The Night People

and Other Stories

Edward D. Hoch

For Joe Donoghue

Contents

Introduction

Inspector Fleming’s Last Case

The Man Who Was Everywhere

The Passionate Phantom

The Night People

Festival in Black

I’d Know You Anywhere

The Way of Justice

The Empty Zoo

Ring the Bell Softly

Stop at Nothing

Another War

The Impossible “Impossible Crime”

The Way Out

The Man at the Top

Burial Monuments Three

The Scorpion Girl

The Price of Wisdom

Second Chance

Three Weeks in a Spanish Town

The Rattlesnake Man

Introduction

THIS COLLECTION OF TWENTY non-series stories, 1957–1979, is intended as something of a companion volume to The Night My Friend, edited by Francis M. Nevins and published by Ohio University Press in 1992. That collection consisted of twenty-two stories from the 1960s. For the present volume I went back to the beginning in 1955 and chose thirty tales that I remembered fondly. I reread each of them and narrowed the list to these twenty. I think the two books, taken together, collect most of my best non-series stories prior to 1980.

Though there are a few detective stories here (and even an impossible crime), I cannot disagree with critics who find a certain noir quality to my non-series tales in this period. Even some of the titles, like “The Night People” and “Festival in Black” (the latter published here for the first time in America), suggest the influence of Cornell Woolrich. Through these stories I can see my development as a mystery writer, from the early tales in Manhunt and its digest-size clones to regular appearances in The Saint, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

Most of my work today, especially with my series characters, has been influenced more by Chesterton, Queen, and Carr, than by Woolrich. Yet editors still request my darker, more brooding stories from time to time and I’m happy to oblige. Even in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine I try to do at least one or two non-series tales each year.

So here are twenty of the best from those early years. Perhaps we’ll see a future volume covering the decades of the ’80s and ’90s.

—Edward D. Hoch

Inspector Fleming’s Last Case

THE RAIN WAS STILL falling when James Mitchell came out of the subway. It was a damp, cold rain that penetrated even through his topcoat and sent chills deep into bones. He started coughing again as soon as it hit him, and he paused to blow his nose and curse the weather.

It had been raining off and on for nearly a week now, soaking the piles of autumn leaves that lined the streets and sending half of his office staff home with colds. If this one of his got any worse, he’d be out tomorrow, too. Then what would they do with the piles of back orders on his desk? Well, it wouldn’t be his worry. He coughed once more and started down the long block to his house.

Darkness came early these nights. Already the streetlights were being turned on, and one might have thought it was midnight from the look of the sky. He glanced down at the damp newspaper under his arm, with its black headlines about the axe murder over on Smith Street. That was just three blocks away. At least the neighborhood would have some excitement for a change …

“Pardon me …”

“What?” he turned to look at the man who had stepped from the shadows next to him. “You startled me.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said softly.

James Mitchell peered at the man through the darkness and tried to remember where he had seen him before. Somewhere, during the past few days….

He tried to turn away, but the man grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute, Mr. Mitchell.”

“What?” He was startled by the sound of his name. “What do you want?”

And then James Mitchell saw the axe, and he knew what the man wanted.

He saw it go up and then start its downward swing. There was just time for him to throw his hands in front of his face.

The first blow of the axe tore at his fingers. He never really felt the second blow …

“Really Fleming, you must be reasonable about this,” the Police Commissioner was saying.

Inspector Arnold Fleming moved in his chair and tried to understand the words he was hearing. It couldn’t be, really. He must have misunderstood the Commissioner.

“Retire? You want me to retire from the Police Department?” Was that really what the Commissioner had said?

“Fleming, you’re sixty-seven now. That’s already two years over the retirement age. And the new administration has decided to make retirement of city employees mandatory at the age of sixty-five.”

“But … but I’ve been on the force all my life. I don’t know what I’d do if….”

The Commissioner avoided Fleming’s eyes as he thumbed through some papers on his desk. “I’m sorry, Fleming. There’s nothing more to be said. Prepare to turn over all your active investigations to Carter.”

The haze in front of Fleming’s eyes cleared for a moment. “But what about the two axe murders yesterday? Do you want me to give that up, too? This may be the beginning of another Jack-the-Ripper thing.”

The Commissioner’s frown deepened. “Let’s hope not. What have you got on it so far?”

“Nothing. Nothing except an old woman named Sadie Kratch and a middle-aged businessman named James Mitchell. Both murdered in the same way, with an axe, within a few blocks of each other, yesterday. Mitchell got it on the way home from the office yesterday evening, and the old woman on the front porch of her house, early yesterday morning.”

The man behind the desk grunted. “No connection between them?”

“None, except they lived near each other. The old woman lived alone and was apparently a drug addict; Mitchell had a wife and child.”

“Well, I think Carter will be able to handle the investigation all right. Tell him the facts and….”

The private phone on the Commissioner’s desk purred, and he snatched it up with a heavy fist. “Hello?”

He listened in silence for a moment and then hung up. Tiny beads of sweat were beginning to appear on his forehead, and Fleming wondered if it was warm in the room despite his occasional chills.

The Commissioner wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“They’ve found another one,” he said quietly. “It looks like you were right.”

Inspector Fleming looked at him. “Another one?”

“Another body. Another body with its head chopped open by an axe. Another body like the other two….”

“I’ll go right away,” Fleming said.

“Wait….”

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“Fleming, you’re the best man we’ve got, and it looks like I’m going to need you now. Forget about that retirement business until this fellow’s caught.”

“You mean you want me to stay on the case?”

“Yes, and by God, get him before he kills another one.”

“I’ll try,” Inspector Fleming said quietly.

So this was to be his last case, he thought, as he looked down at the wet grass that formed a cushion for the third of the axe killer’s victims. He remembered the first one quite well, as though it were yesterday. It had been a payroll holdup downtown, and he’d nabbed the two stickup men within an hour. They’d had his picture on the front page of the paper, and he’d gotten a promotion.

How long ago was that? He was only a beat cop then, nearly forty-five years ago. It had been a long time, a long life.

But what was there now? Not the things other men had. Not the wife he’d wanted but never found. Not the children to comfort you when there was nothing else. The Police Department had been his whole life, and now they were taking it away. Just one more case, and it would be all over.

Maybe it would be better if that were his body in the tall wet grass, mashed and bloody, instead of….

“Tony DeLuca. He’s a small-time hoodlum. Used to hang around the Fey Club. I don’t get it, Arnold. I just don’t get it at all.”

Fleming was silent. Carter was the only man in the department who called him by his first name. Carter was a good detective, but not too experienced for a case like this.

“What don’t you get, boy?” Fleming finally said.

“What’s there to connect an old woman, a married business man and a cheap hoodlum, even in the mind of a crazy man?”

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps they were nearest when he got the urge.”

“But he went to the old woman’s house. At seven in the morning. He got her out of bed and killed her on the front porch. He wanted her, and no one else.”

“You’re right there,” Fleming sighed. They were taking the body away now, to the morgue, where they’d cut it open to find the cause of death. Fleming laughed at that. The head had almost been split in two, and they would cut him open to find out how she died….

“It’s funny, though,” Carter was saying, half to himself, “these nuts usually wait a while between killings. Even the Ripper or the Cleveland Butcher didn’t kill three within twenty-four hours. It’s not even a full moon or anything.”

Fleming looked toward the noonday sky and felt the light drizzle against his face. No one in this city had seen the moon or the sun for a good many days.

“Well, Carter, check the usual places. Find out if any of them had any enemies….”

“I’ll bet this DeLuca had plenty.”

“Probably. Did he live around here?”

“No. On the other side of town. But the Fey Club is nearby, and he always hung out in this section of town.”

“So we have all three victims living in or frequenting an area of about one mile square. That may mean something, Carter.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. We’ll comb the neighborhood.”

“Good.” They walked back to the street.

“You going back to headquarters, Arnold?”

“Hardly. You probably know this is to be my last case before my retirement. I’m staying on the job.”

“But this rain…. There’s a lot of germs going around. Half the people in town have got colds or coughs or something. Do you think you should stay out in it, at your age?”

“At my age?” Fleming flared up. “At my age men run for President, and climb mountains, and lead armies. But I’m being retired, because I’m too old!”

“I’m sorry, Arnold. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“I’m staying on this case till the end—till we capture this madman, or till I drop over from trying.”

“All right, Arnold.”

“And remember….”

“Yes?”

Fleming watched the morgue wagon roll down the street ahead of them. “Remember, we have to get him before there’s another one. Whoever he is, we can’t let him kill again….”

While Carter began a roundup of known psychopaths, Fleming drove over to the tiny cottage-like house that had been the home of Sadie Kratch, the axe killer’s first victim.

The house was deserted now, except for the cop Fleming had left on guard. Sadie Kratch had spent her last years alone, and she had died alone there on the front porch, except for a blood-spattered killer who had found his first victim….

The rooms where the old woman had spent her last days were nothing. Bare, dirty walls, cluttered closets, dirty dishes…. Perhaps Sadie Kratch was better off dead. She’d taken drugs shortly before her death, but he found no trace of them in the tiny house.

The medicine cabinet, with a mirror cracked down the middle, yielded only a half-empty bottle of cough medicine from a neighborhood drug store. The prescription had been filled three days earlier, according to the date on the label. Fleming dropped the bottle into his raincoat pocket and went back out to the car. He had to start someplace, and this was as good as any.

Wagner’s Drug was the kind of place he knew it would be. Small, quiet, neighborly, with a window display showing the history of medicine through the ages. Inside, there was Mr. Wagner himself, with white coat and tired smile, waiting expectantly for the next customer.

“Good afternoon, sir. Anything I can do for you?”

Fleming showed his badge and the bottle of cough medicine. Mr. Wagner began to turn pale with the citizen’s eternal fear of police.

“What … what do you want?”

“Just some information. You filled this prescription for Sadie Kratch three days ago?”

The druggist took the bottle and studied it for a moment before replying. “That’s correct. I remember now, I was just getting ready to close when she came in. She was coughing something awful.”

“Who was her doctor?”

“Oh, Sadie couldn’t afford a regular doctor. Whenever she wasn’t feeling good, she went up to the city hospital, to the outpatient department. They’d give her something to fix her up, or else send her to me.”

“Did you know she was taking narcotics?”

“Sadie? No, I can’t believe….”

“Well, she took some shortly before she was murdered, anyhow. We found some morphine in her.”

“Poor Sadie,” Mr. Wagner said and shook his head sadly. “Poor old Sadie….”

No, Sadie Kratch had no enemies. No friends, but no enemies, either. It had taken Fleming all afternoon and ten more interviews with neighbors and shopkeepers to establish that. He was tired by the time he finished, tired and cold and wet.

All afternoon the rain had kept coming down, not hard, but with that irritating drizzle that seemed like it would never let up. How many days was it now? Seven. Seven days with hardly a break in this miserable rain.

It was nearly suppertime when he stopped the car in front of the funeral parlor where James Mitchell rested in peace. Last night at just about this time he had been alive and happy. Now, he was dead, and his future fame would be only in the true crime magazines, where he would be known as the killer’s second victim.

Fleming went in, and looked around until he found Mrs. Mitchell, a young, good-looking woman, who seemed somehow very small and helpless in the black dress she wore.

“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m very sorry to bother you again….”

“That’s … that’s all right, Inspector. Anything I can do to help….”

“Mrs. Mitchell, I want you to keep a special watch for strangers. Oh, I know the newspaper stories will attract a lot of the curious, but there’s a chance the killer might come, too. I’m going to leave a man here with you, just in case….”

“Anything you say, Inspector. Anything to find the man who did this to Jim….”

Fleming nodded and went over to say a brief prayer before the sealed coffin. Then he left the funeral home and drove back to Headquarters….

The Commissioner was there and Carter, and a dozen more. They were listening to Fleming as he stood before a wall map of the city.

“These three pins show the scenes of the three murders. You’ll note that all the killings took place on the east side of the river, and all within the same general area.”

“Do you have any leads yet?” the Commissioner asked.

“Nothing yet, sir. But it won’t be long.”

“I hope not. The papers are screaming for action.”

The papers were always screaming for action, Fleming thought. He passed a hand over his forehead. His head was beginning to ache, and he felt very tired. Maybe he was getting old, after all.

“What I can’t figure out,” Carter said, “is how the killer could walk through the streets, even at night, covered with bloodstains. And he couldn’t have killed them like that without getting some blood on him.”

Fleming closed his eyes and thought about it. Finally he said, “All he had to do was wear one of those plastic raincoats that all the stores sell. The rain would have washed the blood right off.”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “I guess you’re right.”

The Commissioner smiled. “He’s always right. We’re going to hate to lose him after this case.”

Fleming went into his office and closed the door behind him. Yes, they’d hate to lose him. Then Carter and the Commissioner could sweat the cases out between them, while he did nothing all day but rest and relax….

He stretched out on his couch for a few minutes to think about it, to think about a life without the clatter of teletypes and the screech of sirens in the night. But even as he thought, he knew there could never be such a life for him. He had been a man-hunter for forty-five years, and he couldn’t stop now. After the axe murders, there would be other crimes to be solved. They would need him. Didn’t they understand that? They would need him….

“Fleming, wake up!”

“I’m not asleep, Carter. Only resting my eyes. What is it?”

“One of those nuts we pulled in just confessed to the murders.”

Fleming grunted. “Let’s go see him.”

His name was Ralph. Even he didn’t know what his last name was. Fleming had seen him around town from time to time, selling newspapers or doing odd jobs. He was big, well over six feet, with strong, powerful hands.

“Tell us about it again, Ralph. Tell us again.”

“I killed them, I tell you. I killed them all.” He clutched his big hands together as he talked.

Fleming left the room and returned in a minute with a long kitchen knife. “Is this the knife you used, Ralph?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. I killed them all with that.”

Carter sighed and followed Fleming from the room….

“There’s always a dozen nuts ready to confess after every murder, Carter,” Fleming told him. “That doesn’t mean you have to believe them all.”

“I know. I just thought maybe….”

“Well, hold him for examination. In the meantime, have you got any other ideas?”

“One, Arnold, but I don’t know what you’ll think of it.”

Fleming sighed. The headache was getting worse. “Let’s hear it, anyway.”

“Well, suppose that this Mrs. Mitchell was having an affair with another man. Suppose they decided to get rid of her husband without directing suspicion toward themselves.”

“You mean the first and third murders would be necessary only to hide the real motive for the second murder?”

“Yes. I read something like that in a book once.”

Fleming smiled slightly. “I read the same one. Christie, I believe. Well, personally I have strong doubts that Mrs. Mitchell is anyone who would plot to kill her husband in such a brutal way, but if you can find another man in the picture, I might listen to you.”

“Good. I’ll give it a try, anyhow, Arnold.”

Fleming watched him walk quickly away, full of that usual youthful drive, the ability to overcome the fantastic odds, that had once been the mark of Arnold Fleming as well. Carter was in many ways much like a son to him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad giving the department to Carter.

But then what would he do, when the long nights rolled in across the river….

And the world was silent except for the clatter of the Teletype and the screeching of the sirens….

What would he do …?

The Fey Club was alive with midnight activity when Fleming pushed open the door and stood looking over the line of men and women at the bar. A few familiar faces nodded toward him and then turned to whisper among themselves.

The Fey Club had been Tony DeLuca’s hangout. Why? Fleming had heard there was a singer here….

The lights dimmed, even as the thought crossed his mind, and then a sudden flickering pink spotlight picked out the girl leaning against the white piano….

“… the … night … is mine….”

The voice, the voice of a thousand nightclubs from Broadway to Frisco, sang out across the crowded room. It was not a good voice, but it had that quality, that thing about it that excited younger men and disturbed even Fleming. This, then, was Rhonda Roberts, the girl in Tony DeLuca’s life.

And possibly the girl in his death, as well?

Fleming watched, bewitched, for twenty minutes, as the spotlight wove a fabric of beauty around her face, her body, her silken legs. She never moved from that spot, and when the light would drop away from her entirely, there was a feeling that the voice must have been coming from another world.

Then, suddenly, it was over, and the house lights grew bright again. Fleming stayed to watch part of the next act, a young Negro playing something very fast on a set of silver drums. Then he walked backstage to the dressing rooms.

She was just finished changing when he knocked on the open door and stepped inside.

“Well? What do you want, pop?”

“Police. I have a few questions,”

“About Tony?”

“That’s right.”

“He was a bum.”

“I understood you two were friendly.”

She slipped a dressing gown over the brief pink costume she’d changed to, and lit a cigarette. “That was a long time ago, believe me. He was a joker that just wouldn’t give up trying, that’s all.”

“He have any enemies?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“You kill him?”

“With a hatchet? Are you kidding? What do you think I am, a damn Indian or something? I’d have shot him. Right between the eyes.”

“You don’t go with your voice, Miss Roberts.”

“What?”

“I heard you sing out there. I was expecting something quite different.”

That shut her up for a minute while she thought over his remark and its meaning. Finally she gave up and said, “Well, he was no good, anyway.”

“He ever give you any presents?”

“Tony?” she laughed. “The only thing he ever gave me was this cold I’ve got. He was just a cheap punk, always hanging around, always bothering me. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Fleming nodded in sympathy. Somehow, Rhonda Roberts reminded him of another girl he’d once known, a girl he’d almost married. At the time he’d been glad he hadn’t, but now sometimes when the nights were long and lonely he wished it had turned out differently.

He said goodbye to Tony DeLuca’s ex-girlfriend and left the Fey Club’s smoky haze for the foggy dampness of the outside world….

Three people.

An old woman, a married man, and a young hoodlum, all with their skulls split open.

Three pins on a map of the city….

Had it just happened that way? Had they just been the first persons he’d seen, or did the madman find some link between them?

“Nothing on Mitchell’s wife. I checked all the neighbors, everything. If she was playing around with another guy, she was keeping it mighty quiet.”

“Don’t worry about it, Carter. I never thought too much of that idea, anyway.” Fleming lifted himself from his chair and stared out the window at the gloomy mist. “Isn’t this rain ever going to stop, Carter?”

“I guess not, Arnold.”

Fleming sighed and looked away. His head was still hurting him….

“Have you been getting enough sleep, Arnold?”

“No, damn it! Do you expect me to sleep with this thing going on? How do we know he wasn’t out again last night, with his axe?”

The Teletype came to life then, and Carter walked over to read it. “Here’s something….”

Fleming joined him and they read it together. BODY OF MAN FOUND IN ROOM OF STAR HOTEL, APPARENT HOMICIDE.

“Do you think …?”

“No,” Fleming said, “not in a hotel room. The others were all outside. And besides, it’s on the wrong side of the river.”

“We’d better get down there, anyway.”

“Yeah.”

They drove across town to the Star Hotel, one of the best in the city. Already there was a crowd in the lobby, and they had to fight their way through to the elevator.

Upstairs, Fleming took one look at the cops’ faces and knew what they would find inside.

The man’s name had been Harold Rothman. He was a salesman for an electric switch company. He had been in town only four days. He’d been dead about twelve hours when the chambermaid found him, and there was no doubt that he was the fourth victim of the axe murderer….

“You were right, Arnold,” Carter told him, sometime later. “I checked the calls he’d made while he was in town. One of them was in the same section as the other murders.”

Fleming grunted and went back to studying the map. “But of course now, Carter, the problem is somewhat different. Before there was always the possibility that our killer had picked people at random, striking whoever happened to be near. But now he has entered a hotel room, murdered this man, and escaped past dozens of people with an axe probably hidden under his coat. Why did he take such a chance, when the streets and alleys and parks of the city offer him thousands of victims?”

“Yeah, that does seem off-base for a regular nut.”

“It means that he didn’t kill these four people at random, Carter. It means that he had a motive all along, something that linked these people, at least in his twisted mind.”

“But this last one, Rothman. He’d never been here before. And he only got in town four days ago.”

“But during those days he visited this section of the city,” Fleming pointed at the map. “And he must have met the killer.”

Carter produced a list from his pocket. “Here’s everything he did, as near as I can check. He flew in from New York four days ago, checked into the Star. Was seen at the hotel bar that night. Next morning stopped by the hotel physician to get something for a cold. Made three calls the rest of the day, the last one being in our area here. Spent that night in the bar, too. Made four calls the next day, and phoned New York. That night went to two nightclubs, but not to the Fey Club, in case you’re wondering. Yesterday made three more calls, returning to the hotel around six. Shortly after that, the killer apparently visited his room.”

Fleming grunted. “Did you find any clues in the room?”

“Just some traces of the dead man’s blood in the shower. As you suspected, the killer had to wash it off his raincoat before he left the room.”

“Yeah…. But that puts us no nearer to him than before. And soon it’ll be night again.”

Carter lit a cigarette and stood looking at the map with its four red pins.

Fleming walked to the window and gazed out at the rain. Wouldn’t it ever stop? Suppose it didn’t, he wondered. Suppose it rained forever….

Old woman, business man, hoodlum, salesman….

Kratch, Mitchell, DeLuca, Rothman….

He looked out at the rain again….

“You know. Carter, those four did have one thing in common.” But Carter had gone. He was alone in his office.

He sat down to think about it. The more he thought about it the more fantastic it seemed. His head was beginning to hurt again. This damn dampness….

He put on his raincoat and went downstairs and walked across the street to the morgue. Doc Adams was just starting the autopsy on Harold Rothman.

“Find anything, doc?”

“Nothing yet, except that he was killed with an axe, and I guess you know that.”

Fleming leaned against the wall as the doctor worked. It was not a pretty thing to watch. “This the first axe killing you’ve examined, doc?”

“Yeah. The other three were on Doctor Perry’s side of the river.”

“Tell me, doc, have you had any natural deaths around the same section this week?”

“Sure, plenty of ’em. People die every day. Now stop asking me questions while I’m working.”

“Okay, doc.” Fleming moved toward the door. “I was especially interested in a death that maybe wasn’t quite natural….”

The doc didn’t answer for nearly a minute, and Fleming started out the door.

“Well, I suppose that one on First Street wasn’t really natural.”

“Which one was that?”

“The girl that died from an overdose of morphine….”

It was shortly after six that evening when Fleming knocked on the door of an apartment on Smith Street, just a few doors away from Sadie Kratch’s house. He was back now, back where it had all started.

Maybe he should have told Carter or the Commissioner. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here alone….

But this was his last case…. And this would be the end of it, something to remember when there was nothing else.

When there was nothing else….

The door opened slowly, and he faced the killer, the man who had murdered Sadie Kratch, and James Mitchell, and Tony DeLuca, and Harold Rothman….

They had been just names to Fleming, just as their killer was just a name. Names at the end of a lifetime of this sort of thing. He had not been scared when he captured the two holdup men on that day forty-five years ago. And he was not scared now.

Even when he saw the axe rise in front of him and begin its slow, deadly arc….

He simply brushed it aside with his arm, and, surprisingly there was no resistance. The axe clattered to the floor, and the killer of four people, sat down in a chair and began to cry….

Sometime, for everyone, there is an end. And for the murderer sometime there must be an end to the killing….

Fleming looked at the man in the chair, still clad in his white druggist’s coat, and felt a little sorry. “Yes, Mr. Wagner,” he said quietly, “I know why you killed all those people….”

“… you killed them, Mr. Wagner, because they were going to die anyway, because you had made a mistake, the single mistake that every man is entitled to. But the mistake that would have meant the end, for all time, of your profession as a druggist.

“That’s what I noticed first, of course. That all four of them had a cold when they died. And I began thinking about the cough medicine in Sadie Kratch’s house and the cough medicine that the killer might have removed from Harold Rothman’s hotel room.

“I thought about the morphine in the old woman, when none was found in the house, and then I learned about the morphine death a few days ago in the same neighborhood….

“The rest wasn’t too hard to imagine. A lot of people in town had colds, a lot of them called their doctors. And quite a few got prescriptions for cough medicine. So during the past few days, five people came to you for cough medicine. And that was where you made the mistake. You gave them morphine instead of the milder codeine that most cough medicines contain. Morphine’s good for a cough, too, but not in the amount you put in the medicine.

“The first to die from it was a young girl, and when you saw it in the papers it scared you. You realized you’d made a mistake, and you were afraid the other four would die too, or at least get sick from it. The death of the girl had somehow passed more or less unnoticed, but a series of morphine deaths would be quickly traced to you.

“So you had to kill the other four, because by confessing your mistake in time to save them, you’d have ruined yourself for life. Your profession was more important than a few lives. It was everything to you.

“And somehow I understand it. I understand what was in your mind better than anyone else could….

“Because it’s in my mind, too….

“Why the axe? I suppose that was some fantastic bit of misdirection to keep attention away from the body, from the stomach, where traces of the morphine could be quickly found. But actually only the old woman took enough for us to notice. Or perhaps you didn’t make the same mistake with the other three after all….

“My head is aching again. It’s taken me a long time to find you….

“You tried to make us think it was the work of an insane fiend, but I know you aren’t mad….

“You just wanted to keep your job.

“Like I do….

“Because you know when I bring you in, I’m all through. They’re going to retire me then, like an old horse.

“There isn’t anything else for me, but they’re going to retire me and this is my last case….

“Inspector Fleming’s Last Case….

“Perhaps that’s what the newspapers will call it.

“Perhaps….

“My head aches.

“You killed four people to keep your job … four people….

“But this doesn’t have to be the end, does it? I’m the only one who knows….

“Suppose the axe fiend kept on killing….

“Then I couldn’t retire. Then they’d keep me. Then….

“Suppose you were to die, Mr. Wagner, the way the others did. Suppose I were to pick up the axe like this and….

“Suppose….”

The Man Who Was Everywhere

HE FIRST NOTICED THE new man in the neighborhood on a Tuesday evening, on his way home from the station. The man was tall and thin, with a look about him that told Ray Bankcroft he was English. It wasn’t anything Ray could put his finger on, the fellow just looked English.

That was all there was to their first encounter, and the second meeting passed just as casually, Friday evening at the station. The fellow was living around Pelham some place, maybe in that new apartment house in the next block.

But it was the following week that Ray began to notice him everywhere. The tall Englishman rode down to New York with Ray on the 8:09, and he was eating a few tables away at Howard Johnson’s one noon. But that was the way things were in New York, Ray told himself, where you sometimes ran into the same person every day for a week, as though the laws of probability didn’t exist.

It was on the weekend, when Ray and his wife journeyed up to Stamford for a picnic, that he became convinced the Englishman was following him. For there, fifty miles from home, the tall stranger came striding slowly across the rolling hills, pausing now and then to take in the beauty of the place.

“Damn it, Linda,” Ray remarked to his wife, “there’s that fellow again!”

“What fellow, Ray?”

“That Englishman from our neighborhood. The one I was telling you I see everywhere.”

“Oh, is that him?” Linda Bankcroft frowned through the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. “I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”

“Well, he must be living in that new apartment in the next block. I’d like to know what the hell he’s doing up here, though. Do you think he could be following me?”

“Oh, Ray, don’t be silly,” Linda laughed. “Why would anyone want to follow you? And to a picnic!”

“I don’t know, but it’s certainly odd the way he keeps turning up….”

It certainly was odd.

And as the summer passed into September, it grew odder still. Once, twice, three times a week, the mysterious Englishman appeared, always walking, always seemingly oblivious of his surroundings.

Finally, one night on Ray Bankcroft’s way home, it suddenly grew to be too much for him.

He walked up to the man and asked, “Are you following me?”

The Englishman looked down his nose with a puzzled frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you following me?” Ray repeated. “I see you everywhere.”

“My dear chap, really, you must be mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken. Stop following me!”

But the Englishman only shook his head sadly and walked away. And Ray stood and watched him until he was out of sight….

“Linda, I saw him again today!”

“Who, dear?”

“That damned Englishman! He was in the elevator in my building.”

“Are you sure it was the same man?”

“Of course I’m sure! He’s everywhere, I tell you! I see him every day now, on the street, on the train, at lunch, and now even in the elevator! It’s driving me crazy. I’m certain he’s following me. But why?”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I’ve spoken to him, cursed at him, threatened him. But it doesn’t do any good. He just looks puzzled and walks away. And then the next day there he is again.”

“Maybe you should call the police. But I suppose he hasn’t really done anything.”

“That’s just the trouble, Linda. He hasn’t done a single thing. It’s just that he’s always around. The damned thing is driving me crazy.”

“What—what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! The next time I see him I’m going to grab him and beat the truth out of him. I’ll get to the bottom of this….”

The next night, the tall Englishman was back, walking just ahead of him on the train platform. Ray ran toward him, but the Englishman disappeared in the crowd.

Perhaps the whole thing was just a coincidence, and yet….

Later that night Ray ran out of cigarettes, and when he left the apartment and headed for the corner drugstore, he knew the tall Englishman would be waiting for him along the route.

And as he came under the pale red glow of the flickering neon, he saw the man, walking slowly across the street from the railroad tracks.

Ray knew that this must be the final encounter.

“Say there!”

The Englishman paused and looked at him distastefully, then turned and walked away from Ray.

“Wait a minute, you! We’re going to settle this once and for all!”

But the Englishman kept walking.

Ray cursed and started after him through the darkness. He called out, “Come back here!” But now the Englishman was almost running.

Ray broke into a trot, following him down the narrow street that led along the railroad tracks. “Damn you, come back! I want to talk to you!”

But the Englishman ran on, faster and faster. Finally Ray paused, out of breath.

And ahead, the Englishman had paused too.

Ray could see the gleaming glow of his wristwatch as he raised his hand in a gesture. And Ray saw that he was beckoning him to follow….

Ray broke into a run again.

The Englishman waited only a moment and then he too ran, keeping close to the edge of the railroad wall, where only a few inches separated him from a twenty-foot drop to the tracks below.

In the distance, Ray heard the low whistle of the Stamford Express, tearing through the night.

Ahead, the Englishman rounded a brick wall that jutted out almost to the edge of the embankment. He was out of sight around the corner for a moment, but Ray was now almost upon him. He rounded the wall himself and saw, too late, that the Englishman was waiting for him there.

The man’s big hands came at him, and all at once Ray was pushed and falling sideways, over the edge of the railroad wall, clawing helplessly at the air.

And as he hit the tracks, he saw that the Stamford Express was almost upon him, filling all space with its terrible sound….

Some time later, the tall Englishman peered through a cloud of blue cigarette smoke at the graceful figure of Linda Bankcroft and said, “As I remarked at the beginning of all this, my darling, a proper murder is the ultimate game of skill….”

The Passionate Phantom

“YOU MEAN YOU’VE NEVER met Ida Spain?” Hastings asked with an incredulity that was rare for him. “Man, she’s slept with everybody in town. How did you get left out?”

Crandell sipped his drink and smiled. “I’m a happily married man, Foster. I’d have no reason to know Ida Spain.”

Foster Hastings shook his head sadly. “I thought everybody knew her. I can’t understand it. You really mean you’ve never even heard the name before?”

Jim Crandell’s smile broadened. “I told you, Foster. That stuff isn’t for me.”

“Not even when you’re away, man? I’ve heard stories about traveling salesmen.”

“And farmer’s daughters, I know. I guess I’m just different.”

“Well, you come around to one of our parties and meet her, anyway. It’ll make you feel young again.”

Jim Crandell chuckled. “I’ve got someone at home who makes me feel young every weekend. I’ll be seeing you, Foster.”

“So long, Jim….”

Home was a little ranch house in the suburbs, with roses in the yard and good food in the kitchen. And Doris waiting there by the door as she always was.

“How was the trip, dear?”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and peeled off his topcoat. “Good trip, but the weather was terrible up there. I’ll swear it must have been down to forty in Toronto.”

“I’ve got supper all ready.”

“Good.” He glanced at the evening newspaper briefly and then for some reason his mind returned to the conversation with Foster Hastings.

“Doris?”

She stuck her head around the kitchen door. “Yes dear?”

“Did you ever hear of a girl called Ida Spain?”

“Ida Spain?”

“Yeah. I met Foster Hastings—you know, the fellow from the bank. He happened to tell me about her.” Jim answered.

“Ida Spain … Gosh, dear, that name is familiar. I think I did meet her once or twice. Seems to me she was quite a beautiful woman. What did Foster say about her?”

“Well, I guess she really gets around. I was just surprised I’d never met her.”

“Why be surprised when you’re out of town three or four nights a week? We don’t exactly enter into the social whirl, you know.”

It was an old argument between them, and he didn’t want to go into it now. “Well, it’s not really important. She’s probably not my type anyway. Foster just happened to mention her.”

The food was smelling good, and he put down the paper and followed her into the kitchen, forgetting for the time about the girl named Ida Spain….

It was many days later, and he’d just gotten back from a trip to Washington. The desk in his office was cluttered with two days’ accumulation of mail, and as he prowled through the pile in search of any unexpected orders that might lurk there, the telephone gave a shrill nagging peal.

“Crandell?”

“Jim, I’m glad I caught you. This is Foster Hastings.”

“I just got in from Washington, Foster.”

“Look, you’ve been saying that you never met this Ida Spain….

“Ida Spain?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, I’m at a little cocktail party at the Clinton Hotel, and she’s here. Why don’t you come over?”

“Oh, I don’t think….”

“Come on. The little woman will never miss you for an hour or so.”

“Well….”

“She’s worth seeing, believe me.”

“Okay, Foster. You talked me into it. Where are you, in the cocktail lounge?”

“That’s right. At the Clinton.”

Jim Crandell smiled to himself as he gathered up the mail and stuffed it into his desk drawer. He never thought he’d be going out of his way to see a girl who’d slept with everybody in town, but the thing had his curiosity aroused. Of course he’d only been in this city a few years, but it seemed odd that his path had never crossed that of Ida Spain before.

He reached the Clinton Hotel ten minutes later, and walked into the bubbling maze of people milling about the bar with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. Jim didn’t know any of them really well, though one or two faces were familiar. His gaze settled on the women, and he found himself wondering which was the elusive Ida Spain. There was a striking blonde with a long cigarette holder, and a dignified business girl in a tweed suit, and a redhead in a tight sweater.

Then he spotted Foster Hastings, lounging against the bar with an older man. “I made it, Foster. How are you?”

“Swell, Jim, but I’m afraid your trip was for nothing. She left not five minutes ago. I tried to get her to stay, but it was hopeless.”

“Oh, come on now, Foster. I think you’ve been kidding me all along.”

“Honest,” he held up his hand, “ask Pinky here. He knows her.”

The man named Pinky nodded in agreement. “If you mean Ida Spain, she’s the nicest thing this town’s seen in a long time.”

“Well, where does she live?” Jim asked while he signaled the bartender for a drink.

“Who knows?” Foster Hastings answered. “She doesn’t entertain in her home. From what I hear, she prefers a little motel just outside of town.”

Jim grunted. “She really goes around picking up men?”

Pinky laughed. “She’s a real nympho, man. Reminds me of a girl I knew down in New York once.”

Jim downed a shot of scotch and followed it with water. “Well, maybe I’ll get to meet her someday. I’ve got to be heading for home now, fellows.” He set down his glass and nodded to Pinky. “Glad to have met you,” he said, even though they hadn’t really been introduced.

He left the hotel and went in search of his car. The whole trip had been a waste of time, really, and he wondered what queer quirk of his mind had even led him there. Whoever Ida Spain was, whatever she did, it didn’t concern him. But somehow the thing did bother him. He stopped at a corner drug store and looked up her name in the city directory. There was no Ida Spain listed. But of course she could easily be living in one of the countless suburbs outside the city limits. What difference did it make, anyway?

It was dark when he reached home, and Doris was at work in the kitchen. “You’re late, dear.”

“I had to stop someplace.”

“How was the trip?”

“Good. Same as always. Dull, but good.”

She kissed him lightly and then went back to the kitchen. “I’ll have supper ready in a minute, dear.”

He picked up the evening paper and glanced at the front page. “What did you do while I was away?”

“Oh, the usual things. Bridge with a few of the neighborhood girls, a movie at the Strand.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking, Doris. You’re right when you say you never get out very much. I’ll bet you haven’t even been downtown in weeks. We visit the neighbors and one or two other people and that’s it. Why, you’ve never even met any of the people I work with, or any of my friends downtown.”

She reappeared from the kitchen and smiled bravely. “I know, dear. I’ve been telling you that for years—or months, at least. I’m glad you finally agree that a salesman’s wife has a dull life.”

“Well, I’m going to make up for it, starting tonight. I’m going to call Foster Hastings and his wife. I just saw him today and I know he’d like to go out with us.”

“Foster Hastings?”

“You’ve never met him, but I’m always talking about him. Swell fellow.”

“Oh, not tonight, Jim. I just don’t feel up to it tonight.”

“Okay. Don’t say I never suggest it, though.” He joined her at the table and inhaled the warm odor of soup. “Smells good. You always were a good little cook.”

“I’m glad I’m a good little something.”

“Oh, you know that girl, Ida Spain?”

“Yes?”

“I almost met her today. Didn’t miss her by five minutes.”

“Why are you so anxious to meet her, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Everyone seems to know her but me.”

“Well, believe me, she’s nothing special, dear.”

He laughed. “That’s a typical woman’s viewpoint.”

The conversation shifted to other topics, and once again the misty form of Ida Spain passed from his consciousness.

The next time Jim Crandell heard the name was the following week, when he was lunching with Bill Kook, one of the inside salesmen.

“You know Foster Hastings, don’t you, Bill?”

Bill Kook, big, smiling, never troubled, thought about it for a moment before he nodded. “I’ve met him once or twice.”

“He was telling me about a new girl around town named Ida Spain. She’s supposed to be really something.”

Bill Kook chuckled. “You can say that again. I’ve been out with her once or twice myself. She’s really the end!”

“You too! What does she look like, anyway?”

“An angel, boy; just an angel.”

Jim frowned and lit a cigarette. “How come I’ve never met her if she’s around so much?”

Bill thought about it. “Well, you’re out of town usually during the week. And she’s never around on weekends.”

“She isn’t! How come?”

“Who knows? Some of the boys think she’s got a husband on the side. If that’s the story, though, he must be a real dope not to keep better track of her.”

“Well, look, I’m not going to be away this week. See if you can fix it up so I meet her.”

Bill Kook chuckled. “What’s the matter, Jim? Your wife not treating you right?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just interested. I’ve heard so much about her, yet I’ve never met her.”

Bill smiled knowingly. “Okay, boy. I’ll see what I can do.”

But the week passed without any word from Bill, and when Jim asked him about it on Friday he simply shrugged and replied that she hadn’t been around lately. That was all. She hadn’t been around lately.

The next week he was out of town again, this time to a city in West Virginia. But by Thursday the vague vision of this girl he’d never met was too much for him. He put in a long distance call to the office and asked for Bill Kook.

“Bill, Jim Crandell here.”

“Yes, Jim.” And then the eternal question, “How’s the trip going?”

“Good, but I think I can finish up here a day earlier than I expected. I’m flying back early this evening. I was wondering if there might be anything doing.”

“Doing, Jim?”

“You know—any place that Ida Spain might turn up.”

“Funny you should mention that, Jim. I just had a drink with her last night. Some friend of Foster Hastings is having a party tonight and she expects to be there.”

“Where is it?”

“Just a small affair at the fellow’s apartment. I think it’s in the Clinton Arms. His name is Pinky something.”

“I met him once. Thanks, Bill. I’ll find it. It’s swell of you to cut me in on the fun.”

Two hours later, as his plane slid beneath an overcast sky for an easy landing, Jim debated briefly about calling Doris from the airport. Finally he decided against it, mainly because he couldn’t yet explain his odd actions even to himself. The thing had grown like an obsession within him. He had to see this girl. She was suddenly more important than anything else, even Doris.

He found the Clinton Arms without trouble, and even the location of the party was obvious from the muffled murmur that reached his ears. He checked the name on the door—Pinky Peterson—and walked in.

Foster Hastings was the first to notice him. He detached himself from a slim blonde and came over with a drink, “Swell to see you, boy. That fellow from your office—Kook—said you might drop by.”

“He did, huh? Where’s Ida Spain?”

Hastings seemed puzzled by his abrupt manner, but he pointed toward the kitchen. “She’s back there with our host.”

Jim pushed his way through the dozen or so people in the living room and made for the kitchen. Now….

But there was only Pinky, pulling an ice cube tray from the refrigerator. “Hi there.”

“Where’s Ida Spain?”

“Ida?” He laughed. “Did you check the bedroom?”

Jim pushed past him and looked into the darkened room. It was empty. “Where is she, damn it?”

“Hey, fella, get a grip on yourself. How the hell should I know what happened to her?”

Jim went through the darkened bedroom on the run and yanked open a door at the far side. It led back into the hall.

“That door should be locked,” Pinky mumbled behind him. “Somebody must have opened it.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you so excited about, anyway? I thought you didn’t know the girl.”

“I don’t.” He walked back through the kitchen, past the laughing people, and out of the apartment, feeling curiously empty inside. He was like a boy watching someone else eating his cake.

There was nothing to do then but go home, and he walked slowly toward the cab stand down the street. She had cheated him again, he knew, and it was almost as if she was trying to avoid the meeting between them. What manner of woman was this, he wondered, What manner of woman …?

The house was dark when he got there, and the car was gone from the garage. Doris would be at the movies again, not expecting his return until tomorrow. He dropped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and put a pot of coffee on the stove.

Suddenly the telephone leaped to life in the living room and he went to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Jim?”

“That’s right. Who’s this?”

“Bill Kook.” There was a note of near-terror in the voice. “Look, Jim. I was at the party tonight, with Ida Spain. We were in the kitchen when you arrived….”

Jim’s body tensed. Had he really been that close to meeting her?

“Where are you now? Is she still with you?”

“Yes, she’s here. At my apartment. She stepped into the bathroom for a minute and I had to call you. Jim,” the voice dropped to a whisper, “Jim, I’ve found out something about her. I suspected it when she made me run out on the party, and now I’m certain about it. Jim, can you come over here right away?”

“Can you keep her there?”

“I’ll try. But hurry!” Then there was a click as he hung up on the other end.

Jim Crandell dropped the phone and grabbed up his coat. He was out of the house in ten seconds, running down the street until he was out of breath and had to slow down or drop. He had to find a taxi, a bus, anything. He had to hurry. He had to hurry before it was too late and something happened that he didn’t fully understand.

And then at last a cruising cab!

And he was racing across town, for the final rendezvous with Ida Spain….

The apartment was dark, and when nobody answered his ring he tried the door. The knob turned readily in his hand and then he was inside, focusing his eyes through the dimness of the room.

“Ida Spain.”

He spoke the name softly.

And then he was looking into the wide staring eyes of Bill Kook.

“Bill….”

There was only a tiny trickle of blood from the neat little hole in Bill’s forehead.

“Bill!”

Nothing moved.

“Bill, who is Ida Spain?”

But Bill Kook would never answer him in this life….

He didn’t wait for the police.

Once again he arrived home, tired and depressed and oddly empty. Only now the car was there, and when he opened the door he could hear the sounds of Doris from the kitchen.

“Aren’t you surprised I’m home a day early?” he asked.

“I guess so, dear. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“How was the movie?”

“Good. It was a mystery.”

“Doris, someone killed Bill Kook tonight,” he finally said.

“That man from your office? How terrible!”

“Doris,” he sighed, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately. I’m a bundle of nerves. I’m all shot.”

“Look, dear,” she cuddled up next to him, “why don’t we leave this town and go back to New York where we belong. Why don’t you go in and quit your job tomorrow?”

He thought about it. “Maybe that’s the answer.”

“And you won’t worry about this girl Ida Spain?”

“No,” he answered after a moment. “I won’t worry about her any more. I’ll forget Ida Spain. I’ll even forget about that hole in Bill’s forehead.”

She went back to the kitchen, and he sat silently for a long time. And then finally she said, from beyond the doorway, “You never did get to see her, did you?”

“Who?”

“Ida Spain. You never did get to see her.”

“No,” he said, with a sort of a sigh. “And I guess now I never will….”

The Night People

“NOTHING EVER HAPPENS ON Saturdays,” the city editor complained, his yellowed teeth digging into the pipe stem. “That’s why we have to use gimmicks to sell papers.”

I cleared my throat and nodded in agreement, acting exactly like the cub reporter that I was. “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, because it seemed the proper thing to say.

“Business closes down, Congress isn’t usually in session, the government officials take the weekend off, and worst of all—there are fewer people downtown to buy our papers.”

“You’re right.”

“On Sunday we can sell ’em ads and comics, but on Saturday afternoon it’s rough. And that’s goin’ to be your assignment. You’re goin’ to dig me up a story—every Saturday—for the afternoon edition. A story that no one else has—a story that’s big enough for front-page headlines. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. It’s two-thirty now. You’ve got till ten A.M. to bring in your first big story, kid. Go to it.”

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled.

“You’ll get a by-line if it’s any good,” he called after me. “Remember, before ten o’clock….”

I nodded silently to myself and went out into the city….

But where to find a story in the middle of the night when Saturday’s dawn was still so many hours away? The bars would have closed at two, and even the drunks would be well on their way home by this time. I stood in the doorway of the Times-Chronicle and lit a cigarette, thinking about it.

Perhaps an after-hours joint…. Sure, why not a story about what goes on during the night moments? But that would be feature-story stuff, not for front-page headlines. It wouldn’t sell papers on a damp Saturday afternoon.

What would?

I started walking, turning up the collar of my raincoat against the soaking drizzle that drifted down over the city streets.

“Hello, mister….”

I turned, barely able to make out the girl in the shadows. “Yes?”

“Lonely?”

I figured her for a streetwalker and as she came into the light I had no reason to change my mind. She wore a raincoat open at the neck to reveal a dark sweater. Her lipstick showed signs of fast, irregular repair, and I guessed that she’d already had at least one customer tonight.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not your type.”

“I’m everybody’s type,” she answered, moving closer through the mist.

“Know any place where I can get a little action?”

“My apartment.”

“Different kind. Cards, dice, that action.”

“You a queer?” she asked, watching me more closely.

“I hope not. Come on, where’s some action.”

She sighed and made a motion of resignation. “Slip me a five for my time and I’ll take you to a place.”

“It’s a deal.” I uncoiled a wrinkled fin from my wallet and passed it to her in the night. “How far?”

“Not far,” she said. “Follow me,” and she led the way down a side street where a broken streetlight added to the gloom of the dark. And as I followed her I felt like a hundred other men must have felt, perhaps following her down this same street, though with a different purpose.

I stepped cautiously around the streetlight’s broken glass, half seen in the night’s dimness, and ahead I saw the muted activity of a place that might have been a barbershop or a poolroom. But wasn’t.

We went in, and she nodded to the man at the door, a shifty little runt who looked as if he might not have seen the sunlight in twenty years. “I brought you a customer,” she said. “Remember to tell the boss.”

“Sure, sure,” the runt told her.

Then she turned to me. “No poker tonight. Only dice—okay?”

“Okay,” I nodded.

She led me back further into the bowels of the building, to a wide arena where an intent circle of customers crouched on the concrete.

“You’re faded.”

“Eight’s the point.”

I sneaked in between a bald middle-aged man and a younger fellow with a thin mustache watching the shake and roll of the dice with almost hypnotic fascination. But the man who was rolling, a huge monster with a wicked, terrible face, stopped dead and stared at me. “Who let that guy in?” he said. “Does anybody know him?”

“I brought him,” the girl said quietly but firmly. “He wanted action.”

“Damn! Well, you can just take him somewhere else. This is a closed game. Take him somewhere else.”

“Take him where?”

“To bed with you for all I care!” And a ripple of brief laughter passed over the circle of men.

“Come on,” she told him. “Let’s blow this lousy joint.”

“Okay,” I nodded, following her once more into the outer dampness.

“Men!” she snorted. “I hate every damned one of them. I hate ’em!”

“That’s an odd statement for a girl like you to make,” I observed, falling into step beside her.

“Why, because of what I do?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“What am I supposed to say? That I love ’em all?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me tell you sumthin’, Bud. Let me tell you the story of my life in one short chapter. My father got drunk one mighty night and beat my mother’s head in with an axe. Then he did the same thing to my older sister. I was twelve at the time. I ran out of the house and hid behind the garage and prayed and cried all night, waiting for him to find me there. In the morning I crept back to the house and found him hanging from a beam in the basement.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“At first it was, but I got used to taking care of myself after that.” She turned up her coat collar against the suddenly heavy rain. “Hell of a night, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you won’t come up to my place?”

“What for?”

“You gotta have a reason?”

“I’m working,” I confessed. “I’m a reporter on the Times-Chronicle, after a story for the evening paper. Something big, the editor told me.”

“Something big,” she mused. “We could blow up city hall.”

“Oh, I don’t think….”

“You take everything serious, don’t you, kid?”

“Don’t you?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not. I take life as it comes. That’s the only way.”

“I suppose so.” The rain was heavier now, and I steered her into a handy doorway.

“What time is it, anyway?” she asked.

“Must be close to four o’clock.”

“What a stinkin’ night.”

“Why don’t you go home and go to bed?”

“Just one more. I need just one more tonight. It’s so damned cold in my room.”

I was silent for a time, not knowing how to answer her. Then, finally, I mumbled, “I’ll come up, just for a few minutes.”

“Thanks, kid,” she said, very quietly, and led the way through the rain once again….

It was, I suppose, the kind of room I should have expected. Dim and damp and dingy, with a single naked light bulb swinging from the ceiling. With a couple of chairs and a table and a rumpled bed.

“Got anything to drink?” I asked her.

“Maybe. A bit of rum.”

“Anything.”

“Look, kid, you don’t have to….”

“Get me the rum, will you?”

“Sure, kid.” And she poured me a stiff shot. “What’s your story, kid? What are you running away from?”

“Got no story. If I did, I’d be a writer instead of a newspaper reporter.”

“Everybody’s got a story.”

“Sure.” I thought about it. “College for a couple of years, the army, and now a job on the Times-Chronicle. That’s it.”

“No girl?”

I nodded. “In college. She promised to wait for me, while I was in the army. Two months after I left home she married a football player.”

“It’s a story anyway.”

“Sure.”

“Would you like to sleep with me?”

“I … I don’t think so.”

“It wouldn’t cost you anything.”

I felt sick. “No, I … I appreciate it, but….”

“But you’re working.”

“That’s right. I’m working. Only a little over five hours to find that story.”

“What if you don’t find it?”

“What?”

“What if you don’t find a story? Will the world end?”

“No, of course not. But he expects one. If he doesn’t get it he’ll have to run a story about the weather or something.”

“So?”

“It’s awfully tough to sell papers on Saturday afternoons. He explained it all to me.”

“Yeah.”

“Could I have another drink?”

“I guess so.” There was a tapping on the door and she ducked the bottle out of sight. “Hope it isn’t the cops,” she whispered.

She walked to the door and opened it a crack, and saw what was apparently a familiar face. “What in hell do you want?” she stormed.

A creepy little guy slipped into the room. “Didn’t want to interrupt you, but … have you got a spoon I could borrow? It’s real important.”

She snorted and disappeared into the next room, returning in a moment with a spoon. “Don’t bother to return it.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. If you ever need anything….”

“Just to be left alone, mister, that’s all.”

“Well … thanks again.”

She slammed the door after him. “The stupid slob!”

“What the heck did he want with a spoon in the middle of the night?” I asked in innocence.

“He takes the stuff. Dope, you know. They warm it on a spoon or sumthin’.”

I fumbled for a cigarette. “How can you live in a place like this, anyway? What kind of life do you find here?”

“What other kind of life is there? I could be one of those New York society dolls and only sleep with college boys, I suppose. Would that be better?”

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t really know what to tell her. She needed someone who’d lived a lot longer than I had. She needed a priest, or maybe just a good man. I surely wasn’t a priest, and I was too young to know how good I was.

She poured herself a drink from the bottle and came over to where I sat. Suddenly, all at once, she was old—she might have been the oldest girl of twenty-five I’d ever seen. “I’m trapped,” she told me, settling down on the arm of my chair. “Trapped in a life without beginning or end.”

“I’ve got to be going,” I said. “There’s no story here.”

“No,” she agreed sadly. “Not here.”

I started to get up, but she slid her soft weight down upon me. “I have to go,” I repeated.

“How about a little kiss first?”

“No….” I managed to break free, struggling to my feet. And then I was out the door, casting only a final backward glance at her sad, lonely face. As I went down the stairs I felt for my wallet, but it was still there….

Outside, the rain had settled into an annoying pattern of early morning drizzle, with clouds that hung low over the dim buildings and blotted out the golden sunrise somewhere to the east.

I walked, because there was nothing else to do. No story, no nothing. It was Saturday morning and nothing ever happened on Saturday mornings. Nothing but sleep and regrets for the night that was past.

I stopped for coffee in a little fly-specked lunch counter just opening for the day’s business, trading comments in a monotone of dull improbability with the sleepy-eyed counter man. And then back to the street.

With my footsteps carrying me back toward the apartment where she would be sleeping now, lonely after a damp night of wandering. Why not? Where else did I have to go? Why not back to her, for a few minutes, an hour….

And as I turned into her street I saw the first police car pulling up. And then another, almost as quickly from the opposite direction, its low siren splitting the morning quiet.

And before my running feet reached the house I knew. I knew even as I pushed my way through the wakened tenants, up the stairs to her apartment. I didn’t know how, but I knew what….

“Where you goin’, Mister?”

“Times-Chronicle.”

“Okay, take a look.”

The little creep from downstairs was huddled in a corner of the hallway, sobbing and mumbling at the officers who crowded around him. I went into her room and saw what he’d done. Only one leg was visible, bare, hanging across the rumpled bed. The rest of her body had tumbled down between the bed and the wall, out of sight, mercifully. I saw the blood on the sheets and looked no further.

“He do it?” I asked one of the cops.

“Who else? He’s all doped up. Must ’a killed him, seein’ those guys goin’ up to her room every night. Decided he wanted somethin’ too,” he said.

“Yeah.”

I kept going, down the stairs to the street, walking, then running, away from there, back to the solid reality of the city room at the Times-Chronicle. I had my story.

All the way up the words tumbled about in my brain, sorting themselves into neat paragraphs of type. And the city room was buzzing when I reached it, clattering with typewriters, churning with words.

“You’re back,” the editor said, raising his head from a pile of wet galleys. “Get the story?”

“I got it. A murder.”

His eyebrows went up and he motioned to the rewrite man. “Give it to me. From the beginning.”

I gave it to him. From the beginning.

When I’d finished he frowned across the desk at me. “Well? Names, man, names!”

“Names?” I felt stupid.

“What were their names?”

“I … I don’t know. Do they need names?”

He sighed and shook his head at the rewrite man. “For a newspaper they need names. There’s no story in a nameless drug addict killing a nameless prostitute.”

“But it is a story,” I insisted. “They were people, just like you and me.”

He just kept shaking his head. “Not like you and me, kid. They belonged to a different world.”

“But the story….”

“Never mind. We’ve got a train wreck for page one. We don’t need any local stuff.”

He turned away from me then, and the rewrite man hurried away, and the buzzing of the city room rolled over me like a tide. And I went over to my little desk in the far corner of the room and sat there for a long time, staring at the typewriter and wondering what her name had been….

Festival in Black

WIN CHAMBERS WAS PLEASED that the sun was shining at the Feru airport. After two weeks of intermittent Paris rain, he’d almost forgotten what sunshine looked like. Martha had prepared him for more of the same at Feru, and he’d been expecting a week of running between cab and theatre, dodging under umbrellas and sitting in the uncomfortable dark with soggy shoes and socks.

But the sun was shining in Feru. Even Martha looked better in the brightness, as she ran across the concrete to meet him. Better and younger than he remembered her just three days earlier in Paris. “You brought the sunshine with you,” she said.

“Thank God for that. Remember Venice last year?”

“How could I forget?”

“Schedule ready yet?”

“Here.” She handed him a slickly printed folder done in three colours and four languages. “I’ve got you a suite at the best hotel in town.”

“Not the Ferubonne again!”

“Did you ever stay there before?”

He nodded, shifting his briefcase so he could light a cigarette. “Five, six years ago, when I first came over here. There was some talk of a film festival then, too, but nothing came of it. When’s our baby showing?”

Martha flipped a page and consulted the list. “In competition they’re showing in alphabetical order, for some crazy reason. With a title like Wild Yearling, that puts us last.”

He grinned a bit at her concern. “Say the word, Martha gal, and I’ll change it to Another Wild Yearling. The last shall be first. Seriously, I don’t think being last is too bad. Where’s the car, anyway?”

“Over here. The Russians arrived a half-hour before you, and your old friend Baine is in from Hollywood, too.”

“He’s no friend of mine. I figured he’d be here, though, with his picture being shown—even if it is out of competition.”

The journey downtown took only ten minutes in the sleek little sports car Martha had brought down with her. For an English girl, born and bred within sight of Westminster Abbey, she showed an amazing liking for French cars. “Oh, and there’s a Mister Falconi waiting to see you, too. He’s called the hotel twice.”

“I don’t know any Falconi.”

“Probably some Italian producer. You’re getting famous over here.”

“Sure I am. How about our stars? Will they make it on time?”

She swung the car into the paved hotel driveway. “I was saving the bad news for last. Georges broke his leg skiing. I got the wire just this morning.”

“Skiing!” He ground out the cigarette in disgust. “Who in hell skis the last week in April?”

“Georges does, apparently. Cheer up, Win. You don’t need him to win the top prize.”

“I know. It’s just—oh, hell, it’s just that I wanted to give them the full treatment.”

Win Chambers had made a career out of giving people the full treatment. Back in the States he’d been the boy wonder of Hollywood, until an unhappy love affair, coupled with an ever-increasing tax bite on his earnings and his disappointment at not winning an Academy Award, had driven him to Paris in near-despair. Oddly enough, the picture the American critics had scorned—Swamp King—made him famous overnight in Paris. He’d rented an old studio in the suburbs, hired Martha Myers as his secretary, and started producing and directing a number of low-budget films with promising young unknowns in their casts. One of them, Intrepide, had come close at last year’s Venice Film Festival, so he’d been especially anxious that Wild Yearling be chosen as the official French entry at the new Feru Film Festival. The competition came from England, and Hollywood, and Russia, and Italy. It would not be easy, but he had hopes. If it happened, if he won, then perhaps he could go back to America with Martha on his arm and spit in their eyes—the Academy, the studio bosses, the tax people, and especially a girl named Betty. He wanted to go back as the conquering hero. He wanted to go back and give them the full treatment.

Up in the room, the telephone was ringing. “If that’s Baine or any of the Hollywood crowd, I’m in a conference,” he told Martha.

“You think they’d believe that?” She answered the phone and quickly covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Mister Falconi again. You want to see him?”

Win sighed and glanced at his watch. “I should be down at the theatre. Find out who he is, what he wants.”

Martha spoke a few quiet words into the phone, then turned again to Win. “It’s business of a personal nature. But he says it’s most important.”

“All right, I’ll change my shirt and go down for a drink. Tell him if it’s so important I’ll be downstairs in the lounge in maybe ten minutes.”

He took time to shave, and it was closer to twenty minutes before he made it downstairs. By that time he’d momentarily forgotten the man named Falconi. He was thinking only of a quick drink to boost his spirits for the crowd of reporters certain to be waiting at the theatre. Then, just after it arrived, a shortish man in grey slipped into the chair opposite him.

“Mr. Chambers? Winston Chambers?” No one had called him Winston in years, except sometimes Martha when she was fooling with him.

“Yes? Oh, you must be Falconi.”

The grey man gave a smiling nod. Win decided he looked a little like a doctor. Certainly not at all like a movie producer. “Correct. John Falconi. I’m from New York.”

“Oh? I thought perhaps you wished to see me on behalf of the Italian film industry.”

The grey man smiled. “No, no, nothing like that. I have, actually, an odd sort of request to make. I only approach you because I know you are well acquainted with many of the people attending the festival.”

“I know them. You meet the same people pretty much at Venice and Cannes. Are you a reporter or something?”

This brought another smile to the grey man’s face. “Actually, I’m the American representative of a film manufacturer who’s thinking of establishing a plant in West Germany. I am, of course, interested in meeting the money people at a festival such as this.”

“Does your company make colour film?”

“Of course.”

“And black-and-white?”

“No, only colour.”

“Then this is an odd place to come, Mr. Falconi. The Feru Film Festival has the unique distinction of barring all colour films. Only black-and-white motion pictures are entered.”

This information took Falconi a bit by surprise, but he quickly recovered his composure. “Certainly, though, these producers are not adverse to working with colour. Some of the best recent motion pictures, including this year’s Academy Award winner….” His voice trailed off for a moment and then resumed. “Of course I know you yourself don’t feel too kindly towards the Awards.”

“You know a lot about me, Mr. Falconi. Suppose you drop this talking in circles and get to the point. I’m a busy man.”

The grey man smiled again. It seemed to be his favourite expression. “Very well, I am prepared to offer you a sum of money to accomplish a slight mission for me. You know the Russian actress Tonia Dudorov? She arrived here this morning. At the formal events of the Feru Festival she will surely be wearing her newly acquired Lenin Arts Award.”

Win remembered reading something about Tonia winning the prize, presented each year to a leading exponent of the arts in Russia. “Wearing it?”

“The award consists of a scroll and a small red metal star to be worn on the left chest. It’s the star we want.”

“You want? What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Please keep your voice down, Mr. Chambers.” He reached a hand into his pocket and came out with a small velvet box. Inside was a small red star. “You will simply substitute this star for the one she is wearing.”

“Look, who are you, anyway? What is all this?”

“I can understand your concern, but I’m not at liberty to reveal any further details. If you will substitute the stars for us, and deliver the new star to me, a large sum of money will be deposited to your account in a New York bank.”

“Just how much is a large sum?”

“Enough to settle your tax difficulties with Uncle Sam. You could return to America any time you wanted.”

“It’s not just tax troubles that are keeping me away.”

“We know,” John Falconi said, implying for the first time that there were others in this obscure plot. “But that would be a step. We checked up on you quite a lot back in the States. You might be interested in knowing that Betty Ainsley is married now, and has a child.”

“You checked up, all right.” The news, even after so many years, hit him like a blow in the stomach. He tried to imagine Betty married, but his mind could not somehow grasp the fact. It was not so much at the moment of intercourse that he could not picture. Rather it was the act of childbirth that seemed still so completely foreign to this girl he’d once loved.

“We know you can be trusted,” Falconi said.

“Trusted by whom?”

The grey man shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Uncle Sam, shall we say?”

“I haven’t been back to America in five years. It means nothing to me.”

“It’s still your country.”

Win finished his drink and tossed some bills on the marble-topped table between them. “Look, I don’t know what you want. But I don’t intend to become a spy or anything like that, for the United States or anyone else. I’m a movie producer, and that’s all.”

“Think about it,” Falconi said quietly. “I’ll call you again tonight.”

“Don’t bother.” Win got up carefully from the table and walked away. God, wait till he told Martha about this guy!

But on the way to the theatre he remembered what Falconi had said about Betty, and that memory depressed him….

The reporters and columnists were waiting, as they always were at these affairs. While the photographers chased up and down the beaches in search of some well-equipped starlet who might pose for a picture while losing her bathing suit or being rescued from the surf, Win Chambers sat at bay in a smoky lounge of the theatre, answering a variety of questions from reporters who sometimes only barely understood the workings of the English language.

“Would you classify yourself as a runaway producer, Mr. Chambers?”

“I left Hollywood a good many years before this exodus began, and since I don’t any longer consider myself an American producer making films abroad for the American market, I could hardly be classed with the runaways. In my own mind, I’d be running away if I returned to the States now.”

“Mr. Chambers, your first big success in France was last year’s Intrepide, which was filmed in the French language. Now you have filmed Wild Yearling in American. Why?”

“First off, my first big success in France was an American picture, Swamp King, and not Intrepide. But to answer your question, Wild Yearling is in English—not American—and I see nothing wrong with this. Perhaps these last five years I’ve come to think more like an Englishman than either an American or a Frenchman. The picture was partly financed with British money, and I think the story it tells can better be told originally in the English tongue.”

“But it is the French entry.”

“A fact that makes me very proud. There will be a one world of films within our lifetime, and with it perhaps a one world of diplomats.”

There was a stir towards the back of the lounge as some others entered. Win recognized the Russian actress, Tonia Dudorov, and he suddenly remembered the strange meeting with Falconi. Tonia was a lovely girl who seemed more French than Russian, and who carried herself with an unmistakable air of superiority. In a nation only beginning to match the strides of the rest of the world in the field of the motion picture, Tonia Dudorov was already supreme.

He stood up to greet her and someone snapped a picture. “Hello, Tonia. Welcome to Feru.”

“Win, Win darling! It has been so long.”

“Last year at Venice.” He’d gotten mildly drunk with her at one of the round of parties, and he knew then as now that he could have slept with her almost at will.

“So long! Look, I have a new addition since last we met.” She fingered the tiny red star pinned to her dress. It was about the size of a button, and it seemed to Win’s eyes to be identical with the one Falconi had shown him.

“The Lenin Award. I heard you’d won it.”

“In my country, a very great honor.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Win said, and then because the newsmen pressed on all sides of them they parted. He saw her again when they went out of the screening of the first picture, but she was sitting on the other side of the auditorium in the company of the rest of the Russian party. He gave himself over entirely to the enjoyment of the movie, an Italian entry dealing with the always sensitive subject of the army’s cowardice during World War I. It was a well-made, well-acted job, and he felt the power of it gripping the judges.

When the lights went up at the end, he saw Baine and a group of other Americans heading towards his seat. He switched on the automatic smile and rose to greet them. Once a year he could act like an American. More than that would have been an effort….

“Hello? Hello? Winston Chambers?”

He recognized immediately the voice of the grey man, John Falconi. “It’s past midnight, for God’s sake! I’m getting ready for bed.”

The telephone crackled foreignly. Win had never gotten used to foreign phones. “Mr. Chambers, I must see you again. Tonight. The matter has become extremely urgent.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve said all I care to.”

“Your life may be in danger, Mr. Chambers.”

“Listen, I’m going to come over there and pop you in the nose! Maybe then you’ll stop bothering me with your spy games.”

“As long as you come.”

“Where are you?”

“I have an apartment. 85 Rivage.”

“All right,” Win hung up and put his tie back on, cursing himself for even coming back to the hotel. Well, he’d finish with this Falconi once and for all tonight. Then there’d be no more phone calls.

The address proved to be only a few blocks distant, within walking distance. As the street name implied, the place overlooked the harbour area, where a narrow wandering river finally found its home in the sea. John Falconi lived on the second floor, in a building that must have been ancient when Win was born. He came to the door in answer to the knock and hurriedly closed it after Win had entered.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“Look, either you stop bothering me, or….”

“Were you followed?”

“How the hell should I know if I was followed? I told you I was a movie producer!”

“Will you give me five minutes to speak to you? Over a drink?”

Win sighed unhappily. “All right. Five minutes and no more.”

While the grey man mixed the drinks Win looked around the apartment, seeing the ordered neatness so unusual in bachelor living. There were bookshelves, filled to capacity with classics and bestsellers, all in American editions. He took out an illustrated edition of The Red Badge of Courage and glanced through it, thinking it might still make a good movie in spite of a previous Hollywood attempt.

“Here we are. Is scotch all right?”

“Fine. Two of your minutes are up already.”

Falconi smiled. “Then I’ll come to the point.”

“I thought you did that this afternoon.”

“I could not be completely frank until I got the okay from higher up.”

“J. Edgar Hoover?”

“You’ve been away. This sort of thing is handled by other people now.”

“I’ve heard of the C.I.A.”

Falconi only smiled. “Let’s just say the American taxpayers are paying the bills.”

“Fine. You’ve got about ninety seconds left.”

“You saw Tonia Dudorov today.”

“I saw a lot of people today. I shook hands so much my right one feels like it might fall off.”

“She was wearing the Lenin Award.”

“Yes. Your sources of information are quite good.”

“Not really. Your pictures are in the newspaper.”

“Oh.” Oddly enough. Win was beginning to like the man. He stopped looking at his watch and sipped the scotch.

“Listen, Mr. Chambers, it would be quite simple for you to get that pin for us, to substitute this one for it.”

“Maybe it would, but why should I? Didn’t I make it clear that I owe nothing to the United States?”

“Except some back taxes,” Falconi reminded.

“Yes, except those. But the C.I.A. hardly makes a practice of recruiting tax dodgers as spies, does it?”

Falconi spread his hands. “Your background has been cleared by Washington, and you’re the only man in a position to accomplish the mission.”

“And just what is the mission? Why is Washington so anxious to steal a medal from a Russian film star?”

“I can tell you now. I saw my immediate superior this evening and cleared it with him.”

“You people have quite an outpost here. I suppose it’s a nice vacation spot, though.”

The grey man smiled. “My superior is only visiting. But temporarily you might say we are birds of a feather here in Feru. It is a wonderful little city.” He chuckled to himself at some private joke and then went on. “The Russians have a nice little habit in recent years of developing high-test metal alloys, mainly for use in missiles and jet bombers. Of course the exact chemical composition of these alloys is a closely guarded secret, but we find they occasionally use the metals for other purposes. The alloy in question is being used in the nose cone of their newest missile. It is able to withstand the great re-entry temperatures generated by air friction, and it just might be better than anything we have for the same purpose. We know the Russians, praising this metal alloy highly, are using it also for their new Lenin Award stars.”

“And it’s easier to steal a star off Tonia’s dress than a whole missile nose cone, right?”

“Correct, Mr. Chambers. Quite correct.”

“I don’t believe it.” Win sat back and lit a cigarette.

“What?”

“I don’t believe the Russians, or anybody else, possessing a secret alloy like that, would risk passing it out, even to heroes and movie stars.”

“You are a doubting man, Mr. Chambers. Just a few years ago the Russians used remelted metal shavings from a jet bomber’s wing to make coat hangers, of all things. We obtained one of the coat hangers, ran a spectroanalysis and chemical test on it, and were able to determine not only operational range for the plane, but its bomb load as well. Actually, one of the big American missile manufacturers did something similar just last year. They named a girl employee Miss Missile and adorned her with a pendant made from beryllium, a missile metal lighter than aluminum. Of course, beryllium is not exactly top secret.”

“And if I delivered Tonia’s star to you?”

“I would pass it on to my superior. It would be in Washington by the end of the week.”

Win ground out his cigarette and lit a fresh one, as he always did when he was thinking. He’d always been a great one for experience, but he’d never before acted as a spy. Somehow the years of Hollywood life had accustomed him to thinking of spies as shadowy men in dark alleys who waited with knives to strike down the State Department courier and steal the secret code. Could one actually become a spy by simply stealing a tiny red star off a girl’s dress and substituting another bit of metal for it?

“What’s this star of yours made of?” he asked Falconi.

“An alloy which we hope approximates the weight of the Lenin Arts Award. Fortunately, the red lacquer hides any difference in colouring of the metal. With luck the lady will never realize the substitution. We worked directly from photographs in the Moscow press at the time of the award. But of course the knowledge of the Award’s physical make-up reached us through another source.”

“Well,” Win admitted, “you’ve convinced me it’s true, anyway.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t say that. Let me have your star, and I’ll see what can be done. It won’t cost you a cent, in any event. Just sort of a gift from me to old Uncle Sam.”

“The government will find a way of repaying you.”

“You said on the phone my life was in danger.”

“Well it might be. The other side has men here, too. They may have discovered I am a so-called ‘black’ agent.”

“Black?”

“As contrasted with ‘white,’ the office workers back in Washington, who admit to their employment. But I’m talking too much, Mr. Chambers. In my line talkative persons don’t last too long. Good luck and be careful. If you see anyone following you or suspect you’re being watched, call me at once. Otherwise, I will expect you—when?”

“I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. It depends on how difficult it is.”

“Very well. I’ll be here tomorrow after eight. Just in case your luck runs good.”

They shook hands and Win Chambers went downstairs quickly to the street, feeling for all the world like a lover slipping away by darkness after some midnight assignation. Tomorrow, he knew, would be an interesting day….

Win breakfasted early with Martha, and listened with half an ear as she read over the crowded schedule for the second day of the Festival. This was the Russians’ day, and there would be a dinner following the screening in the afternoon. Though the picture was shown again in the evening for the general public, at Feru the judges, officials, and studio representatives always attended the afternoon performance.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Win,” Martha commented as they were finishing coffee.

“Not really. Just the excitement of it all.”

“Hear any more from that Falconi?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought he might have brought you more news about Betty Ainsley’s marriage.”

“That sounds like a bit of jealousy to me.”

“Not at all! I just worry when you’re so quiet.”

“I’m conserving my energy for this afternoon.”

Someone slapped him on the back and boomed out a greeting. He turned to see Ed Baine and a press agent named Wren just coming in for breakfast. “How’s it goin’, boy?” Baine asked him. “Miss Hollywood yet?”

“Haven’t missed it in five years.”

Baine and Wren sat down uninvited and ordered toast and coffee from the English-speaking waitress. “You should come back. Tell him he should come back, Miss Myers.”

Martha stayed pleasingly silent, with her best Anglo-American smile frozen to her lips. Baine was being his most American this morning, and even the press agent was looking distasteful. He cleared his throat and shifted subjects. “Where are your stars, Mr. Chambers? I expected you’d do big things with that pic of yours.”

“Martha, this is Sam Wren, in case you didn’t meet him yesterday. New York press agent type.”

“Thanks for nothing!” Wren ate a piece of toast.

“To answer your question, my girl is shooting a film back in Paris. Couldn’t get away. And Georges broke his leg skiing. The life of a producer, I guess. Tell him how it is, Baine.”

Ed Baine nodded. “He knows how it is. Goin’ to the Reds’ party tonight?”

“Why not?”

“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it, at something like this. I passed up one at Cannes a couple years back and the State Department was on my neck.” He downed his coffee without a pause. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride over.”

The afternoon’s activities went about as planned. The Russian film, a sombre affair about a collective farm worker dreaming of the horrors of a Third World War, was more propagandistic and thus less successful than a number of fine Soviet films Win had seen the previous year. He was certain at this point that the judges favoured the previous day’s Italian entry.

At the dinner which followed, Win found it easy to place himself next to Tonia Dudorov. She wore the Lenin Award proudly on her bosom, and talked gaily of the old days before the war as if she were a woman of middle age. “Are you going to the British affair later?” she asked Win as the dinner neared its end.

“What’s that? I lost my schedule.”

“I thought your secretary kept you up on such things. They are showing a two-reel short subject out of competition, and this will be followed by cocktails. Will you be my date, Win?”

“If you don’t mind being seen with a thirty-six-year-old man.”

“In Moscow I am sometimes seen with men twice your age. Politics, you know.”

Her invitation simplified the rest of Win’s plan. He knew she couldn’t be seen at two gatherings in the same dress, and as he expected she invited him up to her hotel room while she changed. When she stepped into the bathroom for a moment, he opened the bedroom door, walked quickly to the bed, and removed the small red star from her dress. The duplicate went on quickly in its place. It was so easy he couldn’t quite believe the thing had been done. All of Falconi’s talking and planning had gone towards this—five seconds in Tonia’s hotel room. Somehow he didn’t yet feel like a spy.

Later, after the screening of the British short subject. Win found an opportunity to slip away from Tonia’s watchful eyes. While she chatted with Baine and some of the other Americans, he asked Martha to cover for him and went out into the darkened garden. A grilled gate in the wall led from there to a quiet side street, which he knew was only a few blocks from Falconi’s apartment. He could be there and back in twenty minutes, not much longer than a slow trip to the men’s room.

He walked quickly, feeling the warm breeze from the sea on his face, feeling too the hardness of the Lenin Arts Award in his pocket. For a reason he couldn’t quite explain, he kept it clutched in his hand during the brief journey, as if its physical presence there in his pants pocket were the only reality about this whole mad day. He hadn’t yet attempted to work into his mind an exact explanation of the motives that had compelled him to agree to Falconi’s urging. It was not, he felt sure, any deep loyalty to the country he’d left behind five years ago. Nor was it any sense of guilt that needed rectification. Rather it was, if anything, only a sort of liking for Falconi, an odd man making his way through a too-dark world. This, and a middle-aged urge to do something the least bit out of the ordinary.

So he climbed the dim steps to John Falconi’s apartment, still clutching the priceless lump of metal alloy in his pocket. Perhaps this visit would save a million lives—or take them—at some distant point in time that none of them could see. Or perhaps the mysterious alloy would end up only as a footnote to a lengthy report gathering dust in some Pentagon file.

Win knocked at the door and waited. When no answer came, an instinct born of a thousand movies and a hundred half-remembered dreams drove him to turn the knob and push open the unlocked door. He saw John Falconi at once. The grey man was slumped in his chair behind the little desk, and he seemed somehow especially small among his books and the neatness of his life.

Win knew at once that he was dead, that the game was now for real, that the enemy lurked just beyond any shadow. John Falconi had been a spy who talked too much….

He’d been shot through the right temple, and apparently he’d died peacefully, not expecting the final blow of bullet against flesh. Everything was as neat as Win remembered it; there’d been no attempt to fake a robbery or a crime of passion. The local police could puzzle it out if they wanted, while in the meantime the killer stepped quietly aboard a plane or train to carry him across a boundary or an ocean.

All right, John Falconi. All right.

Win’s inexperienced eyes scanned quickly over the desk and bookshelves, searching for something, anything, out of place. But the ashtrays were clean, and he knew there’d be no fingerprints. The killer might have been a man from Mars appearing in this room just long enough to pull or squeeze the trigger of a gun. A silenced gun, of course, because no one had been attracted by a shot.

Something.

One of the books, The Red Badge of Courage, seemed not quite right to his eye. He pulled it out of its accustomed space on the shelf, aware now that the thing which had bothered him was the title stamped in gold on the book’s spine. It now ran from bottom to top instead of from top to bottom. Someone had returned the volume to the shelf upside-down. He remembered examining this particular book yesterday, and he knew it had been neatly correct then. He knew he had not reversed it. Then who? Hardly the carefully exact Falconi. But very possibly the only other person known to have been there—the killer.

He flipped through the pages of the book, half expecting some coded letter or message in invisible ink to fall to the floor. But there was nothing to catch his eye, nothing that spelled out s-p-y to the untrained observer. He returned the book to its proper space, right side up.

He next debated for several seconds on the advisability of calling the police and decided against it. The thing to do was to wipe off any of his fingerprints and return to the party. Perhaps he would not be missed, and if he was—if the police connected him somehow with the crime—well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. As for the tiny bit of alloy in his pocket, he could only hope to make contact with Falconi’s superior and pass it along to him.

The streets were deserted going back, and he saw only a few wandering romantics at a distance. A youth in the uniform of the French navy sent Win’s thoughts off on another tangent. Was there still a French navy these days, when all you ever heard about were the paratroops? France itself was now little more than a pawn, placed conveniently between Russia and America, a stamping ground for spies to meet and exchange their wares. The world was contracting somehow, catching little people and second-rate nations in its squeeze, and who was to say that the contraction was not the beginning of a final death throe?

Back at the party, he saw at once that Tonia had missed him. She found a path through the chattering groups, conversing over their drinks in a dozen languages, and headed for him. He searched the room for Martha, but she wasn’t in sight. “Win, where have you been?”

“Just out for some air, Tonia.”

“You want a cocktail?”

“These English! It’s too late in the evening for cocktails, but I’ll have some Scotch.” They worked their way to the elaborate makeshift bar and ordered two drinks. The bored bartenders might almost have been imported for the occasion. Certainly they were strangers to the usual nightlife of Feru.

“Win?”

“What?” He was having difficulty focusing his thoughts. The memories of Falconi’s corpse were too near the surface of his mind.

“Win,” she said, speaking softly, close to his ear so he could hear her over the babble of voices. “While you were gone, two of my people came looking for you.”

“Who?” At first he didn’t understand her words.

“Two of my people. They want you for something. You may be in danger, Win.”

He sipped the Scotch casually, giving not a hint of the quickened heartbeat within him. “Why should I be in danger from the Russians?”

“I don’t know. Win, but I have seen them operate before. One of them, in Paris, broke a man’s arm, while I watched. They are dangerous people.”

“And they were looking for me?”

Tonia nodded. “They asked me where you were. They will be back.”

He felt again the bit of metal in his pocket, the cause of it all. Certainly they wouldn’t harm him, an American, and yet he knew the danger was not entirely imaginary. He remembered that Falconi too had been an American.

He spotted Martha across the room and excused himself. “Thank you for the information, Tonia. I hate to be a cad, but could your party see you back to the hotel? It might be better if I wasn’t seen with you.”

“Of course, Win! Be careful. I’ll see you again before I leave.”

He rescued Martha from the clutches of a drooling Englishman who’d just about decided he could make her, and headed for the door. “Come on,” he said briefly. “I’m in a jam.”

“What kind?”

“Remember that guy Falconi?”

“Yes.”

“Somebody killed him. And I may be next on the list.”

“Win! What are you talking about? What have you been drinking?”

“Not enough, believe me. Look, I have to find someone here in Feru.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who. A friend of Falconi’s, but I don’t know his name.”

“Win, you’re talking in riddles.”

“Did you tell me back in Paris that the hotels were filled up here?”

“Yes, with people for the festival. Feru isn’t that big a place.”

“Look, Martha, I want you to get the register of everyone attending the festival—press, judges, producers, everyone. Understand?”

“No, but I’ll get it.”

“You’re a doll, Martha. I’ll see you back at the hotel room.”

“Mine or yours?” she asked with a wicked grin.

At any other time he would have had an answer for that, but he only smiled and started quickly down the steps to his car. Then, on second thought, he said, “You’d better take the car. I’ll get a taxi back to the hotel.” He knew she’d have to drive across town to the hotel that served as registration office for the festival.

There was no taxi in sight, and he went back inside to call one. “Monsieur Chambers!” someone called, and he saw one of the French party, a minor government representative, bearing down on him. “Monsieur Chambers, the American, Monsieur Baine just called for you. He is at the theatre and wants you to join him at once.”

“Oh?” It sounded strange. He tried to remember if he had seen Baine inside. Certainly the American producer would have no reason for summoning him to the deserted theatre in the middle of the night. “Thanks for the message. I’ll see him.”

The theatre was not far from the hotel where he was staying, and Win decided to skip the cab and walk the distance. He’d seen too many movies of kidnappings in taxicabs. He remembered back seats without doorknobs, gas jets through the floor, and various other refinements. These were no longer the fantasies of his youth. Now they seemed a part of a very real game, a game of life and death.

The theatre was dark when he reached it, but the side door was unlocked. He knew Baine would not be waiting there. Only death would be waiting, probably in the person of the two Russians that Tonia had mentioned. He turned away from the door, and saw too late that he’d miscalculated one point. They’d been waiting outside the theatre for his arrival.

Two bulky, broad-shouldered shapes in the night, cutting diagonally across the street to intercept him on his route! There was no escape, unless he went through the theatre door where anything might lurk. No, he’d wait in the street for them, hoping that a passing car or two might save his life.

“Mister Chambers,” one of them said thickly. There was no mistaking that these were the Russians.

He broke into a trot, heading towards the hotel. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw one of the men reach into his coat, but the other put out a restraining hand. They wouldn’t shoot, not while they didn’t have the star.

But they followed. He reached the hotel lobby panting for breath, seeing them across the street. Then up in the elevator, without a plan, without much of a hope. He had the terrifying thought that they might grab Martha when she arrived, and then what would he do? He felt suddenly so small and helpless, without a friend he could trust, in a foreign city where the shadows grew steadily darker.

Then he was unlocking his door, falling inside, snapping on the light to confront a tall middle-aged man he’d never seen before. The man rose smiling as he entered, extending his hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Chambers. My name is Tweller. I was a friend of John Falconi….”

Tweller was an Englishman, with a moustache and hair that reminded Win of Sir Anthony Eden. He carried himself like a businessman or even a politician—anything but a secret agent. Win supposed this was what made him good at his profession.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Couple of Russians down in the street.”

Tweller stepped quickly to the window. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll attend to them. You’ve been playing a dangerous game.”

“Not of my liking, believe me. Falconi roped me into it with his smooth talking.”

Tweller smiled. “Yes, he was a one for that. We’ll miss him. Did you accomplish your little mission on our behalf?”

“Didn’t Falconi tell you? Didn’t you see him today?”

The Englishman shook his head. “No. I only know you went to see him tonight.”

Something stirred in Win’s mind, a vague forming of thought. He watched the Englishman strolling aimlessly, nervously, about the room, picking up objects here and there. “I gave him the thing,” Win said, on an impulse. “The Russians must have gotten it back.”

Tweller turned in the act of opening a book—a guide of some sort that was in all the rooms. “What? The Russians didn’t get it back. You didn’t visit Falconi’s room until after he was dead.”

Win felt his heart beating fast again. “How could you know that? How could you know when he died?”

The Englishman blinked. “Give me that star, Chambers, or I’ll have you arrested for treason.”

“You could know if you were there,” Win said, hurrying on. “You could know I didn’t give Falconi the star if you were there and you killed him. One of the books on his shelf was upside down. The stamping ran from bottom to top, as it does on the spines of English books. An Englishman like you might have been wandering around, looking at Falconi’s books while you talked to him. Holding the closed book in your hand, you might have replaced it upside down so that the title read in the English style. Certainly a neat man like Falconi would never have done it, nor left it long like that if he noticed it. You’re no C.I.A. man, Tweller.”

The Englishman turned full around. His hand had come out from under his coat, and he held a short foreign pistol equipped with a silencer. “All right, the masquerade is over, Mr. Chambers. Please raise your hands above your head.”

“The very gun, I imagine.” For some reason he wasn’t frightened. Martha would come, would somehow bring help.

Tweller blinked his eyes and moved backwards a step to grasp the window blinds. He closed and opened them in some sort of signal. “Don’t move, Mr. Chambers, or your troubles will be over quite quickly.”

They waited a few moments in silence, until the hall door opened. The two Russians came in, followed by Martha. “God, Martha!” he gasped out. “Where’d they get you?”

She wasn’t smiling. Her face was hard and there were lines of sadness about her eyes. “They didn’t have to get me, Win. I’m one of them.”

Around him the world seemed to collapse. There’d been a night much like this back in the States, his last time with Betty, but somehow Martha had betrayed more than just him. “What do you mean?” Knowing too well what she meant.

“God, Win, I would have done anything to keep from betraying you. Please believe me! I report information to Tweller here, and I told him you met with John Falconi. That’s all I told him!”

“You told him I left the party to visit Falconi. You must have told him that, too.”

“Yes.”

“Enough of this talk,” Tweller said, motioning with the gun. “Will you produce the Award, Mr. Chambers?”

Win felt death was very close at this moment. It was in the eyes of the two waiting Russians, and it was in the tightening trigger finger of the Englishman named Tweller. The tiny medal still rested in his pocket, but he said, quite calmly, “I don’t have it.”

Tweller smiled thinly. “You have it. Falconi was a talker. He told me you had it before he died. He was quite a talker.”

“It cost him his life,” Win said. “He was in the wrong line of work.”

“Possibly,” the Englishman agreed. “But then, for which of us is this the right line of work? I was a schoolteacher outside London ten years ago. Martha will tell you—she was a pupil of mine.”

“You taught her well.”

Tweller sighed. “One hundred years from now man might have different values for right and wrong.”

“I doubt that.”

“But enough talk, Mr. Chambers. Falconi told me you had the Award, and Martha told me he was already dead when you reached him—which of course I knew anyway. My two Russian friends just missed you at the party. Since you didn’t give the Award to Falconi, you still have it.”

“Maybe I didn’t get it from Tonia. That ever occur to you?”

“If you didn’t get it, you’d have had no purpose in leaving the party to visit Falconi.”

“All right, I had it. But when I entered the hotel a while ago I gave it to someone for safekeeping. I hid it in the binding of a book and gave the book to someone.” He wondered if they would believe the lie without searching him.

“Who?”

“One of the Americans.” A long chance, but the only one.

“All right,” Tweller said. “I’m willing to accept your word. You have exactly five minutes to get the man up here with the book. After that I will shoot you. Then Moscow can find another way out of their foolishness.”

“I’ll phone him.”

Tweller blinked his eyes. “Martha will phone him. His name?”

“Sam Wren. He’s a press agent.”

A questioning look to Martha. “What about it? Is it a trick?” Tweller asked.

She shrugged. “He barely knows Sam Wren. They met at breakfast downstairs.”

“All right, call him. Ask him to bring the book up.”

Martha asked the operator to ring Sam Wren’s room. After a few seconds’ waiting, she said, “Mr. Wren, this is Martha Myers, Win Chambers’ secretary. He’d like you to bring that book back for a few minutes, if you could…. The one he gave you tonight … That’s right, thank you.” She hung up.

“What did he say?”

“He seemed puzzled at first, but then he said he’d bring it right up.”

Tweller blinked at Win. “If it’s a trick, he dies with you.”

“It’s no trick.”

They waited then, in silence growing more tense by the minute. “I didn’t get the list for you, Win,” Martha said, almost apologetic.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

Tweller moved around in position to watch the door. He motioned to one of the Russians who drew a snub-nosed revolver, then placed his right hand behind his back, effectively hiding the silenced gun from anyone who entered the apartment. “You were clever to notice that misplaced book, Mr. Chambers. But the French print their book titles in the same manner. The visitor to Falconi’s apartment could just as well have been a Frenchman.”

“But it’s doubtful if a Frenchman would have that taste in American literature. An Englishman would, though, and especially an ex-teacher.”

There was a knocking at the door. Win felt his whole body go tense, knowing that he might be only seconds away from death. “Come in,” he called out.

Sam Wren entered, clutching a small briefcase under his right arm. He seemed puzzled and a bit uncertain. “Oh! I didn’t realize you had guests, Mr. Chambers.”

“That’s all right, Sam. Come on in.”

Tweller stepped forward. “Do you have the book?”

Wren hesitated. “Uh, yes. It’s right in here.” Behind him, the Russian with the gun pushed the door closed.

Tweller smiled and brought his right arm around. The silenced gun came up almost slowly, until it was level with Wren’s stomach. “We’ll relieve you of it, then.”

Sam Wren’s hand came out of the briefcase, but it didn’t hold a book. Instead it held a large ugly gun of an unfamiliar type. Tweller’s eyes widened, and the soft puff of his silenced weapon was lost in a thundering chatter as the ugly gun jumped and spat in Sam Wren’s fist. Tweller staggered back against the wall, desperately trying to fire again, trying to piece together his torn chest!

And almost in the same deadly motion Wren whirled, his gun still spitting. The Russian at the door fired a wild shot into the floor and died on his feet, toppling slowly. The second Russian screamed something and backed against the far wall, clawing for his gun. Wren’s bullets cut a path along the wall, finding him, blotting out his face in a final spurt of blood.

At Win’s side Martha was screaming uncontrollably. Sam Wren looked at her quizzically as he slipped the weapon back into his briefcase. Then he walked over to where Tweller sat dying and kicked the silenced pistol away from his still clutching fingers. “Shut her up, Chambers,” he said flatly. Win slapped her twice, hard, and her scream quieted to a whimper.

Win watched Wren zipping his briefcase shut. “As easy as that,” he said, somehow still not believing what had happened.

Sam Wren nodded. Already someone was pounding on the hall door. “German machine-pistol. Tremendous weapon at close range. That one was foolish to be using a silencer. The gases take several seconds to escape and you can never get your second shot off when it’s needed. Tell that fool at the door to call the police, will you?”

“You want that?”

“No way to prevent it. These three had a fight and killed each other.”

“They’ll never swallow it.”

“They will with a few million francs to wash it down. The American Congress allows us a certain leeway in our expenditures. Now go answer that door before he knocks it clear through….”

Sometime later, in the dimness of a downstairs hallway, Win Chambers passed a tiny red metal star to Sam Wren’s waiting hand. “They’ll be happy to see this in Washington,” Wren said. “Those Reds’ll never learn.”

Win was still shaky. “I’m glad I was right. It was an awful spot to put you in.”

“I figured you were in trouble. But how did you know I was your man? Did Falconi babble that, too?”

“Not exactly. He said his superior was in town on a visit, and with all the hotels filled I figured you were one of the American party here for the festival. Then Falconi made a sort of joke—said you two were birds of a feather. I thought you might have a bird’s name, too—Falcon and Wren—but I didn’t get a chance to check the festival list for any other bird names. I had to take a gamble on Sam Wren being the man.”

Wren nodded. “Good gamble. What do you want done with the girl?”

“Martha?” Win had tried not to think about her. “I don’t know. I suppose she’ll tell what really happened.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to implicate herself. But we can spirit her away if you want. Hold her prisoner for a month or two and then release her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Win decided. “I have to know why she did it, why a girl like that would become a spy. Why do you think she did it?”

Sam Wren lit a cigarette, and by the flare of the match his face seemed suddenly bleak. “I don’t know, Chambers,” he answered quietly. “Why did you do it …?”

I’d Know You Anywhere

16 November 1942

FROM THE TOP OF the dune there was nothing to be seen in any direction—nothing but the unchanging, ever-changing sameness of the African desert. Contrell wiped the sweat-caked sand from his face and signaled the others to advance. The tank, a sick sad monster wanting only to be left to die, ground slowly into life, throwing twin fountains of sand from the path of its tracks.

“See anything?” Grove asked, coming up behind him.

“Nothing. No Germans, no Italians, not even any Arabs.”

Willy Grove unslung the Carbine from his shoulder. “They should be here. Our planes spotted them heading this way.”

Contrell grunted. “With old Bertha in the shape she is, we’d be better off not running into them. Six men and a battered old tank against the pride of Rommel’s Afrika Korps.”

“But they’re retreating and we’re not, remember. They just might be all set to surrender.”

“Sure they might,” Contrell agreed uncertainly. He’d known Willy Grove—his full name was an impossible Willoughby McSwing Grove—for only a month, since they’d been thrown together shortly before the North African invasion. His first impression had been of a man like himself, drafted in his early twenties into an impossible war that threatened to envelop them all in blood and flame. But as the weeks passed, another Willy Grove had gradually become evident, one that stood next to him now, peering down into the empty, sand-swept valley before them.

“Damn! Where are they, anyway?”

“You sound like you’re ready for a battle. Hell, if I saw them coming I think I’d run the other way.” Contrell took out the remains of a battered and almost empty pack of cigarettes. “A sand dune on the Tunisia border is no place for a couple of corporals.”

Grove squatted down on his haunches, resting the carbine lightly against his knee. “You’re right there—about the corporal part, anyway. You know, I been thinking the last few weeks—if I get back to the states in one piece I’m going to go to OCS and become an officer.”

“You found yourself a home.”

“Go on, laugh. There’s worse things a guy could do for a living.”

“Sure. He could rob banks. What in hell do army officers do when there’s no war around?”

Willy Grove thought about that. “Don’t you worry. There’s goin’ to be a war around for a good long time, maybe the rest of our lives.”

“Think Hitler will last that long?”

“Hitler, Stalin, the Japs. It’ll be somebody, don’t you worry.”

Contrell took another drag on his cigarette, then suddenly came to sharp attention. There was something moving at the top of one of the dunes, something … “Look!”

Grove brought up his binoculars. “Damn! It’s them, all right. The whole stinkin’ German army.”

Contrell dropped his cigarette and went sliding down the dune to tell the others. The officer in charge was a paste-colored Captain who rode the dying tank as if it were his grave. He looked down as Contrell spoke and then spoke a sharp order. “We’ll take Bertha up the dune and let them see us. They might think we’ve got lots more and call it quits.”

“Sure, Sir.” And then again, Contrell thought, they just might blast the hell out of you.

By the time the wounded steel monster had been moved into position, the first of the three German tanks was within firing range. Contrell watched the big guns coming to bear on each other—two useless giants able only to destroy. He wondered what the world would be like if guns had the power to rebuild too. But he had little time to think about that or anything else before the German gun recoiled in a flash of power, followed an instant later by the thud of the sound wave reaching them. A blossom of sand and smoke filled the air to their left as the shell went wide of its mark.

“Hit the ground!” Grove yelled. “They’ve got us zeroed in!”

Old Bertha returned the fire, scoring a lucky near-miss on the nearest tank, but the odds and the firepower were all against her. The German’s second shell hit the left tread, the third slammed into the turret, and Bertha was as good as dead. Someone screamed—Contrell thought it might have been the Captain.

Grove was stretched out on the sand a dozen feet away. “Damn things are iron coffins,” he said, gasping at the odor of burning flesh.

Contrell started to get up. “Did any of them get out?”

“Not a one. Stay down! They’re coming this way.”

“God!” It was a prayer on Contrell’s lips. “What’ll we do?”

“Just don’t move. I’ll get us out of this somehow.”

Two of the enemy tanks remained in the distance, while the third one—basking in its kill—moved closer. Two German soldiers were riding on its rear, and they hopped down to run ahead. One carried a rifle, the other what looked like a machine pistol to Contrell. He tensed his body for the expected shots, his face nearly buried in the sand.

The German tank commander appeared in the turret and shouted something. The soldier with the machine pistol turned—and suddenly Willy Grove was on his feet. His carbine chattered like a machine gun, cutting down the German from behind. With his left hand he hurled a grenade in the direction of the tank, then threw himself at the second German before the man could bring up his rifle.

The grenade exploded near enough to knock the officer out of action, and Contrell moved. He ran in a crouch to the German vehicle, aware that Grove was right behind him. “I got ’em both,” Willy shouted. “Stay down!” He pulled the dying officer from the top of the tank and fired a burst with his carbine into the interior. He clambered up, swinging the .50-caliber machine-gun around.

“Hold it!” Contrell shouted. “They’re surrendering!”

They were indeed. The crews of the other two tanks were leaving their vehicles, coming forward across the sand, arms held high.

“Guess they had enough war,” Grove said, training the machine gun on them.

“Haven’t we all?”

Grove waited until the eight men were within a hundred feet, then his finger tightened on the trigger and a burst of sudden bullets sprayed the area. The Germans looked startled, tried to turn and run, and died like that, on their feet.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Contrell shouted, climbing up to Grove’s side. “They were surrendering!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. They might have had grenades hidden under their arms or something. Can’t take chances.”

“Are you nuts or something, Grove?”

“I’m alive, that’s the important thing.” Grove jumped down, hitting the sand with an easy, sure movement. “We tell the right kind of story, boy, and we’ll both end up with medals.”

“You killed them!”

“That’s what you do in war,” Grove said sadly. “You kill them and collect the medals.”

30 November 1950

Korea was a land of hills and ridges, a country poor for farming and impossible for fighting. Captain Contrell had viewed it for the first time with a mixture of resignation and despair, picturing in his mind only the ease with which an entire company of his men could be obliterated without a chance by an army more familiar with the land.

Now, as November ended with the easy victories of autumn turning to the bitter ashes of winter, he had reason to remember those first impressions. The Chinese had entered the war, and every hour fresh reports came from all around the valley of the Chongchon, indicating that their numbers could be counted not in the thousands but in the hundreds of thousands. The word on everyone’s mind, but on no one’s lips, was “retreat.”

“They’ll drive us into the sea, Captain,” one of his sergeants told Contrell.

“Enough of that talk. Get the men together in case we have to pull out fast. Check Hill 314.”

The hills were so numerous and anonymous that they’d been numbered according to their height. They were only places to die, and one looked much like another to the men at the guns.

Some tanks, muddy and caked with frost, rolled through the morning mists, heading back. Contrell stepped in front of the leading vehicle and waved it down. He saw now that it was actually a Boffers twin 40-mm. self-propelled mount, an antiaircraft weapon that was being effectively used as infantry support. From a distance in the mist it had looked like a tank, and for all practical purposes it was one.

“What the hell’s wrong, Captain?” a voice shouted down at him.

“Can you carry some men back with you?”

The officer jumped down, and something in the movement brought back to Contrell a sudden memory of a desert scene eight years earlier. “Willy Grove! I’ll be damned!”

Grove blinked quickly, seeming to focus his eyes, and Contrell saw from the collar insignia that he was now a major. “Well, Contrell, wasn’t it? Good to see you again.”

“It’s a long way from Africa, Willy.”

“Damn sight colder, I know that. Thought you were getting out after the war.”

“I was out for three weeks and couldn’t stand it. I guess this army life gets to you after a while. How are things up ahead?”

Grove twisted his face into a grimace. “If they were any damned good, you think we’d be heading this way?”

“You’re going back through the Pass?”

“It’s the only route left. I hear the Chinese have got it just about cut off too.”

“Can we ride on top your vehicles?”

Grove gave a short chuckle. “Sure. You can catch the grenades and toss them back.” He patted the .45 at his side as if it were his wallet. “Climb aboard.”

Contrell issued a sharp order to his sergeant and waited until most of his few scattered forces had found handholds on the vehicles. Then he climbed aboard Major Grove’s “tank” himself. Already in the morning’s distance they could hear the insane bugle calls that usually meant another Chinese advance. “The trap is closing,” he said.

Grove nodded. “It’s like I told you once before. The fighting never stops. Never figured back then that we’d be fighting the Chinese though.”

“You don’t like fighting Chinese?”

The major shrugged. “Makes no difference. They die just like anyone else. Easier, when they’re high on that stuff they smoke.”

The column rolled into the Pass, the only route that remained open to the south. But almost at once they realized that the hills and wooded stretches on either side of the roads were filled with the waiting enemy. Contrell looked back and saw his sergeant topple over to the ground, cut through the middle by a burst from a hidden machine gun. Ahead of them, a truckload of troops was stalled across the road, afire. Grove lifted himself up for a better view.

“Can we get around them?” Contrell asked, breathing hard.

“Around them or through them.”

“They’re South Koreans.”

Those still alive and able to run were scrambling off the burning truck, running toward Grove’s vehicle. “Get off!” Grove shouted.

“Keep back!” He reached down and shoved one of the South Koreans over backward, into the roadside dust. When another clambered aboard in his place, Grove carefully took out his .45 pistol and put a bullet through the man’s head.

Contrell watched it all as if he were seeing an old movie unwinding after years of forgotten decay. I’ve been here before, he thought, thinking in the same breath of the medals they’d shared after the North African episode. Men like Grove never changed—at least, not for the better.

“They were South Koreans, Willy,” he said quietly, his mouth close to the major’s ear.

“What the hell do I care? They think I’m running a damned bus service?”

Nothing more was said about it until they’d rumbled south into the midst of the retreating American army. Contrell wondered where it would all stop, the retreat. At the sea, or Tokyo—or California?

They took time for a smoke, and Contrell said, “You didn’t have to kill that Gook, Willy.”

“No? What was I supposed to do, let them all climb aboard and get us all killed? Go on, report it if you want to. I know my military law and I know my moral law. It’s like the overcrowded lifeboat.”

“I think you just like to kill.”

“What soldier doesn’t?”

“Me.”

“Hell! Then what’d you re-up for? Fun and games?”

“I thought I might do something to keep the world at peace.”

“Only way to keep the world at peace is to kill all the troublemakers.”

“That Gook back there was a troublemaker?”

“To me he was. Just then.”

“But you enjoyed it. I could almost see it in your face. It was like North Africa all over again.”

Major Grove turned away, averting his face. “I got a medal for North Africa, buddy. It helped me become a major.”

Contrell nodded sadly. “They do give medals for killing. And I guess sometimes they don’t ask for too many details.”

Someone called an order and Grove stubbed out the cigarette. “Come on, boy. Don’t brood over it. We’re moving on.”

Contrell nodded and followed him. Once, just once, he looked back the way they’d come …

24 August 1961

Major Contrell had been in Berlin only three hours when he heard Willy Grove’s name mentioned in a barside conversation at the Officers’ Club. The speaker was a slightly drunk captain who liked to sound as if he’d been defending Berlin from the Russians single-handed since the war.

“Grove,” he said with a little bit of awe in his voice. “Colonel Willoughby McSwing Grove. That’s his name! They say he’ll make general before the year is out. If you coulda seen the way he stood up to those Russians last week, if you coulda seen it!”

“I’d heard he was in Berlin,” Contrell said noncommittally. “I know him from the old days.”

“Korea?”

Contrell nodded. “And North Africa nearly twenty years ago. When we were all a lot younger.”

“I didn’t know he fought in World War II.”

“That was before we were officers.”

The captain snorted. “It’s hard to imagine old Grove before he was an officer. You shoulda seen him last week—he stood there, watching them put up that damned wall, and pretty soon he walked right up to the line. This Russian officer was there too, and they stood like that, only inches apart, just like they were daring each other to make a move. Pretty soon the Russian turned his back and walked away, and damned if old Grove didn’t take out his .45! We all thought for a minute he was going to blast that Commie down in his track, and I think we’d all have been with him if he did. You know, you go through this business long enough—this building up and relaxing of tensions—and after a while you just wish somebody like Colonel Grove would pull a trigger or push a button and get us down to the business once and for all.”

“The business of killing?”

“What else is there, for a soldier?”

Contrell downed his drink without answering. Instead, he asked, “Where is Grove staying? Is he married now?”

“If he is, there’s no sign of a wife. He lives in the BOQ over at the air base.”

“Thanks.” Contrell laid a wrinkled bill on the bar. “The drinks were on me. I enjoyed our conversation.”

He found Colonel Grove after another hour’s searching, not at his quarters but at the office overlooking the main thoroughfare of West Berlin. His hair was a bit whiter, his manner a bit more brisk, but it was still the same Willy Grove. A man in his forties. A soldier.

“Contrell! Welcome to Berlin! I heard you were being assigned here.”

They shook hands like old friends, and Contrell said, “I understand you’ve got the situation pretty well in hand over here.”

“I did have until they started building that damned wall last week. I almost shot a Russian officer.”

“I heard. Why didn’t you?”

Colonel Grove smiled. “You know me better than to expect lies, Major. We’ve been through some things together. You’re the one who always said I had a weakness for killing.”

“Weakness isn’t exactly the word for it.”

“Well, whatever. Anyway, you probably know better than anyone else my feelings at that moment. But I kept them under control. There’s talk of making me a general, boy, and I’m keeping my nose clean these days. No controversy.”

“And I’m still a major. Guess I don’t live right.”

“You don’t have the killer instinct, Contrell. Never did have it.”

Major Contrell lit a cigarette, very carefully. “I don’t think a soldier needs to have a killer instinct these days, Willy. But then, we’ve been debating this same question for nearly twenty years now, off and on.”

“Haven’t we, though.” Willy Grove smiled. “I’m sorry I don’t have somebody I can kill for you this time.”

“What would you have ever done in civilian life, Willy?”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it much.”

“A hundred years ago you’d have been a Western gunman probably. Or forty years ago, a Chicago bootlegger with a tommy gun. Now there’s just the army left to you.”

Grove’s smile hardened, but he didn’t lose it. Instead, he rose from behind the desk and walked over to the window. Looking down at the busy street, he said, “Maybe you’re right, I really don’t know. I do know that I’ve killed fifty-two men so far in my lifetime, which is a pretty good average. Most of them I looked right in the eye before I shot them. A few others got it in the back, like that Russian nearly did last week.”

“You could have started a war.”

“Yes. And some day perhaps I will. If I had the power to …” He let the sentence go unfinished.

“They’re not all like you,” Contrell said. “Thank God.”

“But I have enough of them on my side. Enough of them who know that army means war and war means death. You can’t escape it, no matter how hard you try.”

He looked at the white-haired colonel and remembered the captain he’d spoken with in the bar earlier that afternoon. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he was the one who was wrong. Had he wasted away his whole life pursuing an impossible dream of an army without war or killing?

“I’ll still do it my way,” he said.

“Good luck, Major.”

A week later Contrell heard that a Russian guard had been killed at the wall in an exchange of gunfire with West Berlin police. One story had it that an American officer had fired the fatal shot personally, but Contrell was unable to verify this rumor.

5 April 1969

It was the day before Easter in Washington, a city expectant under a warm spring sun. The corridors of the Pentagon were more deserted than usual for a Saturday, and only in one office on the west side was there any activity. General Willoughby McSwing Grove, newly appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was moving into his suite of offices.

Colonel Contrell found him bent over a desk drawer, distributing the contents of a bulging brief case to their proper places. He looked up, a bit surprised, at his Saturday visitor. “Well … Contrell, isn’t it? Haven’t seen you in years. Colonel? You’re coming along.”

“Not as fast as you, General.”

Grove smiled a bit, accepting the comment as a sort of congratulation. “I’m at the top now. Good place to be for a man of my age. The hair’s all white, but I feel good. Do I look the same, Colonel?”

“I’d know you anywhere, General.”

“There’s a lot to be done, a damned lot. I’ve waited and worked all my life for this spot, and now I’ve got it. Our new President has promised me free reins in dealing with the international situation.”

“I thought he would,” Contrell said quietly. “Do you have any plans yet?”

“I’ve had plans all my life.” He wheeled around in his swivel chair and stared hard out the window at the distant city. “I’m going to show them what an army is for.”

Colonel Contrell cleared his throat. “You know, Willy, it took the better part of a lifetime, but you finally convinced me that killing can be necessary at times.”

“Well, I’m pleased to know that you’ve come around to …” General Grove started to turn back in his chair and Contrell shot him once in the left temple.

For a time after he’d done it, Contrell stood staring at the body, hardly aware that the weight of the gun had slipped from his fingers. There was only one thought that crowded all the others from his mind. How would he ever explain it all at the court-martial?

The Way of Justice

THE COUNTRY WAS HOT and fly-swept, and Doris hated it from the first. They’d barely reached the hotel from the airport when she turned from the latticework window and told him, “This is one hell of a place to spend a honeymoon!”

Kane Wingate paused in the act of unpacking his bag. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose it’s the first of many pitfalls in the life of a professor’s wife. It’ll only be for two days, though. Just long enough for …”

“Just long enough for you to visit the cemetery.”

He went over and put his arms around her. “The way you say it I suppose it isn’t really much of a honeymoon trip. I’m sorry, dear.”

She was a decade younger than his thirty-eight years, but he was still a match for Doris. Perhaps that explained why he expected her to share the interest in his work, which came before anything else. She’d agreed to a side trip to Puerto Vale so he could visit the grave of Ramon Mandown. Now, together in the stuffy drabness of the hotel room, the error of it was all too obvious to them both.

“All right,” she said finally. “I suppose I’m being a bit unreasonable. Go to your old cemetery. I’ll look around in the shops.”

He kissed her, and felt good again. “I shouldn’t be long. Mandown lived in a little village up in the hills, but it’s only an hour away by car. I’ll be back for supper. Meet you here in the room? Around six?”

“Fine.”

Ramon Mandown had been dead nearly two years. He had died in the little mountain community where he had lived most of his life, surrounded by people who little knew or cared what the Nobel Prize for Literature meant to the outside world. The seven volumes of Mandown’s verse were almost unknown in the United States until he won the prize, but after that his fame had grown steadily until his death at the age of fifty-seven.

Now, thought Kane Wingate and any number of other literature professors, there was only a lull before the name of Mandown became a household word in literate American circles.

A month before his marriage to Doris, a balding little man with a cigar in his mouth and a checkbook in his hand had approached Kane to commission a ten thousand-word article on Mandown and his works. “We want to be on top of this thing,” he had said. “We want his picture on our cover for the second anniversary of his death. They tell me you’ve studied his stuff.”

“I’ve lectured on him,” Kane had admitted.

“Then you can do an article for our magazine.”

There had been a $500 advance, and Kane did not intend to spurn such an offer. Besides, the pressure was on at the University to publish something—anything—and ten thousand words might easily flower into fifty thousand for a book on Mandown.

The article was coming along, slowly, but Kane didn’t feel he could pass up a visit to the great man’s grave. He hardly expected a bolt of inspiration, but it might make a good lead for the thing. A few weeks ago, as I stood staring down at the final resting place of Ramon Mandown … Something like that. Something dignified, as befits the subject.

Kane parked his rented car in the village square and stopped the first man he saw. “The grave of Ramon Mandown?” he asked in a good approximation of the language.

The man shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I don’t know, sir.”

Kane sighed. “Which way to the cemetery?”

“Up the hill. You will see it.”

“Thanks.” It seemed only a short walk, so he left the car where it was. He had brought the camera, to take a picture of the grave and any tribute that might be there, but as he neared the place he began to realize that all he would find was a score of crumbling tombstones, overgrown with tropic weeds.

“Can I help you?” a man in shirtsleeves asked him. He spoke English with an accent, and seemed to be in charge of things.

“Is this your cemetery?” Kane asked.

The man chuckled. “A cemetery belongs only to the dead. I care for it.”

Kane glanced again at the weeds and wondered what the care consisted of. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown.”

“He is not buried here.”

“Well, where is he?”

“I could not tell you that.”

“This was his village?”

“Yes.”

“And he died here two years ago.”

“Almost two years. It was in the autumn, I think.”

“Then where is his body? Back in the town?”

The man shrugged and said nothing.

“I just want some information! Do you have a mayor or anyone up here? A headman?”

“I am the headman.” He pushed a hand through hair beginning to gray. “My name is Juan Vyano.” He held out his hand in a gesture of westernized greeting. It felt oily from the sweat of his hair.

“Good,” Kane told him. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown, the poet.”

“Why?”

“I want to take a picture of it.”

“Of a grave?” The man pushed a hand through his hair and smiled a bit.

“Mandown was a great poet. He won the Nobel Prize. I want to write an article on him.”

Juan Vyano shrugged. “There is no grave.”

Kane was beginning to lose patience. “What do you mean? There must be a grave. Was he cremated?”

“No. But there is no grave to see. It is unmarked.”

“Do you know who Ramon Mandown was?”

“Certainly. He was a close friend of mine, of us all.”

“Have you read his poems?”

Vyano nodded. “Some of them, yes. They are very beautiful.”

“Mandown is a world-famous literary figure. He is certainly the greatest man your poor village ever produced. And you tell me he is buried in an unmarked grave?”

“I am sorry, but that is correct.”

“All right. Could I see it?”

“What good would it do?”

Kane shifted the camera to his other shoulder, feeling the leather strap suddenly heavy through his clothing. “Look, what about Mandown’s wife, Carla? Could you take me to her house?”

The dark eyes narrowed. “How did you know her name?”

“It’s on the backs of all his book jackets. Does that satisfy you?”

Vyano nodded. “Do not excite yourself. Carla Mandown is dead also.”

“All right.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised. What did poets’ wives have to live for, after their husbands had gone? “Is there any family at all? Brothers, sisters?”

“No one here. I am sorry.”

“Who might know something about him? You said you were his friend.”

“He was a great man and he died. There is nothing more to tell.”

Kane gazed into the sunlight, looking down at the cobbled village street. “I don’t suppose you have a bookstore here.”

“The nearest one is back in Puerto Vale, where you came from.”

“You knew I came from there?”

The man shrugged. “The car. Cars always come from Puerto Vale.”

Against his better judgment, Kane handed the man a few coins and went back to the car. In a few moments he was heading back the way he had come.

On the main street of Puerto Vale he parked the rented car and started off on foot, half expecting to encounter Doris coming out of some shop with an exotic native carving for their new home back in the States. He found a bookstore in the second block, a dimly lit place that was deep and narrow like some overlooked alley between the stores on either side. Inside, he hesitated before the long shelves of books, uncertain of their arrangement.

“Can I be of assistance?” a voice asked in unmistakably American tones. Kane turned and saw a stout middle-aged man with a short black beard.

“Is this your shop?”

The man nodded. “Harry Green’s the name. You’re American, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Kane Wingate. I just stopped over here for a few days. I think perhaps you can help me.”

The beard wagged up and down. “Certainly. Were you sent here by anyone?”

“No, not really.”

“I think I have just what you want,” Harry Green decided suddenly, and hurried away down the alley of books. Kane stared after him. He returned in a moment bearing an oversized volume under his arm. “The finest engravings,” he told Kane, opening it at random. The picture was an obscene photograph of two men.

“That isn’t what I had in mind. Do you have any books of poetry by Ramon Mandown?”

“Who? Mandown? No, you have to realize that this is something of a specialty shop.”

“I can see that. Where could I find some?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. Mandown isn’t read much around here.”

“I gathered that. He’s buried in an unmarked grave.”

Harry Green’s expression changed. “You’ve been looking for his grave?”

“I have. Do you know anything about it?”

“Why should I?”

“Were you here at the time of his death?”

“Yes.”

“Look, damn it! Will somebody please tell me why everyone is afraid to talk about it?”

Harry Green looked down at the floor. “Sometimes you can get in real trouble talking about murder.”

“Murder!”

“I have to go now. I’ve said too much.” He patted his beard into place and retreated once more into the rear of the shop.

“Wait a minute!”

“We’re closing. Go away.”

Kane felt the frustration well within him, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by staying just then. Outside, he jotted down the address of the bookstore. Perhaps he would want to speak with Harry Green again.

Doris was resting on the bed when he returned to the room. She propped herself up on one elbow and asked, “Well, did you see your cemetery?”

“No.” He sat down opposite the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day.

“Isn’t that what we came here for?”

“Mandown is buried in an unmarked grave. His body is hidden for some reason, and I think it’s because he was murdered.”

“Oh, Kane!”

“Really. And perhaps his wife was murdered too, because she knew about it.”

“But how could such a thing be kept quiet for nearly two years?”

“That’s what I don’t know. How, and why.”

“Well, I guess we shouldn’t have come here after all. Your trip was all for nothing.”

“You call this nothing? I may be on the verge of the most important literary discovery of the decade.”

Doris got up and began to apply her lipstick before the room’s only mirror. “Will it wait until after dinner?”

“Of course, dear. You must be hungry.”

He watched her adjust the shantung skirt over smoothly curved hips, wondering still at the good fortune that had given her to him.

They dined at a side-street restaurant that paradoxically featured French cooking, and when they emerged the sky was darkening with the coming of night. “What’s there to do in this town now?” she asked.

“We could walk for a while down by the harbor.”

“That sounds exciting. I’ve had better times back in …”

She stopped suddenly as two men emerged from the shadows. They wore tropic suits and matching white hats, and the one in front had a hand in his pocket.

“Kane Wingate?” he asked in a tone that was not altogether pleasant.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Come with us.”

His hand reached out for Kane’s arm, and Kane pulled away with a sudden reflex. “Like hell I will!” He gave the man a shove and backed quickly away.

The second man blinked his eyes and drew a gun. It was a little snub-nosed automatic that looked almost like a toy. “We are police,” he said. “I will shoot.”

Behind him, Kane heard Doris gasp in fright. “All right, let’s not get excited.” He took Doris by the arm and walked between the men to a waiting car. The one he had shoved said something unpleasant under his breath.

Ten minutes later they were seated on uncomfortable wooden benches in a bare, harshly lighted room at the local police headquarters. They were kept waiting about ten minutes before a man in the uniform of a police chief came to them with an aide. “Mr. Wingate,” he said in English, “forgive me for the difficulties. My man should not have drawn his weapon.”

“Would you mind explaining what you want with us? We’re American citizens.”

The police chief smiled without showing his teeth. “I hope that is not meant as a threat. Let me introduce myself—Captain Pallato of Puerto Vale’s security force. I want only a few moments of your time.”

“About what?”

“You visited a man named Harry Green this afternoon; a fellow American, I believe.”

Kane felt an immediate sense of relief. “I didn’t buy any of his books or pictures.”

Captain Pallato sat down behind his desk. “The dirty books are just a front. Harry Green is a dangerous revolutionary.”

“That’s a switch,” Kane said, feeling the new chill begin to form around his spine.

“What did you go there for?”

“Information about books, strange as it might seem. The place is a bookstore, you know.”

The man’s eyes were hard. “Exactly what information?”

“I’m writing an article about Ramon Mandown. I wanted to see his grave.”

“He is not buried at Harry Green’s shop.”

Kane sighed and reached for a cigarette. The whole thing was getting more impossible by the minute. “No, but there seems to be a certain reluctance on the part of most people even to talk about Mandown. I thought a bookseller might tell me something.”

“And did he?”

Kane lit his cigarette, taking his time about it. “Perhaps.”

Captain Pallato stood up and placed one booted foot on his chair. “I’ll give you a bit of good advice, Mr. Wingate. It could be dangerous for you to return to Harry Green’s shop.”

“It could be dangerous for me to cross the street, or get out of bed in the morning.”

“Correct. But the American embassy can be of little help to a dead man.”

“Look, let’s not play games. I’m not interested in Green’s books or in his revolution, either. I’m only interested in Ramon Mandown and what happened to him. Did you investigate his death, Captain?”

“The village is outside my territory. I can say nothing about it.”

“All right,” Kane sighed. “Tell me one thing, though. When did his wife die?”

“Carla Mandown? The same day he did. They are buried together.”

“Yes,” Kane said, almost as if he’d expected it. Juan Vyano hadn’t mentioned that little fact. The grave was hidden, but someone would know where. Someone in that whole village would know. And he was going to stay until he found it.

Captain Pallato released them after another warning to stay away from Harry Green’s shop, and Kane and Doris returned to the hotel in silence. She spoke, finally, on the way up to their room. “Fine country. Nice friendly country. Can we get a plane out of here tomorrow?”

“I’m sure we could, dear, but we’re not going to. I’ve got to find that grave now.”

“Find it? And do what?”

“Mandown and his wife died the same day. I think they were both murdered by someone in that village—maybe by Juan Vyano himself. The bodies will tell me something.”

“You’re not going to …”

“Dig them up? If I have to.”

She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Kane, are you out of your mind? We’re in trouble with the police already, thanks to you.”

“There will be no trouble.”

“You hope.”

He stared out at the scattered lights of the city. It was not New York, but there was a certain beauty in it, nevertheless. A man like Ramon Mandown might have been inspired by sights like this, might have written of these lights, and the village beyond, in poems that the whole world read. “There will be no trouble,” he repeated, almost to himself. “But why would anyone want to murder a poet?”

The telephone next to the bed gave off a faint, almost hesitant tingle, but it was enough to rouse Kane from the lightness of morning slumber. It took him an instant to remember that he was still in Puerto Vale, then he cleared his throat, picked up the phone and spoke, “Hello?”

“Kane Wingate?”

“Yes.” The voice was familiar.

“This is Harry Green. You were in my bookstore yesterday.”

“Oh, yes.” Kane had a sudden unreasoning fear that Captain Pallato might be tapping the lines. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got some news for you. About Ramon Mandown’s death.”

Kane felt his pulse quickening. “What is it?”

“I have a witness to whom you can talk, for one hundred American dollars.”

It was a good deal of money to Kane, but a real witness might well be worth it. “Where is he?”

“Come to my shop after lunch.”

Kane thought about Captain Pallato’s warning. Obviously the bookstore was being watched. “Can’t we make it somewhere else?”

Harry Green chuckled into the phone. “The police have thrown a scare into you?”

“I don’t want to get involved in local politics. We’ll meet somewhere else.”

“All right. The church of San Dardo. You can see it from your window. I’ll be there with the witness at exactly two o’clock this afternoon.”

When he hung up, Kane heard Doris stir in the bed next to him. “Who was that?” she mumbled.

“Harry Green, the man from the bookstore.”

Wide awake, she sat up in bed. “What did he want?”

“I’m to meet him. He has news about Mandown’s murder.”

“You’d go to meet him after what the police told you?”

“Not at the bookstore. At a church.”

“I’m going too.”

“Doris …”

“This is still our honeymoon, remember? If you’re going to rot away in a jail cell, I’m going to be there too.”

He knew it was useless to argue. “All right,” he said. “Maybe the police will think we’re just sightseeing.”

It was nearly noon when they ventured out after a light breakfast in the hotel, finding the streets warm beneath a cloudless blue sky. There was little traffic, and Kane had no trouble spotting the car that followed them. Though it was unmarked, the high aerial on the rear fender told him it was a police vehicle. He didn’t mention it to Doris.

They arranged to arrive at the church just before two, and Kane saw the bearded figure of Harry Green already waiting beneath the shadow of the front arch. There was something now slightly sinister about him, and what had passed as natural in the context of the bookstore took on an unmistakable air of menace in the presence of the church. Kane almost expected him to pull some dirty pictures from his inside pocket, or some stolen religious relics at the very least.

“Your wife?” Green asked, obviously uneasy at her presence.

“Yes. Doris, this is Harry Green.”

She nodded slightly, unable to keep a look of distaste from her face. “Hello.”

“Where’s your witness?” Kane asked impatiently, because it was obvious Green was alone.

“Not far from here, but you’ve got to come alone, without her.” The bearded man glanced around. “The police are watching you. Leave her here and they’ll think you’re just inside.”

“How long will it take?”

“Five minutes, ten minutes,” Green answered with a shrug. “Not long.”

“All right,” Kane decided, because he could see there was no other way. “Wait here, Doris. Look over the place and wander around like a tourist.”

“I don’t like this, Kane. I want to come along.”

“Then the police would follow us all. They’re right in that car across the square.”

“Kane, Kane! You’re getting in deeper all the time!”

He squeezed her hand and turned to follow Green into the depths of the dimly lit church. They walked quickly down the side aisle, past kneeling figures in black shawls, until they reached a woman alone before a bank of flickering multicolored vigil lights.

“Maria,” Green whispered.

The girl turned, and even in the dim light Kane was struck by her youthful beauty. He hadn’t expected it to be a girl. But then, what had he expected? “Is this the witness?” he asked Green.

“Yes. Her name is Maria. That’s all you need to know. She comes from the village and she was a neighbor of Ramon Mandown. Do you have the money?”

Kane took out some American bills and slipped them, crumpled, to Green. “Where can we talk?”

The bearded man looked around. “Right here. What better place than a church?”

“Then why couldn’t Doris come in too?”

“Wives are nothing but trouble. Even if you start out loving them, it can turn to hate in a lifetime of sameness.”

Kane said nothing, wondering if the comment went with Green’s line of business. He knelt beside the girl and saw Green kneel behind them.

“Tell me about Ramon Mandown,” he said, keeping his voice almost to a whisper in the stillness of the church.

Maria started to speak, keeping her eyes on the altar. “He was a good man,” she said, “good to me when I was only a child. Sometimes he would give candy to us, to my sisters and brothers. I never read any of his poems until after he died. I think they’re beautiful.”

“How did he die, Maria?”

“I remember the night,” she continued, still staring at the altar. “I’d been out, and when I came home I saw them going into Ramon’s house.”

“Who?”

“Juan Vyano, the headman. And many others. All of them angry.”

“Ramon was dead?”

“No, he was still alive then. I saw him in the doorway.”

“How many persons were there?”

“Vyano and eleven others. I remember counting them. There was Hernando, and Miller, and Jose, and the shoemaker, and the barber, and the Quan brothers, and I forget who else. After they were in the house for a long time I heard the shots.”

“Shots?”

She nodded. “When they killed Ramon Mandown.”

Vyano and eleven others, Kane stared hard at the flickering vigil lights. “You mean they all killed him? The whole village?”

“Those that were there. Vyano and the others. I’ve been afraid to say, but his poems were so beautiful I had to tell someone. I told Green the bookseller.”

A girl’s statement, but he needed more evidence. “Do you know where they buried him?”

She nodded. “I know the place.”

“Take me there.”

Green leaned over between them. “That was not in the agreement. Another hundred dollars for the location of the grave.”

Kane hesitated only a moment. He was too close to the truth to stop now. “All right. Right now?”

But Green answered, “Tonight, just after dark. Meet me here. I’ll have Maria with me. Now go, before the police grow suspicious. And don’t bring your wife tonight. It might be dangerous.”

He was already heading for the side door, clutching the young girl’s wrist to pull her along. Kane wondered if he would really find the grave for his two hundred dollars, or if he would only find the bottom of a ditch somewhere while Green and the girl named Maria robbed him of the rest of his money. He was not gullible enough to believe a man like Green completely, and yet there had been a fantastic ring of truth in the girl’s story.

“You took long enough,” Doris said when he’d rejoined her. Across the street, the police car was not in sight.

“It was time well spent. I talked to a girl who practically witnessed Mandown’s killing, and she’s going to show me the grave tonight.”

“Kane, where is this all going to end?”

“I won’t be satisfied until I can write the truth about Mandown’s death.”

“If the police see you with Green again …”

“They won’t. That’s why we’re waiting until tonight. And, once we’re up in the hills Pallato can’t follow us. He said it was outside his territory. We should be safe.”

“I’m not going up there with you.”

“I don’t want you to, dear. I didn’t want you to come along here. Wait for me at the hotel.”

“Be careful, Kane.”

The night was starless as a blanket of clouds settled heavily over the region. Kane sat huddled in the front seat of Harry Green’s car, wondering for the first time if Ramon Mandown were really worth it all. Seated here between Green and the girl named Maria, he was not nearly as sure of things as he had been by daylight. The old doubts about Green’s motives asserted themselves once again. After all, he knew the man as a pornographer and a revolutionary—which were hardly traits to inspire confidence on a dark night. He thought of the ditch again, and was thankful he’d left most of his money back at the hotel.

“We’re nearly there,” Green said. “Do you have the other hundred dollars?”

“Of course. Does Maria get it?”

Green gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t be foolish. She wouldn’t know what to do with it. Would you, dear girl?”

Maria, obviously uneasy, shifted in her seat. “I only want to help, to tell the truth about Ramon Mandown.” After a few moments’ silence, she said, “Stop right here.”

Green pulled the car off the road, its headlights pointing out a little weed-strangled graveyard by the side of a church. Kane stared through the darkness with distaste. “It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a hundred years.”

“This is the place,” the girl insisted, hopping out of the car on her side. Kane and Green followed her. She led them up a rise of soft damp ground, past tumbled tombstones that caught and held the glow from Harry Green’s flashlight. “Here!”

It was a low grave, a sunken rectangle of earth and grass with only a simple stone marker flat against the earth. Ramon Mandown—Carla Mandown. Only that, without dates. Kane read the words, and his heart beat faster.

“Should we dig them up?” Green asked.

“For another hundred dollars?” Kane knew that, much as he might want to, he could never desecrate the great poet’s grave. Perhaps fifty years from now someone might open it, but not yet.

Harry Green shifted the flashlight to his other hand. “There’s somebody coming,” he said.

A powerful spotlight cut through the night from the direction of the road, pinning them in its path. “Green!” a voice shouted.

The bearded man’s hand came out of his pocket, holding a tiny automatic pistol. But he was blinded by the light, and before he could take aim the muffled splatter of an automatic weapon split the damp night air. Harry Green toppled backward over a gravestone, and Maria started screaming.

As the light turned toward him, Kane dived behind the gravestone too and felt in the grass for Green’s fallen gun. Up on the road there were men talking, at least two of them. One was unmistakably Captain Pallato. After a moment’s frantic searching, Kane’s fingers closed around the gun. He aimed it at the light, and then thought better of it. He was no hero, and their weapons could spray the entire area with bullets.

The girl’s screams had settled into a dull sobbing as she scampered away among the gravestones. Kane put a hand on Green’s chest, searching for a heartbeat, but there was only gently pulsating blood, coming from a line of massive wounds. If the bearded man was still alive, death was very close. Kane gave it up and hurried after the girl. Behind him, he could hear Pallato and the others moving in to inspect their kill.

Kane caught Maria back in the woods, grabbing her arm and pulling her to him. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered harshly, aware that his actions hardly fitted the words.

“They killed him,” she sobbed.

“It was Captain Pallato. Was Pallato one of the twelve men who called on Mandown that night?”

“No—no. They were all from the village.”

“Can you take me to Juan Vyano’s house?” Suddenly he remembered that his right hand was still clutching Harry Green’s gun. Without thinking, he dropped it into his pocket. Green would have no further use for it.

She led him through thick underbrush, avoiding main roads, until they were in the more populated area that Kane remembered from his earlier visit. “That is his house,” she said, pointing toward a pinpoint of light that came from a nearby window.

“Thank you, Maria. Go home now, and tell nobody what happened. You’ve seen more than your share of death, and it may be dangerous for you.”

He hovered by the side window of the house until he saw Juan Vyano appear in the circle of light. Then he stepped onto the rickety porch and knocked at the door. When Vyano opened it, Kane showed him the gun. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “This is just for my protection.”

Vyano stepped aside to let him enter. “You hardly need it here.”

“I’ve been shot at already tonight.”

“You are the man from the cemetery yesterday—the one who asked the questions.”

“And got a lot of wrong answers to them. You said Mandown’s grave was unmarked, and I’ve just come from looking at it.”

Juan Vyano hesitated, running a damp hand through his graying hair. “Who took you there?”

He decided not to mention Maria. “An American named Harry Green. He was followed to the cemetery by a policeman named Captain Pallato, and shot down in cold blood.”

Vyano nodded sadly. “Green was an evil man. I suppose he deserved it.”

“He thought he’d be safe from Pallato outside of Puerto Vale,” Kane said.

“He was safe from Pallato only in Puerto Vale. The police captain could not kill him like that in his own territory, but as soon as Green left the city, Pallato must have seen his chance to do what the courts could not do.”

“Is that the way of justice here?”

The man shrugged. “It is the way of public safety. Green corrupted the youth and subverted the adults. Pallato did the right thing.”

Kane held the gun steady. They were standing in the center of the shabby room, seeing each other only by the light from the single naked bulb that burned in one corner. It might have been a poor man’s home, except for the bookcase of expensive volumes along one wall. Kane wondered if any of them were Green’s special stock. “What about Mandown?” he asked. “I suppose you did the right thing with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ramon Mandown was murdered.”

“That would be difficult for you to prove.”

“Give me a shovel and I’ll dig up the grave. You know what I’d find. Skeletons can still show bullet holes.”

“There is no need for that,” Vyano said quietly. He shifted his position slightly and Kane brought up the gun.

“You admit they were both shot?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly.

“You went there, Vyano. You and eleven other men from the village. Did you eat a last meal with him, listen to the great man’s words one last time before you all killed him?”

Juan Vyano closed his eyes for a moment, with something like an ultimate sadness. “You do not understand the way we live here. You are a stranger from a strange land.”

“I understand that Ramon Mandown had a sort of greatness you couldn’t comprehend here. I understand that you killed him for it.”

“Killed a man because he was intelligent and famous and saw poetic beauty in these poor valleys? Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I’ll tell the world when I get back. That’s what I’ll write about.”

“Are you married, sir?”

“I’m on my honeymoon.”

“Then you are too young to understand. Too lacking in worldly experience.”

“I understand murder. I understand Harry Green shot down in a graveyard. I understand Mandown and his wife in their grave together.”

Juan Vyano sighed. “Do you really think Mandown was a great man?”

“Of course.”

“Then put away your gun. I will tell you the truth, and you will never print it.”

Kane stared hard into the bleak eyes. “What truth do you mean?”

“The truth about Ramon Mandown’s death. You see, we didn’t hate him for his fame. We tried to protect that fame, and we succeeded until you came here with your questions.”

“Why did it need protection?” Kane asked, and suddenly he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“What do you do when a great man sins?” Juan Vyano asked, with a touch of sadness in his voice. “Is any man so great that he is above the law?”

“No.”

“Of course not. And yet, here in our little village, we could not subject our leading citizen—our greatest man—to the shame of a scandal. Just as Captain Pallato had his ways of justice, so did we. Justice was served, and yet the fame of Ramon Mandown lives on.”

“Tell me,” Kane said, putting the gun in his pocket.

“We did not murder Ramon Mandown that night. We were only twelve jurors. Ramon Mandown was tried, convicted and executed for the murder of his wife.”

The Empty Zoo

HE USED TO PLAY there often as a child, especially on those summer days when the muggy heat drove others to the beach. Then, scorning their imagined friendships, he hurried over the hill to the grove of towering leafy trees that sheltered the single whitewashed building.

“Why would any boy want to play in an empty zoo?” his mother had asked once; but she never asked it again because she didn’t really care about the answer. She didn’t really care about him.

Once, of course, the zoo had not been empty. It had sheltered a score of various animals during the depression-ridden years, when the city could afford nothing better. Tommy had been so young he could hardly remember those years; hardly remember being pulled along screaming in between his father and mother to see the animals he feared and thus hated.

Perhaps that was why he started going there alone once the animals had been moved to the new, larger zoo across town. He soon learned that the fence was easy to scale, and that a watchman patrolled the grounds periodically at best. Thus he established himself easily as king of the place, walked unafraid between the rows of empty cages with their gradually rusting bars, and even occasionally swung from the bars themselves in an open gesture of defiance.

He was always careful not to vandalize the place openly, and he left as little evidence as possible of his comings and goings. If the city fathers ever suspected that the empty zoo was becoming a playground, they did nothing about it. A brief opposition flurry about the deserted building faded into growing years of forgotten neglect.

The grass grew taller where the occasional power mower from the city failed to cut, and the watchman’s job had been given over in time to routine checks by a police patrol car. Tommy grew with the grass, and sometimes with the coming of high school whole months would pass when he did not venture into the forbidden territory. But always, in the bleakness of a broken date or the tension of a tough examination, there was something to drive him back.

He didn’t need to climb the fence any more, because smaller children had discovered the place and trampled a path across the worn wire links. One night, long after the early autumn dark, he found that they’d imprisoned a cat in one of the ancient cages. He freed the frightened beast, though for a moment his own fear had almost stampeded him.

Grown, he no longer prowled and crept in the cages, no longer swung on the bars. But still there was that overwhelming, driving urge to visit the place. He still lived at home, though his father had died, and often on a night when his mother hounded him, he would leave the house to walk once more over the hill to the old building.

It was on such a night, with the moon full but obscured by breeze-driven clouds, that he encountered another trespasser for the first time. Her name, he learned later, was Janet Crown—and she was eleven years old.

The bars were like the zoo and they closed him in on all sides until he could no longer think or feel or breathe. And always under the glare of the unshaded overhead bulb there was the rasping voice of the detective, and the milder voice of the assistant district attorney, and later the mildest voice of all which belonged to the prison psychiatrist.

“The girl will live,” they told him first. “You’re lucky.”

Lucky.

His mother never came to see him in prison, but then he didn’t really care. He passed the time thinking of the zoo, imagining himself now as one of those caged animals he’d feared so much. It was easy to think of animals in general, but he found it sometimes more difficult to concentrate on a particular one. A lion, perhaps? Or a prowling jaguar? Or maybe only a feathered owl to fly by night.

It was a long time before he came back to the city that was home. A decade had passed and the very contours of the city had changed. He’d changed, too, because prison and the hospital were certain to change anyone. Toward the end, he hardly ever thought about the zoo, and they said that was good. But he wondered sometimes if it was, wondered if the hours of staring blankly out the window without a thought in his head really meant he was cured.

He was past thirty now, a grown man who was far from unattractive. He’d been in town only two weeks when he met Carol Joyce.

She was tall and blonde and very beautiful, and when she spoke, he listened. He’d met her one day in the toy department of the store where they both worked, and since then a noon-day friendship had gradually blossomed.

“Tommy Lambert,” she said, repeating his name one day in that soft velvet voice he’d come to love.

“That’s me.”

“I think you might have gone to school with my brother, Bob. Are you from the city?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but I don’t remember your brother.”

“Of course he was lots older than me. And better looking.”

“I doubt that,” he offered honestly.

She flushed a bit at the compliment. “How do you like it at the store?”

“It’s a job,” he answered with a shrug. “What department have they got you in today?”

“Sportswear,” she said, making a face that was expressively “I wish I were in toys with you. I like working with children.”

“I hardly ever see them, Carol. All I do is move stock around. Stuffed animals, toy trains. All day long.”

Finally the daily chats blossomed into lunch, and that was really the beginning of it. He started seeing Carol Joyce one or two nights a week, on outings that were almost—but not quite—dates. When she celebrated her twenty-first birthday (only twenty-one?) a month later he sent her an orchid and took her out to dinner. She was making him feel young again, making him forget the past.

“Have you lived here all your life?” she asked him one night, over an after-theater drink.

“Most of it. All my childhood. I was away for ten years, almost.”

“In the army?”

“No. I was sick.”

Her face reflected concern, but it quickly passed. “You’re the healthiest sick man I ever saw.”

“I’m cured, I guess.”

In the week that followed, he was drawn to her by a feeling very much like love. He found himself watching the clock until their noontime meetings, planning little surprises that he knew would please her. But then something happened to bring back all the old doubts. She’d come up to the toy department to meet him after work one day, and when he returned from washing up he found her playing with a stuffed giraffe in the stockroom.

“Having fun?” he asked with a smile, always pleased to see her happy.

She nodded, turning her tanned, eternally expectant face toward him. “I love animals. Always have. We should go to the zoo some Saturday.”

“Zoo? I thought it was closed.” The words came tumbling out before he fully realized what he was saying. He was back there, among the empty cages.

“Closed? Whatever gave you that idea?” And then, after a moment, “Oh, you must be thinking of the old place. I keep forgetting you were away from here for ten years. Come to think of it, though, that old zoo’s been closed longer than that.”

“I used to go to the old place when I was a child. I still think of that as the real zoo.”

“Well, we can go there if you like. But there aren’t any animals.”

His blood seemed to freeze at the unexpected words. What was she saying? Was she actually suggesting a visit to that place? “Oh, I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“It would be a fun place for a picnic before they tear it down.”

“Tear it down?”

“They’ve been fighting about it in the city council for years. Now it’s going to be the site of a low-rent housing project. They’ll start tearing down the old zoo next month.”

“So soon?”

“It’s been empty for twenty years, Tommy.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I suppose I just hate to see the old things going.”

And that Saturday, after further urging from Carol, they packed a picnic lunch, and a few cans of cool beer, and went off to the place that had once been so important to him. They went off to the empty zoo.

It stood much as he remembered it, lonely in a field of summer weeds, with blue wildflowers growing about in clusters. Even from a distance, the whitewashed walls were spiderwebbed with cracks, and the bars of the outdoor cages had taken on a permanent reddish-rust color. Otherwise, the only change was in the disappearance of the wire fence, which had been replaced by a high board barricade bearing the elaborately painted announcement: Future Site of Spring Gardens Low-Rent Housing Development—Another Sign of Community Progress!

The general area, though, seemed even more remote and isolated than he remembered. From the top of the hill overlooking the zoo he could see for miles in every direction, and what he saw was a soiled spot on the suburban landscape. Preliminary work of clearing trees for the approaches to the development had already been completed; and on the city side, where shoddy rows of apartments had been creeping toward the zoo for years, there was now only a massive field of rubble.

“No one ever comes here any more,” Carol told him. “Not even the children to play. They don’t even bother with the guards since they put up the new fence.”

“How will we get in?” he asked a bit doubtfully.

“There’s always a way,” she reassured him. And there was. A door in the wooden fence stood partly ajar, its padlock broken loose by some vandal with a rock.

They picnicked on the side of a grassy slope, lolling away the afternoon with tales of half-remembered childhood adventures. It was a summer sort of day, perfect for reminiscing with the softness of uncut grass against their faces. “I used to play here a lot as a child,” he said.

She looked down at the crumpling building with distaste. “I think there’s nothing more horrible in the whole world than an empty zoo.”

“Unless it’s a full one.”

She looked up, startled. “You feared the animals?”

“I suppose I did. And the place itself, with its thick walls and iron bars and musty odor. I suppose that’s why I went there so often after the animals were gone. I was the king then, the king of the whole place. And I didn’t fear it anymore.”

She shifted slightly in the grass, and her bare legs beneath the shorts were firm and tanned. “But you still seemed almost afraid when I suggested this place the other day.”

Had he shown his feelings that openly? “I had a terrible experience here once. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Not even to me, Tommy?”

“I’m afraid you’d understand least of all.” And yet, looking into her pale eyes just then, he felt as if he’d always known her. As if he could tell her anything. She leaned over to kiss him then, and he thought it was the happiest moment of his life.

She rarely wore jewelry, but this day he noticed a little-girl bracelet on her left wrist in place of her watch. “When I’m with you, time doesn’t matter,” she whispered in his ear. “Daddy gave me that bracelet a long time ago, when I was in school. See—the jeweler got my initials backwards. J.C. instead of C.J.”

“You’re a big girl now, Carol.”

“I’m a woman now.”

The sky darkened too soon with the coming of evening; he hadn’t realized it was so late. “Perhaps we should be going,” he volunteered.

“Before we’ve looked inside? One last time?”

“All right,” he consented. “It’ll be gone in another month.”

The door was trustingly unlocked, and as they stepped across the threshold he might have been stepping into the past. Suddenly, it was ten years ago, all too clearly, with the dimness of the outer twilight playing once more through the mesh-covered upper skylights, casting its uncertain illumination on the empty rows of open cages.

“A horrible place!” she said with distaste.

“Did you come here often, too?”

“Some,” she answered. “But for me the fear wasn’t the animals. I never knew the animals here.”

He led her along, brushing away cobwebs, squeezing her hand a bit too tightly. “Maybe we all have to come back to the thing we fear,” he said quietly.

The musty smell of long disuse was in the air, and when Carol bravely touched an open cage, the barred door screeched with protesting age. The sound sent a shiver through him.

“I’d forgotten how it was,” she said.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait! Come here!” She’d climbed into one of the open cages, and now she beckoned him to join her. “Kiss me first, Tommy. In here!”

He followed her in and her lips closed on his. He felt himself pressed backward against the inner bars. In that moment it was if he’d known her all his life, and perhaps he had.

“Carol …”

Suddenly she shoved away from him and was out of the cage. The rusty bars swung shut in his face, and he saw her click a shiny new padlock into place. “Not Carol,” she whispered in a different voice, a voice he hardly recognized. “I’m Janet, Tommy. Remember? Janet Crown. I’ve waited ten years for you to come back.”

“Janet!” The word was a scream of sudden, blinding terror.

She was a little girl once more, and the zoo was the world, and life was death. “Perhaps they’ll hear your screams,” she said through the bars that separated them. “Perhaps you’ll still be alive in a month, when they come to tear the building down.”

“Janet!”

He screamed her name again, and kept screaming it until she was gone and he was alone in the empty zoo.

Ring the Bell Softly

IN THE OLD DAYS, when the people of the valley set their clocks and fed their chickens by the distant tolling of the church bell, Father Peter climbed the tower steps three times daily to pull the thick rope that ran upward to the single great bell. Now, since there was no longer anyone to hear its ringing, he made the trip but once a day. The bell rang out at six every morning—at the hour when farmers once rose to the demands of the field and the creatures of the wild awakened to another day.

Sometimes, on days like this, he could watch the sun gradually rising over the distant hills, coloring the clouds with a misty pink that turned gradually to scattered scarlet. On these days at times Father Peter would climb to the very top of the tower, to gaze out at the countryside, at his land, his flock.

But the days had faded, just as the flush of youth had faded from his body. Gradually the old families of the parish had splintered, with the youngsters going off to the cities to earn their living and find their mates. The old folks usually had remained, working the land until death or disease overtook them in their beds or in the fields or at the chipped kitchen table that seemed so much a part of their lives. Now, now in the autumn, there was nothing. The last family had moved away from the valley the week before, and Father Peter waited only for the official order from his bishop before closing the church and moving on himself.

Each morning after the ringing of the bell he descended to the altar to say mass, and to address a few remarks to those dwindling few who attended. Now there were none at all in the church, but he went through the motions anyway, offering the prayers that were unchanged for centuries. It really didn’t matter that no one came any more—it didn’t matter to God at least.

The rest of the day, after Mass, was filled with details for Father Peter, though now with the absence of any souls to comfort, the details had taken on the mists of change and transition. There was packing to be done, records to be completed, thousands of little tasks he wouldn’t have dreamed possible a few years earlier.

And he was in the midst of these tasks, just after morning mass, when a surprising noise sounded from the trees around the church. The birds—something was disturbing the birds!

Father Peter climbed up the tower steps and peered out over the browning trees to where the birds were. Yes, he saw at once the reason for their alarm—a figure, an aged tattered figure, was approaching the church through the underbrush. Here, where no one came any more, where even the birds were startled by a human presence.

The priest climbed down from his vantage point and hurried to meet the stranger. Even now, at the moment he was packing to leave, an unfamiliar face was still welcome at the little church. After all, the stranger might even carry a message from his bishop, with the long-awaited orders to move on.

“Hello, there,” Father Peter called out.

The man looked up, and Father Peter had a quick impression of a thickly bearded face, noble but spent. It might have been the face of a warrior or a king, or a beggar. “Good morning. Father. I heard your bell.”

“The sound carries a great distance on days like this. But I thought the valley was empty. Are you only passing through?”

The man nodded, his broad beard shaking with the gesture. “Only passing through. May I stay and rest with you, Father?”

“Certainly. Though I will be leaving soon. Perhaps even today if my orders should come through from the bishop. Come inside, my good man.”

Father Peter had not yet eaten breakfast, so he prepared the food for the two of them. As he worked the bearded man spoke softly, indifferently, as if only making conversation. “You live alone here, Father?”

“Alone, yes. There was a housekeeper at one time, but her family moved away from the valley. I could not ask her to give up her relatives and friends to continue catering to the foolish demands of someone such as I. Now, it is not really so difficult to provide my own meals and keep this little place clean.”

“Why do you stay, if no one lives in the valley?”

“Why? Because I have not been ordered elsewhere. God—and my bishop—have a plan for me. I simply carry it out.”

“Do you think my coming here was part of the plan?” the stranger asked.

“Who knows?” Then, as an afterthought, he asked. “Do you have a name? Mine is Father Peter.”

“Everyone has a name, Father. You may call me Chance.”

“Just one name?”

“Like yourself. What need is there for more?”

They ate breakfast together, passing casual remarks about the mild autumn weather, and later they strolled among the trees. Above, the milky clouds looked down indifferently, and the breeze began gradually to stir the last dying leaves. And as they walked they might have been, here in this remote valley, the last two people on earth.

“What do you do, Chance? Do you have a profession?” Father Peter disliked personal questions directed at strangers, but now there seemed to be some unfathomable reason, some near compulsion, for keeping the conversation going.

“Oh, Father, I suppose you would call me a gambler. A gambler with life.”

They walked further into the valley, and Father Peter showed him the houses and farms, now deserted, which had once lately brimmed with life. A little cemetery, now overgrown with weeds because there was no longer anyone who cared. The road to the nearest town, rutted and muddy, certainly unable to withstand another winter. And always the woods, the overgrown underbrush, waiting to swallow everything which man might abandon.

“Soon no one will come here again,” Father Peter said.

“Maybe it’s for the best, Father. Maybe this valley was planned only as God’s dumping ground.” And he took a small package from an inside pocket, a package carefully wrapped in brown paper and sealed with great quantities of red wax. At one corner the paper had begun to rip.

“What is that?” the priest asked.

The man named Chance pulled back his arm and hurled the package into the depths of the underbrush. “Just something,” he answered. “Just something that was getting too big to keep.”

Was it there, among the vines and weeds waiting to take possession of his valley, that Father Peter first wondered if this man Chance might be the Devil?

“Perhaps I should stay the night,” Chance said finally, as darkness began to drift like a fog across the countryside. “Would you have a bed for me?”

“There is always room in my home,” Father Peter said, though he could feel the chill on his spine at this strange man’s words. Yet hadn’t he known from the beginning that the man would stay? Hadn’t he known it, somewhere in the depths of his mind?

“Thank you. It has been a long time since I left my own home.”

“Where are you from?”

“England, a little place not far from London. You mean my accent didn’t give me away?”

For the first time the priest realized the man did indeed speak with an English accent. He relaxed a bit. Certainly Satan would not speak to him with an English accent. “But aren’t you anxious to get back?”

“For what? My business is finished.”

“Your wife? Do you have one? Your children?”

“Gone. All gone.” He shook his head. “But you don’t want to hear my troubles.”

“That is my job, Chance—listening to other people’s troubles. God forgive me, I thought at first you were a demon sent to tempt me in my loneliness. Instead you are simply a man with a problem, like so many other men.”

“But no problem for you, Father. I think I’ll turn in now, if you’ll show me the bed.”

“So early?”

“Like you, I must be up early in the morning.”

Father Peter sighed and led the way to the room.

In the morning, as if alone, Father Peter climbed the tower and began the daily tolling of the great bell. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment, but this was the first day in more than a week that someone in the valley would be awakened by the bell. Someone other than the birds.

But as he watched the birds rise from their sleeping places to take wing once more, he was bothered by a memory of the previous day. The man Chance had thrown away a package, but surely here in his valley Father Peter had a right to know what was in that package. What if it was something harmful to his birds?

He made his way down from the tower, and headed immediately into the underbrush in search of the package. It took him some moments to come up with it, and when he did there was a light layer of morning dew still upon it. The package was carefully wrapped and sealed, as if for mailing, but the man Chance must have changed his mind somewhere along the line. From one already ripped corner he enlarged the split until the contents would be visible. After all, there was nothing wrong with looking, he told himself. The man had thrown it away. Heavy, some sort of metal …

And then the gun dropped into his waiting hand.

Perhaps he wasn’t really surprised. Perhaps he’d known all along it must be something like this. But now seeing it was nevertheless a bit of a shock. The gun was a revolver, well oiled and obviously in working condition. He opened the cylinder and emptied the shells into the palm of his hand. Five bullets had been fired. One remained in the weapon.

Father Peter sighed and put the weapon back in its package. Then he carried the thing back inside. He would decide later what must be done.

When he finished saying Mass, he saw that Chance was kneeling in a rear pew, his head bowed in prayer. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Father Peter.”

“Will you be leaving us now?”

“Yes. There is no reason to stay longer,” the bearded man answered.

“Was there a reason to come?”

“What?”

“Was there a reason to come? Why did you come, Chance?” He stood very close to the man as he asked the question. “Did you think of my valley only as a dumping ground for your package?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know what you brought here, Chance. I found the package this morning and opened it.”

The man named Chance sighed, as if beneath a great weight. “You had no right to do that.”

“Perhaps not. But it is done.”

“Maybe I’m the demon you fear after all, Father.”

“I doubt it.”

“But if I am?”

“That is the chance I take every day of life. Now tell me about it.”

“All right,” the man said finally. “I committed a crime out there, out in the world.”

“Do you want to confess it?”

“I’m not of your faith. I’m not of any faith any more, Father. I killed my wife and two children with that gun.”

Father Peter blinked his eyes and stared off for a moment into the distance. He’d heard worse things in his day, certainly, but in that moment the man Chance seemed to embody evil in a most shocking way. “Are you sorry?” he asked finally.

“Sorry? I don’t know, Father. I really don’t know. Not sorry enough to go back, I guess. But sorry enough to keep on running.”

“It’s important to be sorry. Go back, turn yourself in to the police.”

“No.”

Father Peter turned away. “I cannot force you. I have not the strength. And yet, I feel God had a plan in bringing you to my valley.”

“Maybe he did,” the bearded man said. “I left the gun here.”

“Is my little church to be only a dumping place for the evidence of your crime?”

The man named Chance shook his head. “You don’t understand, Father. I was saving the last bullet for myself. I threw the gun away because now I’ve decided to live.”

Father Peter looked up at the sky and blinked against the brightness of the hazy sun. “All right,” he said finally. “Perhaps that is a start.”

And presently, after Chance had departed to make his way out of the valley, Father Peter went back into the empty church to pray. Certainly the bearded man had not been a demon. He’d just been a man, sinning like all men. And what had been done for him? Had Father Peter done anything at all except perhaps to give him his life? Chance would keep on living, and someday he would repent—or kill again.

Perhaps others would come to the valley in the days while Father Peter waited. But after this he would ring the bell softly.

Stop at Nothing

GENT FELT THE SCRAPE of the razor against his throat and tried to relax, staring out the barber shop window at the noonday traffic on Honolulu’s Bishop Street. The islands were hot in April, with the temperature already hovering around a daily 78 as it climbed steadily toward the peak of August and September. For the most part the winter rains had passed, and mainland tourists arrived with every plane. Gent could spot them, even from the barber chair, as they wandered the streets with leis and cameras.

“Know a man named Ken Su?” he asked the Hawaiian boy with the razor at his throat, trying to make it casual.

“Ken Su? No.”

“All right.” Gent fell silent again, watching the traffic. He’d come a long way, too long a way to be discouraged by a wrong answer from a kid barber.

He paid for the haircut and shave and left the shop, joining the street crowds at high noon. Except for the giant palm trees that were everywhere, it might have been a street in Omaha or even Akron. He passed the First National Bank and the Alexander Young Hotel, seeing the backdrop of volcanic mountains in the distance. He found a bar on King Street near the City Hall and sat for an hour thinking. He thought about the pain in his chest that never went away now, and the damp whiskey rings on the bar before him. Most of all he thought about Rhonda, and what it had been like.

He strolled down the beach for a long time, marveling silently at the twisted palm trees that towered over the sun-bathers on the sand. He’d never realized from the pictures that they were this tall—sixty or seventy feet, at least; taller than some of the hotels.

Toward evening he went back to the barbershop and waited in an alley for the boy who had shaved him. When he came out, Gent stepped out of the shadow to grab him.

“What?” he managed to gasp.

Gent shoved him against the brick wall.

“Ken Su—where is he?”

The boy’s hand came out of his pocket, flashing a straight razor, but Gent was ready, and he slammed his fist into the Hawaiian’s stomach. The razor clattered to the concrete.

“Once more, or you’ll have no teeth. Ken Su.”

“Don’t know,” the boy gasped, still doubled up from the blow to his stomach.

Gent took out the newspaper clipping and shoved it under the boy’s eyes. “See this? You, last October during Aloha week. The man standing behind you is Ken Su.”

“I don’t know him.”

Gent slapped him hard across the face. “I came three thousand miles to find you. And I’ve been looking for him for nearly six years. Where is he? No stalling.”

“Don’t know.”

“Where was the picture taken?”

“Bar. The Yo-Ho-Ho Club. Outside town, over near Diamond Head.”

“Thanks.”

The boy made a lunge for his razor as Gent turned away, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. Gent kicked his feet out from under him and left him sprawled in the alley.

Even at night the temperature rarely dips below 70 in Honolulu. Gent left the top down on his rented convertible as he drove southeast along Waikiki Beach on the highway that leads to Diamond Head. The wind ruffled his hair and made him feel young again, made him feel as if she were still alive and riding at his side.

The Yo-Ho-Ho Club was in the Honolulu District, but some five miles from the downtown business area. It stood low and slender in the middle of the vast flatness leading to the Diamond Head promontory. With the mountain in the background dwarfing it into insignificance, the club seemed no more than a medium-sized souvenir stand until Gent entered it. Then he was surprised at its size.

The decor of the place seemed to carry out a pirate motif, with waitresses dressed as scantily clad buccaneers. The drinks were all rum variations, with nothing else available. Gent frowned at this news, debated between a daiquiri and a rum punch, and finally settled for rum on the rocks.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asked the bartender.

“Mrs. Cone. That lady over by the bandstand.”

Gent waited until she had finished talking with the trio of musicians in their Hawaiian shirts and was heading back toward the bar. He watched her speak a few words to a waitress and adjust her satin shorts with a sharp tug, then continue on her way.

“Mrs. Cone?”

“Yes.” Hard eyes, lips a bit too red, spelled a long time in a business meant for a man.

“Could I speak to you about one of your customers?”

“You a cop?”

“No.”

She slid onto the barstool next to him. “You can speak to me about any damn thing you want. I don’t have to answer.”

“Ken Su?”

“Never heard the name.”

He unfolded the clipping once more from his pocket. “This man.”

“Who told you to come here?”

“The other fellow—the barber. His name’s in the caption. He said the picture was taken here last October.”

He ordered another drink while she thought about it. Finally she said, “Sure, he’s a customer. He’s got a blonde wife and a big house in the city. But his name’s not Ken Su or whatever you said.”

“What is it?”

“That’s all you get out of me until you do a little talking, mister. Who are you? What do you want him for? You don’t look like a federal cop.”

“I’m no sort of cop. This is personal.”

She glanced around. “Bring your drink and come on into my office.”

The place was a plush room with a view of Diamond Head, and a foam rubber sofa that almost swallowed him when he sat on it. It was a room for a man. “Is your husband …”

“My husband is dead,” Mrs. Cone replied to his unfinished question. “This was his club. He was killed in an auto accident a year ago and it’s been my place since then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t know him. Now what about this Ken Su?”

Gent sipped his drink. “I asked you first.”

“I can give you his name if I know what you’re planning to do.”

He liked the woman. Perhaps he could trust her. Perhaps he could tell her what he’d never told anyone else. “It happened in the war,” he said. “In North Borneo.”

“The war’s been over nearly six years. They’re fighting another war now, in Korea.”

“The last one will never be over for me,” Gent said. “I’ve been looking for Ken Su for all these years, and now suddenly I see his picture in an old newspaper and track him here, to Hawaii. This is the closest I’ve been.”

“What are you going to do when you find him?” she asked.

“Kill him,” Gent answered simply.

“It was that bad?”

“It was that bad, yes. Let me tell you a story, Mrs. Cone.” He knew now why he was telling her all this. The hunt was almost over. Ken Su was trapped with him on this island. He could afford to talk about it now. “My wife Rhonda and I went out to North Borneo just before the war, to manage a rubber plantation. We were young, and in love, and very happy. The happiness lasted until just after Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese swept down over everything. Suddenly we were prisoners of war, though we’d never fought. The men were interned at one camp, and the women at another. That was the last I ever saw of Rhonda, though we managed to exchange notes a few times after that.”

“How long were you in the prison camp?”

“Three and a half years, all told. There and elsewhere. Rhonda ended up at a women’s camp on the shore of the Celebes Sea. A Japanese officer named Ken Su was in charge.”

“I didn’t know he was Japanese.”

“He wasn’t, really. I think he was Mongolian or Korean. But he was a colonel in the Japanese army. I saw him just once, on the day when they separated us from our wives. I remember he was taller than the other Japanese, and younger than I’d expected. There was something about his eyes that bothered me even then.”

Mrs. Cone lit another cigarette. She seemed sorry now that she’d asked about Ken Su. “You’re sure you want to tell me all this?” she asked nervously.

“I want to tell you. I want somebody else to know how it was, to know the hate that’s kept me alive for six years, searching for the murderer of my wife.” He was silent for a moment and then he hurried on, wanting to be finished. “The camp—my camp—was liberated by British paratroopers. The Japanese guards surrendered without firing a shot when they heard the war was over. I went with the troops down to Rhonda’s camp. I wanted to be there when she was freed. But …”

“Go on,” Mrs. Cone told him, looking away.

“When Ken Su heard the war was over and liberation was near, he marched the fifty-seven women prisoners who were still alive out into the exercise yard and ordered the guards to machine-gun them. Then the bodies were dragged into a single pile, doused with gasoline and set afire.” He dropped his head into his hands. “The fire was almost out when we arrived,” he mumbled. “Ken Su and the guards had fled into the jungle. Some of the guards were captured later and told what had happened, but Ken Su was never found. The authorities suspected he disguised himself as a native refugee and made it to the Philippines in the postwar confusion.”

“Why would he do such a horrible thing when the war was over?”

Gent sighed into his hands, remembering every detail of it, remembering the blackened, smoking bodies and the stench of roasted flesh. “The guards said there had been atrocities at the camp. He was simply removing the witnesses against him. He knew if he stayed there he’d be tried as a war criminal, so he killed them all and took his chances of escaping. He didn’t look like a Japanese, and he apparently had enough luck to get him through the screening of refugees.”

“How can you be sure this man in the picture is Ken Su? You only saw him once.”

“I’m sure. I’ve tracked down other pictures of him, taken during the war. I’m sure.”

“Will what you’re doing bring her back to life? Will it change anything?”

“No. It won’t change anything, except that I’ll be able to sleep again. I’ll be able to look at another woman without seeing Rhonda every time.”

“What do you want from me?”

“His name and address, that’s all. I’ll do the rest.”

“If this is Ken Su, then he now goes by the name of Walter Thou. He claims to be Hawaiian, and he’s an importer of frozen foods from the mainland. Quite successful. He has a Canadian wife and no children. They live in a big stucco house on Ala Moana Boulevard, down near the yacht harbor.”

Gent got to his feet. “Thank you,” he said. “I suppose now you’ll get on the phone and warn him I’m coming.”

“I won’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “He already knows.”

“What?”

“That barber is Walter Thou’s nephew.”

Gent found the house without any trouble. It sat back from Ala Moana’s steady traffic, with a stand of bushy tropical plants screening it almost completely from the street. He parked his car around the corner and sat there for a moment, waiting. The time was just after eleven.

It started to rain a few drops, and they splashed against the windshield with patternless abandon. He watched them, thinking about Rhonda. Then he unzipped the briefcase on the seat next to him and took out the blue steel revolver that waited there. The chase was almost over.

He rang the bell and waited, and presently an overhead hall light snipped on. A young Oriental with a twisted lip opened the door. “Yes?”

“Walter Thou, please.”

“What is your business?”

“I have a personal message for him.”

“Mr. Thou is not at home.”

Gent hadn’t come this far to walk away empty-handed. “I’ll wait. It’s important.”

“He will not be back tonight.”

“Where can I find him?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “You could call at his office in the morning.”

No. No more waiting. Not even a few hours. The door was starting to close and Gent hit it with his shoulder. “Where is he?”

The Oriental toppled back, startled. “Lanny!” he shouted.

Gent glanced to his right, in time to see the kid barber coming at him. He had the razor out again. There was no time for the revolver, and Gent sidestepped to send the boy crashing into the glass of the door. Then he slammed into the Oriental, using his fists. The man went down with something like a sob.

Gent turned his attention again to Lanny, the barber. By now he had the gun out, and he showed he meant to use it. “Any more tricks and you’re a dead man. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Gent slashed him across the cheek with the gun barrel, leaving a thin red line. “Where? I’m not kidding.”

Lanny twisted away and tried to run, but Gent brought him down with a flying tackle on the polished oak floor of the hallway. “Where … where … where … where is …?”

“You’re mad!”

“Where … is … he?”

“They … they’ve got a yacht … down in the harbor. Don’t …”

Gent left him sprawled on the floor and hurried out. He’d studied the maps and guidebooks of Hawaii on the flight from the mainland, and he knew the yacht harbor was only a few blocks down Ala Moana. It was a large place by moonlight, and he could see the waves of Mamala Bay splashing against the coral reef that formed it into a perfect docking place for the vessels of the wealthy. He glanced at the twinkling sky and decided there’d be no more rain that night. Then he pondered the half-hundred or more yachts that lay before him.

On the dock there was a little shed, with a light in it. Some sort of a guard’s shack, he decided. Inside he found a sleepy man in dungarees and a sailing cap. “Which one is Walter Thou’s yacht?” he asked quietly.

“Who are you?”

Gent slipped the revolver from his pocket. “I’ll kill you,” he told the man in a level tone of voice. “I’ve come a long way to find him and I’ll stop at nothing now.”

“Mister! Put that damned thing away!”

“Walter Thou’s yacht.”

“The big one down at the end. The Sibu.”

Gent hit him with the gun and watched him go down. He knew it was the truth—Sibu had been the name of a town near the prison camp—but he didn’t want the man calling the police; not just yet.

Then he was out of the shed and hurrying silently along the wooden dock, hearing nothing but the slap of the waves and the occasional squeaking of a board. The odor of the sea was in his nostrils, and he remembered another day, when they’d come to the prison camp and the sea smell had mingled with a stench of burning flesh and finally had been smothered by it.

It was almost over now. Almost.

The Sibu. Resting in the harbor calm, her mooring lines were slack.

Gent lifted his revolver and stepped on board.

The man was waiting for him, standing half in the shadows of the cabin. He was tall and dark, and the moonlight caught his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked quietly, with a rasping sort of accent. “Your business, please.”

“Hello, Ken Su.” Gent held the revolver steady, but he didn’t fire immediately. He wanted the other to know why he was dying like this.

“My name is Walter Thou. I am Hawaiian.”

“Like hell! I met you just once, but I remember. How I remember! You’re Colonel Ken Su, late of the Imperial Japanese Army, commander of a prison camp for women near Sibu in North Borneo.”

“You are wrong. My name is Walter Thou. I import frozen food.”

“Then why did you run away and hide here? Why is your yacht named the Sibu?”

The man stepped forward a bit, but his hands were still shadowed by the night. “Quietly, please. My wife is dozing below deck. I am not hiding from anything as you put it. I am a native Hawaiian.”

“I’m through talking, Ken Su. I want you to know why you’re dying. One of those fifty-seven women you murdered and burned—one of them was my wife. Her name was Rhonda Gent. She was blonde and very beautiful. We came out from Chicago to work for a Dutch rubber company, just before the war. I never saw her after that day you took her, but my hate has kept me alive all these years. I never thought I’d find you, until I saw that picture in an old newspaper. I found the barber and then Mrs. Cone and then you.”

“I was never in the Japanese army,” he said. “I grew up here in Hawaii.”

“You think I could forget a face like that? Your memory is short.”

“Do I look Japanese?”

“No, but you look like a murderer. You look like the man I’ve been searching for.”

“You’d kill me without evidence, without being certain?”

Gent hesitated, his finger white on the trigger. He remembered something he’d read in the guidebook. “You say you grew up here, in Honolulu?”

“Yes.” The eyes sparkled, full of the hard hatred Gent had carried in his memory.

“Then as a boy you would have gone to the zoo many times. Tell me about it.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“No. Tell me about the animals at the zoo. How many snakes are there?”

“I … How should I know? The number changes.”

“How many, Ken Su? How many snakes?”

“There were three or four then, I suppose. How can I remember the exact number?”

Gent shook his head. “Wrong answer, Ken Su. Any Hawaiian child would know there are no snakes in the islands. Their importation is forbidden by law, even for the zoo. No snakes, Ken Su.”

“All right,” the voice said, rasping now. “But can’t we make a deal?”

“I’ve come too far for any deals.”

The tall man seemed to shudder with a sudden chill. “I’ve come too far, too. I’m no longer Ken Su. I’m no longer the man you seek. Put down your gun.”

“You’re going to die, Ken Su.”

“I did not survive the Borneo jungles to die here, my friend. Of that I assure you.” And with his final word he fired a sudden shot from the tiny revolver in his shadowed right hand.

Gent felt the bullet nick his cheek, and then he was pulling the trigger, once, twice, before Ken Su could fire again. “Rhonda Gent!” he shouted. “Rhonda Gent! Remember her name, you devil!”

Three, four, five shots, and the tall man sagged at last to the deck. Gent’s heart was pounding as he stepped over the body. But it was not quite over. The thirst for vengeance was too strong within him. He had one bullet left, and he would use it on Ken Su’s wife. He only wished the devil was still alive to see her die, as Rhonda had died.

Holding the revolver tightly, he stepped through the spreading pool of blood, went down the steps to the cabin below and pushed open the door. Gent felt the life drain from his body, as he faced the greatest horror of all, faced Ken Su’s blonde wife—Rhonda.

Another War

“BUT THAT WAS IN another war,” Mason argued, pausing to light his cigar. “You simply can’t compare the use of tanks in North Africa with that in Korea. The terrain was different, the weather conditions …”

Roderick Care shuffled his feet against the carpet and stared at the younger man. “I’m not running down what you fellows did in Korea—don’t misunderstand me! I’m only pointing out that given the right circumstances a massed armored attack can be both impressive and effective.”

Mason leaned back in his chair, enjoying himself for all the surface disagreement. Care, ten years his senior, was the sort of man with whom he liked to argue. “I don’t know,” he said with just a hint of a smile. “If they’re all like you, I don’t know that I’d be too welcome in the AWB.”

Roderick Care, a graying man with a spreading paunch, and no sense of humor, leaped to the defensive. “Come, now! You can’t be serious! The AWB is the finest bunch of guys you’d ever want to meet. They accepted me, and I’m British! That must prove something right there. We’re not the American Legion or the VFW or the Catholic War Vets, you know. We’re strictly social, just a bunch of fellows out for a good time. We like to get away from the wife and children for a few days occasionally and do some hunting or fishing, or just drink beer and talk about our service days.”

“The others have plenty of social activities,” Mason argued. “In fact I dropped out of a veterans’ group once because they were a bit too social. Dinners and dances and all the rest.”

“But those things are with the wife! I know you like to get away with the boys once in a while. Everybody does. Hell, how many other veterans’ organizations have a hunting lodge like our place in River Forks?”

Mason was ready for that one. “The Khakis have a lodge not too far from there.”

“The Khakis! Would you rather belong to the Khakis or the American War Buddies—buddy?”

“Neither group excites me too much, to be perfectly frank about it,” Mason told him.

Care spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “At least come to one of our meetings, see what it’s all about. What harm can that do?”

More to put an end to the discussion than because he really wanted to go. Mason finally agreed. He’d expected an evening of reminiscing when he agreed to dine with Roderick Care, but he’d hardly foreseen the sort of high-pressure sales talk to which he’d been subjected. As he drove home through the warm autumn night he reflected that he had now committed himself to next week’s meeting whether he liked it or not. Well, at least he could tell that to the man from the Khakis, who kept phoning him.

“Nice dinner, dear?” Maria asked him as he came in from the garage. “He didn’t try to sell you any insurance, did he?”

“No, we talked about North Africa and Korea, and tank warfare and stuff.”

She’d put the children to bed and was in the process of finishing the dinner dishes. He sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and watching her, ever amazed that she could still manage to look as youthful as when he’d married her twelve years ago. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t buy anything,” she told him. “Both children are going to need new shoes soon, and we still have the color TV to pay off.”

“He wants me to come to the next AWB meeting.”

“The what?”

“You know. The American War Buddies.”

“You’re not going, are you?”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just that you’ve always been sort of cynical about veterans’ groups.”

“Well, maybe this one’s different. Or maybe it’s a sign of middle age that I suddenly want to talk about my days as a tank commander in Korea.”

“You were never a commander!”

“I was for a day, after Scotty got killed. I told you about that.”

She sighed and went back to the dishes. “I should think when fellows come back from the wars they’d just want to forget about all the killing, not go on being reminded of it at monthly meetings.”

“Oh, they talk about other things, Maria. In fact, Care said it was mostly a social group. They have a hunting lodge up in River Forks.”

“That figures!”

He found himself growing a bit annoyed at her attitude. “Hell, I usually go hunting once or twice every year anyway. If they’ve got a lodge I might as well use it.”

“Do whatever you want,” she said.

He grunted and started reading the evening paper, looking for some newsy item with which to change the subject.

The following week’s meeting of the American War Buddies was about what he’d expected. It was held in a big private dining room at the Newton Hotel, a room which also served the needs of the Lions’ Club and the County Republican Committee. A large American flag hung from the wall behind the speaker’s table, and several of the members wore ribbon-bedecked campaign hats.

A man named Crowder, who walked with a stiff-legged limp, conducted the meeting running through routine matters and the preparations for the autumn reopening of the lodge at River Forks. Peering out from beneath bushy black eyebrows’ he reminded Mason of a movie-version communist at a cell meeting in the Thirties.

After the surprisingly brief meeting, he walked over to greet Mason personally. “Pleasure to have you here, Mr. Mason. I’m Crowder, this year’s president of AWB. Roderick Care tells me you’re thinking of joining.”

“Only thinking right now.”

Crowder offered him a cigarette, shifting weight onto his good leg. “This is the best time of the year to join. There’s the lodge, and the Christmas party, and then the big national convention in the spring. Frankly, Mason, we’re looking for young blood—Korea and after. Too many of our members are left over from wars that everyone’s forgotten. You could go high in the organization right now—maybe even a national office on the executive committee.”

“I’m not looking for more work,” Mason told him. “Besides you look young enough to have been in Korea yourself.” His eyes dropped unconsciously to the stiff leg.

“I was over there, right at the end of things. But not a tank commander like you.”

“I came out without a scratch,” Mason said. “I have great respect for those who didn’t.”

Crowder gave a short, husky laugh. “This leg? Foolish hunting accident two years ago. Shot myself in the kneecap.”

“Oh.” Mason felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and turned to see Roderick Care beaming at him. He had another man in tow, a white-haired man with a small and gentle face.

“Mason, this is Dr. Fathion, one of our most respected members. He was a major during the South Pacific campaign.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Mason said.

“A pleasure, Mr. Mason. I trust you’ve been won over by our president?”

“I’m considering it,” Mason replied with a smile.

Roderick Care motioned toward the back of the room, where the hotel waitresses were preparing to serve coffee and cake. “Let’s discuss it over some coffee. Or would you rather go down to the bar?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

It was good coffee, and Mason found himself beginning to like these men who clustered around him.

“Tell us about Korea,” Crowder said. “I never saw much action over there myself.”

“Except with the girls,” Care said, muffling an explosion of laughter. “Crowder here is quite the lover.”

“You will be joining us at the lodge, won’t you?” Crowder asked Mason. “You do hunt?”

“A little,” he turned to the doctor. “How about you, Dr. Fathion? You do much hunting?”

The doctor shook his head, slightly horrified. “I never fire a gun. Never even fired one in the army. But I go along with them for the opening of the season. I’m a great poker player, and we usually get a few nice games going.”

“It must have been tough going through the South Pacific without firing a shot.”

The little doctor shrugged. “Oh, they made us fire at a few training targets, but in battle I was always too busy with the wounded. Field hospital, behind the lines. One day I operated on fifty-five wounded men. I was ready to drop by nightfall.”

Mason liked the doctor, and he liked the others too, to varying degrees. After the coffee he joined them at the hotel bar for a quick drink, and found himself signing a membership application with no resistance at all.

Maria was waiting up for him when he got home. “It’s pretty late,” she said. “I thought you’d be home by ten.”

“We had coffee and then I stopped with them for a drink.”

“You joined, didn’t you?” she asked, making it into something like an accusation.

“Well, hell, yes I did! That’s no crime! They only meet once a month and for a few social gatherings. If I get tired of it I just won’t go.”

“All right,” she sighed. “I didn’t mean to sound like a shrew.”

He mumbled something and went out to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

“So now I’m an AWB wife. Do they have a ladies’ auxiliary or something?”

“I’ll ask,” he replied, not certain that she wasn’t continuing to needle him.

“That means you’ll be going hunting with them, I suppose.”

“Just the first day. I’ll only be away one night. Or two at most.”

In the morning she was her usual cheerful self, and his membership in the AWB was not mentioned again.

About a week later he received a call at work from a lawyer he knew slightly, a member of the Khakis. “Have you thought any more about joining us, Mason, boy?”

“Sorry, Cliff. I’ve signed up with the AWB.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“They seemed like a nice bunch of fellows.”

“Well … yes. But that sort of puts us on opposite sides of the fence.”

Mason chuckled into the phone. “Not really, Cliff. I’ll still throw some legal business your way. How about lunch one of these days?”

Cliff seemed to hedge at that. “Um, let’s make it after Thanksgiving, huh? I’m getting into my busy season.”

“Fine. I’ll be talking to you.” He hung up, wondering if he had made the right choice. But Cliff had told him very little about the Khakis, really, and had never invited him to one of their monthly meetings.

He went back to the pile of work on his desk and promptly forgot about it.

A few days before the opening of hunting season, Roderick Care phoned him. “Monday’s the big day—just thought I’d call to remind you. A group of us are driving up to the lodge Sunday night, just to be there at dawn when the deer start running. You might as well come along.”

Mason hesitated only a moment. “All right,” he agreed.

“What kind of rifle do you have?” Care asked.

“I’ve got two—a Remington and an old Italian army gun I don’t use much any more.”

“Better bring them both. Somebody might be able to use it.”

“All right.”

“I’ll pick up Dr. Fathion and then swing by for you around six. It’s a three-hour drive.”

Mason was ready on Sunday evening, and he stepped into the brisk night air as soon as Care’s auto pulled up in front. He wasn’t too anxious for the men to come in and face Maria’s cool indifference to the trip.

Dr. Fathion was in the back, and Mason rode in front, feeling good for the first time in days. “Put these with the others,” he said, passing over the two gun cases.

The doctor accepted them. “You should get rid of that red hat,” he suggested as they got under way.

Mason fingered the fluorescent material. “This? Hell, I don’t want to get shot for a deer.” He glanced into the back seat at the other cased rifle. “Mind if I look at yours, Care? Not loaded, is it?”

“No, no. Go ahead!”

Mason leaned over the seat and unzipped the case. “A carbine? Semi-automatic? I thought they were illegal in this state.”

Roderick Care smiled. “The deer never said they were illegal.”

They drove for a long time in silence, with both Care and the doctor reluctant to join in any conversation about their common interests. Mason mentioned North Africa and the South Pacific and finally Korea without getting a rise out of either man.

It had been dark for more than two hours by the time they turned off the main highway, and there was another hour’s trip over a rutted mountain road before they finally reached the hunting lodge at River Forks. Three other cars had gotten there ahead of them, and a dozen men were already inside, playing poker and drinking beer.

Crowder limped over to greet them, startling Mason with his costume of green-and-brown camouflage. “That’s a heck of a thing to wear when you’re hunting,” Mason said.

“I probably won’t go out with this knee anyway.”

The lodge was large enough to sleep a score or more men. There were three big bedrooms with an array of cots, plus a kitchen, indoor toilet, and central living room where others could sleep. It was a pleasant place, though it seemed to Mason that none of the men were very relaxed.

Mason chatted with the various men and examined an AWB banner that he hadn’t seen before. He ended up in a card game with Care and Crowder and the doctor, and won five dollars. He drank a few beers, talked guns with Care for a time, and finally caught a few hours’ sleep on one of the cots. None of the others seemed interested in sleep, and he awakened around three-thirty in the morning to hear Crowder sending one of the men out of the lodge on some mission.

Mason felt around for his fluorescent cap but it was gone. While he slept someone had substituted a dark brown one with ear flaps that was a size too large. He got up and joined the others, yawning, noticing for the first time that none of them wore any brightly colored garment.

“Where are the cars?” he asked, glancing out the window.

Care walked over to stand beside him. “We have a garage around back. They’ll be safe there.”

“What? Say, who was that just went out?”

“Schlitzer. He’s just looking around.”

“It’s a couple of hours till daylight.”

Dr. Fathion was making coffee, and passing the steaming cups around at random. Mason drank, feeling an odd sort of tension building in his gut. It was almost the way he’d felt in Korea.

Then something about the windows caught his eye, something he hadn’t noticed before. He walked over to feel the folded shutters, then turned to Roderick Care. “Since when do you need steel shutters on a hunting—”

The crack of the rifle shot was very close, off in the woods somewhere but very close. Instantly Crowder was on his feet shouting orders. Two men grabbed their rifles and hurried outside, while a third picked up the AWB banner and went out the door behind them, planting it in the soft earth with a firm hand.

“What is it?” Mason shouted to Care. “What in hell’s happening?”

The answer came through the door. The two hunters were back already, carrying the fallen Schlitzer. He was bleeding from a wound in the stomach.

“On the table,” Dr. Fathion shouted, slipping his arms into a white plastic jacket that had a large red cross on front and back. “Get my instruments. Quickly, men!”

Crowder was issuing orders as the others grabbed for their rifles. Someone shoved Mason’s into his hands. Then he was facing Crowder as the lame man spoke quickly. “It’s a sneak attack by the Khakis,” he said, talking in an officer’s monotone. “Two hours before the official start. Somebody get those shutters closed.”

As soon as he had spoken, one window shattered under the ripple of gunfire. Roderick Care pulled Mason down along the wall. “We’re in for it this year,” he said. “It’s another Pearl Harbor!”

“You mean this happens—”

Care was hugging the wall, edging toward the window with his carbine. “Last year we were lucky—only two wounded. I suppose we were due.”

“But this is madness!”

“No more so than any war.” Care lifted his head to the window and fired a quick burst with his carbine. “Didn’t you ever wonder why so many people get shot on the first day of hunting season?”

The Impossible “Impossible Crime”

I’M NO DETECTIVE. IN fact, most of the time I’m more of a snowman, plowing through head-high drifts and 70-mile winds that plague us nine months of the year in the barren area of northern Canada beyond the permafrost line. But when you’re living all alone with one other man, 200 miles from the nearest settlement, and one day that only other man is murdered—well, that’s enough to make a detective out of anybody.

His name was Charles Fuller, and my name is Henry Bowfort. Charlie was a full professor at Boston University when I met him, teaching an advanced course in geology while he worked on a highly technical volume concerning the effects of permafrost on subsurface mineral deposits. I was an assistant in his department and we struck up a friendship at once, perhaps helped along by the fact that I was newly married to a sparkling blonde named Grace who caught his eye from the very beginning.

Charlie’s own wife had divorced him some ten years earlier and vanished into the wilderness of Southern California, and he was at a stage in his life when any sort of charming feminine companionship aroused his basic maleness. The three of us dined together regularly, and a close friendship developed along fairly predictable lines.

Fuller was in his early forties at the time, a good ten years older than Grace and me, and for as long as we’d known him he’d talked often about the project closest to his heart. “Before I’m too old for it,” he’d say, “I want to spend a year above the permafrost line.”

His opportunity came before any of us thought it would, and one day he announced he would be spending his sabbatical at a research post in northern Canada, near the western shore of Hudson Bay. “I’ve been given a foundation grant for eight months’ study,” he said. “It’s a great opportunity. I’ll never have another like it.”

“You’re going up there alone?” Grace asked.

“Actually, I was hoping I could prevail on your husband to accompany me.”

I blinked and must have looked a bit startled. “Eight months in the wilds of nowhere with nothing but snow?”

And Charlie Fuller smiled.

“Nothing but snow. How about it, Grace? Could you give him up for eight months?”

“If he wants to go,” she answered loyally. She had never tried to stand in the way of anything I’d wanted to do.

We talked about it for a long time that night, but I already knew I was hooked. I was on my way to northern Canada with Charlie Fuller.

The cabin—when we reached it by plane and boat and snowmobile—was a surprisingly comfortable place well stocked with enough provisions for a year’s stay. We had two-way radio contact with the outside world, plus necessary medical supplies and a bookcase full of reading material, all thoughtfully provided by the foundation that was financing the permafrost study.

The cabin consisted of three large rooms—a laboratory for our study, a combination living-room-and-kitchen, and a bedroom with a bath partitioned off in one corner. We’d brought our own clothes, and Fuller had brought a rifle, too, to discourage scavenging animals.

We had all the comforts of home, and we settled in for a long winter’s stay.

The daily routine with Charlie Fuller was great fun at first. He was surely a dedicated man, and one of the most intelligent I’d ever known. We would rise early in the morning, breakfast together, and then go off in search of ore samples. We came to know the places where the endless winds chafed against bare rock, where the earth was shielded from the deep blanket of snow. And best of all in those early days, there was the constant radio communication with Grace. Her almost nightly messages, staticky and distorted as they were, brought a touch of Boston to the Northwest Territory.

But after a time Grace’s messages thinned to one or two a week, and finally to one every other week. Fuller and I began to get on each other’s nerves, and often in the mornings I’d be awakened by the sound of rifle fire as he stood outside the cabin door taking random shots at the occasional snowy owl or arctic ground squirrel that wandered near. We still had the snowmobile, but it was 200 miles to the nearest settlement at Caribou, making a Saturday night’s trip into town out of the question.

Once, during the evening meal which had grown monotonous with repetition, Fuller said, “Bet you miss her, don’t you, Hank?”

“Grace? Sure I miss her. It’s been a long time.”

“Think she’s sitting home nights waiting for us—for you?”

I put down my fork. “What’s that supposed to mean, Charlie?”

“Nothing—nothing at all.”

But the rest of the evening passed under a cloud. By this time we had been up there nearly five months, and it was just too long.

Christmas came and went, and the winter wind howled outside from morning to night. We fought our way through the snow to gather specimens when we could, and spent the worst of the days in the small lab running tests. The cabin’s heat came from a single gas stove for which we had a number of fuel tanks, and the light was supplied by a small generating unit. It wasn’t exactly like home, but it would have been passable except for the human element.

It was fantastic, it was unreasonable, but up there—200 miles from the nearest human being—there began to develop between us a sort of rivalry for my wife. An unspoken rivalry, to be sure, a rivalry for a woman nearly 2000 miles away—but still a rivalry.

“What do you think she’s doing right now, Hank?”

Or—

“I wish Grace were here tonight. Warm the place up a bit. Right, Hank?”

Finally, one evening in January, when a particularly heavy snow had chained us to the inside of the cabin for two long days and nights, the rivalry came to a head. Charlie Fuller was seated at the rough wooden table we used for meals and paperwork and I was in my usual chair facing one of the windows.

“We’re losing a lot of heat out of this place,” I commented. “Look at those damn icicles.”

“I’ll go out later and knock them down,” he said.

I could tell he was in a bad mood and suspected he’d been drinking from the adequate supply of scotch we’d brought along. “We might as well make the best of each other,” I said. “We’re stuck here for another few months together.”

“Worried, Hank? Anxious to be back in bed with that luscious wife of yours?”

“Let’s cut out the cracks about Grace, huh? I’m getting sick of it, Charlie.”

“That’s too bad!” He left the table and went into the lab. After a moment I followed him in and found to my surprise that he was slumped against a cabinet, staring at the floor. “Leave me alone,” he said.

“Are you sick?”

“Sick of this place, sick of you!”

“Then let’s go back.”

“In this storm?”

“We’ve got the snowmobile.”

“No. No, this is one project I can’t walk out on.”

“Why not? Is it worth this torture day after day?”

“You don’t understand.” He turned to face me, just barely in control of his emotions. Oddly, though, the anger seemed to have passed from him, replaced by something very close to despair. “I didn’t start out life being a geologist. My field was biology, and I had great plans for being a research scientist at some major pharmaceutical house. They pay very well, you know.”

“What happened?”

He leaned against the wall to steady himself. “The damnedest thing, Hank. I couldn’t work with animals. I couldn’t experiment on them, kill them. I don’t think I could ever kill a living thing.”

“What about the animals and birds you shoot at?”

“That’s just the point, Hank. I never hit them! I try to, but I purposely miss! That’s why I went into geology—rocks, the earth. That was the only safe thing, the only field in which I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.”

“You couldn’t make a fool of yourself, Charlie. Even if we called it quits and went back today, the University would still welcome you. You’d still have your professorship.”

“I’ve got to succeed at something. Hank.” He ran a hand through his graying hair. “Don’t you understand? It’s too late for another failure—too late in life to start over again!”

He didn’t mention Grace the rest of that day, but I had the sinking sensation that he hadn’t just been talking about his work. His first marriage had been a failure, too. Was he trying to tell me he had to succeed with Grace?

I slept poorly that night, first because Charlie had decided to walk around the cabin at midnight knocking icicles from the roof, and then because the wind had changed direction and set up a banshee wail in the chimney. I got up once after Charlie was in bed, to look outside, but the windows were frosted over by the wind-driven snow. I could see nothing but the crystal formations of frost on every pane.

Toward morning I drifted into an uneasy sleep, broken now and then by the occasional bird sounds which told me the storm had ended. It would be pleasant, perhaps even sunny—though the bitter subzero cold might remain for days. I heard Charlie up and around, preparing breakfast, though I paid little attention, trying to get a bit more sleep. An icicle fell, clattering against the side of the cabin.

Then, sometime later, I sprang awake, knowing I had heard it. A shot! Could Charlie be outside again, firing at the animals? I stretched out in the bed, waiting for some other sound, but nothing reached my ears except the perking of the coffeepot on the gas stove. Finally I got out of bed and went into the other room.

Charlie Fuller was seated in my chair at the bare table, staring at the wall. A tiny stream of blood was running down his forehead and into one eye. He was dead.

It took me some moments to comprehend the mere fact of his death, and even after I’d located the bullet wound just above his hairline, I still could not bring myself to fully accept the reality of it. My first thought had been suicide, but now that I had time to let my eyes search the floor and table I could see this was impossible. The bullet had obviously killed him instantly, and there was no weapon anywhere in sight.

I covered every inch of the room, even looked at the ceiling. There was no gun anywhere—in fact, Fuller’s rifle was missing from its usual place in the corner near the door.

But if not suicide, what?

There was no other explanation. Somehow he had killed himself. I warmed up the radio and sent a message to the effect, telling them I’d bring in the body by snowmobile as soon as I could. Our venture into the country above the permafrost line was at an end.

Then, as I was starting to pack my things, I remembered the coffee. I’d turned off the stove sometime during my search, and even taken a sip of the coffee, all without giving it a thought. Do men about to commit suicide start making breakfast? Do they put a pot of coffee on the stove?

And then I had to face it. Charlie Fuller had not killed himself.

All right. It seemed utterly impossible—but there it was. I sat down opposite the body, then got up to cover it with a blanket, and then sat down again.

What were all the possibilities? Suicide, accident, murder—as simple as that. Not suicide. Not accident. He certainly hadn’t been cleaning his gun at the time.

That left only one possibility.

Murder.

By myself or by an outsider—the only two possibilities.

Certainly I hadn’t killed Charlie, even in my sleep. I’d come to as soon as I heard the shot, and I’d still been in bed.

I walked over and crouched behind his chair, trying to see what he must have been seeing in that final moment.

And then I saw it. Directly opposite, in the center of a frosted window, there was a tiny hole with wisps of snow already drifting in. I hadn’t noticed it before—the intricate crystal-like designs of the frost had effectively camouflaged the hole. A few cracks ran from it, but the snow had somehow kept the window from shattering completely.

It was with a sudden sense of exhilaration that I made the discovery. The bullet had come from outside—the mystery was solved!

But as soon as I put on my coat and ventured outdoors, I realized that a greater mystery had taken its place. Though the drifting snow had left a narrow walkway under the overhanging roof of the cabin, drifts higher than my head surrounded us on all sides. Even the snowmobile was all but covered. No one could have approached the cabin through that snow, and certainly not without leaving a visible trail.

I made my way past fallen icicles, some as thick around as my arm, to the punctured window. The snow had drifted a bit beneath it, but I saw at once the butt of Fuller’s rifle protruding from the whiteness. I pulled it out and stared at it, wondering what it could tell me. It had been recently fired, it was the murder weapon, but there was nothing more it could say.

I took it back into the cabin and sat down. Just the two of us, no one else, and somebody had murdered Charlie Fuller. That narrowed down the suspects considerably.

As the day passed into noon and the sun appeared finally low in the southern sky, I knew I would have to be moving out soon. I did not relish another night in the cabin with Fuller’s body, and the trip by snowmobile would easily take the remainder of the brief daylight hours and part of the night as well. For a time I debated making for Hudson Bay instead of Caribou, radioing ahead for a ski plane to pick us up. But could I go back, by any route or means, under the circumstances? Charlie Fuller was dead, and I had to discover how it had happened.

Pacing the cabin, gazing unseeing at the empty laboratory, I knew the answer must lurk here somewhere, within the wooden walls of our temporary home. I went back in my mind over our conversations about Grace. He had loved her, he had wanted her—of that much I was certain. Could he have committed suicide in such a manner that I would be accused of his murder?

No, there were two things against that theory—it wouldn’t get him Grace, and it wouldn’t get me convicted of the crime. Because even now I was all alone with the physical evidence. I could change the scene any way I wanted, invent any story I liked. Chances are, the police would never even make the trip to the cabin to check my story. I had already called it suicide in my radio report, but I could change it to accident. And there was no one to call it murder.

No one but myself.

I went outside again and started sifting through the snow where I’d found the rifle. But there was nothing—a few bits of icicle, but nothing more. Here and there one of Fuller’s footprints remained undrifted, from his icicle-breaking expedition, but I could identify no other prints. If someone had stood at that window to kill Charlie Fuller—

But no one could have! I stared at the window with growing wonder. The snow and crystallized frost had made it completely opaque, as I’d already noticed during the night. Even if an invisible murderer had dropped from the sky, and somehow got Charlie’s rifle out of the cabin, he could not have fired at Charlie through that window because he could not have seen him through it!

So where did that leave me?

I went back inside to the rifle, emptied it, and tried the trigger. It had been adjusted to a hair trigger—the slightest pressure of my finger was enough to click the hammer on the empty chamber.

Suddenly I felt that I was on the verge of it, that I almost had the answer. I stood staring at the blanket-covered figure in the chair, then went outside and looked through the bullet hole at it again. Lined up perfectly, even through an opaque window.

And then I knew who had murdered Charlie Fuller.

I was staring at his body in the chair, but it was my chair! Twenty minutes, a half hour later, and I would have been sitting in that very chair, eating breakfast. Charlie would have called me when the coffee was ready, and I would have come out to sit in that chair, as I did every morning.

And Charlie Fuller would have killed me.

It took me five minutes of excited sorting through the bits of icicle in the snow under the window to find the one that was something more. It was ice, all right, but ice encased in a tiny heat-sealed plastic pouch. We used pouches of all sizes in the lab, for the rock specimens we collected. This one had served a different purpose.

Charlie had driven one of the large icicles into the snow and balanced the rifle on top of it—probably freezing it to the icicle with a few drops of water. Then he’d wiped away a tiny speck of frost on the window to line up the gun barrel with the chair in which I would be sitting. He’d fixed the rifle with a hair trigger, and then jammed the tiny plastic pouch of water between the front of the trigger and the guard.

When the water in the pouch froze, the ice expanded against the trigger, and the rifle fired through the window at the chair. The recoil had thrown the rifle free of its icicle support, and the frozen pouch of water had dropped into the snow like a simple piece of ice.

And what had gone wrong? Charlie Fuller must have timed the freezing of the water-filled pouch, but he probably hadn’t timed it in subzero cold with a wind blowing. The water had simply frozen sooner than he’d planned—while he was sitting in my chair for a moment, adjusting it to the precise all-important position facing the window.

But why had he gone to all that trouble to kill me when we were alone? I thought about that all the way back to Caribou in the snowmobile. He’d probably feared that it would be like the animals he’d told me about, that at the final moment he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze the trigger. Perhaps in the night he’d even stood over my bed with his rifle, unable to go through with it. This way had made it impersonal, like a lab experiment to be set up and observed.

So Charlie Fuller had murdered himself. But for the authorities, and for Grace, I decided to stick to the suicide story. I didn’t think they’d bother too much about things like the absence of powder burns. Under the circumstances they were stuck with my story, and I wanted to keep it simple. As I said in the beginning, I’m no detective.

The Way Out

JOYCE IRELAND FIRST NOTICED the man in the elevator on a rainy Tuesday in October. Perhaps she noticed him because they were the only two without raincoats. She didn’t need one for her daily trip to the bank on the first floor, and seeing him coatless she guessed he too must be on business inside the building.

He was a tall man, not handsome, with black bushy eyebrows that one noticed before anything else. Joyce came, in fact, to think of him as “The Man with the Eyebrows” when she saw him again on the same elevator two days later. She would have guessed his age at about 35, though he could have been older, and she noticed at once that he wore no wedding ring. At 28, Joyce Ireland was a girl who noticed things like that.

She had lived alone in a little downtown apartment since the death of her mother the year before. It was a lonely sort of existence, which made her long for the far-away places she’d never be able to see on the $87.50 a week take-home-pay she received from Worldwide Finance Company. In October, with another winter on the way, she had the distinct feeling that life was passing her by. Perhaps it was her looks that were against her. She’d never been pretty, and with the coming of the miniskirt even her unattractive knees were now revealed to the world.

That was why she began to notice the man with the bushy eyebrows. When he got into the elevator behind her for the third time in a week, she had the wild thought that he was trying to pick her up—a shy lover who had seen her on the street and followed her to the office. Now he would present himself for her approval, and she would get away from Worldwide Finance forever.

That was her first thought. The second one was that he was going to rob her.

Joyce made the trip from Worldwide to the ground-floor bank every afternoon at the same time—just a few minutes before the 3:00 bank closing. She always carried a large brown envelope filled with the checks and cash they’d taken in since the previous afternoon. Because of the nature of its business most payments to Worldwide Finance were in cash—very few Worldwide customers had checking accounts. The afternoon trip to the bank was a ritual dating from the days when a girl might carry a few hundred dollars down in the elevator with her. Now, with business increasing steadily, Joyce sometimes had as much as $5,000 in the bulky envelope, especially late in the week when their customers came in faithfully with their pay envelopes.

This day, a Friday, she’d made up the deposit herself, and she knew she carried $4,355 in cash and a number of checks. She clutched the envelope a little tighter to her bosom, but of course the man with the bushy eyebrows did nothing. There were three other men in the elevator, and they rode all the way down. Perhaps, she decided, the man was waiting for a day when he was alone with her, to grab the money and run.

Though nothing happened on Friday she thought about the man all weekend, and she decided finally that he was a thief. There was no doubt about it in her mind. At one point, on Saturday night, she was in the act of phoning her boss, Mr. Melrose, to tell him, but then she hung up. He would think she was foolish, or else question why she hadn’t told him sooner. Mr. Melrose was like that.

Besides, what did she owe the company? Not much for a measly $87.50 a week. Not when she was secretary and part-time bookkeeper and hadn’t had a raise in three years. She was thinking about that last part when the idea came to her—slowly at first, in bits and pieces like a jigsaw puzzle. Suppose, just suppose, there was a robbery and the bandit got away with the money.

But suppose, she went on in her mind, the bandit lost the money, too. Suppose she—Joyce Ireland—ended up with the four or five thousand dollars. Who would be the loser? Not Worldwide Finance—they were insured against robbery. Certainly not the bandit, who didn’t deserve the money in the first place. It would be hers, all hers, like finding it in the street, like inheriting it from a rich uncle she’d never known.

With all that money she could travel to Florida or California, buy a new car, a whole new wardrobe of dresses that would make men notice her at last. She could leave the dingy apartment where she was wasting her life away—leave and be free.

On Sunday night, as the last piece of her plan clicked into place, Joyce Ireland decided to steal the bank deposit.

The man with the bushy eyebrows did not appear on Monday or Tuesday, and for a time she began to think it had been all her imagination, that he never had planned to rob her in the elevator. She became nervous and irritable at work as she waited for “The Man with the Eyebrows” to reappear, and one day even Mr. Melrose was moved to comment on her mood.

“What’s the matter, Joyce?” he asked after one of her outbursts. “Have a fight with your boyfriend?”

She wanted to tell him that his remark showed how little he knew or cared about her private life, but she held her tongue. “I just have a little headache,” she answered finally. “It’s nothing.”

Mr. Melrose was big and jolly and red-faced, and most customers seemed to like him. Sometimes they still liked him even after he’d sent collectors to their homes or started garnishing their salaries.

“Take the rest of the afternoon off if you’d like,” he suggested with rare benevolence. “Tuesday’s always pretty slow.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be all right.”

Nothing happened on Wednesday either, and she took to watching for the bushy-eyebrowed man on her lunch hour, hoping to see him somewhere on the street. But he did not reappear. By Thursday she was about to abandon the careful preparations she’d been making each day and forget the whole thing.

But Thursday was the 15th of October, and she knew the 1st and 15th brought even more payments than the usual payday. By noon there were people lined up with their payment books and their money, and by 2:30 Mr. Melrose was out of his office asking the other girl, “How much cash have we taken in so far today, Sue?”

The girl, a dumb brunette whom Joyce despised, looked at the column and replied, “Just $5,275, Mr. Melrose.”

He nodded. “Joyce, you’d better go down with it now. I get nervous with that much cash in the office.”

She nodded and picked up the big handbag she’d bought only a few days earlier. Then she waited while the brunette stuffed the money and checks and deposit slips into the familiar brown envelope. “Here you are,” Sue said finally, handing it over.

Joyce took the envelope and her bag and left the office, walking down the hall to the elevator as she had so many times before. As she stood alone waiting for the elevator to reach her floor, she’d half forgotten about the man with the bushy eyebrows. It wasn’t until she stepped into the car that he suddenly appeared and hurried in behind her. She felt her heart begin to thump with excitement.

There was only one other passenger in the elevator, an elderly woman who would be no protection at all. If he was ever going to do it this would be the day. She clutched the fat brown envelope closer.

The elevator made no other stops as it dropped steadily toward the ground floor. Just the three of them, silent passengers in a sealed world. Joyce waited.

The man shifted his feet a little and cleared his throat. The elderly woman simply waited. The elevator bumped to a stop on the ground floor and the doors slid open. There was the busy lobby, the bank—and nothing had happened.

The man smiled and allowed the elderly woman to step out. Joyce started to follow, and then he clipped her on the jaw with his fist.

It happened so fast she had no time to think. She fell sprawling out of the elevator as he snatched the brown envelope from her suddenly limp hands. Then he was running, and the elderly woman was screaming, and hands were grasping at Joyce.

“You all right, lady?”

She tried to talk, to wipe the blur from her eyes, and she couldn’t. For a moment she thought her jaw was broken, but then words came. “Money—he took the money—”

“Don’t worry, lady. They’ll get him.”

She put a hand to her jaw, feeling for the first time the beginning of a dull throbbing pain. Her next thought was for her handbag, and she clutched it to her. “It was the bank deposit,” she managed to say as two men helped her to her feet. “He got away with it all.”

A policeman came into the lobby, apparently summoned from traffic duty. “You all right—not hurt?”

“He—he hit me on the jaw, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

“The guy got away, but there’s an alarm out for him. What did he look like?”

“Tall, bushy eyebrows, black hair. About thirty-five.”

“Ever see him before?”

“I—” She hesitated only an instant. “No, not that I remember.”

He was writing it all down. “Okay, lady. Now how much money did he get?”

“Over five thousand. I forget the exact amount.”

“We’d better go up to your office,” he said, taking her arm.

Upstairs, Mr. Melrose went into a state of panic. He barely asked how Joyce was feeling before he started pacing the office floor and wringing his hands. “What will they say in New York?” he mumbled. Worldwide Finance’s home office was located there. “They’ll think I don’t know how to manage this place. They’ll ask why I trusted so much money to an office girl.”

“There was nothing I could do, Mr. Melrose! He took me so by surprise.” Her jaw was beginning to swell now, and she resented his attitude. It only justified in her mind what she had done.

The policeman took down the exact amount of the loss and went away. The brunette followed Joyce into the restroom and tried to soothe her, applying a cold towel to her swollen jaw. Finally, when she was alone, Joyce stole a glance into her large handbag. The original brown envelope with its $5,275 deposit nestled safety in the bottom, hidden beneath cigarettes and Kleenex and a key case.

She smiled as she imagined the robber’s face when he opened the envelope he had taken and found all those neatly cut pieces of newspaper.

Joyce spent the evening in her apartment, nursing her throbbing jaw with cold compresses. She’d counted the money as soon as she arrived home, and now she had it safely hidden inside a sealed plastic pouch in the bathroom toilet tank. It would be best, she knew, to keep it hidden for a time before spending any of it. No need to flaunt it immediately and attract suspicion. She knew there was always the possibility the robber would be caught and tell the police about the cut-up newspapers, but then it would still be only his word against hers. She was certain no one in the office had seen her make the switch in envelopes as she stepped into the hall. After all, she’d been practicing it every day that week without being detected.

The robbery rated a brief mention on the local news broadcast that evening, and the following day there was a half-column story buried on a back page of the paper. Loan offices and finance companies were being held up nearly every week, and there were no unusual angles to this one, not from the paper’s point of view. Joyce sighed over her coffee and decided to call in sick. It was a Friday and she felt like having the weekend to herself. Her jaw still ached, and Mr. Melrose expressed no surprise when she told him she’d be staying home till Monday.

“Take care of yourself,” he managed to say. “You’re more important than the money.”

She snorted as she hung up. He must have almost choked on that line!

She spent the rest of the day relaxing and treating her jaw, which seemed a bit better in the afternoon. The swelling had gone down, and a couple of aspirins relieved the ache. She was even thinking about going out to a movie or phoning a girl friend when the doorbell rang.

“Yes?” she spoke through the intercom.

“Police, Miss Ireland. We have a few more questions.”

She sighed and pushed the buzzer, releasing the lock of the front door. In a few moments there was a knock on her apartment door and she opened it without hesitation.

She gasped and tried to slam it shut but he was too fast for her. It was “The Man with the Eyebrows.” His foot in the door, he shoved her back. She opened her mouth to scream and he quickly covered her mouth with a dirty sweating palm.

“No more, little lady, or I’ll break that jaw for good!”

She struggled, trying to get free, biting, clawing, but he held her fast. “I want the money. I came for the money and I want it. Where is it?”

She moaned under his hand and he took it away slowly. “No tricks now!”

“I—my arm! You’re breaking it!”

“I said no tricks, if you know what’s good for you. Now, where’s the money?”

The pain in her arm was excruciating, but somehow she had to bluff him. “Didn’t you get enough yesterday?”

He gave her a violent push that sent her flying across the room to land on the sofa. She turned and twisted, sucking in her breath for a scream—and then she saw his knife.

He held it loosely in one hand, moving it just enough to catch the glimmers of afternoon sunlight through her window. “I’d hate to cut you up, little lady. You know what I got yesterday. Newspapers! Somebody took the money and it could only be you. I’m damned if I’m going to run from the cops for a job I didn’t even pull!”

“If there was no money in the envelope I’m as surprised as you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “I didn’t make up the deposit—the other girl did.”

She started to rise from the sofa, but he took a step forward and she changed her mind. Now that she had a good look at him, he wasn’t nearly as dangerous as he’d been in those first moments. He still wasn’t good-looking, but the bushy eyebrows helped to accent his deep brown eyes. His jaw was set and firm, the jaw of a fighter. “Cut the stalling and tell me where it is,” he said, but his voice was just a bit softer, and the knife, still in his hand, was not quite so menacing.

“I saw you in the elevator,” she managed to say. “Last week. I didn’t tell the police that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you were planning to steal the money yourself, that’s why.”

She didn’t answer that. Instead, she asked, “What made you pick on me?”

He shrugged. “I saw you in the elevator.” Then, his eyes hardening a bit, he said, “Let’s cut the talk now. Give me the money.”

“I don’t have it. The other girl must have switched envelopes.”

“For what reason? So the bank would get cut-up newspaper?” He was growing impatient, and the knife moved upward.

Staring at it, Joyce knew she had only two real choices—give him the money and see her dream collapse, or risk the chance that he might kill her. And once she had given him the money, she could not even tell the police without implicating herself. He had her in much the same position she imagined him to be in. So it was give him the money—or—a flash of inspiration!—offer him more money.

“What if I could get even more for you?” she asked softly. “Would you let me keep some then?”

“More? What do you mean, more?”

“If I took more from the office. If I took another bank deposit and just ran with it.”

“And have the cops after you?”

“What choice do I have? If I give you the money, I’ve got nothing.”

He frowned down at her, not fully understanding. “You’re a stupid broad, you know that? The cops would grab you in no time.”

“Look, I’m offering you a deal. Take it or leave it.”

“Spell it out.”

“I’ll get an even larger amount of money for you. And you let me keep what I already have.”

“When?”

“Monday. As soon as the office opens.”

He hesitated, but she could see he was thinking it over. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“What can I do? Tell the police and implicate myself? If I tell them I’ll lose the money anyway. It would be the same as giving it to you.”

“Show me the money,” he said quietly after a moment.

“You’ll take it.”

He put away the knife. “If I’m trusting you, I should get some trust in return.”

She saw that she had no choice, not if she wanted him to go along with her plan. She stood up and led the way into the bathroom. “Remember, there’s much more I can get. If you slug me again and take this, you’ll lose the larger amount.”

“I understand.” He stood away from her, aware of her suspicions. His eyes widened a bit as she lifted off the top of the toilet tank. “Say, you’re a real pro, aren’t you?”

She unsealed the plastic wrapping and showed him the money. “Here it is, and here it stays.”

He thought about that. “If it stays, then I stay, too. I have to protect my investment.”

“You can’t stay in this apartment all weekend!”

“Why not? It’s one place the cops won’t be looking for me.”

She had to admit the accuracy of his statement. “But I—what if some friends of mine come by? What if—?”

“Tell ’em you’re sick, like you told the office. Tell ’em your jaw hurts.” He grinned a little as he said it.

“It does hurt!”

He sat down, making himself at home. “I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done.”

When she grasped that he really was going to stay, her mind was awash with possibilities. She imagined herself assaulted, or murdered in her bed. From there it was not too difficult to imagine herself running away with this wild, untamed man. “I don’t even know your name,” she said.

“It’s Dave. That’s as much as you need to know.”

“Mine’s Joyce. Joyce Ireland.”

“I saw it in the papers.”

She was nervous with him, as nervous as a girl on her first date. “Do you want—can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, why not? It’s going to be a long weekend, baby.”

They had a drink and then, because it was nearly time to eat, she took out two steaks she’d been saving for a special occasion. “You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” she said. “Where you come from, what you do.”

He shrugged. “I was in the Army for a while. When I got out a friend and I stole a car. I ended up with a year in jail, and I guess that fixed my life. I’ve been running and robbing ever since.”

“But—but you’re so well dressed!”

“It’s all an act. When you’re trying to get close enough to ladies to snatch their bank deposits, you don’t dress like a bum.”

They had another drink after dinner and she talked about herself—about her mother and her childhood and the lonely life she’d led till now. “I suppose that’s why I wanted the money,” she said. “Once I guessed you were going to steal it I wanted it for myself. I imagined all the glamorous places it could take me.”

“Where’s that?”

“Oh, Miami or Las Vegas or maybe even Paris.”

“You got big ideas.”

“You have to have in this world, I guess, because everybody else does. Until this week I thought I’d be spending my whole life at Worldwide, working for Mr. Melrose.”

She expected him to share her bed that night, but he curled up instead on the living-room sofa. She could hear his snoring through the bedroom door before she finally dropped off herself …

On Saturday she had to go shopping, and she asked if he would accompany her. He debated for a few moments and then shook his head. Too risky. She was a bit surprised that he trusted her to go out alone, but then she remembered the money was still in the toilet tank. She was the one who must trust him.

But he was there when she got back, watching a college football game on television. She went to the bathroom and checked the money, and that was there, too. She had trusted him and he had trusted her. Perhaps it was the start of something.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” she said that evening while they were eating.

“You’d be bored with it.”

“No. No, I wouldn’t.” She looked away, and when he didn’t answer she said, “You know the first thing I noticed about you?”

“What?”

“Your big bushy eyebrows.” She laughed and he laughed too, and he leaned forward a little to kiss her. His lips tasted salty—and exciting.

On Sunday afternoon she teased him into driving to the zoo with her. But he watched the animals with studied detachment, and she knew he was thinking of his own time in prison. The afternoon was not a success. When they got back to the apartment he was anxious to talk about the plans for the following day.

“How much money can you get on a Monday?”

“Collections and payments won’t be too large, but we might easily have a couple of thousand left over from late Friday business. Mr. Melrose always insists on depositing before three o’clock, even on the days when the bank is open later. He keeps what’s left over in the office safe.”

“So how much?”

She sighed. “Maybe six thousand or so.”

“Will he know you took it?”

“Probably. Especially when I don’t show up for work on Tuesday. I’ll take the bank deposit down and just keep going. With the other money it’ll give us more than ten thousand, Dave.”

He averted his eyes. “You wouldn’t like running with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m no good. I’m a crook.”

“I guess after last Thursday I’m a crook, too.”

They sat up late Sunday night, watching an old movie on television. In the morning she packed a small suitcase, taking her two favorite dresses and the few items that would be important to a new life. That was all.

He drove the car downtown and she sat by his side, increasingly nervous. “I’ll have to get us another car,” he said, “This one will be hot.”

“You mean steal one?”

“Why not?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“You’re stealing, aren’t you?”

She tried to explain. “But it’s just from Mr. Melrose and the company. In a way they owe it to me.”

“Well, somebody owes me a car, too.”

The money—the $5,275—was in its brown envelope on the seat between them. She was sliding out when she decided to leave it there. It was too late to stop trusting him now. “I’ll be down a little before three,” she said. “Be ready.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting.”

She stood at the curb and watched him drive away, and somehow it all seemed right.

Mr. Melrose welcomed her with a smile and words of sympathy. The brunette, Sue, muttered something and bent her head over a ledger. Joyce went to her desk and began opening the morning mail. Before long it had settled down to be a day like any other Monday.

At 2:30 she totaled up the bank deposit and announced, “There’s almost five thousand, Mr. Melrose—$4,934.”

“Good,” he said. “Joyce, I’ve decided I’ll be going down to the bank with you for a few days—just as a safety measure.”

Her stomach turned and she had to steady herself against the desk. “That’s hardly necessary, Mr. Melrose. The robber’s not likely to try it again so soon.”

“No, but another one might. No sense taking any more chances. I’ll go with you.”

They walked out to the elevator and waited in silence. Her mind was whirling as she tried to think of a way out. Dave would have the car by now. He’d be waiting for her. She had to shake free of Mr. Melrose and take the money with her. Otherwise Dave would think he’d been double-crossed and take off with the original loot. And she’d be left with nothing.

The elevator arrived, and it was empty. As they rode down in silence her eyes darted about the closed car, looking for a sign that would tell her the way out.

The indicator light went from 3 to 2 to 1, and then the car stopped with a little bump. She looked at the light and saw a B under the 1, and knew what she had to do. Mr. Melrose was not gentleman enough to let her out first. As he stepped out of the car she quickly pressed the B and the Close Door button and prayed.

“Hey! Joyce! What the—!”

Then his voice was silenced by the closed elevator door, and she was dropping to the basement. Fast, fast. Every second counted.

She’d been there only once before, looking for an old filing cabinet, but she remembered her way. She was suddenly like a child, running in the near-darkness between piles of dusty boxes, finding her way out. It was the way out of all her past, of childhood and mother and self. The only way out.

Then she was free, breaking into the sunlit alley, running toward the street. She was right on schedule, and she was sure Dave would be waiting. She was sure because he loved money as much as she did, maybe more. They were a team, a pair, suited to each other.

He reached over to open the door for her. It was a tan Chevy, last year’s model, and she didn’t ask where he’d found it. “I was beginning to get worried,” he said.

“Melrose came down with me. I had to ditch him.”

“Then he’s wise?”

She nodded. “He’s wise now.”

He wheeled the car around a corner. “Well, how much is there?”

“Almost five thousand.”

“Good.” She placed the envelope on the seat between them, and his hand closed over it possessively.

“Dave?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we going now? Some place far away?”

“I know a motel about twenty miles from here. We can hole up there for the night.”

“The police will be looking for me.”

“Hell, yes!”

“But I still feel good, Dave. It’s what I wanted to do.” She stared straight ahead, through the spotted windshield. “I don’t mind about Melrose. Or any of it.”

They were at the motel before 5:00, and he booked a single room for the night. She walked around a bit, not wanting quite yet the confinement of the room, and stood for a time at the edge of the empty swimming pool, imagining all the other pools there would be, in Florida or Mexico or California.

Then she went back to the room and found him just hanging up the telephone. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“Nobody. Room service.”

“Oh.”

After a half-hour no one had come, and she thought he’d better call again. Then she suddenly rolled over on the between bed. “Dave?”

“What?”

“Do motels like this have room service?”

“Sure, why not? You think I was lying to you?”

“Dave.”

“Hell, what now?”

“Dave, why were you so certain I’d taken the money and not Sue, the bookkeeper?”

“I told you. We went all through that.”

“Dave, how did you know I was at home Friday? You said I’d called in sick, but I never said it. Dave, how did you know?”

“What is this, anyway?”

Her stomach was churning again. She was off the bed, panicky, knowing only that something was terribly wrong. She ran to the door and flung it open—and there was Sue from the office, facing her, smiling.

She thought she screamed then, but she couldn’t be sure. She only saw Dave’s fist coming at her once more, and felt its jarring thud against her jaw. She toppled over, hitting the floor hard, but she didn’t lose consciousness.

Sue stepped over her and Joyce saw them embrace. Then Dave handed the two packets of money to the brunette and she stuffed them into her pocketbook. And suddenly they were gone. Together.

Joyce stayed on the floor for a long time without moving. When she finally got to her feet, her jaw was aching even worse than it had on Thursday. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think, but she couldn’t. Later, much later, she reached for the telephone and dialed the police.

The Man at the Top

HARDY HADN’T PLANNED TO kill the gray-haired man in the alley by the Seaman’s Club. It was one of those crazy things that just happened—an event which, once started, seemed to take on a life of its own. It had been three long months since his last ship, and he needed money. He needed it for himself, and especially for Myra, who was waiting back at the hotel.

The guy had seemed elderly enough, and prosperous enough, to be an easy touch. Hardy had come up fast behind him, catching him around the throat with one arm while he flashed the knife; but the guy had wanted to fight and the knife had gone deep, almost by itself. And now Hardy was running.

There are few places to run after midnight in the dock area, especially without money, and soon he found himself back at the seedy little hotel where Myra was waiting. She was a prostitute he’d picked up one night three months ago, when he was flush with money from a voyage to Capetown. Now the money was gone, and there were no new jobs to be had, but Myra had stayed on anyway, maybe because she’d begun to love him.

“What is it?” she asked when he came through the door. “Did you get the money?” She hadn’t been sleeping, just sitting up in a chair by the window, smoking one of her endless cigarettes and watching the Bock Beer sign flash on and off down the street.

“There was no money,” Hardy said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Jeez, Myra, I think I killed a guy.”

She stood up, very slowly, her face pale even in the neon glow that filtered through the curtains. “What happened?”

He told her about it, talking fast, confessing his sin as he had so many times in his youth to his father or mother, or the priest. When he had finished she simply looked away, without uttering the words of forgiveness he’d somehow expected.

“I have to get out of here,” he said. “I have to get a ship out of here till it blows over. The cops will be checking all the unemployed seamen. Maybe they’ll even be able to trace the knife somehow.”

“There’s no way out,” she said quietly. “You’ve been trying for months to sign on with a crew.”

“Don’t you know anybody that could help me? This is your town, Myra. Hell, you must know someone!”

She thought about that. Finally she said, “Sam Madrid is the man at the top, but nobody sees Sam Madrid. He talks to mayors and ship owners, not to bums like you.”

“Do you know him?”

Her eyes seemed to cloud with memory. “I knew him once—one night after a convention uptown. He was a real gentleman, but tough.”

“Would he remember your name?”

“Sure, he might.” She lit another cigarette. “But I don’t know how to find him. He’s a strange guy. He trusts nobody.”

“I’ll find him,” Hardy told her. “I’ll find him and tell him I need a favor. I’ll tell him Myra needs a favor.”

“Hardy …”

“Yeah?” He paused at the door.

“Good luck.”

The bartender at the Ports of Call screwed up his face in a frown. “Sam Madrid! You don’t want much, do you? Hell, he never comes around here. What do you want with him?”

Hardy licked his lips. “I’m hot. I need a ship bad. Anything—oiler, stoker, mate. Anything to get me out of town.”

“Sam Madrid’s the one to see, all right. But I doubt if you’ll get to him. He’s at the top.”

“So I hear.” Hardy left the bar and headed down a side street, steering clear of the Seaman’s Club. He was halfway along when he heard the distant siren, and he knew immediately that someone had found the body in the alley. His feet moved a bit faster over the damp pavement.

In the next bar he tried the same question. “Where can I find Sam Madrid?”

The bartender reached up to adjust the color television. “Nobody finds Sam Madrid. He finds them.”

“Cut the games. It’s important. I’m a friend of Myra’s.”

“I don’t know any Myra,” the bartender said, but he didn’t walk away. After a moment he said, “Madrid’s right-hand man is Doug Schaefer. He’s the only one who could tell you where Madrid is.”

“All right. How do I find Schaefer?”

“He has a supper club uptown, but this time of night he’s more likely to be at the apartment. He runs midnight crap games for high rollers. Strictly big-time stuff.” He wrote an address on a piece of paper. “Here, buddy, but I’ll tell you, dressed like that you won’t get through the door.”

Hardy took a subway uptown to the address the bartender had given him. It was a luxury apartment building with flowers growing in the lobby and a burly doorman with a bulge beneath his uniform coat. “I came to see Doug Schaefer,” Hardy told him.

The man ran his eyes down Hardy’s soiled sweater and dungarees. “It’s a little late for deliveries.”

“No delivery. It’s business.”

The doorman picked up the house phone and dialed a number.

“What’s your name?” he asked Hardy.

“He won’t know my name. Tell him it’s about Sam Madrid.”

The eyes above the telephone flickered with interest as he repeated the message. Then he hung up and ushered Hardy into the elevator. “You can go up,” he said briskly, “once I frisk you.” His hands traveled quickly over Hardy’s body, missing nothing. Then he grunted and stepped out of the elevator. “No funny business,” he warned, as the elevator doors slid shut.

The doors opened again at the top floor, and Hardy stepped out into a fashionable foyer where a man with a pistol was waiting. “State your business,” he said quietly. “You mentioned Sam Madrid. You got a message from him?”

“You don’t need that gun,” Hardy assured him, looking beyond to a sunken living room where a dozen men stood around a dice table.

“We take no chances on robberies here. The gun stays.”

“Are you Schaefer?”

The dark-haired man nodded. He wore a striped business suit that seemed to belong in some cheap gangster film. Hardy had seen many of them in his youth, when life had been so simple. “I’m Schaefer. Who are you—one of Sam’s sailor boys?”

“I’m a seaman. I have to get out of the country. I heard Sam Madrid could help me.”

The man named Schaefer chuckled. “He’ll help just fine. You got money?”

“I … no.”

“No money?”

“I’m a friend of Myra. She said Madrid owed her a favor.”

“Madrid owes nobody favors.” Someone called to him from the dice table, and he yelled back, “Be there in a minute!”

“Just tell me where I can find Sam Madrid, that’s all.”

“Sam’s probably gone to bed by now. Wait till morning.”

“I can’t wait till morning.” Hardy licked his lips. “The cops are after me. I have to see him now!”

“Well, I can’t help you. Nobody disturbs Sam Madrid in the middle of the night.” He put the gun away and motioned toward the elevator. “Go on! Get lost!”

A gray-haired man in evening clothes left the crap game and hurried out to the elevator. “You cleaned me out, Doug,” he grumbled. “I hope you’re satisfied,”

“Better luck next time, Mister Maxwell.” He stood there, his eyes on Hardy, until the elevator door closed.

The man named Maxwell was still grumbling as they descended. “I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak crooked dice into that game. My luck’s never been as bad as tonight.” His eyes shifted to Hardy, as if suddenly remembering his presence. “What was all that business with the gun, young man?”

“I came to see Sam Madrid, the man at the top.”

Maxwell gave a low chuckle. “That’s Sam, all right.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody knows Sam Madrid.”

“I need to get out of the country. I need a ship.”

“Madrid’ll get you out. He especially likes young fellows your age. Sam’ll get you a ship and probably give you a hundred bucks besides.”

“He can do that?”

“Sam Madrid can do anything.”

“But where is he? I’ve been searching for hours!”

“Who knows? He never gives out his address.”

“I have to find him.”

“Maybe he’s with his mistress.”

“Who’s that?”

“Girl named Stella Gold, at the Lux Apartments.”

“You were hinting that he liked fellows.”

Maxwell chuckled. “Sam Madrid likes everybody. That’s why he’s at the top.”

The Lux Apartments did not have a doorman with a bulge beneath his coat. They were farther downtown, back toward the docks. Hardy felt he was being drawn to the old neighborhood, to the ships and the seamen and the foghorns in the night. That was where he belonged, and perhaps that was where he would finally find Sam Madrid.

“It’s three in the morning!” the blonde girl screeched as she opened the door an inch on its protective chain. “Who in hell are you?”

“I came to see Sam Madrid.”

“Well, he’s not here! Get lost!”

“You’re Stella?”

“I’m Stella, but he’s still not here.”

“It’s very important. I have to find him.”

“Look, buster—go, or I call the cops—and I’m not kidding you!”

“I won’t hurt you. I just have to find Madrid. I need a favor.”

“Sure, everybody needs favors.” But she’d calmed down a bit. Perhaps she’d had visitors like him before. “Well, Sam was here earlier, but he’s gone now. He left before midnight.”

“Where would he go?”

She shrugged, allowing the door to open to the length of the chain. “Maybe home. He goes there once in a while.”

“Where’s home?”

“With his wife, Maria. A fat old pig.”

“I mean the address.”

“He doesn’t like people to find him. He lives under another name. People are always bothering him.”

Hardy had a sudden thought. “Maxwell?”

“No,” she chuckled at the idea. “Not Maxwell. Did he send you here?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you. Sam Madrid and his wife have a house down by the river. A brownstone facing Pier 17. You can’t miss it. The name is Madden, but it’s him.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t tell him I sent you.”

He headed farther downtown, toward Pier 17, knowing he was near the end of his quest at last.

There were more police cars here, cruising the streets with slow precision. He knew they were searching for him, but he was no longer afraid. It was like his younger days, on the way to church, or to see his father. Sam Madrid would listen to him, and Sam Madrid would grant him the absolution he sought. By morning he’d be on a ship, far from the reach of these cops in their prowling cars.

He saw the house from a block away, because there were lights in it even at this hour. Sam Madrid would not be sleeping. He would be waiting, waiting for sinners like Hardy—just as the priest had always waited in the confessional for latecomers.

There was a man at the door of the brownstone, a guard with a gun under his gray sport coat. He frowned at Hardy as he opened the door, and Hardy said, “Madrid?”

“Who wants him?” the guard asked.

“It’s important. I’ve been searching for him half the night.”

The guard motioned with his hand. “End of the hall.”

Then Hardy moved into the darkened hallway, seeing the light at the end, hearing the muffled voices. The light filtered out from behind beaded curtains, uncertain but strong enough to show the way. He went slowly toward it, and finally pushed through the curtains into the room. A fat old woman sat at a table, and two men stood nearby. They looked up as he entered, and waited for him to speak.

“I’ve come a long way,” Hardy said. “I need help. You are Maria Madrid?”

The old woman nodded. “I am Maria.”

“I need your husband. I need help from Sam Madrid. I was sent to him, because he’s the man at the top.” He looked at the other two, but they did not change expression.

“You want Sam Madrid?” the woman repeated.

“Yes.” His mouth was dry and his legs were growing weak.

“But you are too late,” the woman told him. “Sam Madrid is dead. Someone killed him with a knife tonight, in an alley by the Seaman’s Club.”

Burial Monuments Three

THE COUNTRY WAS STRANGE to him after he’d turned off the main road. He’d entered it suddenly, unexpectedly, and marveled that such a place could rest undiscovered just a mile or so off the Turnpike. He slowed his little car, as much for the breathtaking view as for the sudden clanking that came from the motor.

The road had petered out into dust, and as soon as the car hit the unfamiliar surface it had begun its strange complaints. Hampton slowed almost to a stop, taking the rest of the dusty trail in low gear, heading downward into a sort of valley that seemed filled with lush fruit trees. Beyond the orchards he passed level pastures and gently grazing cows. Farther on, he came to an unmarked crossroad, and as he pondered the map he took from his glove compartment, a farmer’s truck slowed to a stop beside him.

“Having trouble, mister?”

“The car’s acting up. Is there a garage anywhere nearby?”

“Nearest garage would be in Random Corners. Go straight down this road for about three miles. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Hampton waved an arm at the helpful farmer and continued down the dusty road.

He probably would have driven right past the little general store that marked all there was of Random Corners, except that he caught sight of the battered twin gas pumps standing at the side of the building. The garage, he determined, must be around back, and he pulled in by the pumps.

“Want gas?” someone called from inside the store. A tired-looking man with a lantern jaw appeared in the doorway.

“Something’s wrong with the car. A farmer told me you had a garage here.”

“Sure.” The man came forward, down the steps to the little car. “Don’t work much on these foreign jobs, though.”

Hampton opened the hood for him and they puttered around together, working among the wires and spark plugs. After about a half-hour the tired-looking man brought some new plugs and parts from the little garage around the rear of the store. “That should fix you up,” he said. “Best I can do, anyway.” He wiped the grease from his hands and went back into the general store.

Hampton followed him up the rotting wooden steps and through a rusty screen door advertising a popular brand of bread. “What do I owe you?” he asked.

The man wet the stub of his pencil in his mouth and wrote some figures on a scrap of paper. “Comes to $11.95 for parts, and I guess another five dollars for labor. That sound all right?”

“Sure.” Hampton reached for his wallet.

“Got a special this week on charcoal. For picnics, you know.”

“Get many picnickers around here?”

“Not many,” the man answered sadly. “That’s why we got the special.”

“I see.” He paid the man for the auto repair.

“Don’t get much of anything around Random Corners. Except cows.”

“It seems a pleasant enough place,” Hampton said, making conversation.

“Nice in the summer. Turnpike keeps everybody away, though. They just pass us by. You visiting someone?”

“No. Just on vacation. Exploring some back roads.”

The man peered more intently in Hampton’s direction, adjusting his glasses for a better look. “Haven’t I seen you before? What’d you say your name was?”

Hampton smiled a bit. It always happened, sooner or later. “I didn’t, but it’s Steve Hampton. You’ve probably seen me on television.”

“You’re that news guy!”

“That’s right. But this month I’m just a vacation guy.”

“Wait till I tell folks you stopped here to get your car fixed!”

The screen door banged and another customer entered. She was a young blonde girl, with hair hanging loosely halfway down her back. She wore no makeup, and didn’t need any. Hampton guessed her to be about nineteen or twenty, though she might have been younger. The man’s shirt she wore was neat and tight, tucked into clean but well-worn jeans.

“Morning, Harry,” she said, ignoring Hampton at first.

“Morning, Janie. How’s things up in the woods?”

She flushed a bit as she noticed Hampton staring at her. “Same as down here, Harry. Got my order?”

“Just a minute.” He checked over the list in front of him, penciled on a torn piece of gray cardboard. “Everything but the potatoes, Janie. Want to get them out of the storeroom yourself?”

“Sure.” She vanished into the back with a jaunty swing of her hips.

“Cute girl,” Hampton said. He still noticed cute girls, even at forty-one.

“Sure is,” the man agreed. “Her name’s Janie Mason. Lives up in the woods, all alone. Too bad about her.”

“What’s too bad?” Hampton asked, feeling the beginning of a chill on the back of his neck.

“Oh, she’s had a hard life. It’s left her a little bit … strange, you know. She lives in her own world, and nobody bothers much with her.”

“You mean she’s mentally retarded?”

“Retarded, mixed up. I don’t know what you call it back in the city. There were four of them up there ten years ago, and now she’s all alone. Her father, mother, and uncle all died.”

“Died?” He was about to pursue it when the girl returned, carrying a sack of potatoes.

“That’s everything, I think.” She took out some money and paid Harry.

“Can you manage it all right, Miss Janie?”

She nodded and lifted the two bags with difficulty.

“I’ll help,” Hampton said, for no good reason except that she was a cute girl.

She flashed him a grateful smile. “Thanks a lot.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have a car. I walk.”

He blinked and stared at her. “Well, I don’t. I’m afraid I didn’t realize …” But there was only one way out. “Well, I’ve got my car. I’ll give you a ride home if you’re not afraid of strangers.”

“Thanks. I stopped being afraid of anything a long time ago.” She followed him to the little car and waited while he piled the bags in the back seat. Then she said, “You’re Steve Hampton, aren’t you? I see you on television every night.”

“The price of fame,” he said with a smile. “I’m on vacation, really. I picked this little valley because I figured nobody would know me here.”

“We have television sets,” she said a bit indignantly. “Just like in the city.”

“I know. I stand corrected.” He gunned the engine and started off, pleased that it seemed to be running well again. “Now, which way is home?”

“Straight down this road. It isn’t far.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.” The breeze from the open windows had caught at her hair. “I heard you and Harry talking about me, back at the store.”

It was his turn to blush, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t usually talk about people behind their backs.”

She turned toward him in the front seat. “Why not? Everyone else does.”

He swerved the car a bit to avoid a cow at the side of the road. “How do you manage it, living alone out here?”

“I manage.”

“Don’t you want to get away, meet people your own age?”

“I promised I’d stay,” she said quietly. “When all the others left.”

There was a catch in her voice as she spoke the words, and he decided not to pursue the subject for the moment. After all, he was only giving her a ride home. “Are we nearly there?”

“Right up here on the left.”

They passed a patch of woods that suddenly ended to reveal a small plot of farmland and a shabby house and barn, both in need of painting. The television antenna seemed the only modern touch in sight, and even this was cocked at a precarious angle.

“How do you manage to take care of it all by yourself?” he asked, pulling the car up in front.

“It’s not easy. I’ve had to sell off all the cows and pigs. I guess maybe someday I’ll have to get rid of everything.” She’d grown serious, but suddenly her mood brightened. “Anyway, thanks for the ride. It’s nearly a mile’s walk, and these bags can get heavy.”

“Could I carry them into the house for you, as long as I’ve come this far?”

“Thanks.” Inside, she motioned him toward a table and said, “At least this calls for a cup of coffee.”

He hesitated, but knew he would accept. There was something about his first step over the threshold that had decided him. The place had a not-quite-right feeling about it that roused his curiosity. It was something like entering another world, a world he’d never known. “All right,” he told her. “A quick one.”

She went busily to work with the coffeepot on the somewhat primitive stove. “It’ll just be a minute.”

“You really do live here alone,” he said.

“I do now, for a while.”

“But this house is so strange. You have the shades pulled on all the windows.”

“The neighbors snoop,” she answered simply. “You really are a newsman, aren’t you? Curious about everything.”

“Not a snooper, I hope. Not while I’m on vacation.” He sipped the coffee. “This is very good.”

“Let me snoop for a while. I know from the TV magazine that you’re married, with children and all. Where are they?”

“I’m married, yes. With children and all. But right now I’m vacationing from that, too.”

“You’ve left your wife?”

He took another swallow of coffee. “It’s a long, dull story. Just like my marriage. Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like you.”

She smiled, enjoying the compliment, enjoying the perhaps unaccustomed role of being a woman. “What brought you to Random Corners, though? People don’t come here much on vacation. Are you after a story?”

“Are there any here to find?”

Her expression was suddenly conspiratorial, as if the young woman of a moment ago had been replaced by a little girl. “I could show you something,” she confided. “I could show you where they’re buried.”

“Who? Your family?”

“Yes.”

“And where is that?”

“Near here, back in the woods.”

He was beginning to think the man in the store might have been right about her. “Do you want to show me?”

“I could. If you promise not to use it on television.”

“I promise.”

“Then we’ll go. So come on.”

Go, he thought. Down the rabbit hole with Alice, along the yellow brick road with Dorothy, into the woods with Janie Mason.

Outside, the clouds of a possible storm were gathering on the western horizon, a blot on the perfect summer’s day. “Is it far?” he asked the girl as they started back across the fields. He didn’t want to be caught in the rain.

“Not far.”

She led him through knee-high grass that looked as if it had gone untended for years, and suddenly he felt transported to the past, to some long-forgotten afternoon of his own youth. Was it only chance that had led him to Random Corners and this girl?

“What happened to your family, Janie?” he asked her as they reached the edge of the woods. “How did they die?” They were questions he had to ask, though he almost feared the answers.

She paused by a tree, running her fingers over the rough bark as if she’d never felt it before. “How did they die? I thought you knew. I thought Harry told you. They were murdered. All of them were murdered.”

They went farther into the woods, and now Hampton could barely make out the sky with its thickening clouds. Occasionally the pace forced him to pause and catch his breath, but Janie Mason seemed as fresh as when they’d started.

Finally she stopped and held up a finger for silence, like someone entering a great cathedral. “We’re here,” she announced in a whisper.

Ahead, in a little clearing, he could make out the tops of three crude gravestones among the weeds. He walked a bit closer, with reverence to match her mood, until he could read the names scratched upon the stone:

Henry Mason, devoted father

Anna Mason, loving mother

Robert Mason, loyal uncle

The year of their deaths was scratched on the stones too, and it was the same for each of them—three years earlier. Both father and mother had been in their early forties. The uncle had been a few years younger.

“Who killed them?” he asked her.

“Me,” she answered simply, but then went on: “Or you. Or all of us. Did you ever think that a crime as personal as murder could be the product of so many hands?” The child Janie had gone, and she was an adult once more, a lovely young lady standing in a clearing in the woods.

“You sound like a philosopher,” he said. “All I asked was who killed them.”

“It was a member of the family.” She turned her face away as she spoke.

“How old were you then, Janie?”

“Seventeen. I was seventeen that summer.”

“And a member of the family killed them?”

“Yes.”

“But there were only the four of you?”

“Yes. No others.”

“Was it a double murder and a suicide?”

“In a way you could call it that, yes.”

“Who buried them here?”

“I did.”

“Yourself? Alone?”

“Yes.”

“But wasn’t there a funeral?”

She smiled slightly. “There was a funeral, but nobody came to it. I brought them back here in the wheelbarrow, one at a time, and said some prayers over them. Then I buried them.”

“Yes,” he said quietly; and then, “We’d better be getting back soon. It’s going to rain.”

She glanced up at the sky, seeing the filtered gray light through the curtain of leaves. “I know a place where we can go. Over here.”

She led him to the opposite side of the clearing, to a low flat rock that protruded from a hillside. She scurried beneath the rock as the wind began to come up, and motioned for him to follow.

“It’s a cave!” he said, surprised.

“Not really, just a little shelter. It only goes back about ten feet into the hill. I built it the first year, when I used to come here and sit by the graves. I scooped it out myself with a shovel. You’re dry in here when it rains, and you can see the three graves.”

“Why do you want to see them?” he asked, lying beside her on his stomach.

“Why? Because we should honor the dead, I guess. No matter what they were in life.”

The darkening scene before them was lit suddenly by a blinding flash of lightning that seemed to play among the trees, and the thunder which followed immediately blended into the torrent of rain on the leaves. He turned to face this strange girl at his side, and saw a second flash of lightning whiten her skin with an eerie glow. In that instant she might have been a witch or a murderess, but in the next she was only a girl named Janie Mason. He slipped his arm gently around her taut body.

“Do you come here often with men?” he asked, not really caring. His wife was a lifetime away just then, in another world.

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“Does it matter if I killed them?”

Thunder crashed above the trees. He shifted position and drew her closer. “You didn’t kill anybody.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. I’ve met a few murderers in my time, and you’re not one of them. How did it happen?”

She stared out at the rain, seeing perhaps something that was beyond his vision. “My father caught them together, and then he killed them.”

He nodded. It was the oldest story in the world, brother against brother; as old as Cain and Abel. “Tell me about the day they died. Tell me why you buried them yourself, rather than call the police.”

“Yes,” she said vaguely. “The day they died.” She fell silent then, and for a time there was only the sound of the rain. Nothing else moved, not the birds nor the animals. All waited in silence for the rain to stop. “The day they died,” she began finally, breaking the silence. “The day they died the sun was shining, and it was in the spring. I remember I was out in the fields, working with my father, and my uncle was back in the house with mother.”

“And what happened?” he urged.

“There was something—some sound that I didn’t even hear. But Father did. His ears perked up a bit, like a dog hearing one of those high-pitched whistles. He turned and stared at the house, and then without a word he put down the posthole digger he was using and walked back across the field. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed there, working, until I heard Mother scream.”

“You knew then what it was.”

“No, not really. I couldn’t imagine it being anything more serious than a mouse.”

“Farm wives don’t scream at mice.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“How was it done? How did he kill them?”

She stared out at the rain. “With an ax, like the Bordens.”

“Except that the Bordens were probably killed by Lizzie, their daughter.”

Overhead, the lightning crackled again, then the thunder swept over them with a roar, coming like a giant wave on some distant beach, but the rain began to let up a bit as the storm moved somewhere beyond them. “I didn’t kill anybody,” she said.

“I know you didn’t. I told you that. But what about the funeral? Wasn’t there a police investigation?”

“There are no police in Random Corners. I would have had to call in the state troopers.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“There were reasons.” She stared into his eyes. “A mystery may exist for strangers like yourself that is only a passing curiosity to local residents. No one here ever worried that the police weren’t called, or that there was no formal funeral for them.”

“How many people live here?”

“Only about a dozen, and they mind their own business. They don’t like strangers, especially police.”

“Would that include me?”

“Maybe.”

The rain had almost stopped, and he pulled himself out of the little cave. She followed, and he stood for a moment facing her.

“Did it happen like you say?” he asked.

“Yes. My father found them like that and killed them.”

“And you buried them.”

“Yes.”

“All three, right? Just like that.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t think any girl could bury her parents and uncle by herself like that, and simply go on living here. What’s the truth, Janie? One of those graves is empty, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Her face froze at his words.

“Your father didn’t kill himself, did he? His grave is empty, isn’t it?”

“I have a shovel if you want to dig,” she told him. “I keep it back in the cave.”

“Why? To dig them up, or to bury more?”

She didn’t answer. She had disappeared back into the cave, and when she reappeared she held a rusty, long-handled shovel in one hand. “Here, dig if you want to!”

“I don’t want to,” he said. “I’ve got to be getting back.” Somewhere overhead he caught the sound of a passing jet, and for a moment he was back in the world of reality. Then the sound gradually faded, leaving him facing this strange girl with the shovel she held outstretched to him.

“Dig,” she said again.

He took the rusty shovel from her and plunged it into the wet earth of her father’s grave. “If I lived here, I’d know. Wouldn’t I, Janie?”

“Yes.”

“I’d know what everyone in Random Corners knows—that your father killed them and then buried them back here, with an extra, empty grave for himself.”

Her frightened eyes darted from his face, back toward the woods through which they’d come. He followed her gaze and saw a sudden shaft of sunlight catch the rain-drenched leaves; that, and something more—a man, walking toward them, with a woodsman’s ax hanging loosely from his right hand.

“No,” Janie whispered, the word catching in her throat.

“I’d know that your father was still right here in Random Corners, Janie. I’d know that, even though his name was Henry, everybody called him Harry when they shopped at his little store and gas station.”

The tired man with the lantern jaw stepped into the clearing and paused, facing them with his ax. “How much does he know, Janie?”

“Everything,” she sobbed. “He knows your grave is empty, and he knows you never went away.”

“Hello, Mr. Mason,” Hampton said quietly, feeling the smooth wood of the shovel’s handle against his sweating palms. “You warned me she was mixed up, but I wouldn’t listen, would I?”

“My wife and brother were evil,” he said quietly. “Removing them was God’s justice, not mine. It was a kindness, really, and everyone in town knew it. That’s why nobody ever told the police. I made an extra grave for myself, and moved down to the store, and nobody ever told.” He shifted the ax and started to raise it. “Until now.”

“Don’t kill him, Daddy!” the girl screamed. “He won’t tell anyone!”

But the ax kept coming, until it was level with Henry Mason’s head. “He’ll tell the whole country on the TV. That’s what he came here for in the first place.”

Hampton saw the ax coming at him, and he dodged to one side as the blade caught the padded shoulder of his jacket. Then, in a motion he’d practiced on the golf course a thousand times, he brought the long-handled shovel around in a wide arc before Henry Mason could swing his ax again. He was aiming at the weapon, or the man, or both—and the edge of the shovel caught Mason along the left temple with a dull, clanging sound.

It hardly seemed that the blow was enough to kill a man, but perhaps Henry Mason had lived too long already.

“We’ll have to call the police,” Hampton told the girl.

She looked up from the ground, where she held her father’s head in her arms. “What good will that do? We’ll bury him in his grave, and no one will ever know.”

“We can’t do that, Janie!”

“We can. We will. You were just a stranger passing through. Why should you suffer for this?”

Why, indeed? Suddenly he was anxious to be back with his family, back to the relative normalcy of New York, where at least madness came in more familiar varieties. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Don’t think about it. We’ll do it.”

He stood staring down at the body of the man he had killed. Then, after a time, he shifted his gaze to the waiting gravestone. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he knew, too, that it was the only way out for him. No one had come to Mason’s first funeral, and no one would miss him now. The people of Random Corners never asked questions.

He bent and picked up the shovel.

The Scorpion Girl

TOKAY MET HER FOR the first time in one of those little roadside diners along Route 60 near the Arizona-New Mexico border. She must have been in her early twenties, though there was something about her boyish figure and innocent face that made her appear much younger. She was traveling with her teen-age brother, a somber youth who walked with a limp.

Her name was Liz Golden, she said, and her brother’s name was Randy. They were driving to Hopworth for a scorpion fight. Tokay had been only mildly interested until she opened the cigar box on the counter between them and he saw the four-inch-long bluish-green scorpion nestled in some loose sand and pebbles.

“My God!” he gasped. “That thing could kill you!”

She smiled at his ignorance. “Not really, though the sting is very painful. The Mexican Centruroides has been known to cause deaths, but this is a Hadrurus hirsutus. It’s called a Giant Hairy Hadrurus for obvious reasons.”

“And what did you say you were going to do with it?”

“In Hopworth they’re having an illegal scorpion fight tomorrow night. Scorpions only sting in self-defense, and of course the poison has no effect on members of the same species, but they can sometimes be goaded into doing battle with their pincers.”

“That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard,” Tokay said. “Actually I’ll be quite near to Hopworth tomorrow. I should come over and see it.”

“Bet on our scorpion,” Randy urged. “He never loses.”

“That’s right,” the girl agreed. “Big ones like this have larger pincers, and they’re easier to handle besides. Their sting isn’t nearly as venomous as the smaller species.”

“Have you ever been stung?”

“Oh sure! I carry scorpion antivenin with me for emergencies.”

He was glad when she closed the lid of the cigar box. He finished his coffee and rose to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said. “My name’s Tokay. I’m a professor of archaeology.”

“Are you going to Hopworth to dig?” the boy asked.

“I hope the digging’s all been done,” he answered. “I’m just going to talk to an old friend of my father’s.”

It was nearly noon when he pulled away from the diner. He had several hours more driving before he reached his destination, and he wanted to get there before nightfall.

He saw the church steeple while he was still some distance away, and he pulled up by a cultivated field where a young Mexican was pulling weeds. “Is this the Mission of San Felipe?” he called out.

“It is,” the Mexican answered. His expression was curious, as if he wondered what had brought Tokay here.

“I have come to see Father Payne. Is he at the mission?”

The Mexican glanced toward the mission tower, where a high window caught and reflected the final glow of the setting sun. “Yes, he is always there. He never leaves.”

“Thank you.” Tokay drove on to the church down the road.

By the time he reached it a white-haired man in a black cassock was there to meet him. “Welcome, traveler. I am Father Payne of the Mission of San Felipe. Are you going far?”

“I have reached my destination,” Tokay said. He told the priest his name. “My father was an archaeologist who visited you many years ago.”

Father Payne bowed, showing a bald circle on the top of his head. “I admired your father. Is he in good health?”

“He died last year. But could we speak inside?”

“Visitors are always welcome. Come in!”

Tokay followed the black-robed man inside, silently marveling at the stonework of the mission. It was indeed as his father had described so many times. “I noticed the Mexican down the road. Is he in your employ?”

Father Payne shook his head. “Not really. He does some chores in return for his lodging, but I expect he’ll move on soon. But tell me of your father. I’ll remember him in my prayers.”

Tokay leaned back in his chair and accepted a small glass of wine the priest offered. “I learned many things about archaeology from my father,” he said. “Chief among them was the beauty of this church, and of the old church over the hill. He urged me to come back here after he died, to see it for myself.”

The old priest’s eyes twinkled. “And to take back the Spanish scrolls? That is what your father always wanted from me, and what I would never give him—the account of the early discovery of this land, handwritten by the Spanish explorer Coronado.”

“I won’t pretend I haven’t heard of them. They’ve been translated and reproduced in books.”

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of the Mexican. Father Payne looked up. “What is it, Jugo?”

“The light,” the Mexican said. “I see the light by the old ruins again.”

Father Payne frowned. “Are you certain?”

“I see it!”

“All right. I will come.” He turned to Tokay. “Some trouble. An intruder, perhaps. You must excuse me.”

“Could I help?”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“A revolver in my car.”

“Bring it, then.”

Tokay followed them out of the church and paused at the car long enough to get the gun. Darkness had come quickly, as it often did in desert regions, and he could feel the drop in temperature.

“This way,” the priest said, guiding him with a flashlight that cast an eerie glow across the sand.

“Where are we going?”

“Over the hill to the ruined church. As your father must have told you, it crumbled in an earthquake long ago. The new one was built on firmer ground.”

They went the rest of the way in silence, until at last they stood before a ruined steeple partly buried in the sand. From somewhere within came a glimmer of light. As they entered through a crumbling doorway, Jugo cautioned, “Be careful of scorpions. They nest here.”

“Scorpions?” Tokay hesitated, remembering the girl in the diner.

“There’s no danger,” the priest assured him.

The light that had attracted them came from below. Tokay held his pistol tightly as they descended the old steps to the ruined church’s lower level. Suddenly a bearded man with long dark hair appeared. He dropped his flashlight and leaped back in alarm when he saw them. “Why are you here?” Father Payne demanded. “Who are you?”

The bearded man recovered his light. “You would be Father Payne,” he said.

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“Nat Quarn. I do some prospecting.”

“And why are you here? We’ve seen your light other times recently.”

“I’m searching for treasure,” he answered.

“There is no treasure here,” the priest responded angrily.

“This church collapsed …”

“Because of an earthquake!”

“Or because of a treasure room beneath it.”

“There is no treasure room! Get out of here or I’ll have the police on you!”

“I …”

“Get out of here!” the old priest repeated.

Quarn hesitated a moment. Then, deciding that further pleading was useless, he scurried away up the steps. “Whatever his purpose here, it is evil,” Father Payne said. “I have heard bad talk of him in the town.”

“In Hopworth? I think I’d like to look around there,” Tokay said. “Maybe find out more about this Quarn fellow.”

“In the morning. Stay the night with Jugo and me.”

Tokay agreed, wondering if perhaps it was really his pistol they wanted to remain.

The town of Hopworth was little more than a desert crossroads, with a few dozen low buildings stretched out in four directions under the haze of the morning sun. There might have been a few hundred residents of the town at best, though this day their numbers seemed to be swollen by a number of out-of-state cars.

Tokay stopped in the first tavern he came to, and the bartender asked, “You here for the scorpion fights?”

“Not really, but I heard about them. That what’s attracting the crowd?”

“Sure thing! Some people’ll bet on anything!”

“I’m staying out at the church with Father Payne.”

The bartender grunted. “He still got that Mexican with him?”

“Jugo? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been in trouble with the sheriff. A little too fast with his knife when he’s been drinking. But Father Payne manages him.”

“He seemed harmless enough to me,” Tokay said.

“Don’t turn your back on him.”

Tokay finished his drink. “Know where I might find a prospector named Nat Quarn?”

“Haven’t seen him around today yet. But if he’s in town he’ll be at the scorpion fights tonight.”

Tokay spent the rest of the day back at the church, studying the scrolls of Coronado. Then in the evening he went to the scorpion fights.

The men in the little barn were mainly from out of the state, some from as far away as Las Vegas. They talked and laughed in loud voices, and drank from a barrel of beer furnished by the nearby tavern. In the center of the floor was a large table, and on it was a ring some three feet in diameter surrounded by a low wall. It was there the scorpions would do battle.

As Tokay watched and sipped his beer, the girl from the diner entered with her cigar box. “How’s the scorpion?” he asked her.

“Oh—hello! I was hoping I’d see you again.” She opened the lid so he could see the hairy curved tail. “Want to bet on him?”

“What wagers are usually made?”

“Mostly ten or twenty dollars, though later in the evening someone might go for a hundred.”

“I could maybe risk a buck.”

She threw back her head and laughed, and Tokay was suddenly struck by her youthful beauty. “Well, that’s better than nothing.”

He glanced around the barn. “Where’s your brother?”

“Out wandering around somewhere. He comes with me but he doesn’t like to see the fights.”

The man whose scorpion would oppose hers in the first fight was Hakor, owner of the barn and one of the town’s wealthiest men. He seemed almost like a scorpion himself, curved slightly with age and ready to sting. When he unboxed his champion a murmur of approval ran through the spectators and new bets were made.

“It’s only half as large as yours,” Tokay said.

“Hakor is smart. That’s a Mexican species whose venom could paralyze my Hadrurus.”

Hakor accepted a few more bets, then nodded to Liz Golden. She took up a position on one side of the table and unboxed her scorpion. At once more bills changed hands and there were shouted wagers among the crowd. Liz poked at her scorpion with a small stick, goading it into battle, and gradually as Tokay watched the two scorpions moved closer together.

There was a roar of delight from the spectators as they clashed, but almost at once attention was diverted to the door. Someone new had entered, and Tokay recognized the bartender from the tavern.

“What is it, Sammy?” Liz asked as he approached her.

“Your brother—someone has stabbed him. He’s dead.”

A low moan escaped from her throat, and Tokay grabbed her as she swayed and nearly fell. Then she pushed by him and hurried after Sammy.

Later, when Tokay found the girl, he held out the cigar box to her. “Your scorpion won,” he said quietly. “I collected the money for you.”

She nodded her thanks without speaking and accepted the scorpion box and the money. Tokay said, “I’m sorry about your brother. Who could have killed him? Was he robbed?”

“He never had more than a few dollars on him, and none of it was taken. I don’t know. I don’t know who would do such a thing.”

“Where was he killed?”

“In an alley near where the car was parked. Sammy heard a noise and found him dying there.”

“Should you call your family?”

She shook her head, brushing away a tear. “I’m all the family Randy had. Our folks were killed in a car crash. That’s where he got the limp.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

It was Hakor who appeared then, bent with age but moving faster than he had in the barn. “The sheriff’s looking for you, Liz. The knife that killed your brother had a name carved into the handle.”

“A name?”

“Jugo. The Mexican who lives out at the church. It was his knife.”

“You think he did it?” Tokay asked.

“Seems so. The sheriff’s planning to arrest him, anyway.”

Tokay tried to remember if Jugo had carried a knife the previous evening, but he could not. Either way, he knew he was needed back at the Mission of San Felipe. Father Payne had asked for his protection, and now he needed it.

When Father Payne heard of the killing and the knife he shook his head sadly. “Jugo has been here all evening. They’re using the killing as an excuse to arrest him.”

“But why?”

Father Payne closed his eyes, as if better to focus on something in the reaches of his mind. “It is a long story, Tokay, and one better left for another day.”

“I think I should hear it now,” he said.

“Very well, then. When the old church collapsed, generations ago, some of the townspeople were killed. That man Quarn was right—there was no earthquake. The priest who had built the mission, and who died himself in its collapse, had indeed put a treasure room for Spanish gold beneath its foundations. The church collapsed, and the people—rightly or wrongly—blamed the priest. The new mission was built, and I came to minister to them, but the old suspicion and hatred remained—passed down three generations. When I allowed an outsider like Jugo to live here for a time, that old hatred flared again. He was a sinister stranger, and I was another of the old priests bringing disaster to the town.”

They heard cars pulling up outside, and doors slamming. “That will be the sheriff,” Father Payne said, “with some of the townspeople. I must warn Jugo.”

There were voices outside the mission doors now, and a hard knocking. Tokay left the old priest and went out to meet the crowd. The sheriff was in the lead, and old Hakor was by his side.

“We’ve come for the Mexican,” Hakor said. “The sheriff has a warrant for his arrest.”

Tokay stood in the doorway, blocking it. He spotted Liz Golden and called to her. “It was your brother who died, Liz. Do you want an innocent man to suffer for the crime?”

“Only the guilty one,” she replied.

Then, near the edge of the crowd, Tokay recognized Nat Quarn, the prospector. “What about you, Quarn?” he said. “You were sneaking around here last night. You could have found Jugo’s knife.”

Quarn stepped forward, his beard spotted with tobacco juice. “If you’re accusing me you’d better be able to prove it! I never even seen that limping boy till after he was dead!”

“Do you deny you’re treasure-hunting here?”

Quarn started to answer but Hakor interrupted. “There’s the guilty one now!” he shouted, pointing beyond Tokay to where Jugo had appeared with Father Payne. Suddenly the crowd surged forward and Tokay feared they might break past him.

But Father Payne spoke to them. “You all know me. Go back to your homes. I give you my word this man is innocent!”

“Let’s have the Mexican!” someone else shouted, and Tokay saw that it was Sammy, the bartender.

But as the shouting increased and the mood of the crowd grew more ugly, Liz Golden ran forward to join Tokay on the steps. “Listen—listen, all of you! He was my brother and I have a right to be heard! Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for later!”

“We won’t be sorry getting rid of that Mexican!” Hakor cried.

“You have the knife that killed my brother. Let the Mexican touch it—here, inside the church—and swear to God he is innocent of the murder. If he does that, it will convince me.”

Tokay had stepped aside and the crowd gradually spilled into the back of the church. The sheriff produced the knife and handed it to her. “Don’t worry about fingerprints,” he said. “A dozen folks handled it before I ever got a look at it.”

Liz Golden took the knife and looked around for someplace to put it. She decided on a deep wooden box with a hinged and slotted top through which donations for the poor could be dropped. Father Payne emptied it of its few coins and Liz dropped the knife inside. “Now then, Jugo,” she said to the Mexican, “reach inside, grasp the knife and swear by the Lord that you did not kill my brother.”

Jugo looked at her uncertainly, then shifted his gaze to Tokay and Father Payne. Perhaps it was the grumbling of the crowd that finally decided him. He thrust his hand into the poor box and said, “By the Lord I am innocent of this crime!”

“What does that prove?” Hakor asked with a snort.

Liz Golden merely smiled. “Would you like to try it, Mr. Hakor?”

“Of course not! It’s superstitious nonsense!”

“I don’t think so. I think it’ll tell us who really killed my brother.”

Sammy the bartender spoke up. “I’ll take the oath. I don’t want people thinking I killed him because I found the body.”

He plunged his hand into the box, grasped the knife and said the words. One or two others stepped forward then, and even the sheriff joined in. Finally Hakor was forced to follow them.

“Satisfied now?” he asked Liz.

She reached in with a cloth to wipe off the knife. “Who’s next? How about you, Mr. Quarn?”

The prospector glanced about uncertainly, then stepped forward and thrust his hand into the box. Almost at once he let out a shriek and fell to the floor grasping his hand. “My God! My God—yes, I killed him! I stabbed him! Oh, God!”

Liz Golden slammed down the lid on the poor box. “There’s your confession. Sheriff—and the real killer of my brother.”

The sheriff merely gaped. “Why would he kill your brother?”

Tokay stepped forward, looking down at the man on the floor. “I think I can answer that. We found him prowling around the old church last night, looking for Spanish gold. That’s when he must have stolen the knife from Jugo’s belt. He had nothing against young Randy, but he wanted Jugo arrested for a killing—any killing. You see, Father Payne never leaves the mission, but he did get Jugo off a couple of times when you arrested him. Surely he’d hurry into town if Jugo was charged with murder, and Quarn could search the mission for the Spanish treasure.”

“Is this true, Quarn?” Hakor asked the man on the floor.

“Yes, yes! God, do something about my hand!”

Liz bent over him with a needle. “This antivenin will help.”

“Help with what?” Hakor asked.

Liz looked up. “It was the only way I could get a confession out of him. When I wiped off the knife, I left my scorpion in there.”

Later Tokay asked Father Payne, “What happened to the treasure under the old church?”

“Stolen long ago. My only treasure is Coronado’s scrolls.”

“Then I’ll leave them with you. They’ll be safe here.”

Tokay went outside to find Liz Golden. “Which way are you headed?”

“Back home to Tucson, after tomorrow morning. Father Payne is having a service for Randy and he’ll be buried here.”

“Your car’s rented. Turn it in and I’ll drive you back.”

“All right.”

“But tell me one thing,” Tokay said. “How did you know Quarn was guilty when you set him up for the scorpion?”

“He said he’d never seen my brother but he described him as a limping boy. How did he know about the limp if he’d never seen him?”

“Someone else might have seen Randy and mentioned the limp to Quarn. He might have been completely innocent.”

“But he wasn’t, was he?”

The next afternoon, with the scorpion in the cigar box, they left for Tucson together.

The Price of Wisdom

THE NIGHTMARE BEGAN ON a Monday in May, when I stepped off the afternoon shuttle flight from Boston and caught a taxi for Martha’s third-floor apartment overlooking Gramercy Park. It was a sunny day in Manhattan and my spirits were high. I’d have two nights with Martha before returning home. With luck I might even take care of the business which was this month’s excuse for the trip.

Martha Gaddis was my mistress. It’s a word that’s rarely used in these liberated times, but that’s what she was, nevertheless. I didn’t actually support her to the extent of paying the rent on her five-room apartment, but when I made my monthly trips to New York—to check on the diamond merchants along 47th Street or the antique jewelry at the little shops on upper Madison Avenue—she was always there waiting for me.

Of course my wife Joan didn’t know about Martha Gaddis. She thought I stayed at the apartment of an old army buddy when I was in New York. Maybe she had her suspicions, but if so she never voiced them. It was probably better that way. Having Martha, after all, didn’t mean that I loved Joan any less. Joan was my wife and the mother of our two children. That was one life.

Martha, and the apartment on Gramercy Park, was another life.

This day she greeted me at the door, as she always did when I phoned from the airport. I could describe Martha by calling her a chic blonde, but that was only the surface woman. Actually she was an artist and a poet, merging two ill-paying professions into a sort of livelihood. She never asked me for money, though I insisted on leaving her some each month, if only to pay for the groceries I consumed. I didn’t think about what she did in her spare time the rest of the month. If there were other shuttle flights, from Washington or Chicago or Detroit, I didn’t want to know about them.

“Jeff, darling,” she said in that familiar soft voice, running a hand along my cheek. “It’s been so long!”

“Only four weeks.”

“It seems a lifetime.”

I hung my suitcoat in the front closet and dropped my attaché case on a convenient chair. Then I gave her a long kiss. “It seems a lifetime for me too,” I agreed. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Lonesome.”

“I wrote you.”

“One letter in four weeks! I get that much from Con Edison!”

Traditionally, the first night’s dinner was eaten at her apartment. Martha was a good cook, and this night, as we dined by the window overlooking the park, she was filling me in on the history of the area.

“Until 1830 it was a farm belonging to a man named Samuel Ruggles,” she said over coffee and dessert. “Then he divided it to form the present park. Most of these houses date from about 1840, and one of them—Number Four—was the home of New York’s mayor, James Harper, in 1844. A few decades later Samuel Tilden, the almost-president of 1876, lived at Number Fifteen. And Edwin Booth the actor was at Number Sixteen.”

“You should write a book about it,” I told her half in jest. She had a way of going off on subjects like that, pouring out more knowledge than I really cared to hear.

She started to reply but was interrupted by the buzzer. “Who could that be?”

“One of your other lovers,” I ventured.

“Some joke!” She spoke through the intercom, asking who was there, but nobody answered. The buzzing kept on. Finally, in exasperation, she unbolted the door. “They probably want one of the other tenants.”

Then I heard her scream, not loud, and she tumbled backward through the doorway, landing on the rug. I was out of my chair, crossing the room to her side, when I saw the man in the doorway.

He wore a stocking mask over his head and carried a small revolver. Behind him was a second man, also masked, who held what looked like a sawed-off shotgun.

“What in hell is this? Who are you?” I bent over to help Martha.

“Stay away from her!” the man with the revolver ordered. His voice was brisk and authoritative. “You’re Jeff Michaels, right?”

The sound of my name on that man’s lips sent a chill through me. This was no random holdup. They were after me and they’d found me. In that wild instant a dozen thoughts crowded my brain. Had Joan learned about Martha and me and sent these people to kill me? No, that was fantastic!

“I’m Michaels,” I managed to get out. “What do you want?”

“We’re taking you along. Tell the lady not to call the police if she ever wants to see you alive again.”

Martha was still on the floor, sheer terror on her face. “Jeff, what do they want?”

“I can’t imagine.”

The man with the revolver gestured. “You’re being kidnapped, mister. Don’t struggle, do as you’re told, and you won’t be harmed. Otherwise, you’re dead.”

“Kidnapped! I don’t have any—”

“Shut up!” While the second man covered me with the shotgun, the first one took out a hypodermic needle. “This won’t hurt you and it won’t knock you out. It’ll just make you a little fuzzy headed and willing to come with us. It’s this or a rap on the head. Take your choice.”

“What sort of choice is that?” I mumbled. But I didn’t resist when he plunged the needle through my shirt and into my arm.

“Now tell the lady not to call the police. You don’t want it all over the papers that you were kidnapped from your girlfriend’s apartment, do you?”

“I—no.” The injection was already beginning to take effect. I turned to Martha. “I’ll be all right. Don’t call the police.”

“Jeff!”

“We won’t hurt him, lady, as long as you both behave.”

Then they slipped on my jacket and hustled me out the door to the elevator. A part of me was past all caring, but another part still hoped someone would see us and raise an alarm.

They kept me to one side till they saw the elevator was empty, then prodded me in with their guns. We rode down to the basement and they took me out the back door to a waiting car. In the back seat the one with the revolver said, “Now you’ll be blindfolded from here on. If you remove the blindfold and see our faces, or see the place where we take you, we’ll have to kill you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good!”

He fitted some sort of goggles over my face that effectively blocked all vision. Then he ordered me onto the floor of the back seat and covered me with a blanket. We drove for about a half hour, as near as I could tell, but in my drugged state it might have been longer. It was impossible to concentrate on direction, or even to determine whether or not we passed over a bridge going out of Manhattan.

Presently the car stopped and the revolver prodded me once more. “We’re here. No tricks now.”

They led me inside a building and up several flights of stairs. I tried to listen for sounds but I heard nothing. It was an apartment somewhere in the city, but I could tell no more. The floor was bare, without even a rug, and in the room where I was to be kept there seemed to be no bed. “You’ll use that sleeping bag,” the man’s voice told me. “If your wife pays off, it won’t be for long.”

The drug was beginning to wear off, and I tried to reason with him. “Look, this diamond ring I’m wearing is worth two thousand dollars. Take it, and my watch and wallet. Then let me go.”

“We’re after far bigger stakes, Michaels. Pretty soon we’re going to phone your wife in Boston and you’ll tell her what we want.”

“What’s that? I’m not a wealthy man.”

“You’re wealthy enough for us. We know all about your jewelry business.”

I realized it had all been carefully planned. “How much do you want?” I asked at last.

“A quarter of a million dollars in uncut rubies.”

“Rubies!”

“We have a market for them overseas, and we know they’re available through your business. Your wife will phone the manager tomorrow and convey your instructions. If he won’t surrender the gems, you may have to phone him too. Your wife will package them as we instruct and fly to New York tomorrow afternoon. The package will be left in a ladies’ room at LaGuardia Airport. Your wife will board the next shuttle flight back to Boston. Once the rubies are safely in our hands, without police interference, you’ll be released.”

A little later they made their call. The telephone was thrust into my hands and I heard Joan’s puzzled voice on the other end. “Jeff? What is it?”

Trying to keep my voice calm, I answered, “Don’t get excited. I’ve been kidnapped.”

“What!”

“Calm yourself, Joan. I’m in no danger if you do exactly what they tell you. And don’t call the police.”

“My God, Jeff! What do they want?”

“A quarter million dollars in uncut rubies. You’ll have to get them from the company vault and fly to New York with them tomorrow. This man will tell you exactly what to do.”

My captor took the phone and spoke distinctly. “We won’t contact you again, Mrs. Michaels, so listen carefully.” He outlined the procedure to be followed, including the plane she should take the next day and the place where the package should be left. “There’s a wastebasket for paper towels. Wrap the package in a couple of paper towels and drop it in. Then leave immediately and take the shuttle back to Boston.”

“I—I don’t think I can get the rubies that soon,” Joan said. I could hear her voice coming from the receiver.

“Your husband will call his manager and take care of that. You just pick them up.”

“Can I talk to him again?”

“Do as you’re told and he’ll be free by tomorrow night. Otherwise he’ll be dead.”

He hung up but I could feel his presence near me still. “We’d better call your manager and arrange for the pickup of the rubies. We don’t want any slips.”

I talked to George Franklin on the phone and told him what had happened, emphasizing he must not call the police. He was a frightened little man at the best of times, and the news of my kidnapping completely unnerved him.

“A quarter million uncut!” he protested. “I don’t think we have that much in rubies.”

“Then get them! Draw some money out of the special account and buy them from Craig or Morton. They’ll have enough to make up the difference.”

“All right.” He sounded reluctant.

“These men mean business, George.”

“All right,” he repeated.

After the phone calls they handcuffed me and gave me another injection, putting me into the sleeping bag for the night. I slept better than I’d expected, helped no doubt by the powerful tranquilizing drug. When I awakened in the morning they brought me a light breakfast—orange juice in a plain water glass and a piece of toast on a paper plate.

I could tell nothing about my surroundings, though occasional street noises penetrated the room. Sitting on the floor with my meager breakfast, I might have been on another planet. I knew that one of the two men was in the room, watching me, and since he didn’t speak I suspected it was the silent one with the shotgun.

I found myself feeling for the walls, trying to leave a mark that might be identified later. But they were smoothly painted and any smudges I might make could easily be wiped away. In my hands were a paper plate that would be disposed of and a water glass.

The glass was my only chance to leave some sign, and it was a slim one. I waited till I heard my captor step out of the room momentarily and then I finished the juice and turned the glass upside down. Working quickly, I used my diamond ring to scratch a crude JM on the bottom of the glass. I couldn’t see how successful I was, of course. It might not show at all—or it might be so obvious they’d see it at once and throw away the glass. But it was my only chance.

They gave me another injection after breakfast and I dozed off and on through the rest of the day. With my eyes covered it was impossible to tell when day ended and night began, and once after waking I called out to ask what time it was. The man with the revolver came into the room and answered that it was late afternoon. He said he was waiting for his partners to pick up the rubies.

“You’d better pray there are no cops,” he said.

“What good would it do you to kill me?”

I heard him go out of the room without answering.

After a time I lifted my handcuffed wrists and felt the goggles around my eyes. I’d been considering risking a peek at my surroundings, but I discovered that broad pieces of tape had been added. I settled back against the wall, discouraged.

Presently I heard the apartment door open and then the low murmur of voices. I held my breath, half expecting a bullet at any moment. Or a fatal injection from which I would never awaken. I had a fleeting memory of Martha, huddled on the floor where she’d fallen. And Joan. Had she flown to New York with the rubies? Did she really care whether I lived or died? How hard would it be for her to keep the rubies and only pretend to have made delivery? She’d be rid of me, and she’d have a quarter of a million dollars to start a new life as the bereaved widow.

If that’s what she wanted.

I heard someone enter the room.

It was the man with the revolver, the talkative one. “Your wife delivered,” he said. “Right on schedule. This must be your lucky day.”

“You mean I can go?”

“We’ll wait till it gets dark, then take you out and dump you somewhere. Don’t worry, we’re not going to harm you.”

His words were reassuring, but when you’re blindfolded and handcuffed it takes more than reassuring words. Wouldn’t he tell me exactly the same thing if they meant to take me out and dump my body in the river?

The next hours passed slowly. They fed me again—a sandwich on a paper plate followed by a cup of instant coffee—and then made preparations to leave. I was taken down the stairs and this time I tried to count the flights. There seemed to be four of them, but I was pretty certain we emerged into a basement. That would mean I’d been kept on the third floor.

“Into the back seat,” the man ordered, “and no tricks. We’d really hate to shoot you this close to letting you go.”

They drove me around for the better part of an hour, or at least it seemed that long. Finally the car stopped at a curb and I was shoved out. By the time I tore the tape and goggles from my eyes the car was out of sight.

I was somewhere uptown, near Riverside Drive, but I couldn’t identify the exact spot. Still handcuffed, I struggled to a corner phone booth. There was a dime among the change in my pocket and I dialed Martha’s apartment.

“My God, Jeff—where are you? I’ve been frantic since last night!”

“I’m free and I’m unharmed. My wife delivered the ransom. I’ll tell you everything later. Look, call the police and tell them I’m at the corner of”—I glanced up at the sign—“98th Street and West End Avenue.”

I waited in the phone booth, oblivious of passersby, until the police car arrived.

My story was that I’d been kidnapped while visiting a client, and the police didn’t press the matter. Martha was interviewed, and the press took pictures, and back in Boston, Joan questioned me about Martha. But if she suspected the truth she didn’t pursue it. I was back, all in one piece, and after a week’s run in the newspapers the story died down. I had George Franklin checking with the insurance company to see what coverage we carried. Certainly it was a theft and certainly they should pay.

Only once, a few weeks later, when I mentioned the need for another trip to New York, did Joan hint that she knew the truth about Martha. “New York again? You’d better stay away from that client this time.”

But of course I didn’t stay away.

I went back to Gramercy Park, back to Martha’s arms, because that’s where I’d always belong. The only difference was that I carried a pistol now, to guard against any future surprises.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Martha said, kissing me softly. “I think those two days were the worst of my life, Jeff. Not knowing where you were, afraid to call the police …”

“They weren’t much fun for me either,” I said, considering for the first time what it might be like to leave Joan and marry Martha. I wondered if men ever married their mistresses.

“What are you thinking about, Jeff?”

“Us, I guess.”

“Do you think they’ll ever catch the kidnappers?”

“Probably not. Unless they try the same sort of thing again.”

She patted my arm. “Come on, dear, come to bed.”

“Gladly.”

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I was just setting the glass down by the sink when I noticed the two crudely scratched initials on the bottom of the glass.

Second Chance

THEIR MEETING WAS ONE of those bizarre things that happen only in real life. Carol Rome was home from her assembly-line job at Revco with the beginning of an autumn cold, running just enough of a fever to prefer the quiet warmth of her apartment to the constant chatter of her coworkers. She’d heard the door buzzer sound once but decided to ignore it. What was the point of being sick in bed if you had to get up and answer the door?

She had almost drifted back into sleep when she became aware of some scrapings at the apartment door. Then, with a loud snap that brought her fully awake, the door sprang open. Through the bedroom door she saw a tall, dark-haired young man enter quietly and close the jimmied door behind him. He looked to be in his late twenties, not much older than Carol herself, and he carried a black attaché case in one hand. The iron crowbar in his other hand had no doubt come out of it.

The telephone was next to the bed and Carol considered the possibility of dialing for help before he became aware of her. She was just reaching for the phone when he glanced into the bedroom and saw her.

“Well—what have we here?”

“Get out or I’ll scream,” she said.

He merely smiled, and she was all too aware that he was still holding the crowbar. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His face relaxed into a grin. “That is, not unless you’d like me to.”

“Get out!” she repeated.

“You should get a stronger lock on that door. In this old building they’re awfully easy to pop open.”

She was becoming really afraid now, perhaps because he wasn’t. “Look, my purse is on the dresser. There’s about twenty dollars in it. That’s all I’ve got.”

He continued grinning at her, making no move toward the purse. “You’re sort of cute-looking, you know. What’re you doing home in bed in the middle of the day? Are you sick?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad. I buzzed first. If you’d answered the door I’d have said I was an insurance claims adjuster looking for somebody else. That’s why I’m dressed up, with the attaché case and all. I wouldn’t have come in if I’d known you were home.” The grin widened. “But I’m glad I did.”

She took a deep breath and lunged for the telephone.

He was faster. He dropped the crowbar and grabbed her, pulling her half out of the bed until they tumbled together to the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets.

His name was Tony Loder and he’d been ripping off apartments for the past two years. He didn’t need the money for a drug habit, he was quick to inform her. He just liked it better than working for a living.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll call the cops?” she asked, rising to get a cigarette from her purse.

“I guess you’d have done that already if you were going to.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I guess I would have.”

“What about you? How come you’re living alone?”

“My former roommate moved in with a guy from the plant. Besides, I like living alone.” She sneezed and reached for a Kleenex. “I hope you don’t catch my cold.”

“I don’t worry about colds.” He was staring at her with the same intensity as when he’d first discovered her in the bed. “Do you have a man around?”

“Not right now. I was married once, five years ago.”

“What happened?”

“He was dull. He wanted to buy a house in the suburbs and raise kids. I don’t think I could live like that. As soon as I realized it I got out.”

“What do you do at this plant? Anything connected with money? Are you in the bookkeeping department?”

Carol laughed. “Sorry. I’m on an assembly line with twenty-three other girls. We run wire-wrap machines. Do you know what they are?”

“I don’t want to know. It sounds too much like work.”

“I’ll bet you do as much work breaking into places as I do working on the line.”

“It’d be a lot easier if I had a partner, that’s for sure.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “I could do different things. I wouldn’t have to jimmy doors for a living.”

He left her after an hour or so, promising to phone. And he did, the following evening. She began seeing him almost every night. There was something exciting about having a burglar for a lover, something that kept her emotions charged all during the day. It was a life worlds apart from the dull, plodding existence she’d known during her brief marriage to Roy. Listening to Tony’s exploits, she was like a child hearing fairy tales for the very first time.

“I almost bought it today,” he’d say, rubbing the back of her neck as he sipped the martini she’d prepared for him. “An old lady came home too soon and caught me in her house. I’d phoned to tell her I was from the social-security office and she had to come down about some mix-up. Old ladies living alone always swallow that one. But after she left the house it started to drizzle and she came back for her umbrella.”

“What’d you do? You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

“I had to give her a shove on my way out and she fell down, but she wasn’t hurt bad. I could hear her screaming at me all the way down the block.”

In the morning paper Carol read that the elderly woman had suffered a broken hip in the fall, and for a moment she felt sick. That evening she confronted Tony.

“It wouldn’t have happened if I had a lookout to honk the horn when the old lady came back. I didn’t want to hurt her!”

She believed him and calmed down a little. “A lookout?”

“How about it, babe? You could do it.”

“Me?”

“Why not?”

“No, thanks! I’m not going to end up in prison with you! I like my freedom too much.”

She was cool to him the rest of the evening and he said no more about it.

When he phoned the following evening she told him she was sick and refused to see him. She spent a long time thinking about the old woman with the broken hip and even considered sending flowers to the hospital. But in the end she did nothing, and a few days later she saw Tony Loder again. Nothing more was said about the old woman or his need for a lookout, and he no longer told her his detailed stories of the day’s activities. She was almost afraid to hear them now.

Around the end of October, half the girls on her production line were laid off, including Carol. Standing in line at the unemployment office she thought about the bleak Christmas season ahead, and about Tony’s offer. It meant money, and more than that it meant excitement. It meant being with Tony and sharing in a kind of excitement she’d dreamed of but never really experienced.

That night she asked him, “Do you still want a partner?”

The first few times were easy.

She sat in the car across the street from the house he was hitting, waiting to tap the horn if anyone approached.

No one did, and for doing nothing he gave her a quarter of his take. It amounted to $595 the first week—more than she’d earned in a month on the production line.

Once during the second week Carol honked the horn when a homeowner returned unexpectedly from a shopping trip. Then she circled the block and picked Tony up. He was out of breath but smiling. “Got some jewelry that looks good,” he told her. “A good haul.”

“Sometime I want to go in with you, Tony. Into the house with you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean it! I get bored sitting in the car.”

He thought about that. “Maybe we’ll try it sometime.”

His voice lacked conviction but that night she pestered him until he agreed. The following morning they tried an apartment house together, going back to his old crowbar routine. She worked well at his side, but the haul was far less than in private homes.

“Let me try one on my own,” she said that night.

“It’s too dangerous. You’re not ready.”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Were you ready the first time you went into a house alone?”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you’re a man and I’m a woman?”

He had no answer to that. The next morning they cruised the suburbs until they found a corner house with a woman in the front yard raking leaves. “Pull into the side street and drop me off,” Carol said. “She’ll have the door unlocked and her purse just sitting around somewhere.”

“What if someone’s home?”

She shook her head. “Her husband’s at work and the kids are at school. Wait down the block for me till I signal you.”

“All right, but just take cash. No credit cards. That way if you’re grabbed coming out it’s your word against hers.”

She got out of the car halfway down the block and walked back toward the corner house, feeling the bright November sunshine on her face. She was wearing slacks and a sweater, and her hands were empty. The money, if she found any, would go into her panties.

The woman was still in the front yard raking leaves, with the corner of the house shielding Carol’s approach. The side door was unlocked as she’d expected, and she entered quietly. It was even easier than she expected—a big black purse sat in plain view on the kitchen table. She crossed quickly to it and removed the wallet inside, sliding out the bills and returning the wallet to the purse. She moved to the living room doorway to check on the woman through the front window, and had an unexpected bit of luck. There was a man’s worn wallet on top of the television set. She pulled the bills from it and added them to the others.

Only then did she realize the wallet meant there was probably a man in the house.

She started back through the kitchen and was just going out the door when an attractive red-haired man appeared, coming up the steps from the basement. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

She fought down the urge to panic and run. He could easily overtake her, or get the license number of Tony’s car. “Is this the place that’s giving away the free kittens?” she asked calmly.

“Kittens? We don’t have any kittens here.”

She edged toward the door. “I know it’s one of these houses.”

“There are no new kittens in the neighborhood. How come you opened the door?”

Carol ignored his question. “Is that your wife raking leaves? Maybe she knows about them.” She hurried outside and down the steps, walking purposefully toward the front yard.

The woman was still raking and she didn’t even look in their direction as Tony pulled up and Carol jumped into the car. “My God, there was a man in the house! Let’s get out of here!”

“Is he after you?”

“He will be as soon as he checks his wallet. I told him I was looking for free kittens.”

Tony chuckled and patted her knee. “You’re learning fast.” He turned the car down another side street to make certain they weren’t being followed. “How much did you get?”

She thumbed quickly through the bills. “Forty-five from her purse and fifty-three from his wallet. Not bad for a few minutes’ work.”

“From now on you get half of everything,” he decided. “You’re a full partner.”

His words made her feel good, made her feel that maybe she’d found her place in life at last.

With the coming of winter they moved their operations downtown to the office buildings. “I don’t like leaving footprints in the snow,” Tony said.

Large offices occupying whole floors were the best, because Carol could walk through them during lunch hours virtually unnoticed. Mostly she looked for cash in purses or desk drawers. If anyone questioned her, she always said she was there for a job interview. Once Tony dressed as a repairman and walked off with an IBM typewriter, but both agreed that was too risky to try again. “We’ve got to stick to cash,” he decided. “Typewriters are too clumsy if someone starts chasing you.”

But after a few weeks of it Carol said, “I’m tired of going through desk drawers for dimes and quarters. Let’s go south for the winter, where there isn’t any snow to show footprints.”

They didn’t go far south but they did go to New York. They found an apartment in the West Village and contacted some friends of Tony. “You’ll like Sam and Basil,” he assured Carol. “They’re brothers. I met them in prison.”

Somehow the words stunned Carol. “You never told me you were in prison.”

“You never asked. It’s no big secret.”

“What were you in for?”

“Breaking and entering. I only served seven months.”

“Here in New York?”

“Yeah. Three years ago. And I haven’t been arrested since, in case you’re wondering. That was just bad luck.”

She said no more about it, but after meeting Sam and Basil Briggs in a Second Avenue bar she was filled with further misgivings. Sam was the older of the brothers, a burly blond-haired man of about Tony’s age. Both he and the slim, dark-haired Basil seemed hyped up, full of unnatural energy. “Are they on heroin?” she asked Tony when they were alone for a moment.

“No, of course not! Maybe they took a little speed or something.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Just stay cool.”

Basil went off to make a phone call and Sam Briggs returned to the table alone. He ran his eyes over the turtleneck sweater Carol was wearing and asked Tony, “How about it? Want to make some money?”

“Sure. Doing what?”

“A little work in midtown.”

“Not the park.”

“No, no—what do you take us for? Hell, I’d be afraid to go in the park at night myself! I was thinking of Madison Avenue. The classy area.”

Tony glanced at Carol. “We’ve been working as a team.”

“You can still work as a team. She can finger our targets.”

“What is all this?” Carol asked. The bar had grown suddenly noisy and they had to lean their heads together to be heard.

“Most guys get hit when they’re all alone, on some side street at two in the morning,” Sam explained, eyeing her sweater again as he spoke. “But I got a spot picked out right on Madison. We hit middle-aged guys walking with their wives earlier in the evening—nine, ten o’clock.”

“Hit them?” Carol asked.

“Roll them, take their wallets. And their wives’ purses. We’re gone before they know what happened!”

“Aren’t there a lot of people on Madison Avenue at that time of night?”

“Not as many as you’d think. I got a perfect corner picked out—there’s an empty restaurant there and when the offices close down it’s fairly dim.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Go halfway down the block, pretending to window-shop or wait for a date, and watch for a likely prospect. If a couple come by talking, listen to what they’re saying. If they sound right, just point your finger and we do the rest.”

Carol was silent for a moment. “There won’t be knives or anything, will there?”

“Hell, no! What do you take us for?”

She turned to Tony, “Do you want me to?”

“We’ve got to live on something.”

“All right,” she decided. “Let’s do it.”

Two nights later, on an evening when the weather had turned unusually mild, Carol and Tony met the Briggs brothers at the corner of Madison and 59th. Carol was wearing a knit cap to hide her hair and a matching scarf to muffle the lower part of her face.

“It’s just after nine,” Sam Briggs told her. “Look for couples with shopping bags, maybe coming from Bloomingdale’s, tourists heading back to their hotels. If the man has both hands full it’s easiest for us.”

The three men hovered near the corner, glancing into the empty restaurant as if surprised to find it closed. Carol walked up the block toward Park Avenue, letting one man pass who was carrying only a newspaper. She’d been strolling back and forth about five minutes when she spotted a couple crossing Park in her direction. The man, stocky and middle-aged, carried a shopping bag in his left hand and a briefcase in his right. The woman, obviously his wife, carried a tote bag along with her purse.

Carol followed discreetly along behind them, listening to their conversation until she was certain they weren’t police decoys. About fifty feet from the corner, she signaled a finger at them. When the couple reached Tony and the Briggs brothers at the corner, Sam Briggs walked up to the man and asked for a match. Before the man and woman realized what was happening, Sam punched the man in the face, knocking him backward into Basil’s arms. Tony grabbed the woman as she started to scream and yanked the purse from her hand. Basil had pinned the man’s arms while Sam went for his wallet.

Then, throwing the man to the sidewalk, they scattered in opposite directions. Carol, walking quickly back to Park Avenue, ducked into the lobby of a hotel and pretended to use the pay phone near the door.

The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

They tried it again three nights later in almost the same location. This time the man tried to fight back and Sam Briggs gave him a vicious punch in the stomach. The first time they’d gotten $214 plus some credit cards they’d promptly discarded. The second time they realized less—only $67 from the man and $16 from the woman.

“Everybody carries credit cards now,” Sam Briggs complained later over drinks in his Village apartment. “What good are credit cards to us? By the next day the computer knows they’re stolen.”

“Let’s go after something big,” his younger brother suggested.

“Like what—a bank?”

“Count me out,” Carol said, afraid they might be serious. “I’m having nothing to do with guns.”

She went to the kitchen to make some coffee and she could hear Tony speaking in a low tone while she was gone. Later back at their own place, he started in on her. “You got this big thing about guns and knives, but sometimes they can actually prevent violence.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Remember that first time you went into a house alone? Remember how the man came up from the basement and surprised you? Suppose he hadn’t believed your story about the kittens. Suppose he’d grabbed you and you’d picked up a kitchen knife to defend yourself. You might have killed him. But if you’d been carrying a weapon he wouldn’t have grabbed you in the first place.”

“I don’t buy that sort of logic, Tony.”

“Look, you saw Sam Briggs punch that guy tonight. You’re part of it! Suppose there’s some internal bleeding and the guy dies. The simple act of carrying a gun or knife isn’t all that much worse than what we’re doing already.”

“It’s worse in the eyes of the law.”

He sighed and tried again. “Look, Carol, Sam and Basil have an idea that can make us a lot of money all at once. We won’t have to go around mugging people on street corners. The thing is foolproof, but we need you to hold a gun on two people for about ten minutes.”

“In a bank?”

“No, not in a bank. This is far safer than a bank.”

“Why can’t you do it without me?”

“We need a woman to get in the place before they’re suspicious.”

“Where?”

“I want Sam to tell you. It’s his plan.”

“I don’t like that man, Tony. I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

“Oh, Sam’s all right. He’s a little rough at times.”

“He’s a criminal!”

“We’re all criminals, Carol,” Tony reminded her.

She took a deep breath. “I’ve never thought of myself as one,” she admitted. “Maybe because I’ve never been arrested.”

“How about it? One big job, and we can live like normal people for a change.”

“Maybe I don’t want to live like a normal person, Tony. I guess I’ve always been bored by normal people. I was married to one once, and it bored the hell out of me.”

He put his arms around her. “How about it? One big job? I promise it won’t be boring. You’ll never be bored with me.”

“One big job …” She remembered them saying that in the movies, and they always walked into a police trap. But this wasn’t the movies, and she knew she’d go along with whatever they wanted of her. She’d go along with it because Tony Loder had made her feel like a real person and not just a cog in some insensitive machine.

The plan was simple.

Sir Herbert Miles, the wealthy and successful British actor, maintained a luxury apartment with his wife on Central Park South. They were going to rob him of cash and jewelry, using Carol to penetrate the elaborate security precautions in the building’s lobby. “You see,” Sam Briggs explained, sketching a rough diagram on a sheet of paper, “they have a guard at a desk just inside the door. He monitors the elevators and hallways with a bank of closed-circuit TV screens. And nobody gets by him unless they’re a resident or a guest who’s expected.”

“Then how do I get by?”

“There’s a night elevator operator as added security, and from eleven o’clock on he sells the following morning’s newspapers. All you do is walk through the revolving doors about eleven-fifteen and ask the man on the desk if you can buy a copy of The Times. He’ll say sure and send you back to the elevator operator. That’s when you take out your gun and cover them both. Make them lie on the floor. We come through the door, take the elevator up to the penthouse, and rob Miles and his wife. In ten minutes we’re back downstairs. You stay in the lobby the whole time.”

“Why can’t we just tie up the two guards and leave them?”

“Because another resident might come in and find them while we’re all upstairs. This way if anyone else arrives you cover them with the gun too.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to shoot anyone.”

“You don’t have to shoot anyone. Just hold the gun and they’ll behave. Nobody wants to get shot.”

Sam gave her a .38 revolver of the sort detectives carried on television. It held five bullets and he showed her how to load and fire it. “That’s all you need,” he said.

“Will you all have guns too?”

“Sure, but nobody’ll need to use them.”

That night, in bed with Tony, she started to tremble and he held her tight. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered reassuringly.

She was a long way from the assembly line at Revco.

The uniformed guard glanced up from his newspaper as she entered. Behind him a half-dozen TV screens flickered their closed-circuit images. “Can I help you, Ma’am?”

“Someone said you sold tomorrow’s Times here.”

He nodded and motioned around the corner. “The elevator man has some.”

She walked down two steps and saw the second uniformed man already folding a paper to hand it to her. The gun came out of her purse. “Not a sound!” she warned.

The man behind the desk turned toward her and she shifted the pistol to bring him into range. “You too—get down here and lie on the floor! Quickly!”

“This building is robbery-proof, girlie. You won’t get away with it.”

“We’ll see. Both of you stay down there. Don’t even lift your heads or I’ll shoot!”

As soon as they saw the empty desk, Tony and the Briggs brothers came through the revolving door. They were wearing stocking masks, and she wasn’t too happy about being barefaced. Still, the knit cap and scarf helped hide her features. “Ten minutes,” Tony said as he went by her.

She watched the floor numbers as the elevator rose, keeping the gun steady on the two guards. “Who are they after?” the elevator man asked.

“Shut up!”

Eight long minutes later she saw the elevator start down from the top floor. No one else had entered the lobby and she was thankful for that. When the elevator stopped, Sam Briggs was the first one off, carrying a bulging plastic trash bag in one hand. The other two were behind him. “Let’s go!” he told her.

“Don’t follow us,” she warned the two guards. “Stay on the floor!”

Then, as she backed toward the door, she asked Tony, “How’d it go?”

“Great! No trouble.”

Basil had left the car on one of the secondary roads in Central Park, with a phony television press card on the windshield in case anyone got curious. They broke onto Central Park South, running across toward the low park wall. Carol was in the middle of the street when she heard a shouted command.

“Police! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

At the same instant she saw the police cars, realized both ends of the street were blocked off. “The guard must have pushed a silent alarm,” Tony gasped at her side. “Forget the car and run for it!”

She heard a shot and turned to see Basil with his gun out. Then there were three more shots close together and he spun around and went down in the street.

She kept running, afraid to look back.

There were more shots, and the stone wall of the park was before her. She went over it fast, her legs scraping against the rough stone. Tony was somewhere behind her and she turned to look for him.

“Run!” he screamed at her. “Run!”

She saw the blood on his face, saw him reaching out for her as he ran toward the wall, then his whole body shuddered and he went down hard.

She ran on, deep into the park, until the breath was torn from her lungs in pulse-pounding gasps and she sank to the frozen earth and started to cry.

God! Oh, God!

Tony was hit, probably dead. And the others too.

After a long time she picked herself up and after walking for what seemed hours she managed to reach Fifth Avenue, at 66th Street. She hailed a taxi and took it downtown, getting out a block from the apartment in case the police tried to trace her later. She circled the block twice on foot, mingling with the late strollers, until she felt it was safe to go in. Then she collapsed onto the bed and pulled the blankets tight around her, trying not to think.

She must have lain there an hour or longer before she heard a gentle knock on the door. Her first thought was the police, but they’d have been less timid. She got up and listened at the door. The knocking came again and she could hear breathing on the other side of the door. “Who is it?” she asked softly.

“Me!”

“Tony!” She threw off the bolt and opened the door.

It was Sam Briggs. “Let me in!”

“I—”

He pushed her aside and closed the door after him. “I thought they got you too.”

“No.”

“Basil and Tony are both dead. The cops were right on my tail but I lost them in the park.”

“You can’t stay here,” she said. “I want to be alone.”

“Come on! There’s only the two of us left now. Tony’s dead!”

She turned away from him. “What about the money?”

“I dropped the bag when I was running. I had to save my skin!”

She didn’t know whether to believe him but it didn’t really matter. “You’ll have to go,” she repeated. “You can’t stay here.”

“I’m afraid to go back to my place. They’ll be looking for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“To hell with you! I’m staying!”

She walked casually over to her coat and slipped the pistol from the pocket. Pointing it at him, she said, “Get out, Sam.”

His eyes widened. “Hell, Carol, we’re partners! I always liked you, from the first time I saw you.”

“I was Tony’s partner, not yours. Get out!” The gun was steady in her hand.

He smiled. “You wouldn’t use that.”

“Wouldn’t I?” In that instant she wanted to. She wanted to squeeze the trigger and wipe the smile off his face for good. He had caused Tony’s death and now he was standing grinning at her.

But he was right about the gun. She wanted to use it, but she couldn’t.

“You can sleep on the couch,” she told him. “Just for tonight.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door, taking the gun with her.

In the morning he was still asleep as she dressed quickly and left the apartment. She bought a paper at the corner store and read about the robbery: “ACTOR’S PENTHOUSE ROBBED AT GUNPOINT—POLICE SLAY TWO FLEEING SCENE.” The dead were identified as Tony Loder and Basil Briggs, both ex-convicts.

She put the paper down.

So that was Tony’s epitaph, after all the things he’d been. Not lover, nor dreamer, nor even thief. Only ex-convict.

She started reading again. The police were seeking Sam Briggs, brother of the slain man, and an unidentified woman, who were believed to have fled with an estimated $80,000 in cash and jewelry.

So Sam had lied about dropping the bag. He had it stashed somewhere, probably in a locker at the bus station.

She thought about going back to the apartment and confronting him, pointing the gun at him again and demanding a share for her and Tony.

But Tony was dead, and she’d shown Sam last night that she wouldn’t use the gun.

She went to a phone booth and dialed the police. When a gruff voice answered she said, “You’re looking for Sam Briggs in connection with last night’s robbery. If you hurry you can find him at this address.”

After that she took the subway to the Port Authority Terminal on Eighth Avenue and caught the next bus home.

They were hiring again at Revco and they took her back without question. She had her old spot on the assembly line, with many of the same girls, and when they asked where she’d been she only smiled and said, “Around.”

She learned from the New York papers that Sam Briggs had been arrested and the loot recovered. The unidentified woman wasn’t mentioned. Even if Sam had given them her name, he didn’t know where she came from. After a month she stopped worrying about being found. Instead, she felt that by some miracle she had been given a second chance.

For a time she was happy at work, and she thought of Tony only at night. But with the coming of spring, boredom set in once again. The routine of the assembly line began to get her down. She tried going out drinking with the other women on Friday nights but it didn’t help. There was nothing in their bickering conversations or the half-hungry glances of their male friends to interest Carol.

One morning in May she phoned in sick, then dressed in a dark sweater and jeans and went out for a drive.

She parked near an apartment house in a better section of town and walked through the unguarded lobby. An inner door had to be opened with a key or by a buzzer from one of the apartments. She pressed three or four numbers until someone buzzed the door open, then took the elevator to the third floor. Tony had told her once never to go up too high, in case she had to run down the fire stairs.

She used the knocker on a door chosen at random and nobody answered. Taking a plastic credit card from the pocket of her jeans, she used it on the bolt the way Tony had shown her. She was lucky. There was no chain, no Fox lock. In a moment she was inside the apartment.

It was tastefully furnished in a masculine manner, with an expensive TV-stereo combination and a few original paintings. She saw a desk and crossed to it.

“Hello there,” a male voice said.

She whirled around, tensed on the balls of her feet, and saw a man standing there in his robe. His dark hair was beginning to go grey, but his face still had a boyish quality. He was smiling at her. “This is my first encounter with a real live burglar. Are they all as pretty as you?”

“I’m no burglar,” she said, talking fast. “I must have gotten the wrong apartment.” She turned and started for the door.

“Not just yet!”

“What?”

“I want you to stay a bit, talk to me.”

She was reminded of that day last year when she’d been home in bed. “Are you sick?”

“Only unemployed. I lost my job last month. It’s sort of lonely being unemployed. I’d find it interesting to talk with a burglar. Maybe I can pick up a few pointers.”

She moved a step closer. “Are you going to call the police?”

“I’d have done that already if I was going to.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose you would have.”

She sat down in a chair facing him.

“Tell me what it’s like breaking into apartments. Is it exciting? Can you actually make money at it?”

“It’s like nothing else in the world,” she said.

He smiled again and suddenly she knew that this was her real second chance, now, with this man whose name she didn’t even know.

And maybe this time it wouldn’t end the same way.

Three Weeks in a Spanish Town

“THREE WEEKS IN A Spanish town!” Edna had exclaimed when she saw the little classified ad in the back of the travel magazine. “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

To her husband Arthur it had sounded downright primitive, especially after they wrote for details and received back a letter written in bad English explaining that the town in question was in a remote section of the country more than a hundred miles from Madrid or any other large city. “What’ll I do there for three weeks?” he groaned.

“Relax—that’s what!” By this time Edna Calkins had her heart set on the trip and nothing would dissuade her. “Get away from all the New York bustle and forget about the office for once.”

“We do that every summer in the Hamptons.”

“Arthur, in the Hamptons you see all the lawyers from the firm. We sit around drinking and discussing the business you left behind in the city. I want to do something different this summer.”

“Well,” he said, knowing he was beaten as soundly as any opposing counsel had ever beaten him in court, “I’ll admit their prices are reasonable for three weeks. I doubt if we could find anyplace else in Europe as inexpensive.”

“Then we can go?”

“Three weeks,” Arthur Calkins mused. “That’s a long time. The place probably doesn’t even have a tennis court.”

“Oh, damn!”

“All right, all right! We’ll go!”

It was a hot July afternoon when they arrived in Latigo, a quiet little town tucked away in a corner of the country where the local bus stopped only twice a week. Edna could see that Arthur was already regretting the trip as their rented car came to a stop before the only official-looking building on the main street.

“It’s siesta time,” he grumbled. “They’re probably all asleep.”

“No—there’s one!”

The man who appeared in the doorway was wearing a wrinkled white coat that didn’t button over his protruding stomach. His black moustache was flecked with grey and his eyes were tired. Perhaps, Edna thought, he had been sleeping, after all.

“Buenos dias,” he greeted them, and then immediately switched to English. “You are driving through on a tour of our countryside?”

“No,” Edna informed him, leaning her head out the car window. “We’ve come to stay.”

“For three weeks,” Arthur added.

“Ah! You must be the Americans Mama Lopez is expecting. I am José Friega, the mayor of Latigo.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Edna responded, holding her hand out to shake his. “This is my husband, Arthur Calkins. I’m Edna.”

Mayor Friega bent to get a good look at Arthur. “You are a fine strong-looking man. You exercise, no?”

“I jog a bit.”

“Ah, well. Here in July it is too hot to jog. You get sunstroke.”

“Which way to Mama Lopez?” Edna asked a bit impatiently.

“Ah! Straight down the street to that gasoline station, then turn right. It is the fifth house.”

“Which side of the street?”

He smiled apologetically. “There are only houses on one side. We are not a large town.”

And in truth it wasn’t. The gas station, when they passed it, had only one pump and there was no attendant in sight. The road was narrow and rutted and, as Mayor Friega had said, there were houses on one side only. The other side was mostly barren, though there was one round fenced-in structure that could have been a ballpark.

“Fifth house,” Arthur said. “Here it is.”

The house itself was quite nice, Edna was pleased to see. It was the best on the street, probably the best in the town—pink-painted stucco, with flowers growing in the front yard. She’d seen houses like it in Los Angeles, but had never imagined one halfway around the world in Spain. “Isn’t it lovely, Arthur?” she said.

“Yeah, just like home.” He got the bags out of the trunk while Edna went up to the door.

It opened before she could knock and a slim dark-haired woman greeted her. “Welcome to my house. I am Mama Lopez.”

“Oh! I’m Edna Calkins. I guess you’re expecting us. That’s Arthur with the bags.”

“Come right in. My home is your home, for the length of your stay.”

Arthur had to admit grudgingly that their room was nice, with a lovely view of the mountains. After a delicious dinner served by Mama Lopez they learned a little about her and about the town. Her husband had died long ago, during the Civil War, when most of the young people left Latigo for good. She had stayed on because she was expecting a child, a girl who was now a woman of thirty-nine, and lived in Madrid.

“The children nowadays,” Mama Lopez complained. “They live together without marriage, they have no children. They have no religion, even! It is not like the old days.”

“Do you have a church here?” Edna asked, recalling that she had not seen one as they drove into town.

Mama Lopez shook her head. “It was bombed during the war. Many people took it as a sign that God had given up on Latigo. That was when many left. But I stayed, and Mayor Friega, and some others.”

“We met Senor Friega. How long has he been mayor?” Arthur asked.

“Who knows? No one bothers with elections here any more. He serves as long as the people do not tire of him.”

“It would seem a younger, more progressive mayor might breathe some new life into the town. You attracted us. You could bring in many more tourists if you had facilities for them.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I am an old woman, Senor. You tell the mayor this. Do not tell Mama Lopez.”

Later that night, as he and Edna lay in bed, Arthur wondered about this odd woman who was their hostess. “Do you think she dyes her hair?” he asked.

“What for, out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“She must be about sixty if she has a thirty-nine-year-old daughter. I can’t believe her hair hasn’t started turning grey.”

Edna turned over in bed. “People lead a simpler life here, Arthur.”

“I guess so,” he agreed.

The following morning Mayor Friega himself arrived to show them around the town. Their first stop was across the streets, at the circular structure Edna had taken for a ball field.

“What is it?” she asked as they strolled out into the open space surrounded by a low grandstand.

“A bullring?” Arthur ventured.

Mayor Friega nodded sadly. “Once, long ago, there were bullfights here on Sunday afternoons, as there are throughout Spain. But then the people left and the matadors stopped coming. No one will perform for a town of fifty-eight people.”

“Fifty-eight? That’s your population?”

The mayor nodded. “It was sixty until last month, when the Rozeris brothers were arrested in Saragossa. Now they’re away for a year.”

“What did they do?” Edna asked.

“A drunken brawl. Someone was knifed. They’re good boys though. They should be back in a year.”

He drove them down the town’s meager streets, pointing out the place where the church had once stood, the site where a railroad station was to have been built, the corner where the twice-weekly bus stopped. After a time Arthur asked, “Aren’t there any side trips we can take away from here?”

“Certainly, Senor. There is a fiesta next week in a neighboring town. And we have one here ourselves on the last weekend of your stay.”

“A fiesta for fifty-eight people?”

The mayor shrugged. “A small remembrance of the old days.”

He introduced them to virtually every resident of Latigo that day, including Doctor Manuela, the physician, and a deeply tanned young woman named Rita who worked at the local store.

“Funny,” Edna remarked to Arthur later, “she doesn’t look Spanish.”

“Who, dear?”

“That woman Rita at the general store.”

“I don’t know how you could tell behind that tan.”

“She almost looks American.”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe she is, though she didn’t say more than a couple of words.”

They journeyed to a neighboring town the next day, and welcomed the brief change of scene. The countryside seemed greener and lusher away from Latigo. Edna would never admit it to Arthur but she was beginning to regret their decision to spend three weeks in this out-of-the-way corner of the world.

“This is such a religious country,” Arthur remarked. “Isn’t it odd there’s no priest in Latigo?”

Edna found herself defending the town once more, against her better judgment. “You heard what happened to the church. A priest wouldn’t live here without a church. They go to Mass in the next town on Sundays. I asked Mama Lopez.”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s like the bullfights. You can’t build a church for just fifty-eight people.”

In the days that followed, they spent most of their time just relaxing. That was what they’d come for, after all. Mama Lopez encouraged Arthur to putter around in her garden, and Edna busied herself with a thick new novel she’d brought from home. One day during the second week when they’d had all the relaxing they could stand, they took the long drive into Madrid for a few hours.

It was toward the end of that second week, when Edna had offered to do the shopping for Mama Lopez, that she struck up a conversation with the woman named Rita. After a few comments about the weather, which never changed, Edna said, “You know, you talk a bit like an American.”

The woman smiled. “I am an American. I thought you knew. Rita Quinn, from St. Paul. Don’t let the suntan fool you. It’s hard to live in Latigo without getting one.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“Living. Relaxing. I came here two years ago for a vacation with my husband. He was killed in an accident, and I just decided to stay.”

“Don’t you have any family back home?”

“No children. And no one I really care about. Latigo isn’t such a bad place to spend your life.”

“I’m finding it a bit boring after the first couple of weeks.”

“Oh, there are things to do. They’re wonderful people, really. Mayor Friega treats me like his own daughter.”

Dr. Manuela came in then and picked up a loaf of bread. “Good day, Mrs. Calkins. Are you enjoying your vacation?”

“Yes, very much. The weather is so perfect.”

“It never changes,” he said. “Not at this time of year.” He paid Rita for the bread. “I hope your husband is well?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I only ask because you are alone. Sometimes visitors are affected by the water.”

“There’s been no problem so far.”

“Good! If one should develop, just call me. I’ll have him back on his feet in no time.”

It was odd, Edna thought, walking back to Mama Lopez’s house. Odd that the doctor expected some illness to befall Arthur and not her. Perhaps she just looked healthier—though even the mayor had commented on her husband’s good physical condition the day they arrived.

That evening they sat outside drinking beer and looking at the stars, and Edna felt at peace with herself for the first time in days. Perhaps Rita was right. Perhaps one could come to love this place after a while.

Mama Lopez had told Arthur she would make him a suit of clothes as a farewell gift, which was certainly an unexpected kindness. He’d grumbled about it privately, expecting an ill-fitting white suit like the mayor’s, but he allowed himself to be measured for it. Edna watched it all and decided that even Arthur was beginning to like the people of Latigo.

When she saw Mayor Friega driving by the following afternoon she waved to him. He pulled over to the side of the road and called out, “You’re remembering our fiesta this weekend? It is the high point of the year in Latigo.”

“I’m remembering. It’s hard to believe we’ll be going back home next week. Once I adjusted to the tempo of life here, the days just flew by.”

He nodded understandingly. “There is always some adjustment necessary, wherever one lives.”

On Saturday morning Edna awoke to find the town’s main street festooned with gaily colored streamers. People were out and about earlier than usual, and the few shops that were usually open on Saturday had closed. “Isn’t it nice the fiesta is on our last weekend?” she remarked to Arthur.

He was doing push-ups on the bedroom floor. “I suppose so. It almost seems as if they planned it for us.”

“We’ve had all this for practically nothing!”

“I wouldn’t call the airfare nothing.”

“No, but I mean the rest of it. You’ve got to admit there’s no place on earth we could have stayed for three weeks as cheaply as this. And you’re getting a suit besides!”

“We haven’t seen it yet.”

“Grumble, grumble! That’s all you do any more. Remember how it was when we were first married?”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I guess I can make it through a few more days.”

“Admit it’s not as bad as you expected. Go on, admit it.”

He smiled for the first time in days. “All right. Anything to keep you happy.”

She glanced out the window. “There’s Rita Quinn. We really should spend some time with her this last weekend.”

“What for?”

“Well, simply because she’s a fellow American. I told you she lost her husband over here in an accident.”

“What sort of accident?”

“She didn’t say. An auto accident, I suppose.”

“I’ll admit she’s pretty cute.”

“Arthur!”

“Well, I can look, can’t I?”

They spent all that day at the fiesta, eating and drinking and even dancing a bit. Every one of the town’s residents had turned out for it, except Mama Lopez, who told them she had just a little more work to finish on Arthur’s suit.

It was early evening, on their way back home, when Arthur first complained of stomach pains. Edna remembered Dr. Manuela’s warning. “The water can be bad here,” she said.

“We’ve both been drinking it for two weeks.”

“But all the dancing and everything—”

“Damn! It’s awful!”

As soon as they reached Mama Lopez’s house Edna called Dr. Manuela on the town’s primitive telephone system. He came at once, carrying his familiar black bag. “I was lucky to catch you at home,” she said. “I thought you’d be at the fiesta with everyone else.”

He shook some pills into his hand. “There are always sick calls on fiesta night. Here, these will fix him up, but he needs a good solid night’s sleep. Mama Lopez—do you have a spare room where he could sleep?”

“Certainly!”

“But … is it that serious, Doctor?” Edna asked anxiously.

“It’s not serious at all,” he assured her. “But we take no chances.”

Arthur was put to bed in a room down the hall, and he was asleep before Edna left him. She didn’t much like it, but Dr. Manuela seemed to know what he was doing.

As Edna pulled the shade in her own room before retiring, she glanced out to see a large black van passing the house slowly. It was closed, with no markings, and she wondered where it had come from. She had never seen such a van in Latigo before. Someone from the next town, she supposed, who’d driven over for the fiesta.

It was strange sleeping alone, but she dropped off quickly. When she awakened she was startled at having slept so soundly. Her watch showed it was after nine.

When she came out of the bathroom she saw that Arthur’s room was empty. Mama Lopez was just going in to make the bed. “Your husband was up earlier,” she explained. “He is feeling better, but he went to Dr. Manuela for some further medication.”

“I see,” Edna said, but it puzzled her.

Before she had a chance to think about it, Mayor Friega arrived. In honor of the fiesta he was wearing a white suit that fit him somewhat better and he’d even managed to button it across his stomach. “I come to join you for breakfast,” he announced, “and then I will personally escort you to the afternoon’s festivities.”

“I’m sure Arthur will be back by then.”

“I have just seen him at Manuela’s. He is resting there and says he will join us later.”

“I should go to him.”

“No, no. He is fine.”

Edna peered out the front window and saw the black van parked in the lot across the street. Two young men stood nearby, as if guarding it.

She went in and sat down to breakfast with Mama Lopez and the mayor.

It was shortly after noon when she walked across the street between the two of them and joined the others in the grandstand. “Why have we come here?” she asked Mama Lopez.

“For the final event of the fiesta weekend.”

Suddenly Rita Quinn, the American, was at her side. It was as if they were her bodyguards, protecting her. She stared down at the ring in the center of the low grandstands and was surprised to see Dr. Manuela stride out to the middle of the ring and speak rapidly in Spanish, as if introducing someone.

Then she saw Arthur.

He came on from the side, dressed in a tight sequined suit that shimmered in the sunlight. Edna knew without asking that it was the suit Mama Lopez had made for him. He staggered slightly as Manuela left him alone in the center of the ring.

“What’s the matter with him?” Edna demanded, jumping to her feet. “What’s he doing out there?”

But the mayor’s firm hands were gripping her, pulling her back to her seat. “There is nothing to fear,” he said above the growing chant of the small crowd.

She looked on, unbelieving, as Manuela returned, carrying the traditional red cape and sword. Arthur accepted them and turned to gaze up at her for just a moment. His eyes were blurred as if by drink.

“He’s no bullfighter!” Edna screamed above the crowd. “What have you done to him?”

Mayor Friega kept his grip on her. “The doctor has administered certain drugs which diminish the sense of fear and inhibition. He is a strong man. He will do well.”

And then she saw the black van with its rear doors open, saw the raging bull released into the ring. “That bull will kill him!”

“No, no …”

“He has no training! He’s never done this!”

“The odds are still good. Last summer the man killed the bull.”

“Last summer …” The full horror of what was happening began to dawn on her. “And the summer before that?” she asked, remembering Rita Quinn’s husband. “What about the summer before that?”

But Rita was holding her down now too, and her cries went unheard against the roar of the crowd. The bull charged and Arthur stepped aside, barely dodging the deadly horns.

“Ole!” the crowd shouted with one voice.

Mama Lopez said into her ear, “Don’t you understand? It’s the sport that is important here, not whether the man or the bull wins! It is the sport that brings back the old life to this poor town, once each year. Our men will no longer fight, so we must depend on outsiders like your husband.”

The bull charged again, barely missing Arthur’s thigh, and the crowd cheered once more. Arthur looked dazed. He was shaking his head, perhaps wondering what he was doing there. But even as Edna saw him weaken she knew it wouldn’t matter. This was what they had come here for, and Mama Lopez was right. It didn’t matter who won. The sport and the town were all that mattered to them.

And as the bull made its next deadly pass she was on her feet with the others.

“Ole!” she shouted, “Ole!”

The Rattlesnake Man

CROCKER WAS AWAKENED BY the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. He opened one eye and guessed by the amount of light filtering through the drapes that the time must be somewhere around noon. He picked up the phone and gave a mumbled hello.

“Is this Steve Crocker?” a young woman asked.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

He didn’t like calls from strangers.

“You don’t know me, but my name is Amy Brand. I’d like to interview you for a magazine article.”

“What for?” he asked, sitting up in bed.

“Well, you’re the one they call the Rattlesnake Man, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, I don’t give interviews,” he said and hung up before she could reply.

He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the Las Vegas sun. In the distance he could see the hotels along the Strip, rising like modern monoliths from the desert floor. But he preferred looking in the other direction, toward the hazy mountains with their promise of escape.

Crocker poured himself some orange juice and wondered how the girl had obtained his number. It was in the book, of course, and almost anyone could have told her his name.

He remembered suddenly that it was Monday. Stunt night, when the suckers came to see him perform. What the hell—it was a living.

After he showered, Crocker went downstairs to the lobby of the small residential hotel where he’d lived for nearly a year. It might be time to find another place, he speculated, and get an unlisted phone number.

Sammy called to him from behind the desk. “Got an incoming call for you, Mr. Crocker.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man. Sounds like Mr. Qually.”

“I’ll take it here,” Crocker said, and went to pick up the phone at the end of the desk.

“Crocker?” the familiar voice rasped. “This is George Qually.”

“How are you?”

“Not bad. I wanted to tell you about tonight. There are some Arabs in town with big money. They want some real action. Don’t be surprised if somebody brings them around.”

“That’s your end of it,” Crocker said. “As long as they’re betting real dollars, you can have whoever you want.”

“Another thing,” Qually said quickly, as if sensing the conversation was about to end. “Holston is looking for you. Yesterday he came by my office. You got dealings with him?”

“Not if I can help it. Thanks for the tip.”

“You’ll be here tonight?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

Crocker hung up before Qually could answer. He waved a goodbye to Sammy and went out into the sunlight.

Another day.

But a Monday.

He had breakfast at the Hilton, lingering over his coffee while he played a few losing games of Keno. “It’s not your lucky day,” the red-haired Keno girl told him.

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” he replied.

He gave her a generous tip, maybe to change his luck, and took a cab downtown. The city was full of tourists, as always, and the sight of them depressed Crocker. He wondered why he stayed in Vegas, carrying on his strange Monday-night ritual for the high rollers. Was it only to demonstrate that he could beat this city after all?

A stick man at one casino told him, “Holston’s looking for you.”

“So I hear.”

He went on to another place, nervously killing time as he always did on Monday afternoons. He was looking over the race results from the eastern tracks at one of the betting parlors off Fremont Street when a young woman he’d never seen before came up to him and said, “You’re Steve Crocker, aren’t you?”

Her precise eastern accent was like a voice remembered from a dream. “Yeah,” he admitted.

She extended her slim white hand. “Amy Brand. I called you a few hours ago for an interview.”

“You woke me up,” he said. “Have you been following me? How’d you find me here?”

“You were pointed out to me once. When I saw you walking along the street just now I thought I’d ask you again about that interview.”

“The answer’s still no.”

“I wouldn’t take long. Really!”

She was wearing a white-linen pants outfit that was dressier than usual for Las Vegas by day. With her blonde hair and slim figure she looked more like a model or a high-priced hooker than a reporter. Maybe that was why he said, “Sit down. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Thanks!” She brushed the hair from her eyes and slipped a tiny cassette recorder from her purse. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you? It saves taking notes.”

A shout went up from some of the customers as the late results from another track were posted. “Maybe you’d like someplace quieter,” he suggested.

“This’ll be all right. I sometimes think there’s no really quiet place in Vegas.”

“Try the casinos on a Monday morning, when everybody’s sleeping off the weekend.”

She snapped on the recorder and began. “Mr. Crocker, there have been a great many stories circulating about the Monday-night game that’s played at a secret location here in Las Vegas. I understand that only important people—movie stars, special visitors, and the casino owners themselves—are admitted.”

“You know more than I do,” he said with a smile.

“Hardly, Mr. Crocker. Among certain people you’re known as the Rattlesnake Man because of your participation in these Monday-night games.”

“That’s just a nickname. I got it years ago because I used to catch snakes in the desert and sell them to zoos and research labs.”

She smiled sweetly, letting him know he wouldn’t get off that easily. “I’m told you’re called the Rattlesnake Man because at these Monday-night games people wager on whether or not you’ll be bitten by a snake. I have that from an eyewitness.”

Crocker smiled. “If you know that much you don’t need to interview me.”

“Then it’s true?”

He reached over and shut off the tape recorder. “Come on—I’ll buy you a drink.”

The afternoon sun seemed hotter than usual along Fremont Street, as he walked with long-legged strides toward the next air-conditioned oasis. Amy Brand had no trouble keeping up the pace. “Why do you do it?” she asked as they walked.

“Do what?”

“The thing with the rattlesnakes on Monday nights.”

He shrugged.

“It’s a living.”

“So’s robbing banks.”

“Let’s go in here,” he suggested, steering her into a little show bar where he knew the sound of the band would make recording impossible.

He realized his mistake almost at once.

Big Holston was playing the silver-dollar slot machine just inside the door. “Well, if it isn’t Crocker! You’re one hell of a hard man to reach.”

“Hello, Holston.”

“Where can we talk?”

“I’m with the lady.”

Holston seemed to notice Amy Brand for the first time. “And a charming lady she is. But we’ve got business. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Miss?”

Amy Brand smiled at Crocker. “Don’t be too long.”

The band was just starting a new set. It might have been three in the morning, and most of the customers didn’t know the difference. Las Vegas was a city without clocks, with only the sun to tell time—and most bars and hotels kept their curtains drawn. “It’s too noisy to talk here,” Crocker said.

“Come on in the men’s room.”

The place was empty and smelled of disinfectant. Holston leaned back against a sink and took out a cigarette. “Now, then—what about our agreement?”

“What about it?”

Holston tried a smile but it didn’t go with his face. “You were going to deliver one rattlesnake with its rattle removed, exactly like the kind you use on Monday nights.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why’s that? It’s the easiest five hundred you’ll ever earn.”

“Whatever you’re planning, Holston, count me out. If your plan goes sour I don’t want to be your cellmate for the next five years.”

“It won’t go sour.”

Crocker shook his head. “Rattlesnake venom doesn’t kill instantly. There’s usually time to suck it out or get medical attention. Believe me, if you want to kill someone it’s foolish to use a rattler.”

“Did I say I wanted to kill anybody?”

“Let’s quit fooling around. I’m not selling you a snake, Holston, and that’s it.”

The big man drew on his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the sink. “A thousand. That’s my final offer.”

“No.”

“A thousand. Your name won’t come into it at all. If it goes sour I’ll never mention you.”

“Who the hell else in this town would be supplying rattlesnakes? The cops would come knocking on my door in a minute.”

“You said you’d do it! We had a deal!”

“That was last week. I was young and foolish.”

Holston lowered his voice. “Maybe you’d change your mind if you heard who we’re after. One of the big casino operators, a guy who did you plenty of dirt—”

“I don’t want to hear,” Crocker said, heading for the door. “Don’t follow me out. That’s a reporter I’m with.”

He went back to Amy’s table and sat down. “Did you have a pleasant chat?” she asked sweetly.

“Business. What’ll you have to drink?”

“A glass of white wine. I already ordered it.”

Crocker kept an eye on the men’s room door till he saw Big Holston come out and stroll to the side exit. Then he relaxed. “What were we talking about?”

“Rattlesnakes.”

“Do you think people really want to read about that? Why don’t you do a nice article on what the stars are wearing in Vegas this summer?”

She ignored the question and asked, “How many times have you been bitten?”

“In my life? Five or six.”

“On Monday nights. Since you’ve been doing your act.”

“I’m no performer. You make me sound like a circus star.” But he answered her question, because it was a point of special pride with him. “I’ve been bitten twice.”

“In how many weeks?”

“Tonight will be forty-six.”

“Almost a year. That’s amazing really. As I understand it, the rattlesnake is placed in one of four numbered drums without your knowledge. You come out, choose one of the drums, and plunge your bare arm through the paper lid.”

“Something like that.” He was always uneasy talking about it.

“And they bet on whether or not you’ll be bitten?”

“That’s right. The odds are three to one in my favor.”

“Does the snake always bite if it’s in the drum?”

Crocker nodded. “It’s a reflex action. They’re coiled up in the dark and something bursts through the lid at them. Naturally they strike at it.”

He could see her doing some mental calculations. “In forty-five weeks you should have been bitten eleven times.”

“Those are the odds.”

“But you only chose the wrong drum twice.”

“I guess I’m lucky.”

“Can you hear their rattles?”

He shook his head. “I remove them. There’s no way I can tell which drum the snake is in.”

“Do you remove the poison sacs too?”

“No. They’re still quite deadly.”

She stared at him. The waiter brought her glass of wine and Crocker ordered a scotch. When they were alone again she asked, “Why do you do it?”

“I get five percent of everything that’s bet, either for or against me. Some nights that can be a lot of money.”

“But you’re risking your life!”

“Not really. The two times I was bitten there was plenty of time to get me to the hospital. Qually wanted to have a doctor standing by, but I said no. That takes away a little of the thrill.”

“Who is this Qually?”

Somehow the encounter with Holston had made him more willing to talk with her. “He runs a liquor distributorship here, serving the bars and casinos. He got to know a lot of people and discovered the casino owners had grown bored with their own games. Monday’s a relatively slow night and Qually decided to open a private little game, unlicensed and unadvertised, for a very select clientele. That was when he came to me and suggested the rattlesnake business.”

“How much does he make?”

“He holds out ten percent of the purse and we split it down the middle. The least I’ve ever made is a thousand dollars. One night I made over six thousand.”

“You do this just once a week?”

“That’s all. No sense tempting fate.”

Amy Brand finished her wine and clasped her hands on the table. “I want to see it. Could you get me in tonight?”

“No,” he said at once. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Admission is strictly limited. Qually would never allow a reporter to be present. He wouldn’t even want me to be talking with you.”

“Look, there are plenty of people who know about this thing, and more are finding out every week. You’ve kept it a secret for nearly a year, but now the word is out. Before many more Monday nights are over, some paper or magazine will be sure to carry the story. It might as well be me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Qually wouldn’t let the game go on with you there.”

“Tell him I’m your girlfriend. He couldn’t object to that.”

He tried to read something into the words, but her face was all business. “Why should I do that for you?” he wanted to know.

“Does it count for anything that I just saw you plotting some sort of deal with Big Holston, a known criminal?”

“I wasn’t plotting anything with him. He owes me some money.”

“Take me with you tonight and I won’t write about Holston and you.”

“There’s nothing to write!” he insisted.

“Maybe I’d find something.”

She had him and she knew it. “Look,” he suggested, “how about a deal? I take you along and you write it up for your magazine, but without using real names or addresses. How’s that?”

“Why should I hold back the names?”

“Because then the local cops won’t do anything. If you name Qually or me they’d be forced to take action.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s that or nothing.”

“What time?”

“You agree?”

“I agree. No names. What time do we go?”

“I’ll pick you up here at ten o’clock.”

The temperature dropped after sundown, but not by much. It was still a warm night when Crocker returned to the show bar and met Amy Brand. He’d dined alone at one of the restaurants on the Strip, feeling the tension build as it always did on Monday evenings. Now he cursed himself for ever having become involved with the girl. The last thing he needed was publicity about this foolish weekly ritual.

Why did he do it? He often asked himself the same question Amy Brand had asked and his answer to her—that he did it for the money—was not completely honest. There was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He’d felt it in his youth, catching rattlers in the desert with a forked stick and a burlap bag. It had always been something of a gamble, and with Qually’s help he’d only formalized that gamble, turned it to his own advantage.

“Ready?” he asked her.

She abandoned her drink and went out to the car with him. “Is it very far?”

“Nothing’s very far in this city. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He drove to the liquor warehouse south of the business district, where George Qually had set aside two windowless storage rooms—a large one for the Monday-night game and a smaller one for the snake cages. A fair crowd had already assembled and Crocker recognized familiar faces. Most were casino partners or managers, and a few dealers and stick men who worked the day shift had come along too.

The only strangers were four well-dressed Arabs in the company of one of the regulars. Crocker disliked the man who’d brought them, a former singer named Billy Ives who owned five points in one of the Strip casinos. Ives had vetoed Crocker’s attempt to buy into the same casino, and had even tried to get him arrested once on a trumped-up charge.

“Hello, Billy,” he said, sounding friendly. It wasn’t a good place to show one’s true feelings.

Billy Ives grinned. “Still geeking for a living, Crocker? These fellows are in town for the week, and I told them they couldn’t miss your performance.”

Crocker shook hands with the Arabs and introduced Amy as a friend. He found her a front-row seat where she’d have a good view.

By the time the three dozen or so spectators had crowded into the room there was barely space for the four small steel barrels that Qually rolled out. “Quiet down, everyone,” he shouted, “it’s time to begin!” He glanced at Crocker, but didn’t speak. They never spoke just before a game.

Crocker went out to get the snake and returned as Qually was explaining the action for the Arabs. “While Crocker’s gone from the room, one of you chooses the barrel in which the rattler is to be placed. Then the drums are covered with these numbered paper lids. We’ll have a ten-minute betting period, either between individuals or with the house. In any event we retain ten percent of all monies wagered. Agreed?”

“Agreed!” Billy Ives shouted. “Let’s get on with it!”

Crocker was escorted from the room after carefully handing over a heavy canvas sack containing one of his snakes. He kept four of them in cages at the warehouse, and now he went to feed and look after the other three while the bets were made. After about fifteen minutes he was called back in by one of the bettors. Again, he was allowed no words or contact with George Qually, who might have found it advantageous to warn him of the snake’s location.

The spectators fell silent when he re-entered the room, and he could see Amy sitting tensely in the front row. The bets, he knew, had all been made. He studied the four steel barrels, each numbered on its paper lid. Carefully he unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and bared his arm.

One, two, three, or four? Which barrel was safe tonight?

Without further hesitation, he plunged his arm through the lid numbered one.

There was a mixture of cheers and groans from the crowd, but the cheers were louder. The barrel was empty. He’d beaten them again.

“Nice going,” Qually said, coming up to shake his hand.

“Which barrel?” he asked.

“Three.”

Crocker nodded. Later he would return the snake to its cage.

Amy Brand ran up then, pushing through the crowd of bettors collecting their money. “That was amazing! Do you have x-ray vision or something?”

Crocker smiled. “Only luck. You should have seen me the nights I picked the snake!” But he was elated, as he always was when the game went his way.

Billy Ives came up and shook his hand again. “I won two grand on you tonight.”

“How’d your guests do?”

Ives made a face. “Those Arabs—they always bet on the snake!”

Crocker sought out George Qually. “How much was wagered?”

“One hundred thirty-three thousand. The best night we ever had.”

He did some quick calculations. “That makes my cut $6,650. You should invite these Arabs more often.”

Amy Brand joined him as he removed the paper lid on barrel number three. “God, he’s ugly-looking! How do you get him out?”

“This stick with a noose on it. The noose goes around the rattlesnake’s neck—like this—and I lift him back into his sack. Simple!”

“For you, maybe.”

As he carried the canvas sack into the back room with the cages, he saw that Billy Ives had brought his Arab guests over to speak with Qually. They spoke intently for a moment and Qually frowned, glancing in Crocker’s direction.

“I used to adore Billy Ives’ singing,” Amy said. “Why’d he stop?”

“In Vegas there are more ways of making money than most people dream of. Ives found them all, and he liked some of them better than others.”

“You sound as if you don’t like him.”

“Lots of people don’t like Billy,” Crocker said, and realized suddenly that Big Holston was one of them.

Holston had wanted the snake to kill Ives. Crocker should have guessed it from the beginning.

“Crocker!”

Steve turned and saw that George Qually had followed him into the back room. “What’s up?”

Qually gestured toward Amy. “Can she leave us for a minute? I’ve got business.”

“Go on, Amy,” Crocker said.

She retreated with reluctance, and he wondered if she’d be listening at the door. “Something’s come up,” Qually said.

“With the Arabs? I saw you talking to them just now.”

Qually shifted uneasily. “They’re high rollers, Crocker. They’re in town for a week and money’s burning holes in their pockets.”

“So?”

“They want more action. They didn’t understand there was just the one chance to bet.”

“Tell ’em to come back next Monday.”

“They’ll be gone by then.”

Crocker shrugged. “Then they’ll have to settle for roulette and blackjack.”

“They want to bet on this again.”

Crocker studied the man’s face. “What are you trying to say, George?”

“They want another game tonight. I told them we couldn’t do it for less than a hundred grand in bets. They said fine.”

“Oh, did they?”

“That’s five thousand more for each of us.”

“No dice. Once a week is all I do.”

“Five grand for a few minutes’ work!”

“No.” Steve started to walk away.

“Crocker, think about it! We can’t go on doing this forever. Sooner or later something will get in the papers and the Gaming Commission will shut us down. We’ve got to make the money while we can!”

“Once a week is enough for me.”

Qually stared at him. “Damn it, Crocker, if you won’t do it, I will!”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“You said yourself it’s just luck.”

Steve was annoyed with the man, and annoyed with himself when he realized he didn’t want anyone else doing the stunt. He was the Rattlesnake Man, not Qually.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“Now?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

Qually squeezed his shoulder. “There’ll never be another one like you, Crocker.”

“Sure there will. They come in on every plane.”

Steve went outside and found Amy Brand waiting in the hall. “Are we leaving now?” she asked.

“Not yet. The Arabs want another show.”

“You’re going to do it again?”

“It looks that way.”

“Have you ever done it twice in one night?”

“No.”

“I guess I’m going to get a bigger story than I bargained for.”

He looked at her. “I hope not. Longer maybe, but not bigger.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I’ve never been afraid of the snakes, only of the people who try to use them.” People like Holston, he thought, but he didn’t say it.

Qually was back suddenly, looking alarmed. “We got a problem.”

“What now?”

“They want two snakes in the barrels.”

“What?”

“You heard me. They want it to be an even-money bet or they won’t play.”

“That’s out,” Crocker said, feeling his stomach begin to knot. “I won’t do it.”

“I told them that.”

“Good.” Crocker started to walk away.

“Listen—”

“What?”

“If you go for two snakes, even money, they’ll bet a hundred and fifty.”

“Bet it with who?”

“I’ll cover part of it and Billy Ives will take the rest.”

“You’re crazy!”

“I’m betting your luck, Crocker.”

“You’re still crazy, I won’t do it.”

“That’s seventy-five hundred for you.”

“Yeah, and a rattlesnake’s fangs in my arm.”

“You’ve been bitten before. And never for money like this.”

“Get lost!” Crocker said and walked away.

Amy ran to catch up with him. “Why won’t you do it?”

“You want me to? It would make a real story, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t want you hurt, Crocker, and you can believe that or not. But why is it that much different from what you’ve been doing? You’re willing to gamble with three out of four drums empty, but not with two out of four empty.”

“Damned right!” he told her. “Nobody goes out looking for a rattlesnake bite!”

“But there’s always the chance of being bitten!”

He looked into her face and decided to tell her something he’d never told another person, not even Qually. “It’s a trick,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The odds are a lot better in my favor than three to one.”

“What? But how—”

“It’s an old psychological trick. Ask a person to pick a number between one and four, and most times they’ll choose three. It works the same with the barrels. Someone from the audience picks the numbered barrel the snake is placed in. I’ll bet over half the time they’ve picked the number three barrel. I just avoid that, and I also avoid number two, which is the second most popular.”

“But they must notice that you usually pick one or four.”

“Sure, sometimes they notice. But even if they put the snake there, I’ve got a fifty percent chance of beating them. And if they put it in one or four one week, I figure they’ll do the same the next week, if they’re regulars. So then I go back to picking two or three. Then they switch back to three the following week. Tonight was easy. When there are strangers as guests one of them is usually allowed to pick the barrel. And strangers almost always pick three.”

“That’s right,” she said. “One of the Arabs chose it.”

“But I don’t know how to figure it with two snakes in two different barrels. They might put them next to each other or separate them or anything. I don’t know how to figure it.”

She was standing very close, gazing up at his face. “Has all of your life been some sort of con, Crocker?”

“This is no con. I’m just outwitting them. There’s a difference.”

“Twice the snakes bit you.”

“Yeah. That proves I didn’t outwit them every time.”

They stepped further apart as Billy Ives came through the door. “What’s this Qually says? You won’t go for two snakes?”

“Do I look foolish?”

Ives shot a glance at Amy and then pulled Crocker aside out of earshot. “Look, Crocker, I want that wagering. The Arabs are my guests. Go through with it and I’ll tip you off about the barrels.”

“What?”

“I’ll signal you where the snakes are.”

“How?” Crocker asked.

Billy Ives smiled. “Simple! Figure my right elbow is one, my left elbow is two, my right knee is three, and my left knee is four. When you walk out there I’ll touch two of them to tell you where the snakes are.”

Crocker was dubious. “I don’t know.”

“Come on! Those Arabs don’t care if they win or lose as long as they get action. This way we keep them happy and you and Qually get your cut. It’s harmless fun.”

“You’re banking some of their bets, Billy. You’ll make money on it too.”

“Sure I will! But like I told you they don’t really care if they win or lose. The money they got, it don’t make any difference to them.”

Steve glanced over at Amy Brand, standing out of earshot. Suddenly the whole thing was important to him, maybe because she was there. “All right,” he said, “I’ll do. it. Tell Qually I’ll do it.”

There was a stirring out front as Billy Ives delivered his message. Qually hurried back to shake Crocker’s hand. “Stay here while we place the snakes and make the wagers. Maybe some of the casino people will bet too.” He paused for a moment. “Good luck, Crocker.”

“Thanks.”

Amy didn’t go out front. “I’ll stay back here with you,” she said.

“Don’t you want to see which barrels they choose?”

“I don’t think so.”

Qually came back again for the rattlesnakes and Crocker placed two of the biggest in canvas sacks. “These’ll make them think they’re getting their money’s worth.”

Then he waited.

Amy nervously lit a cigarette. He wondered if the tape recorder in her purse was turned on.

“Are you worried?” she asked.

“No.” He thought about Billy Ives and the signal he’d promised. That would be his salvation.

Then, all too soon, it was time. “Coming with me?” he asked.

“I’ll stay here. I saw it once.”

He strode out purposefully, his eyes seeking Billy Ives with the Arabs in the front row.

Ives smiled slightly and placed both hands on his knees.

Both knees. Three and four.

Crocker swallowed and stared at the paper lids with their bold black numbers. Qually had made up a new number one lid to replace the one he’d burst earlier. One would be safe again this time. He’d tell them he stuck with a winner.

He raised his bared arm above it and then hesitated.

The Arabs always bet on the snake.

But did they?

What if they’d switched to betting on him, and Ives was covering the action by betting on the snake? What if Ives stood to lose if he picked an empty barrel?

He whirled at the last second and plunged his arm through the paper lid numbered four.

The barrel was empty …

She was waiting when he came through the doorway. “I heard the cheers. You picked an empty barrel.”

“Yeah.”

“My God, Steve, you’re the luckiest man I know!”

“It wasn’t luck. It was all in knowing who your friends are. Come on—let’s get out of here.”

“Aren’t you going to wait for your money?”

“Qually’ll hold it for me.”

They went out the back door and were halfway to the car when Crocker heard Billy Ives call to him. “Crocker! Damn it, you cost me fifty grand!”

“How, Billy? By ignoring your signal and not getting bitten?”

“Hell, you’ve been bitten before. I didn’t think—”

A car cut across the parking lot then, targeting them with its headlights. Crocker dove for the ground, pulling Amy with him. There was a quick chatter of gunfire and Billy Ives spun around, falling across Crocker’s legs.

“What is it!” Amy screamed.

“Lie still,” he warned her, but the car sped away without firing again. Crocker eased Billy’s body off his legs and stood up. Qually and the others came running out.

“What happened?” Qually demanded.

“Someone gunned Billy down from a car. Get everyone out of here and then call the cops.”

“Is he dead?” Qually asked, staring at the body.

“Dead as he’ll ever be. I guess Holston decided he didn’t need a snake after all.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Go call the cops.”

Amy Brand steadied herself against the hood of a car. “I need a drink,” she said.

“There’s plenty back at my apartment. Come on.”

“Is every Monday night like this?”

“No. Sometimes the snake bites me.”

“How long do you think your luck will hold?”

He opened the car door for her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope at least till next Monday night.”

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All stories reprinted by permission of the author.

“Inspector Fleming’s Last Case” Copyright © 1957 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Crime & Justice.

“The Man Who Was Everywhere” Copyright © 1957 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Manhunt.

“The Passionate Phantom” Copyright © 1960 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Off-Beat.

“The Night People” Copyright © 1961 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Web.

“Festival in Black” Copyright © 1962 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Saint (British).

“I’d Know You Anywhere” Copyright © 1963 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Way of Justice” Copyright © 1965 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Empty Zoo” Copyright © 1965 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Magazine of Horror.

“Ring the Bell Slowly” Copyright © 1966 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Saint.

“Stop at Nothing” Copyright © 1967 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“Another War” Copyright © 1967 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Impossible ‘Impossible Crime’” Copyright © 1968 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Way Out” Copyright © 1971 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Man at the Top” Copyright © 1972 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“Burial Monuments Three” Copyright © 1972 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Scorpion Girl” Copyright © 1976 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Price of Wisdom” Copyright © 1977 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

“Second Chance” Copyright © 1977 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“Three Weeks in a Spanish Town” Copyright © 1978 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

“The Rattlesnake Man” Copyright © 1979 by Edward D. Hoch. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.

Copyright © 2001 by Edward D. Hoch

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

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