Take the girl away—down the service elevator!"

Tom made a supreme effort to pull himself together. The back of his head felt as if it had been ripped open, but he managed to sway away from Cleve.

His blurred eyes made out the shapes of the remaining two thugs, one with a hand over Sally's mouth, the other twisting her arms behind her. They were going out through the door.

Tom uttered a hoarse yell, lurched after them. Someone tripped him, and he fell flat on his face.

He pushed up on hands and knees, just as the door slammed shut. He thrust forward toward the door and found Bennetz standing in front of him with a small blackjack in his hand.

"Please do not make me hit you again," Bennetz said. "I would not like to do it to a man who has saved my life."

"Damn you!" Tom growled. "Get out of my way!"

He came in weaving, and Bennetz, with a regretful look, raised the blackjack to strike once more. Tom wove around to the right, blocking with his left, and took the weight of the blow on his left forearm. He started to bring up his right, but something hit him hard just over the muscles of his right biceps, numbing his arm. It was Cleve, who had smashed down with the butt of his reversed gun.

Bennetz clucked sympathetically, "Believe me," he said. "I regret to do this!" He stepped in and hit Tom two short sharp blows on the side of the head with the blackjack.

Tom's knees started to buckle, but he gritted his teeth and remained on his feet, all but out.

Cleve grunted. "Sit down!" He put a hand on his chest and shoved him backward into a chair.

Bennetz came and stood in front of him, hefting the blackjack. "You are very foolish to act the way, Atherton. Your fiancée will not be hurt —if you will listen to reason."

Tom closed his eyes. The pain was dancing around in the top of his skull.

"Where did those rats take Sally?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Sally will be all right. Now listen to me. I am only trying to make you a proposition. But you make it very difficult. If you hadn't saved my life, I would have lost patience with you by this time."

"Forget that I saved your life!" Tom groaned. "Just bring Sally back, and get to hell out of here!"

"No, no, Mr. Atherton. If you are foolish, I must set you straight. I am doing this for your own good. Here—" he took a bulging wallet from an inside pocket and removed ten bills from it, all hundreds—"this is your retainer. You are a lawyer. You have done me a great favor. Therefore, I shall give you a case."

"What case?" Tom asked, trying to drive the fog out of his brain,

"The case is all ready and waiting for you. It comes up in General Sessions this morning. The people of the State of New York against Nathaniel Cleve. He is the brother of my friend here, Joseph Cleve." He leaned over Tom, and shoved the money in his breast pocket. "When you win the case, you get another thousand—and your girl comes back!"

"That case stinks!" Tom exclaimed. "Nathaniel Cleve is accused of receiving explosives stolen from the State Armory. There are two witnesses, Hew can I beat it?"

"Please do not worry. You will go into court and appear. You will be surprised how easy it is to win some cases!"

They went down in the elevator together, and got into a car which was waiting at the curb. As they drove across town to the court, Cleve turned on the radio, caught a news broadcast:

"The police are still seeking the unknown killer who engaged in a bloody battle on Central Park West this morning..."

Tom shuddered. He—Tom Atherton—was the unknown killer whom the police were seeking! He glanced sideways, saw that Bennetz was watching him keenly.

"You must realize, Atherton, that your only chance is to play my game. Suppose you went to the police and told them that Gustave Bennetz has kidnaped your girl. Alone, that information might help you; but coupled with the fact that it was your car which was found..."

He let his voice trail off suggestively. "You see what I mean? It would look extremely suspicious. And think also what might be happening to your dear Sally while you were doing this talking to the police!"

"All right!" Tom snapped. "You win. I'll go in and stand up for this Nathaniel Cleve. But I won't try to win the case. I'll just appear as his counsel."

"That is all I want you to do."

"And if Sally doesn't show up safe and sound within one hour after the case is over, I'll track yon down, Bennetz, wherever you are!"

When they reached the courthouse, Tom looked around nervously as they mounted the steps. He hated to have any lawyer friends of his see him in the company of these men. But there was nothing he could do about it.

They got upstairs to Part One of General Sessions just as the clerk was calling the case of Nathaniel Cleve.

The jury had already been chosen and the district attorney was rising to address them. Bennetz pointed to a ruddy-faced lawyer at the defense counsel table, who was sitting next to the defendant.

"That is Kurt Allsberg, the lawyer who has been handling the case." He led Tom Atherton down the aisle to the railing, and reached over and tapped Allsberg on the shoulder. "You may go," he said curtly. "You are finished. I have a new attorney."

Allsberg became pale. "But what is the trouble, Gus? Have I done anything—"

"Go, I said! Inform the judge that we are substituting Thomas Atherton for you!"

The judge was watching them with a frown and District Attorney Harvey Grant was scowling.

Allsberg got up and addressed the bench,

"Your Honor, I—I have just been informed that another attorney is being substituted in my place. Mr. Thomas Atherton. I—I assure Your Honor that I knew nothing of this—"

District Attorney Harvey Grant came striding to the bench from where he had been standing at the jury box, "If the Court please, this is an outrage. We refuse to allow any further delay. The new attorney will naturally want time to familiarize himself with the case. It's a trick on the part of the defense to gain more time!"

Bennetz leaned over and whispered in Tom's ear, "Go in there and tell him you don't need any more time. You're ready to go on with the case right now."

"But I don't know any of the facts," Tom protested. "How can I—"

"You do as I say!" Bennetz insisted, giving him a little shove toward the railing, "If you want to see your Sally alive again..."

Tom went through the small gate in the railing and stepped up to the bench. "If Your Honor please, I will not require any time. I am ready to proceed at once."

The judge leered over at the district attorney with a puzzled glint in his eyes.

"The defendant is entitled to a thorough defense. Bow can you hope to defend him properly without preparation?"

Tom shrugged, "If the defendant is satisfied—"

The judge looked over to where Nathaniel Cleve sat at the defense table. "Mr. Defendant, are you satisfied to have this attorney step into this case now at the eleventh hour, without preparation? You must realize that you stand a better chance with a better-prepared lawyer—"

Nathaniel Cleve looked a lot like his brother, Joseph. His eyes were hard, his face heavy, his lower lip pendulous.

"I am satisfied," he said stolidly,

The judge frowned as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth. He instructed the court stenographer to make a note of the substitution of attorneys.

Tom flushed. He ached to tell both Grant and the judge just why he was here now. But he glanced over his shoulder at Bennett's hard and ruthless face. He thought of Sally Blaine, helpless somewhere in the city. And he kept silent. He swallowed hard, and turned abruptly away, and went over to the defense table where Nathaniel Cleve was sitting.

District Attorney Grant began his speech to the jury. It was a short speech, but it was full of vitriol and fire. At the end he pointed his finger dramatically at Cleve.

"It is to rid the city of men such as this that you are here today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. When the State produces the two witnesses who actually saw this defendant accept delivery of the stolen explosives, you will have no choice but to bring in a verdict of guilty!"

The judge looked over at Tom, and said, "If counsel for the defense does not wish to address the jury, we will proceed." Tom shook his head, and the judge motioned to Grant, who arose again.

"My two witnesses should be here now," he said. He turned dramatically and called out, "Miss Irene Field!"

There was utter silence in the courtroom. No one answered.

Grant frowned. "Mr. John Turner!" he called.

Again there was no answer.

Tom Atherton, watching Grant's face, saw it turn red with anger. Tom himself began to feel a little uneasy. Somehow he seized that the courtroom was suddenly imbued with a strange sort of electric tension.

Suddenly the door at the rear of the courtroom opened.

Grant's face brightened. "Ah!" he said to the jury, "These must be my witnesses. We have had them under guard at a hotel all night."

Every eye turned toward the door. But only one man came in. It was one of the young assistant district attorneys. He seemed to be laboring under a tremendous strain of excitement and consternation. He came through the railing and whispered to District Attorney Grant.

Grant's bony frame stiffened as he heard the assistant's report. He turned and looked at Tom Atherton with a terrible concentrated glare of hatred.

Tom felt himself grow cold all over.

Grant swung around and addressed the judge. "Your Honor, I have just been informed of a terrible tragedy. A time bomb exploded a few minutes ago on the fourteenth floor of the hotel where our two witnesses were kept under guard. They were both killed, together with two bailiffs!"

A great gasp went up from everybody in the courtroom,

The judge turned an ominous eye toward Tom. "Mr. Atherton," he rumbled, "as attorney for the defendant, what do you know about this?"

Tom arose shakily. "I assure Your Honor that I know nothing at all about it."

Grant's lips twisted sardonically. "No wonder you were so willing to come in and take a case without preparing it. You knew there would be no witnesses!"

"You have no right to say that!" Tom Atherton gasped. He pushed up from the table and started over toward Grant, but a bailiff seized him by the arm. He saw the judge watching him expectantly, and he suddenly understood that His Honor was just waiting for some pretext to hold him for contempt of court.

His shoulders sagged. There was no way he could prove his innocence, without endangering the life of Sally Blaine, After hearing what had happened to those two witnesses he had no illusions about Sally's safety.

As if in a dream he heard the district attorney saying, "In view of the lack of evidence...compelled to agree to nolle prosse..."

And then he heard the judge saying, "As for you, Mr. Atherton, please come to my chambers at once..."

He raised his head and saw that the courtroom had emptied out. Gus Bennetz was no longer there. Neither was Nathaniel Cleve. But a man came up to Tom and whispered, "Mr. Bennetz says to be at the Midnight Club tonight. You'll find your girl there—if you don't talk to the police!"

The man turned and hurried away. Tom was about to follow him when a bailiff took hold of his arm.

"The judge ordered me to escort you to his chambers," the bailiff said.

Tom nodded dumbly and went with him.

CHAPTER 3

Harvey Grant was already in the judge's room, together with another man whom Tom recognized as Inspector Lansing, Chief of Homicide.

"Mr. Atherton," said Judge Simmons, who was seated at his desk, "I asked you to come here because the developments in court just now have been highly suspicious so far as you are concerned. Inspector Lansing wishes to ask you some questions."

Lansing was standing near the Window, with his uncompromising stare fixed implacably upon Tom.

"Mr. Atherton," he rambled, "two state witnesses were bombed this morning. With them, two bailiffs were killed. As an attorney, you must surely realize your position. It's a murder case now. I want you to tell us everything you know."

"I'm sorry," Tom said wearily. "There's nothing I can tell you at this moment."

Lansing glanced sideways at Harvey Grant, who stepped forward eagerly. "You mean—it might incriminate you? Do you refuse to answer on the ground that it may incriminate you?"

"No," said Tom. "I have done nothing criminal."

"Then you must answer!" Grant exclaimed triumphantly.

"I can't tell you anything now," Tom said carefully. "There is a very important reason why I can't. If you'll give me two or three hours, I hope to be free to answer any of your questions."

"Two or three hours!" said Grant. "Are you thinking of leaving town?"

"What about your car?" Inspector Lansing thundered at him from the other side. "It was used in the shooting this morning. From the descriptions given by bystanders, you were the gunman. You reported your car stolen to throw us off the track!"

"That's true," Tom admitted wearily. "But I wasn't any gunman. I just happened to be passing at the moment—"

He stopped, seeing that both Lansing and Grant were looking at him with disgust.

"Isn't it kind of late to spring a story like that?" Grant demanded.

"I tell you it's true. And the girl I'm going to marry is a prisoner of Gus Bennetz. He forced me to appear for Cleve—"

"Stow it!" Lansing barked. "Your story gets worse and worse. Now look here"—he seized Tom by the lapels of his coat and went on, blusteringly —"you'll tell us what you know—"

Tom shook him off angrily, and swung toward Judge Simmons.

"Your Honor," he pleaded, "will you let me explain—"

And he stopped right there, with a queer, sinking sensation in his stomach. He saw that the eyes of all three men were on something that had been pushed up out of his breast pocket in the short tussle with Lansing. Those ten one-hundreddollar bills were just on the verge of falling out of his pocket. Their denomination was clearly visible.

Tom caught them just as they were about to drop and stuffed them back in his pocket. But the damage was done. He saw therevulsion in the judge's eyes, And dimly to his ears came Grant's voice:

"So Bennetz forced you to appear for Cleve—with a wad of hundred- dollar bills!"

The district attorney swung toward Judge Simmons. "Your Honor, I submit that there is enough evidence to hold this man as a material witness in connection with the murder of the witnesses in the Cleve case!"

Judge Simmons nodded gravely. "I so order!"

Inspector Lansing put a hand on his arm.

"Thomas Atherton, you are under arrest. In accordance with the law, I now warn you that anything further you say may be used against you!"

Suddenly a desperate haze of fury swept over Tom Atherton. He sent his body into a powerful lunge that tore him free of the inspector's grip.

"Hey!" yelled Lansing and dove for his gun.

TOM swung with his left. The smack of his fist connecting with the inspector's chin was like the pop of a soda bottle. Lansing went backward, out on his feet, and the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.

Tom swung to the door, ripped it open, and sped out into the corridor.

Behind him he heard a shout and turned in time to see Harvey Grant picking up the gun which Lansing had dropped. Grant dropped to one knee and rested the revolver carefully on his elbow, taking aim at Tom.

Tom kept on running down the corridor toward the exit. A shot boomed out, resounding from the raftered ceiling of the court house, and the bullet whined so close to Tom's ear that he thought for a moment he was hit. The thunderous echoes of the shot cascaded back from every wall as a uniformed guard burst out of one of the courtrooms and, seeing Tom running, attempted to intercept him.

Tom straight-armed the guard, sent him crashing to one side. He threw another hasty glance behind him and saw Grant, in the doorway of the judge's room, taking careful aim for a second shot. He threw himself flat to the floor, head first, just as Grant fired.

Tom landed on his face and hands, and slid for perhaps five feet, carried along by his momentum. Grant's gun thundered. The slug whined over Tom's head, smashing the glass in the front doer.

As Tom slid along the floor he saw that there was a right turn in the corridor a few feet ahead, When he landed, he rolled over swiftly and ducked around the bend just as Grant pulled the trigger for the third time.

Tom stumbled to his feet and ran blindly along the side hall in which he found himself. There was a doorway at his left and he pushed through it so fast that he could net stop when he saw it opened on a flight of stairs. He went careening down the steps head over heels. Somehow, by dint of the good fortune which watches over drunks and fools, he did not sustain any broken bones. He felt bruised and limp, but he forced himself to his feet, and staggered out into an alley.

Everywhere he heard the shouts of men, as they took up the alarm; from behind him, inside the building; from the street in front of the court house, and from the upper floors of the building.

Suddenly he knew the poignant terror of a hunted man. He turned and stumbled blindly down toward the rear of the alley. He saw another door in the side of the court house trailing, and pushed through it, for he knew that he would surely be caught in the alley. He knew the layout of the court fairly well, and he recognized the portion which he had entered as the corridor to the detention pen. There would be another door down this hall, opening into the back street.

He fairly ran down the corridor to the back door. He slipped out once more into daylight, and suddenly found himself in a crowd of milling men, some in uniform. They had converged from the street, attracted by the shouts. One of them was an under-sheriff, who knew Tom.

He said, "What's happening, Mr. Atherton? I was just coming in when I heard the shots—"

"It's an escaped killer!" Tom shouted, "Everybody better take cover. He's armed!"

The crowd dispersed quickly, and Tom sprinted across the street, turned a corner, and hailed a passing cab. He climbed in breathlessly.

"Take me to the Midnight Club!" he gasped.

The Midnight Club was in the upper Eighties, near Third Avenue. Tom walked past it, looking it over. It was too much to expect, of course, that this was where they had taken Sally. The club was not open for business, anyway, for it was still early in the day. However, the front door was ajar, and he could see that there were several waiters and busboys inside, cleaning up and preparing for the day's business.

Tom walked past it once, and stopped near the corner, lighting a cigarette. There was a cab rank at the corner, and the cabby had his radio going. From where he stood, Tom heard the news announcer:

"....All police and law-enforcing agencies are combing the city for Atherton. Any citizen seeing the fugitive is requested to report immediately by phone to police headquarters. When last seen he was wearing a brown suit, brown-and-red tie, and a gray felt hat. He is about six feet tall, blue eyes and fair hair, very well built, as lie was formerly a prizefighter..."

Tom grunted, and threw his cigarette away. He thought he saw the cabby glancing over at him, but he couldn't be sure. He moved away nonchalantly from the corner, and hurried into the open doorway of the Midnight Club.

Inside, he stood for a moment, accustoming his eyes to the blurred light The waiters and busboys were busy and paid him no attention. He saw a door at the left marked "Manager's Office," and he went over and pushed it open and stepped inside.

Tom came and stood in front of the desk.

"Where's Gus Bennetz?" he demanded.

The manager frowned up at him, "Bennetz? He'll be here tonight—"

"Can't wait till tonight," said Tom. "Got to see him right away. Where can I find him?"

The fellow shrugged. "Who are you?"

Tom grinned. He saw a letter opener on the desk. He picked it up by the handle, and walked around the desk. The manager started to get up, but Tom pushed him back in the chair. He touched the point of the letter opener to the fellow's red neck:

"In case you don't know it," he said, "I'm Tom Atherton. If you've listened to your radio, you'll know all about me. I'm wanted for so many damned things I don't mind being wanted for killing you, too. Is that clear?"

"W-what—what do you want?" the fellow stammered, squirming away from the cold point of the street.

"I want to get in touch with Gus Bennetz."

"Well, wait, I'll phone him."

"Go ahead. But don't try any tricks."

The manager very carefully picked up a telephone index from the desk, and flipped it over to the N's. He ran his finger down till he hit a number alongside a name. The name was "Nine Star Boxing Club." The number was Sutter 21674.

"That," said Tom Atherton, "is all I wanted to know!" He threw away the letter opener, grasped the fellow's coat by the lapels, and lifted him out of the chair with his left hand. At the same time, he brought his right around in a terrific blow to the fellow's chin. The man's head snapped back, and when Tom let go of the lapels, the fellow just subsided into the chair, slumped down, and did not move.

Tom snatched up the phone, called the District Attorney's office. In a moment he had Harvey Grant. "Grant," he said, '"this is Atherton."

He heard a gasp at the other end, and than there was a moment's silence.

"Grant! Are you there? I said this is Atherton!"

A burly individual was sitting at a desk, making entries in a ledger. "He looked up and heard you," came Grant's voice, very slowly and mildly. "I'm glad you phoned. There are a lot of things I want to talk over with you." He was talking in a slow, easy drawl, and Tom's lips tightened as he realized that the District Attorney was having the call traced.

"Listen to me, Grant. I have information for you that will help you get Bennetz and his whole filthy crowd."

"So you're ready to talk!" the District Attorney said. "Well, I'm glad to hear that, Atherton. Suppose we arrange a meeting."

"Look here, Grant. I just got a line on a place that may hold dynamite. Now if I give you the location, will you promise not to stage a raid?"

"Well, that's a fairly reasonable request," Grant said, still in that infuriatingly slow drawl. "Just why don't you want us to stage a raid?"

"Because Bennetz is holding my girl. Now if Sally is being held at this address your raid might save her. But if those rats are holding her somewhere else, and the raid doesn't turn anything up then I'm sure they'll kill her."

"Now wait, Atherton," said the District Attorney. "Do you still think you can make me believe that fish story about your girl having been kidnaped by Bennetz? Why don't you come in and give yourself up—"

Tom was standing near the window with the telephone, and it was only by chance that he glanced out and saw the police car which pulled up silently across the street. They had traced the call while Grant had held him in conversation.

"Damn you Grant!" Tom exclaimed into the phone. He hung up, and dashed out into the corridor. He made for the rear, and passed through the kitchen door. Just as the door swung to, he caught a glimpse of the policemen coming in the front. He did not wait to see more, but made tracks out the back way.

CHAPTER 4

He walked the streets for ten minutes, ducking every time he saw a policeman, trying to think as hard as he could. He knew where to find Gus Bennetz now.

The Nine Star Boxing Club was not an unfamiliar name to him. He had boxed there two or three times, in the old days. But the club had long been abandoned. Therefore, it seemed reasonable to believe that Bennetz might be using it as a hideaway. It would be a good place to conceal a captive. So Tom was almost sure Sally was being held there. But the knowledge did him little good.

He didn't kid himself that he could go in there with his bare fists, and take Bennetz's experienced gunners. For himself he didn't care. But Sally's life might be forfeit. No, he must have help. An appeal to the law was closed to him. Grant wouldn't listen.

He racked his brains for some inspiration. And suddenly, he snapped his fingers. He flagged a cab and got in.

"Take us over to the Greek quarter!" he ordered.

"Which one do you mean?" the driver asked. "Downtown? Or uptown?"

For a moment Tom was stuck. Then he shrugged. "Uptown," he said.

Five minutes later he left the cab in the uptown Greek section, and strolled down the street. He saw a restaurant with Greek letters on the window, and he went in. At the desk he said, "Where will I find Packy?"

There was a girl cashier at the counter, but she looked blank. She called over the manager, then two waiters came over too, and they all debated the question of which Packy Tom wanted. Finally the manager shrugged and said, "Iss many Packys. W'ich one you wanting?"

"I want the one who has a friend named Achilles, and another named Julius—"

"Aha!" exclaimed the manager. He took Tom by the arm, led him to the door, and pointed down the street. "You going over d'ere—number t'irtyt'ree, D'ere you finding Packy!"

Tom thanked him and walked down the street. Number thirty-three was a three-story brick building, with a store occupying the entire street level. The plate-glass window of the store was painted an opaque green, so that passersby couldn't look inside. There was white lettering on the green background. The top line was in Greek, which Tom couldn't read. The second line said:

GREEK-AMERICAN BROTHERHOOD
Antoninos Pakidopulos, Pres.

There was a hard and determined glint in Tom's eyes as he stepped up to the store and pushed the door open.

Inside there were some fifteen or twenty tables, covered with red-and- white checkered tablecloths. Several of the tables were occupied by men who were playing checkers, chess, or casino. The room was filled with smoke and the stale odor of tobacco. At one side there was a bar and a sandwich counter.

The noise of conversation ceased as Tom closed the door behind him. Every eye in the room was turned on him. He saw a lot of hands slip down into pockets, or up toward shoulder bulges.

From one table in a corner, two men arose. Tom tautened, watching them come toward him. They were Achilles and Julius—the two whom he had eluded in the subway.

Julius was grinning like a cat who has cornered a mouse, but Achilles' thick features assumed a murderous scowl. They came up close to Tom.

"How do you do, my very good friend!" said Julius. "That was a dirty trick you played on us in the subway."

"Hah!" said Achilles. "Thees ees those guy w'ich smack me be-ind thee ear. I theenk I gonna break hees nack!"

"My very good friend," Julius said commiseratingly, "you should not have hit Achilles. Achilles does not like to be hit."

"I want to see Packy," said Tom.

Julius snickered. "Haw!" He nudged Achilles in the ribs. "Did you hear that? He wants to see Packy!"

"Sure," growled Achilles. "Sure he see Packy. But he not be seeing so good. Because w'y? Because I gonna geev heem dose works first!"

He spread out both his huge, ham-like arms to encircle Tom's waist. Tom could see the muscles bulging under the Greek's coat, and he knew that once he was caught in that gorilla grip he'd have little chance of keeping his ribs intact He tried to step back, but the door was behind him.

A look of supreme happiness came upon Achilles' face as he smothered Tom with his huge bulk. His arms started to wrap themselves around his intended victim's body.

Tom kept his elbows close at his sides, and pistoned has fists in-and- out, in-and-out, like the twin cylinders of an engine. His hard, bunched fists landed four times each, square in the midsection of the big man, burying themselves almost to the wrist in his stomach.

Achilles was forced back by the very power of those blows, and he expelled a great gust of onion-and-garlic breath. He bellowed with rage, and charged in again. This time he wasn't going for a bear hug. He had his two hands held high in the wrestler's stance, for a headlock.

Tom caught a swift glimpse of the rest of the men in the room, all watching with professional interest. They were all sure, apparently, that their champion would soon crack a majority of Tom's bones.

Tom was no wrestler. He knew he couldn't compete for holds with this huge and powerful gorilla of a man. He sidestepped away from the door, flicked out his left to make the Greek keep his distance, and danced away. His flicking left cut his antagonist's lip open, and Achilles' voice thundered through the room in a terrifying murderous roar. He came lumbering forward in a half crouch.

Tom slid over to one side, feinted with his left and then crashed a right across to Achilles' head. It caught him on the side of the temple with a terrible squashing sound, but the Greek only shook his head to clear it, and kept coming in.

Julius was watching intently, with his head cocked on one side, like a referee.

"T'chk, t'chk," he said. "Your chances, my good friend, are very slim!"

Tom was too busy to answer, because the Greek was into him now, clawing at his legs, his neck, his torso, in a wild and vengeful effort to get a punishing hold. Tom kept dancing away and flicking his left, but all he could do was make the giant slow up a bit. He couldn't stop him. He landed two more blows square on the button, but he didn't even get a flicker out of Achilles.

The men all over the room were now buzzing excitedly. They were making wagers on the outcome. The odds on Achilles were eight to one.

A fine sweat was beginning to cover Tom's forehead. Never before in his life had he given ground in the ring, and this was a new experience for him. His most powerful blows were worse than useless. Achilles had an iron jaw.

Tom backed away into a table, and before he could move, the Greek was upon him. He caught Tom's left wrist in both of his hairy hands, and whirled around with the evident intention of sending his victim hurtling over his shoulder.

But even as he started to twist around, Tom smashed a right home just over the heart. Achilles grunted again, and his grip relaxed the faintest bit.

Tom yanked his wrist out of the grip, and with a sudden gleam of understanding he came in at Achilles, disregarding all danger of getting caught in another grip.

He had discovered the Greek's weak spot!

He came in, wide open, smashing rights and lefts to the big man's heart. And suddenly he found he was moving forward, and Achilles was retreating.

He stopped short, straightened the Greek up with a left jab over the eye, and then tried once more for the knockout.

His right smashed in so fast that hardly a man in the room saw the blow. But they all heard the thwack.

The Greek was done. Those body blows had softened him for the kill. When Tom's fist landed on his jaw, he just let his arms drop, and he slowly fell forward on his face. He lay still, with his arms out flung.

An excited jabber of voices arose in the room as jubilant takers of the eight-to-one odds rushed to collect.

TOM felt of his hand to see if any bones were broken. Then he wiped sweat from his face. He looked at Julius, who was clucking with unbelief.

"T'chk, t'chk. Nobody has ever done that to Achilles before. It deesn't seem possible!"

"Well," Tom asked, "do I get to see Packy now? Or do I have to fight someone else?"

Julius grinned. "Come, my very good friend!"

He led the way up two flights of musty stairs, and stopped before a door at the rear. He knocked at the door, and then went inside, motioning for Tom to follow him. As soon as they were inside, he took a gun from his pocket and covered Tom.

"Just to be on the safe side," he grinned. Then he waved toward the stocky man with the close-cropped black hair setting at a small desk.

"Packy, what do you think? This is the man we invited over this morning, but he wouldn't come. Imagine—he walked in just now of his own free will!"

Packy raised his eyebrows. "What did you come here for?" he demanded.

Tom said, "I want to make a deal with you."

Packy's eyes hardened. "I make no deals with the tools of the Nazis!"

"Listen to me!" Tom said, suddenly earnest. "I'm no tool of Bennetz. I never talked with him before this morning. It was just by accident that I horned in on your men. It was a cold-blooded attempt at murder, and anyone would have done what I did!"

"Murder?" Packy repeated. There was abruptly a terrible opaque look in his black eyes. "Murder? Do you know what the Nazis do to our people in Greece? Is that not murder?"

"But you have no right to commit murder here, because of what those beasts do over there. Besides, Bennetz is an American citizen—"

"Sure, sure he is. And that is what protects him from the law." Packy's fist crashed down on the desk. "But not from us!" He controlled himself with an effort.

"Go on," he said,

"After I saved Bennetz's life," Tom hurried on, "he came down to my office, and kidnaped my fiancée—Sally Blaine. And I had to go into court and represent Nathaniel Cleve, to save her life. Now Bennetz is holding Sally—"

"Where?" Packy was suddenly interested.

Tom shook his head. "Not so fast, Packy. I've come to you, because I can't go near the police. District Attorney Grant has practically forced me to make an alliance with you. But I'm not going to let you go after Bennetz with guns."

"Why not?" Packy demanded. "If Bennetz has your girl, don't you want to see him killed? What kind of blood have you in your veins?"

"This has got to be done my way or not at all," Tom said firmly. "I want to get Sally out of Bennetz's hands. I need your help. All right. In exchange for your help, I'll undertake that Bennetz will stand trial on enough charges to send him to the electric chair. But I won't be a party to murder."

"What do you want us to do?" Packy asked suspiciously.

"I'll need some supplies, and about twenty of your men."

"What kind of supplies?"

"White helmets, like the air-raid wardens wear—"

"Hah!" said Packy. "You don't have to worry about that. We're all air- raid wardens. I run this whole sector!"

Tom grinned happily. "Can you get some stretchers, some stirrup pumps, and some of those smoke bombs that the wardens use in their practice drills?"

"Sure," said Packy. "I can get you all that. But listen, you can't fight Bennetz with smoke bombs and stirrup pumps—"

"They're better than guns sometimes," Tom told him.

Packy shook his head. "It sounds crazy to me." He looked at Julius. "What about it?"

Julius grinned. "You ought to let him try it, Packy. The way he laid Achilles out, I'm all in his favor!"

Suddenly Packy the Greek smiled. He pushed back his chair and got up. He came around and thrust out his hand to Tom. "Okay, Atherton. We'll give you a chance!"

CHAPTER 5

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Tom Atherton got out of a car in front of a building on Old Broadway, close to the river. He presented a strange figure as he stood there, surveying the building. An air-raid warden's armband adorned his sleeve. A white helmet covered his head. And a gas mask hid his entire face.

The building before which he stood was ramshackle and dilapidated, with the paint almost entirely gone. The windows were all boarded up, and there was a sign nailed across one of the lower windows which read:

FOR SALE OR RENT
Inquire Of Your Own Broker

The building was only two stories high. On the strip of front wall between the first and second floor windows there was what remained of an old wooden sign which had once sported gilt letters.

The gilt was all gone, but the imprint of the lettering was still legible:

NINE-STAR BOXING CLUB

Five years ago, Tom Atherton had boxed for a living on Friday nights in this very building. Now it was abandoned apparently. But Tom knew otherwise.

He examined the building for a moment, then he made a signal with his hand. Immediately three more cars sped up from the corner and came to a stop across the street. Men in air-raid wardens' uniforms piled out, some carrying stretchers, others carrying picks and shovels, all wearing helmets and gas masks.

Achilles and Julius were in the first of those cars, and Tom recognized Achilles by his build. The giant came over and spoke to Tom through his gas mask.

"You know," he said, "I t'ink you is one guy w'ich is a good fighter, You an' me is friends, no?"

"Yes," said Tom.

The air-raid wardens gathered around, and Tom started issuing orders in a loud voice. He got a piece of chalk and marked out a square section of sidewalk about ten feet by ten, and motioned to them to get to work. They fell to with a will, using the pickaxes.

There was a cop down near the ferry building, and he strolled over. "Air- raid drill?" he asked.

Tom nodded. "We're working on an incident. A bomb is supposed to have fallen on this building. Ten people are trapped inside. We're supposed to see how fast we can dig 'em out."

The cop hung around for a few minutes, then left. Tom went on supervising the work. All the time, he kept an eye on the Nine Star building. Twice he caught the movement of one of the boards in an upper window. Somebody was watching from inside.

Soon the hole was deep enough for a man to climb down into. One of the men signaled to Tom and he got down and scrambled into it. He saw that they had opened up the exposed section of the building wall, making a hole through which a man could climb into the cellar.

Tom switched on a flashlight and sent its ray probing into the interior. It illuminated the basement with which he was familiar. The fighters' dressing rooms had been located down here, and many a time Tom had waited in one of those cubicles for the signal to go up into the ring.

Julius climbed down alongside him carrying a sack of smoke bombs, "You all ready?" he asked, "Yes," said Tom. "I'm going in."

"Here's a gun," said Julius, offering him an automatic.

Tom shook his head. "I never shot one of those things in my life. I wouldn't trust myself to shoot straight with it."

"Well, put it in your pocket, anyway. You never can tell when you'll need it. See, this is the safety. You must push it down with your thumb to shoot."

"Thanks," said Tom. He put the gun in his pocket. "Stay here with your watch. Julius," he ordered. "Remember, give me fifteen minutes before you start."

"Good luck," said Julius.

Tom bent down and climbed through the hole in the wall into the basement.

He flicked the flashlight only once, to get his bearings, and then proceeded in the dark. He mounted the staircase leading to the main floor, and gently inched open the door at the top of the stairs.

There were lights there. He could see that the seats had been removed from the auditorium floor, leaving a cleared space. In that space there was now a row of cots and several tables and chairs.

Almost a dozen men were in there. They got their light from a low candle- power storage battery lamp on the floor.

An electric cooker had been set up on the platform where the ring had formerly been, and one of the men was grilling a steak.

The men were talking in low voices watching one of their number who was peering through a crack in the boarded front window. The man turned around. Tom got a glimpse of a bandage across his nose. It was Tresca.

"Those damned wardens are still out there!" Tresca growled.

"Well," said one of the others, "we'll have to go out the back way and use the boat. We can't stay cooped up in here all night."

"You can't use the boat yet," Tresca told him, "Gus has a job for it."

Another of the men snickered. "Looks like that girl will get a bath tonight. Too bad she has to die. She's a good looker."

Tom felt the hot blood rushing in his veins. He inched his way along the edge of the floor where the light did not reach, heading toward a door at the far side which he knew led to the upper story. There the executive offices of the club had been located. The process of getting across noiselessly was slow and laborious. Once he had to stop and drop flat on the floor in the shadows, for a man came in from the rear, where there was an exit to the old rotting dock.

This man did not come all the way into the room. He merely called out, "Hey, Tresca! Tell Gus the boat's ready."

"Okay," said Tresca, and left the crack in the window. He crossed over to the door for which Tom was aiming, and disappeared through it.

Tom took chances now. He crawled on all fours, moving as fast as he could. He reached the door without attracting any attention and slipped through it. He mounted the stairs quickly, reached the top landing without making a sound.

Light streamed out on the landing through an open door at the head of the stairs. Tom edged along the wall, keeping out of the path of the stream of light, and peered inside.

His questing anxious eyes passed over the five men in that room, and focused on what at first appeared to be a bundle of old clothes on the floor. The bundle was moving violently and Tom drew in his breath sharply.

It was Sally. She was tied hand and foot and there was tape across her mouth.

Tom took out the automatic. Now he was glad he had taken it from Julius.

The five men in the room were talking in subdued voices, but their words carried clearly out to the landing.

Tom knew four of them. There was one, sitting in a corner and putting a machine gun together, whom he did not know. Bennetz was pacing up and down, nervously smoking a cigar. Tresca, who had just come up, was bending over Sally. Joseph Cleve was lighting a cigarette.

But it was the sight of the fifth man that caused Tom's eyes to narrow. That fifth man was Kurt Allsberg—the lawyer whom Bennetz had fired in the middle of the Cleve trial in order to put Tom Atherton into the case!

It was Allsberg who was talking at the moment. He was rubbing his chin, smiling with satisfaction.

"So far everything has gone off like clockwork. It was smart of you, Gus, to pick that Atherton fool to hold the bag. It would have been bad for me to be on the case when they got word that those witnesses were killed."

Gus Bennetz grinned. "And he made it worse for himself by escaping. Now they'll surely shoot him on sight!"

"Suppose," Allsberg said, "that they don't shoot him? If they catch him alive, he can talk and make trouble for you."

Bennetz shook his head, grinning. He nodded toward the skinny little man who was working on the machine gun in the corner. "If Atherton isn't caught, he's sure to try and get in touch with me. I'll make a date with him and Buzza will keep it, with the machine gun.

"So!" said Allsberg. "Not bad. That will close up every hole. All right. I think I'll be going. Damn those wardens. I'll have to leave on the boat. You can take the girl, too. Land me further down, and then take her out in the river."

"The boat's ready," said Tresca.

"Okay," Bennetz ordered. "You and Cleve carry her down—"

Tom had been waiting, watch in one hand, gun in the other. It was exactly fifteen minutes since he had left Julius.

He backed away from the door, watching the interior of the room and at the same time sniffing the air. His eyes brightened as he caught the fumes of smoke, as yet very light. But the men downstairs had already smelled the smoke, for it was reaching them first, Julius had set off six smoke bombs in the cellar, and the fumes were working slowly upward.

There was a sudden excited jabber of voices from the main floor. Someone yelled, "Fire!"

Someone else down there took up the shout, and at once there was the sound of rushing, panicky feet. The men downstairs were running toward the rear of the building, to escape out on the dock. They all knew what an old fire-trap the building was, and they didn't want to be burned alive.

Tresca and Cleve had just begun to lift Sally Blaine between them when the shout of fire was raised.

Tresca said, "Fire!" and let go of Sally. She dropped to the floor with a thump.

Bennetz swore viciously. The smoke was coming up faster now, and they could all smell it.

"The whole building is going!" he yelled. "We have to get out of here. Leave the girl. Let her burn!"

He led the rush to the door, and Tom, with a grim hard smile on his lips, stepped in to meet him.

Bennetz almost collided with him, but he had no chance to jump backward, because Tom hit him hard on the temple with the barrel of the automatic.

Bennetz sagged in the doorway, and the others in the room scrambled around him in their mad anxiety to get out. Tresca was first. He pulled up short at sight of the automatic in Tom's hand.

Tresca streaked for his shoulder holster. Tom stepped in and smashed a left square into his broken nose. Tresca screamed with pain, and went backward into Cleve and Allsberg, who were pushing wildly out.

Tom came in after them like a whirlwind, scattering them out of the doorway. He burst through and met the little man, Buzza, who came bounding out of the chair with the still unassembled machine gun in his hands. Tom hit Buzza a backhanded blow that sent him slamming into the wall. Then he jumped to where Sally lay, and turned around to face the gunmen.

Tresca was down on the floor, moaning with pain, but Cleve was just dragging a gun from his holster. Tom set his jaw, snicked the safety catch off the automatic as Julius had shown him, and pulled the trigger.

The gun roared in the room, and Tom was jarred backward by the recoil. His foot moved back, and he tripped over Sally's limp form.

His own shot had missed Cleve by almost a foot, but had buried itself in the stomach of Kurt Allsberg. Cleve fired, the thunder of the shot drowning Allsberg's scream.

The thing that saved Tom was the fact that he tripped. It carried him out of line of Cleve's shot, and the slug slammed through the boarded window behind him.

The room was full of smoke now and Cleve didn't shoot again. He turned with a gasp of panic and ran blindly out into the hall, hoping to escape before the building was engulfed by fire.

Tom scrambled to his feet and peered around the room. Buzza was getting up and pawing at his back pocket for a gun.

Tom's lips tightened. He stepped in, brought his fist up in a short arc to Buzza's chin, and the skinny, murderous little machine-gunner went down.

Tom swung away from him and knelt beside Sally. He ripped the tape off her lips and cut the cords that were tied around her body.

"Tom," she said, "I think you're wonderful!"

He grinned and kissed her, and turned around to face a small army of police who were crowding into the room.

"Boys," he said, "I'm Tom Atherton. But I don't think you'll be wanting me any more. There's the whole Bennetz crowd, including the brains of the outfit—Kurt Allsberg. These are the boys that blew up the two witnesses and the bailiffs this morning. And I think you'll find that machine gun on the floor one of the things stolen from the armories."

He held Sally close in his arms and smiled down into her eyes, entirely disregarding the bewildered stares of the police.

"Anyway," he told her, "I got a thousand dollar retainer out of this. A thousand dollars will buy us a lot of furniture, Sally. We could get married now instead of in May."

"And," she added, "you can start kissing me before breakfast from now on!"

THE END

First published in Clues Detective Stories, October 1939

1. THE LEFT-HANDED SWORDSMAN

There was an undercurrent of something strange and ominous in the life of Chinatown tonight. King sensed it at once as he turned into Pell Street from the Bowery. The usual gossiping crowd of yellow men in black alpaca jackets and skull caps was missing from in front of the Chinese Art Theater. The store of Pu Yee, the venerable old curio importer, was closed. The three-story building of the Sung Tong, next door, was likewise dark and deserted. Only the garish neon lights of the Far Long Sin Restaurant, which catered to the sightseeing trade, provided any signs of life in the street.

King walked warily, swinging his silver-knobbed cane in carefully gloved hands. His tall, immaculately clothed figure, and the easy, lithe swing of his body, afforded no indication of the fact that the wallet in his breast pocket contained one hundred thousand dollars in large bills.

It was no new thing for Christopher King to come down to his little office in Chinatown with a small fortune in cash. He was known as a buyer of precious jade, and a man whom the Chinese could trust implicitly. So whenever anything of value had to be sold, King got the first call.

He stopped for a moment to light a cigarette, while still half a block from the Far Long Sin Restaurant. And a short, squat, dark shape sidled out of a doorway.

Instantly, King tautened. He flipped away the match, and gripped the silver-headed cane. But he relaxed at once, upon recognizing the man.

"Hello, Pu Yee," he said in English.

The old curio importer glanced around nervously. Then he shuffled closer.

"Good evening. King san," he said in Cantonese. "Forgive me if I seem to be brusque. But it is dangerous for me to be seen talking to you. You have been a good friend to me, and I must warn you. Death walks at your side tonight! Do not go to your office. Turn back and go home!"

King's eyes narrowed. "You know why I am here?"

The old man shivered. "Indeed I do, my son. And I am afraid for you. There is a woman with black hair who brings death to Chinatown and it is written that you are to meet her. Also, it is written that many must die tonight. Go home, King san, before you meet the woman who brings death!"

Before King could ask him another question, Pu Yee turned and shuffled back into the darkness of the doorway. His squat, alpaca-clothed figure blended with the shadows.

King puffed thoughtfully for a moment at his cigarette. Then he shrugged, and went on. But he walked even more cautiously than before.

He came abreast of the Far Long Sin Restaurant. There was a big rubberneck bus parked at the curb, with a flamboyant streamer tacked along its side, reading:

WORLD'S FAIR CHINATOWN TOUR—75c

A couple of other cars were parked before and behind the bus, indicating that Far Long Sin was getting a nice volume of business tonight. There was music inside, and King got a glimpse of couples dancing on the small island platform in the center of the dining room. He passed the restaurant, and came abreast of the narrow alley alongside the Far Long Sin building.

Suddenly he became taut and motionless. There was something going on in that alley—something silent and sinister. He caught the sound of scuffling feet and muted grunts, and then a queer gurgling oath in Cantonese.

It was pretty dark there in the alley, except for a faint trickle of light slanting down from a hallway window in the side of the restaurant building. He caught a blur of swirling figures—four or five of them in black jackets, with steel flashing dully in their hands—surging in upon a single, lone figure which stood with its back to the wall.

And then King uttered a gasp of amazement. For the light in the window above streamed momentarily across the face of that lone defender, and he saw that it was a woman—a white girl with a slim, supple figure, a long firm throat, and coils of black hair piled high upon her head. She was desperately fighting off the Chinese. Her sole weapon of defense was a black leather handbag, with which she was attempting to ward off the biting thrust of those blades.

King's lips tightened, and he came into the alley on the run. His rubber- soled shoes made no noise. As he smashed into the rear of those Chinese, he vaguely wondered why the girl had not cried out for help.

He brought his cane down with a thud upon the head of the nearest Chinese, and felt bone crack under the blow.

The others hissed in startled alarm and swung around—with knives glistening in their hands.

"Slink away, jackals!" King said in perfect Cantonese. He threw a side glance at the girl and saw that she was staring at him with a queer half-smile upon her lips.

The Chinese hatchet men did not retreat. One of their number hissed a low command, and they all surged in at him with knives held low like swords, for the deadly disemboweling stroke which has been used by Oriental knife men since time immemorial.

King laughed deep in his throat. He always experienced a strange exhilaration at the scent of battle. He took a swift step backward, and felt the comforting solidity of the wall behind him. At the same time, his right hand gripped the middle of the cane while his left seized the silver knob. He pulled on the knob, and a glittering arc of whirring Damascus steel flickered before the astonished eyes of the on-surging knife men. The blade licked out like a striking cobra and bit deeply into the throat of the nearest Chinese.

A gurgling cry escaped from the man's throat. Blood gushed as he fell away. King jerked his sword free, sent it once more in a glittering arc that kept the remaining Chinamen at bay. One of their number, half a dozen feet behind the others, lifted a long knife, holding it by the blade between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, poising to throw.

King saw him out of the corner of his eye. He knew the deadly accuracy with which these men could hurl a knife, for he had seen it done a thousand times both here in Chinatown and in the far reaches of the Orient. He knew that when that man cast the knife, it would travel to its mark with the speed of light and would be as impossible to dodge as the steel-jacketed bullet from a machine gun.

Once more he laughed that deep, booming laugh of his. He took a quick step forward from the wall. His body fell into a long crouch, and his left arm went out in a deadly lunge. The sword pierced the vitals of the nearest Chinaman. The man screamed. King freed his sword, stepped in quickly and caught the falling man by the lapels of his alpaca jacket. He swung the wounded man around just as the knife thrower made his cast. The dagger hurtled through the air, straight and true. But instead of striking King's heart, it bit into the back of the wounded man whom King was holding.

Now there were only three of the knife men left. King came in at them, his swift-moving sword flashing in a blinding series of dazzling arcs as it lunged and circled before their eyes.

Suddenly one of the yellow men uttered a shrill squeal. "It is the Left- handed Swordsman!" he squeaked in Cantonese. "Flee... flee for your lives!"

And as abruptly as it had begun, the deadly battle ended. Three dark shapes scurried down the alley, running with their queer shuffling gait, and leaving their dead behind.

King did not attempt to pursue them. He stooped, and swiftly wiped the blade of his sword-cane on the jacket of the dead knife man. Then he sheathed the sword and turned to the girl. His eyes narrowed, and a thin smile tightened his features. The girl was gone!

He ran swiftly back to the street. He was just in time to see a black coupe gathering speed as it pulled away. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the white face of the girl at the wheel.

And then the coupe was gone, disappearing down the street with a spurt of power.

King gripped his sword-cane tightly. He had saved that girl from death —and she had not even stopped to thank him.

He turned, and went back to the alley. One of the Chinamen was dead. The other, whom he had run through the body and then used as a shield, was still living. King knelt beside this one. The man had only a few moments to live. He was breathing with difficulty. His slanted almond eyes squinted up at the Left-handed Swordsman with the peculiar look of Oriental fatalism which King knew so well. King's hands went to the man's shirt, opened it. They touched the small gold medallion hanging on a golden chain from the man's neck. The medallion had the figure of a four-headed dragon engraved upon its face, with each of the heads so cunningly wrought that streams of fire seemed to be darting from the nostrils.

King fingered the medallion, and his blood raced.

That same figure of a four-headed dragon was carved on the granite block above the entrance of the darkened Sun Tong building across the street.

The dying man never took his slant-eye gaze from King. There was a rattle in his throat as he spoke in Cantonese.

"Death walks by your side, Left-handed Swordsman! My tong brothers will know how to pay my debt for me—"

A horrid gurgling cough broke off the man's words. His body grew rigid with agony and then went limp. His head dropped back. He was dead!

2. THE MANCHU SKULL

King stood up with a thoughtful frown. His mind went back to the warning of old Pu Yee. The venerable curio importer had used the same words: Death walks at your side!

And Pu Yee's prophecy was also being fulfilled: It is written that many shall die tonight!

As King turned away from the dead Chinaman, he felt the strange, mystic power of the Orient all about him.

His eye traveled to the lighted window in the side of the Far Long Sin building. It was only seven or eight feet above the ground, and it was open. He reached up and pulled a piece of black silk from a nail in the sill. That girl had been wearing a black silk dress.

His foot kicked against something small and hard, which rolled up against the wall and lay there glittering strangely. He bent and picked it up in his gloved fingers. And then, a long, low whistle escaped from his lips. The object he was holding in his hand was round and smooth, almost half an inch in diameter. But, even in the semi-darkness, its scarlet pigeon-blood color was unmistakable.

Its presence here explained a good deal. In his pocket there was the letter which had brought him down here tonight. It was carefully and laboriously written in longhand:

Honorable Christopher King:
I address myself humbly to you, a Superior Man.Knowing that you interest muchly yourself to purchasing Chinese objects of value, I making you the offer to sell to your Honorable Self the collection of Sung Dynasty Rubies of which I have been speaking with you in the past weeks. The Sung Rubies are about to coming to my hands tonight. One hundred and seven perfectly matched rubies of gorgeous color and purity. These rubies being worth almost a quarter million dollars American, but I wishing to sell at once. So if you will bring with you one hundred thousand dollars American tonight at nine, I gladly selling. Meet me outside of my restaurant at nine of the P.M. And please coming with great promptitude, for there is much danger with this undertaking.
I am begging to be considered your most humble, obedient and trustworthy slave,
On Long Sin.

It was not the first time that King had done business with On Long Sin. King had lived in the Orient most of his life. It was there he had learned to use a rapier, and earned the name of Left-handed Swordsman. Now he was the United States purchasing agent for the American Museum of Oriental Art. He had bought several valuable objects from On Long Sin on behalf of the museum. Always the transactions had been secret, with much stage management. Tonight something had gone wrong!

He couldn't figure where the black-haired girl fitted into the picture. But she must have come out of that window, and she must have dropped the ruby. Now she was gone! And On Long Sin was late for his appointment. It was eleven minutes after nine o'clock.

King slipped the ruby into his pocket, and stepped warily out of the alley. He threw a swift glance up and down the street. Two slant-eyed Chinamen were shuffling casually along on the opposite side as if they were out for a stroll, without any definite objective. They did not look in his direction, did not show in any way that they were interested in him. But King's scalp crawled just a little. In some uncanny way, he was aware that many hidden eyes were focused upon the mouth of the alley. He had just killed two men of the Sung Tong, and the honor of the society would not permit those killings to go unavenged. From this moment on, he would be walking in constant danger of a knife in his back.

He turned away from the alley and walked over in front of the lighted entrance of the Far Long Sin Restaurant. He held his cane lightly in his left hand. His right was in his pocket, fingering the ruby. He saw the two Chinamen across the street stop and look over toward him. By the cut of their alpaca jackets and by the build of their huge, rawboned bodies, he knew them for paid hatchet men of the Sung Tong. Men like these were brought in from the North of China to do the tong's killings. They were of a different race from the smaller knife men he had encountered in the alley. These big, raw-boned North-of-China boys were raised from infancy for the sole purpose of being apprenticed out to tongs in America. If they died in a foreign land in the service of the tong, their bodies were shipped back for honorable burial at home; and their families were paid a sum in American dollars which enabled them to live in comfort for the rest of their lives. These hatchet men would not flee from his sword as had the knife men in the alley.

King smiled crookedly to himself. He turned his back on the two hatchet men, and went into the Far Long Sin Restaurant.

They were no longer dancing inside. The dancing had given place to a floor show which was focusing the breathless attention of the pop-eyed sightseers upon the stage, where two huge, iron—muscled Manchus were putting on a ceremonious broadsword contest. The two contestants were clad in white tights. They faced each other, moving about with skillful and wary footwork to the accompaniment of wheezy Chinese music which came from somewhere in the wings. Each man had a tremendous broadsword almost six feet long which was so heavy that it required two hands to lift and swing. They danced about each other with the swords held high above their heads, and, as opportunity presented, they swung down with such deadly force that if the sword connected, it would split the opponent's head in two. But these men were so skillful in warding and parrying, that the blows never landed.

King threaded his way among the tables toward the rear of the restaurant, making for the door which he knew led to the private rooms above, as well as to the office of the owner. But before he reached that door, he was intercepted by a stout, suave Chinaman in evening dress who managed to get in his way without actually seeming to bar his progress.

"Welcome, indeed, King san. We are honored by your presence."

The fat Chinaman's lips were smiling, but there was no smile in his eyes. He did not move out of the way.

"Hello, Fung Tze," King said with deceptive mildness. "Do you mind if I go up to see On Long Sin?"

Funz Tze did not move. "I am so sorry, Mr. King. My master, On Long Sin, is not here now. Perhaps I could help you."

"I am wondering if there was a girl here tonight—a very beautiful white girl, with great coils of black hair. She was wearing a black silk dress."

Abruptly, Fung Tze's eyes became veiled. "I have not seen such a girl in the dining room, Mr. King."

"Perhaps she was upstairs. I think I'll go up and look around."

"I am still so sorry, Mr. King. The upstairs is closed."

"Not to me, my friend!"

King took a short step forward, very slowly.

Fung Tze's slanted eye dropped to the cane. Then his glance lifted to King's face. He shrugged.

"The wise man knows when to yield to superior force!" he quoted. "But I warn you, King san, that if you go upstairs tonight, you go into a danger that is more deadly than even your sword!"

King smiled thinly. "Thank you for the warning, Fung Tze," he said.

The fat Chinaman moved aside reluctantly.

King opened the door and stepped through.

There was no one in the hall here. He mounted the first flight of stairs, and stopped beside the open hall window. This was the window which faced on the alley. He looked out, and his hand tightened on his cane. The bodies of the two dead Chinamen were no longer there. The Sung Tong had come quickly to take away its dead. There would be no recourse to the law of the white man. The tongs administered their own law here in Chinatown.

King shrugged, and went on up the stairs. The old, musty building had an air of staleness and death. Nobody knew how many unfortunates had died in the countless rooms along this corridor—under the knives of yellow killers. King walked stiffly along the corridor, with the cane in his right hand, the knob gripped in his left. He trod lightly on the floor, making no sound, his ears keenly attuned for the first whisper of movement from any quarter. At the rear of the building, he stopped before a door. He rapped lightly with the knob of his cane. There was no answer.

Only a faint trickle of Chinese music drifted up from the restaurant below. Otherwise there was no sound. King's gloved hand turned the knob of the door. He thrust it open. A single light from a desk lamp illumined the room. Alongside the desk a leather hatbox stood on the floor.

King's glance rested only for an instant upon that hatbox. Then he gazed bleakly upon the body of On Long Sin in the chair behind the desk.

On Long Sin was sprawled out with his arms dangling at his sides, his head hanging almost straight down over the back of the chair. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The knife lay on the desk where it had been dropped by the killer.

Tautly, King came into the room. His glance swung keenly from object to object, and returned to that hatbox on the floor beside the dead body.

He knelt beside the desk, carefully lifted the lid of the hatbox.

He sucked in his breath sharply. A shimmering iridescently green skull rested in the hatbox. It was not a human skull. It was carved out of lustrous jade. But so cunningly had the sculptor wrought, that were it not for the shimmering luster of the precious jade, one might have thought it to be the skull of some long—dead Manchu emperor. The artist had sealed the open orifices of the mouth, nose and eyeballs with patches of white nephritic jade which contrasted sharply with the greenish color of the rest of the skull.

King carefully lifted the Manchu skull out of the hatbox. There was en excited glitter in his eyes. He had come here to buy the Sung Dynasty Rubies. But here was a Chinese antique which was impossible to purchase at any price. To his knowledge, there were only three of them in the world. One of them was at present in the American Museum of Oriental Art, for which he worked. The other two were known to be in the possession of old and honorable Chinese families, who would never have parted with them for an emperor's ransom.

King ran his fingers expertly over the surface of the exquisitely wrought jade. In a moment he assured himself that this was an authentic Manchu skull —one of the three known to be in existence.

He held it up to the light, and the gaunt, scarified bones of the Manchu emperor seemed actually to come to life in his hands. At the top of the skull there was a small opening; plugged with a cork of white jade. He removed the cork, and inserted his finger. The inside of the skull had been carved out so that there was a hollow receptacle. He shook the skull but got no sound. The receptacle was empty.

Carefully, almost religiously, King replaced the Manchu skull in the hatbox and closed the lid.

Abruptly, he heard a noise behind him. He whirled, lithe as a panther, in time to see the door thrust open.

The stout, suavely smiling Fung Tze carne into the room. He said nothing, but stepped to one side. Immediately after him, entered the two broadsword fighters who had been giving the exhibition of deadly skill downstairs. They still wore tights. Each still gripped his huge six-foot broadsword. Those blades were not pointed at the end, but they were honed to a deadly cutting- edge which could bite through flesh and bone without effort.

The second of the two swordsmen kicked the door shut behind him. Then the two athletes gripped their swords in both hands and stood with their eyes upon King.

King gripped the silver knob of the sword-cane in his left hand. He grinned crookedly at Fung Tze.

"Is this what you meant when you warned me that I would be walking into danger?"

The fat Chinaman nodded gravely.

"I am so sorry, King san. I have just learned of the fight in the alley. The girl with the black hair escaped. But it is believed that she gave you the Sung Dynasty Rubies. You must turn them over to me at once. Do so, and you may go from here unharmed. You shall even be forgiven for the deaths of two men of the Sung Tong."

"And if I don't turn them over, Fung Tze?"

"Then I am so sorry, King san. You will be killed by these two swordsmen, and we will take the rubies from you. The Sung Dynasty Rubies are not to be sold. They must be returned to the homeland."

"I have no rubies," said King.

Fung Tze sighed. "You have been long known among the Chinese as the Left- handed Swordsman. You have been honored by our countrymen, who have found you a man of your word. If you say you have no rubies, then it must be so. But if that is the case, it follows that the black-haired girl has them. We must know where she is to be found. Tell us, King san, and you may still go free."

King shook his head. "I don't know who she is. I never saw her before."

"You are only trying to protect her. It is honorable for a white man to lie to protect a white woman. But in this case it means your life, King san. The girl killed On Long Sin. She must pay the tong penalty. Speak, King san. Where is she?"

King smiled faintly. "You're right on one point, Fung Tze. Even if I knew who she was, or where to find her, I'd certainly not tell you."

Once more the fat Chinaman sighed. He spoke a sharp command to the two Manchu swordsmen.

"I am so sorry for everything, King san," he murmured, and he opened the door and slipped out.

King was left alone in the room with the two Manchus.

Their narrow slanted eyes never left his face. They lifted their heavy broadswords high above their heads, and came around the desk, skirting the dead body of On Long Sin.

King stood still, apparently loose-limbed and relaxed. But one could not fail to see the hot glint of his eyes.

The two swordsmen came at him from the right and from the left. One of them barked a singsong word to the other, and they charged in. The great broadswords cut down at King's head in deadly power—strokes.

King did not jump backward, as they had expected. He was thoroughly familiar with the science of broadsword dueling. The expert swordsman swings down at his opponent, knowing that the inexpert opponent will surely leap back in a desperate effort to avoid the cutting edge of the blade. The swordsman then takes a quick step forward even as he slashes, so that the keen blade overtakes the victim, cleaving his skull in two.

But, instead of retreating, King crouched low and leaped forward.

He came in under the two blows, and the heavy blades missed him and bit into the floor.

Simultaneously, King's glittering rapier slithered out of the scabbard as he drew it with his left hand. He pivoted on his left heel and lunged. The point of the rapier plunged into the body of the Manchu on King's left. It went in just above the heart.

The Manchu's white tights became suddenly spattered with blood.

King withdrew the rapier just in time, as the man choked and fell forward on his face—the great broadsword clattering to the floor.

King swiveled around to face the attack of the second Manchu. This time the yellow man did not raise his broadsword in the air. He kept it waist-high, slashing sideways with it in a blow which could easily cut a man's body in half. There was no escaping that slashing broadsword. In the split second before it struck, there was no time to leap back beyond the reach of the six-foot blade. Neither could King bend low enough to duck. Instead, King met that blow, parrying it with his thin blade of Damascus steel.

It seemed impossible that the frail rapier could arrest the terrific weight of that broadsword. Already there was a vindictive smile of triumph upon the Manchu's face.

The thin, pliable blade of Damascus steel met the great broadsword in midair. Sparks flashed as the two weapons grated. The rapier bent far back under the impetus of the broadsword. But King's iron wrist held it firm.

The edge of the broadsword slid up along the side of the rapier until it struck the guard just below the silver knob. As it struck, King flipped his wrist up expertly, and the great sword went slashing past King's scalp, not touching him.

The Manchu yelled with rage, and reversed the edge, bringing the weapon back for another slashing blow.

King did not attempt to parry this time. He lunged! His rapier caught the Manchu under the chin, and the thrust sent the point up through the top of his skull.

The great broadsword fell from the man's hand. He was dead before King got the rapier out again.

King's face was inscrutable as he wiped the rapier and slid it back into the scabbard. His eyes were stormy as he looked at the bodies of the two dead Manchus, and at that of On Long Sin.

It is written that many shall die tonight!

Pu Yee's prophecy was being amply fulfilled.

He picked up the hatbox containing the Manchu skull, and slowly walked out of the room.

Downstairs, he saw Fung Tze suavely welcoming a new party of guests, as if nothing were happening up above.

Fung Tze turned and saw him.

The fat Chinaman seemed to congeal within himself. For a moment, his eyes betrayed him, reflecting stark unbelief that King could still be alive. Then he swiftly regained, command of himself. He bowed from the waist.

"You are a man of many surprises, King san!" he murmured. "Have you killed my two Manchus?"

King studied him a moment. "I could kill you now, Fung Tze. I could draw my sword and run you through!"

Fung Tze smiled at him as if he were merely carrying on a casual conversation with a guest. No one in the restaurant could suspect, to look at them, that these two were discussing life and death.

"Undoubtedly you could kill me, King san. But you will not do it. In the first place, you are not one to kill an unarmed man. In the second place, there are many witnesses. It would be murder under the white man's law."

King smiled grimly. "All right, Fung Tze. I suppose you know I'm going to notify the police?"

Fung Tze turned and spoke swiftly to a passing Chinese waiter. The man stopped short for an instant, as if he had been shot. Then he nodded and hurried away, calling to several other waiters who left their trays and hurried out after him.

Fung Tze's thick lips became wreathed in a smile. "You will only be laughed at if you call the police, King san. By the time you return, there will be no bodies upstairs. The rugs and the furniture will be changed. There will be no sign of bodies or of a fight. The police will think that you are mad."

For the first time, Fung Tze's eyes dropped to the hatbox in King's left hand. He stiffened visibly, and his face congealed into a yellow mass.

"The Manchu skull—you are taking it away!"

King nodded grimly. "It goes to the museum. I will pay the value of this skull to the family of On Long Sin."

Fung Tze's eyes blazed suddenly. "You are a daring and a foolish man, King san. Believe me, you will soon join your ancestors!"

King shrugged. He turned and walked out of the Far Long Sin Restaurant.

3. TRAPPED!

Outside, something had happened to the bright neon sign in front of the building. It had gone out, as had the street lamp directly opposite. This portion of the block was now in almost total darkness.

King discerned the skulking shadows of the two Sung Tong hatchet men, down near the mouth of the alley.

He transferred the sword-cane to his left hand and the hatbox to his right. Then he started to walk slowly toward the corner. The two tong men came after him, not trying to catch up, but keeping him in sight.

At first, King was puzzled by this. For if they intended to attack, there was no better place than right here.

A moment later, he understood the strategy. He caught sight of several other shapes, waiting ahead. There were men at either end of the block, so that no matter which direction he had taken from the Far Long Sin building, they could intercept him.

There was another thing which puzzled him, too. He couldn't decide whether Fung Tze had acted independently in setting the two broad-swordsmen upon him, or whether he was in league with the Sung Tong. Also, he could not bring himself to believe that the girl with the dark hair had cut On Long Sin's throat.

In any event, he understood clearly that the Sung Tong did not intend to allow him to leave Chinatown alive. They must know that he had the hundred thousand dollars in his pocket, for they had known of his appointment. They must also know what he was carrying in the hatbox. The Manchu skull was worth a small fortune—far more than the hundred and seven Sung Dynasty rubies. The Sung Tong was not going to let him take it away.

He saw those shadows ahead of him converge toward a spot about a hundred feet ahead, to cut him off! There were two men on the sidewalk, and two more were crossing the street.

He did not slacken his pace. But as he walked he twisted the knob of his cane, so that a single flip of the wrist would send the scabbard slithering away, leaving the naked blade in his hand.

At the same time he did not allow those converging shadows to monopolize his attention. He was aware that these hatchet men of the Sung Tong knew his reputation. In the past, many men here in Chinatown had tried, for one reason or another, to kill the Left—handed Swordsman. None of those were alive today!

These hatchet men might be trying a trick. They might be hoping to attract his attention, while one of their number ambushed him with a thrown knife from one of the dark doorways or alleys along the route. So King kept his eyes on the buildings he passed, watching for any sign of stealthy movement.

Now, only twenty feet separated him from the hatchet men ahead, while those behind were hurrying a little so as to come up with him. They meant to overwhelm him by the very weight of their numbers.

King gripped the knob of his sword-cane tightly. He wondered if this was to be his last adventure. He stopped walking, and put the hatbox down at his feet. He drew the sword out of its scabbard.

The hatchet men crowded in toward him. Knives appeared in their hands. They held them by the tips. They were going to throw. They knew very well that King never carried a gun, relying always upon his sword-cane. So they had the advantage of him.

King started to leap back toward a doorway.

And, suddenly, a long black coupe, which had been parked down near the corner, came roaring down the street with its horn screaming.

King's eyes glittered. He couldn't be mistaken. That was the coupe of the black-haired girl.

The hatchet men turned, startled at the sudden clamor of sound in the street which had, until a moment ego, been deathly quiet. And then their voices rose in screams of terror. For the coupe jumped the curb and headed directly for them.

She slowed down and came to a stop. Then she turned and looked at him questioningly.

King twisted around and glanced through the rear window. There was no sign of pursuit. He fixed his eyes on the girl.

"Why did you come back?" he asked.

The great black coils of hair which crowned her head were disarranged. There was a long rip in her black silk evening gown. Her eyes, black enough to match her hair, were wide open, flashing with excitement.

King decided that she was much younger than he had thought she was. Also that she was certainly no harpy of evil, as old Pu Yee had hinted.

"Why did you come back?" he repeated, a little more gently. "You got away safely."

"I hated myself!" she said quickly. "I hated myself for running away and leaving you like that. I came back to see what had happened to. you." She hesitated an instant, then: "I heard what those knife men called you. You are King, the Left-handed Swordsman."

"You've heard of me?"

"Indeed, yes. I've lived in China for five years. I'm Roxanna Moore. I traveled up and down the Yangtze with my father, who was a missionary. Your name is a byword throughout Shansi and Hopei Provinces. They still talk of the time when you rescued Chiang Kai-Chek from the bandits in the hills behind Tientsin—with only a sword-cane for a weapon."

"Thank you," King said coldly. "But let's talk about something more important. A man was murdered tonight in the Far Long Sin Restaurant. That man was supposed to sell me something. You climbed out of the window of the restaurant. Fung Tze says it was you who cut the throat of On Long Sin."

Roxanna Moore's eyes grew even wider. "No, no! On Long Sin was alive when I came into that room. Then the lights went out, and someone came in and grappled with me. There was more than one man, for someone was fighting with On Long Sin. On Long Sin cried out something, but it was in a dialect I didn't understand. Then the attackers ran from the room. I groped my way into the hall and saw the window; so I climbed out. Those knife men were waiting in the alley. They attacked me, and you came."

"What were you doing in the office of On Long Sin?" King asked.

She studied his face for a long minute, as if wondering how far she could trust him. Then she seemed to make up her mind. "I've got to trust someone tonight. I... I brought the Manchu skull to On Long Sin. It was in this hatbox."

"I... I smuggled it in when I came back from China."

King's eyes narrowed. "You smuggled it? For Heaven's sake—why?"

She gulped. Her lower lip began to tremble just a little. "The Sung Tong made me do it. My brother, Dan, has been living here in New York. He worked for an importing house, and he got to know On Long Sin and Fung Tze. He played fan-tan upstairs in the gaming rooms, and he lost heavily. He forged a check and gave it to On Long Sin, and they found him out. The Sung Tong kidnaped him, and they sent word to me that if I wanted ever to see Dan alive again, I must smuggle in the Manchu skull, They arranged everything, and all I had to do was to carry the hatbox off the boat. I had the skull covered with an ordinary hat, but it wasn't necessary. The customs officer didn't even open the hatbox. I brought it directly to On Long Sin."

King stared at her almost suspiciously. "Do you mean to say that the Sung Tong is holding your brother a prisoner—here in New York?"

"I don't know where, but I know he's a prisoner. They brought me a letter from him to prove it."

"All right," said King. "Go on! What happened when you brought the hatbox to On Long Sin's office?"

"I've told you."

He smiled faintly and shook his head. "You haven't told me everything. You haven't told me about the rubies."

Roxanna Moore looked utterly blank. "What rubies?"

Silently he took the pigeon-blood ruby from his pocket and held it up. "Haven't you seen this before? With a hundred and six like it?"

She shook her head. "It's beautiful. But this is the first time I've seen it."

King sighed. "Those rubies were hidden in the Manchu skull. There is a cunning receptacle in it. The rubies came in the skull."

She stared at him, aghast. "You... you think I'm lying to you?"

"I don't know what to think," he said wearily. "But if your story is true, I'll help you. Come with me."

He helped her out of the car, and picked up the hatbox. Then he guided her to a doorway a few feet back.

"This is my office," he told her. "It's the only place in New York where you'll be safe tonight. The Sung Tong is after your life."

King's office was a small street-front store. The glass window and the glass panel of the door were protected by heavy steel-wire grating. The glass itself was bullet proof. On the window there appeared Chinese lettering, and alongside it, the same words in English:

CHRISTOPHER KING
Resident Buyer Of Oriental Antiques

King opened the door and led her inside. He went to the back of the office and placed the hatbox with the Manchu skull in the wall safe.

He saw Roxanna watching him.

"What are you going to do?" she asked in a small voice.

"I'm going to check on your story," he informed her. "If it's true that your brother is a prisoner of the Sung Tong, I'll find him for you. And incidentally, I intend to find the murderer of On Long Sin!"'

He swung the safe door closed and twirled the dial.

"Stay right here," he told Roxanna. "You'll be as safe here as in a fortress. Open for no one—no one at all. Understand?"

She nodded. "But why should you do all this for me? I'm a stranger to you. Because of me, you've made enemies of the powerful Sung Tong. They'll kill you on sight—"

He smiled. "I was in a pretty tight place when you appeared with your coupe. I'm grateful for that."

Suddenly there were tears in the eyes of Roxanna Moore. "I'm afraid —for you. A Mongolian fortuneteller read my palm in Shanghai just before I embarked. He said that I would bring death wherever I went. I laughed at him then. But so many men have died tonight. And now you're going—"

He stroked her hair. "Don't worry. The Left-handed Swordsman is pretty hard to kill. I think you've told me the truth, Roxanna. I'll find your brother for you."

He pulled down the Venetian blinds over the window, so that no one could look in. Then he left her and went out, setting the double locks on the door so that they clicked shut behind him.

He got into Roxanna's coupe and drove it around the block. It was a rented Drive-Yourself car. But the hatchet men of the Sung Tong would recognize it, and he didn't want it in front of his office as a signpost for them.

He left the car and walked slowly back to Pell Street.

4. THE VENERABLE LEADER

Pell Street was still ominously quiet. The neon sign in front of the Far Long Sin Restaurant was once more alight, but the street lamp opposite had not been repaired. Also, there were lights in the Sung Tong building.

King twirled his cane as he approached the Sung Tong headquarters. His muscles were taut and ready. He saw a small group of the big, raw-boned hatchet men in front of the building entrance. They spotted him at the same time.

Their hands slid into their sleeves, where they kept the long, hungry knives.

King came to a stop, facing them.

"I wish to speak with the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong," he said in Cantonese. "I have the Manchu skull. If you kill me now, the skull will be lost to you forever."

The hatchet men shuffled uncertainly. They glanced at each other.

At last one of them said: "Wait here! Do not go away, King san."

He turned and disappeared into the building. The others watched King impassively, beady eyes fastened upon him, hands still hidden in their sleeves.

The man was not gone more than two minutes. He appeared in the doorway and said: "Enter, King san. But the Venerable Leader instructs me to say that you enter without the protection of the Sung Tong's hospitality. You may not enjoy the privileges of an invited guest."

King smiled tightly. "I understand. If I were to have the privileges of an invited guest, the tong would be obligated to see that I departed in safety."

"You know our customs as well as we ourselves, King san!" the Chinese murmured. "We honor you for a brave man. And we are sorry that you are coming to your death! But first, since you ask it, you shall be allowed to speak with the Venerable Leader."

King shrugged. He twirled the cane, and mounted the steps. He passed between the tense and silent hatchet men, and stepped into the hallway of the Sung Tong building.

At once the hatchet men came in behind him. The door closed.

King followed his guide down a carpeted hallway. He was conscious of the hatchet men close behind him.

At the end of the hallway, the guide pulled aside a rich Bokhara tapestry which covered a doorway. He stepped aside and motioned with his hand.

King stepped past him into the audience room of the Sung Tong.

His feet sank deep into the thick-napped Afghanistan rug which covered the entire floor. His nostrils dilated with the odor of incense from two braziers on either side of a high ceremonial chair in the center of the room, where sat the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong, clad in a long silken gown of purest white, and a black skullcap.

King stopped stock-still just within the room, staring with narrowed eyes at this powerful chief of the Sung Tong.

"Pu Yee!" he exclaimed.

The venerable old curio importer was hardly recognizable now, attired in the rich ceremonial vestments.

"My heart is very heavy, King san," he said in Cantonese, "that you come now as an enemy of the Sung Tong. I cherished you always as a friend. I tried to warn you, hoping that you would go back, and not mix yourself with the affairs of the tong."

King came forward slowly, until he was less than ten feet from Pu Yee. The hatchet men moved up quickly, and ranged themselves on either side of him, as if to prevent him from doing harm to their leader. Their slant eyes were fixed upon the sword-cane in King's hand. They knew how swiftly it could flick out of the scabbard and strike. Their hands came out of their sleeves with knives. They would make sure that no harm came to their chief.

BUT Pu Yee smiled sadly and motioned to them to do nothing. "It is written that you must die, King san. You have killed men of the Sung Tong. The honor of the society demands your life. But out of friendship, I will hear what you wish to say."

"Thank you," said King. He stood stiff as a ramrod before the old man, his eyes cold and hard. "Since it is to be war, Pu Yee, I will state my message quickly. I have the Mahchu skull in my possession. You are holding here as a hostage, a boy—Daniel Moore. I will give you the Manchu skull in return for his life and for a promise that you will molest neither him nor his sister."

A queer light flickered in Pu Yee's eyes. "And for yourself? You ask nothing for yourself?"

King smiled crookedly. "I will take care of myself."

"I would rather," said Pu Yee, "that it was your own life, King san, for which you bargained."

"I do not bargain for that which is my own," King told him coldly. "If I die, then I do not deserve to live."

Pu Yee regarded him thoughtfully. "You are a very brave man, King san. You are the very model of what our sacred Kung-Fu-Tze would have called a superior man. I will be grieved when you are dead. Believe me, I shall be very sad."

King shifted impatiently. "What is your answer to my proposition? I offer you the Manchu skull for the lives of Roxanna Moore and her brother."

"The girl must also give us the Sung Dynasty rubies. That is part of the price for her life. She has brought much grief to the Sung Tong, and she must pay a high price. It is true that we compelled her to smuggle the Manchu skull. But she took advantage of that to bring the rubies through the customs, hidden in the skull. Those rubies were stolen from an honorable mandarin family who are Sung Tong brothers. She must return them or pay for them."

"Roxanna Moore hasn't got the rubies," King said levelly. "She didn't know they were in the skull. It was On Long Sin who did that, on his own hook. He must have had a confederate in Shanghai, who put the rubies in the skull. When Roxanna brought the skull to On Long Sin, someone else put out the lights, killed On Long Sin and took the rubies. The murderer dropped one of them out in the alley, so that suspicion would fall on Roxanna. She—"

He was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"He speaks the truth, Venerable Leader!"

King turned, and saw the fat Fung Tze standing in the doorway.

Fung Tze was sweating just a little as he came into the room. He had a leather-covered book in his hand. The edges of the pages were gilt.

"When we moved the furniture from the room where On Long Sin was killed, I found his diary in the desk."

He opened the book, revealing thick Chinese heiroglyphics covering the pages.

"On Long Sin writes here that the girl knew nothing of the rubies. He says that he did not plan to smuggle them in the skull, but that he received word from Shanghai that they would be in the receptacle. I read no further, but came here quickly—"

Pu Yee snatched the book from him. "It is impossible. No one else could have killed On Long Sin but the girl. Unless—" His eyes rested on Fung Tze, but he did not finish the sentence.

Fung Tze drew himself up proudly. "I have always served the Sung Tong loyally!"

"It is written that you must die, King san," Pu Yee said. "The honor of the society demands your life."

Pu Yee read hastily in the book. His face showed nothing. In a moment he looked up, and sighed.

"I am sorry, King san, but this changes nothing. We must be paid for those rubies—or the girl and her brother will die."

"In that case," said King, "there's no use wasting time!"

He slashed down with his cane at the nearest hatchet man, crashing the ferrule against the fellow's skull. Then he leaped forward before the others could bring their knives into play, and seized old Pu Yee by the arm. He yanked the old man from the chair, twisted his arm behind him, then swiveled around, facing Fung Tze and the hatchet men. Pu Yee's body was now a shield for King against thrown knives.

King did not exert pressure against Pu Yee's arm. He merely held him motionless. With his left hand, he flipped the cane so that the scabbard fell away, leaving the blade naked and ready. He placed the point of the rapier against Pu Yee's side.

"Now we can bargain again," he said calmly. "Your life, Pu Yee, for the life of Daniel Moore. Order him released at once."

The hatchet men were crouching, with knives gripped by the blades, ready to throw if they got a chance. Fung Tze's hand stole into his pocket and came out with a gun. But he did not raise it, for it would have been impossible to hit King without striking Pu Yee.

Pu Yee stood calmly with King's blade at his side. "It seems," he said sadly, "that superior force must have its way. The young man shall be released—"

His quiet tone was so deceptive that King was almost lulled into a false sense of security. He was almost unprepared for the swift and deadly jujitsu trick which the old man attempted.

Pu Yee twisted like a contortionist, throwing the weight of his body away from the arm lock, at the same time bringing his free hand around in a savage blow aimed at the side of King's neck.

That blow, with the edge of the hand, has been known to kill a man. King had seen it done. One who was not familiar with that trick might not have understood the danger. But King knew.

He bent his head down, burying his neck, so that the edge of Pu Yee's stiff hand struck the top of his head instead. He dared not let go of Pu Yee, for that would mean an avalanche of knives from the hatchet men. So he kept his grip on the old man's arm, and dropped to the floor, dragging Pu Yee with him. He wound his arm around Pu Yee's waist and lifted him over his shoulder, keeping the bulk of his body between himself and the knife men.

Pu Yee squirmed and clawed, struggling madly.

King saw the knife men spreading out in a circle to come at him from all sides. He held the clawing, scratching old man on his shoulder, and began to back swiftly toward the door behind the chair. He did not know where it would lead, but he had no choice.

"Kill him!" screamed Pu Yee. "Do not let him escape—"

And then something happened—something which brought a sudden hush as of death upon the room.

A cascade of lustrous, pigeon-blood rubies began to pour down upon the thick-napped Afghanistan rug.

They were falling from somewhere beneath the ceremonial robe of Pu Yee!

The tong knife men stopped still in their stride. Fung Tze uttered a low gasp. The eyes of all the yellow men became suddenly veiled and ominous.

King breathed a little sigh. Slowly, he allowed the suddenly quiet Pu Yee to slide down from his shoulder. Then he went across the room, past the frozen tong men, and picked up the scabbard from the floor. No one stopped him. No one looked at him. All eyes were focused in silent and dreadful condemnation upon the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong.

It was Fung Tze who spoke first.

"King san, the Sung Tong owes you apology and reparation. We never thought that our own Venerable Leader had the rubies which we demanded of you. We never thought—that Pu Yee would be a traitor to the tong!"

King sheathed his sword. He smiled grimly. He looked at old Pu Yee, who stood silent and motionless, with the resigned, fatalistic look of the Orient upon his parchmentlike face.

"It was Pu Yee," said King, "who engineered the smuggling of the rubies in the Manchu skull. It was he who entered the office and killed On Long Sin. When he left the restaurant, he saw me coming up Pell Street and attempted to turn me back, knowing that I would complicate things."

Pu Yee bowed his head. "It is all true. I saw a vision of wealth and power. With the Sung Dynasty rubies, I could have gone to another land and set myself up as a prosperous mandarin. I could have lived a life of ease."

Fung Tze motioned to two of the hatchet men. They stepped forward and ranged themselves on either side of Pu Yee. The old man raised his head.

"I am ready!"

Slowly, with the two executioners at his side, he marched out of the room.

"What are you going to do with him?" King asked Fung Tze.

The fat Chinaman looked away. "Do not ask, King san. The Sung Tong has its own mode of punishment for traitors. It were better that you did not know. I shall order that the boy, Daniel Moore, be freed. These rubies—they are yours for the price which On Long Sin set: one hundred thousand dollars."

King nodded. He took the money out of his wallet and handed it over. The hatchet men, at a nod from Fung Tze, began to pick up the scattered rubies.

"Get them ready," said King. "I'll be back to pick them up in twenty minutes—and to get Daniel Moore. I'll have the Manchu skull with me. It's yours."

He started for the door.

"Where do you go, King san?" Fung Tze inquired.

At the door, King turned and grinned slowly. "There's a black-haired girl in my office who thinks she's a jinx. I'm on my way to tell her different!"

THE END