Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACKTM Ebook Series

KIDNAPPED EVIDENCE, by Joseph J. Millard

A RAT MUST CHEW, by Gary Lovisi

A RIDE FOR MR. TWO-BY-FOUR, by Bruno Fischer

BEDHEAD FRED’S, REDHEAD’S DEAD, by Jack Halliday

GENERALISSIMO FLATFOOT, by Walt Sheldon

DOOM BOOM, by Glenn Low

DEAD WRONG, by Lucille Cali

GRIM REAPER’S HANDICAP, by Fergus Truslow

SUICIDE SOUVENIR, by Dennis Layton

HAIR OF THE CAT, by Robert Turner

HERO, by John L. French

BLACKMAIL IN THE RED, by Chester Whitehorn

MEET MY MUMMY, by Elroy Arno

SATAN TURNS THE TIMETABLES, by David M. Norman

I DIE DAILY, by H. Wolff Salz

MAHATMA OF MAYHEM, by Robert Leslie Bellem

ROOM 801, by Jack Halliday

NO LIVING WITNESS, by Emile C. Tepperman

TARAWA PAYOFF, by H. Wolff Salz

WRONG NUMBER, by John L. Benton

MYSTERY OF THE MEXICALI MURDERS, by J. Lane Linklater

TIME TO KILL, by Leo Hoban

RAINY TUESDAY, by Jack Halliday

MURDER THROWS A RINGER, by Carl G. Hodges

LOVE KILLS, by Gary Lovisi

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Noir Mystery MEGAPACKTM is copyright (c) 2015 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved. Cover art (c) 2015 by Danomyte / Fotolia. All rights reserved.

The MEGAPACKTM ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

“Kidnapped Evidence,” by Joseph J. Millard, was originally published in Thrilling Mystery, March 1942. Copyright (c) Popular Library, Inc. Copyright renewed 1969. (Renewal # R473352.) Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“A Rat Must Chew,” by Gary Lovisi, originally appeared in Hardboiled #23. Copyright (c) 1997 by Gary Lovisi. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“A Ride for Mr. Two-By-Four,” by Bruno Fischer, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Sept. 1943.

“Bedhead Fred’s, Redhead’s Dead,” by Jack Halliday, is copyright (c) 2015 by Jack Halliday. It appears here for the first time.

“Generalissimo Flatfoot,” by Walt Sheldon, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1943.

“Doom Boom,” by Glenn Low, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Nov. 1946.

“Dead Wrong,” by Lucille Cali, was originally published in Hardboiled, January, 2009. Copyright (c) 2009 by Lucille Cali. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Grim Reaper’s Handicap,” by Fergus Truslow, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, April 1945.

“Suicide Souvenir,” by Dennis Layton, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1943.

“Hair of the Cat,” by Robert Turner, was originally published in Crack Detective, June 1947.

“Hero,” by John L. French, was originally published in Hardboiled, January 2004. Copyright (c) 2004 by John L. French. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Blackmail in the Red,” by Chester Whitehorn, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Feb. 1945.

“Meet My Mummy,” by Elroy Arno, was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1947.

“Satan Turns the Timetables,” by David M. Norman, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Sept. 1943.

“I Die Daily,” by H. Wolff Salz, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, April 1945.

“Mahatma of Mayhem,” by Robert Leslie Bellem, was originally published in Thrilling Detective Magazine, April 1948.

“Room 801,” by Jack Halliday, is copyright (c) 2015 by Jack Halliday. It appears here for the first time.

“No Living Witness,” by Emile C. Tepperman, was originally published in Secret Agent X, June 1934.

“Tarawa Payoff,” by H. Wolff Salz, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, June 1945.

“Wrong Number,” by John L. Benton, was originally published in Thrilling Detective, Feb. 1948.

“Mystery of the Mexicali Murders,” by J. Lane Linklater, was originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1941.

“Time to Kill,” by Leo Hoban, was originally published in Crack Detective, Jan. 1945.

“Rainy Tuesday,” by Jack Halliday, is copyright (c) 2015 by Jack Halliday. It appears here for the first time.

“Murder Throws a Ringer,” by Carl G. Hodges, was originally published in Thrilling Detective, Dec. 1947.

“Love Kills,” by Gary Lovisi, was originally published in Suspense Magazine, Feb. 2011. Copyright (c) 2011 by Gary Lovisi. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

I’ve been a huge fan of noir and hardboiled mysteries since my first encounter with Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon at about age 11. Little did I know—growing up in the 1960s and 1970s—that the whole mystery tradition embodied by that film actually grew out of the pulp magazines of the 1930s and 1940s. Not only the stars of mystery, like Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, but many other pulp writers contributed their own takes on the noir side of crime.

I’m pleased to present this collection of 25 modern and classic noir and noir-inspired tales by writers I’m sure you’ll enjoy.

Happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACKTM ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The MEGAPACKTM ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACKTM ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.

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KIDNAPPED EVIDENCE, by Joseph J. Millard

Originally published in Thrilling Mystery, March 1942.

There was a low hedge along one side of the Mainwaring estate, dividing the landscaped lawn from the graveled driveway. In McGee’s mad dash toward his parked car, he forgot this hedge. But he remembered it when thorny branches clawed at his wet pants legs and tangled with the bottom of his raincoat. He tripped, went over the low hedge in a helpless dive and landed on his face on the wet gravel.

The corpse of Jonathan Mainwaring bounced out of his arms, skidded grotesquely, and brought up against the back wheel of McGee’s coupe.

McGee scrambled up, cursing breathlessly. Behind him, Hilda Mainwaring was still leaning out the window, screaming in high-pitched yelps of anguished terror. Other voices, probably awakened servants, were taking up the clamor. Lights popped on along the storm-swept street and somewhere unpleasantly close, a police whistle bleated shrilly.

With panic clawing at his nerves, McGee scooped up the lifeless body, shoved it into the car and squirmed under the wheel beside it. The motor snarled and the coupe hurled wet gravel at the night and exploded down the drive like a frightened deer.

McGee caught one glimpse of a beat policeman lumbering up from the corner of Maple Street, waving his gun and blasting his whistle. Then he was clawing the coupe’s wheel, skidding wildly to the right and screaming off down the dark suburban street. In the rear view mirror, McGee could see the bluecoat’s gun come down and wink at him redly, but no lead touched the coupe and another screaming turn blotted out even that sight.

The corpse of Jonathan Mainwaring suddenly bobbed forward and slumped against McGee’s shoulder. McGee swore hoarsely and shoved it back with his right hand. When he brought that hand back to the wheel, it was darkly wet and sticky.

McGee made a gagging sound deep in his throat and scrubbed the bloody hand against his wet raincoat. His eyes were muddy, his bony angular face tight and shiny from the rain and the tension of taut nerves and muscles. Rain drummed steadily on the car’s metal roof and the windshield wipers squeaked monotonously, louder and more nerve-wracking than the endless sucking whine of the tires on the wet pavement.

But louder than all these sounds was the mournful, sobbing wail of squad cars ripping through the night, converging on the neighborhood McGee was desperately fleeing.

McGee could easily imagine the radio call that was sending them to the hunt.

“Pick up Samuel McGee, age thirty-one, private detective, believed to have shot and killed the broker, Jonathan Mainwaring, at the latter’s home tonight, afterward fleeing with the corpse of his victim…”

“Here we go again!” McGee growled bitterly, talking aloud to his reflection in the windshield. “Screwball McGee is on the loose. Get your guns, boys. The Mad Irishman has another case.”

Trouble, it seemed, simply hovered around waiting for an opportunity to drop with hobnailed boots onto McGee’s defenseless neck. Every case he got was worse than the ones before and every one put him that much closer to the day when the profane and bitter Inspector Paul Eldritch would make good his threat to see McGee headed either for the chair or life on the rock pile.

It wasn’t that Private Detective Sam McGee sought trouble. He fled from it with a whole-souled craving for peace and quiet. But some devilish fate seemed to doom him to a life of crazy cases and hair-breadth escapes. McGee swore earnestly that if he took the job of discovering who stole the sugar lumps at the Presbyterian Missionary Tea, it would turn into a wholesale massacre the moment he appeared.

That was simply the way his luck ran—and this latest uninvited fracas was a climax that dimmed the insanity of anything he had ever previously encountered. But this one was his own fault.

The louder screech of a siren clawed into McGee’s thoughts. A squad car was headed toward him on the cross street ahead and there was no time to turn around and get out of sight. McGee took the only other alternative.

He slammed on the brakes, went into a looping, skidding slide and straightened in time to dive into a private driveway between two darkened houses. A moment later, sitting with the lights out and the motor idling, McGee saw the squad car flash meteorically past on the street behind.

When sight and sound of the radio car had died away, McGee backed into the street and headed toward the feverish glow of the city lights in the dripping sky ahead. Using side streets and alleys, McGee managed to avoid any more close shaves before he had circled the downtown section and drawn up at the rear of a small, square, dark building.

He got out, leaving the motor running, and hammered on the back door. Presently the door opened, spilling orange light around the silhouette of a small, knotty little man.

“Okay, smart apple!” the little man growled. “Beat it. This ain’t no… Hey, Sam, I didn’t recognize you. Come on in and—”

“Can’t, Jake,” McGee said hoarsely. “Are you all alone?”

The small man grinned wolfishly. “You should ask. You think I do any entertainin’ in a joint like this?”

McGee bent close and began to whisper earnestly. The small man started violently, flapping his hands in negation.

“Good tripe, Sam, you know what they’d do to me if I did. No! Not even for a friend like you, Sam, would I—”

It took McGee ten solid minutes of impassioned oratory before he won his point. Finally the small man sighed, swore bitterly, and tagged behind McGee out to the waiting coupe.

Between them they got the body of Jonathan Mainwaring out and hauled it into the building. McGee came out a few moments later, alone, and got back into the coupe. He was breathing more easily, now, and color was coming back into his face. Before driving off, he reached down and snapped on the radio. The voice of a rapid-fire news commentator faded in as the tubes warmed.

“—Mrs. Mainwaring was alone in her room when she heard the sounds of gunshots from her husband’s den downstairs. Running down the stairway, she saw her husband lying on the rug before his desk, the front of his dressing gown smeared with blood. Bending over him, gun in hand, was Samuel McGee, a private detective who has frequently been under police fire over his methods of operation. Mrs. Mainwaring positively identified McGee, whom she says has visited her husband several times recently on some mysterious business.

“At the sight of Mrs. Mainwaring, McGee snatched up the broker’s body and fled with it, racing out through an open French window onto the terrace and getting away in his car. Neither Mrs. Mainwaring nor the police can offer any explanation of the mystery or the reason for the shooting. It is not even known for certain that Jonathan Mainwaring is dead, although his wife is sure that what she glimpsed so briefly was his lifeless corpse. McGee is still at large, but the object of an intensive police man-hunt. Stay tuned to this station for further developments in the myst—”

McGee swore harshly and snapped off the radio. He backed the coupe, swung around and headed south, following dark, twisting streets deep into the maze of warehouses and factories that hovered close to the railroad switch yards. Angling through this district, he came at last to a short, quiet street lined with modest bungalows.

Driving down this street, McGee swung off and parked the coupe in the dark driveway of a warehouse a block away. Then he returned on foot, and swung in at the third bungalow from the corner.

The place was small and neat and dark. No lights showed anywhere in the little house nor in the houses on either side. McGee went around the bungalow to the garage in the rear and squinted in through the dark window. Enough light filtered in from the distant street light to show that there was no car inside. McGee grunted in satisfaction, backed into the shrubbery close by and made himself as comfortable as possible on the wet ground.

An aching hour dragged by and McGee was slowly crazy with the inactivity and the endless dropping of rain when the headlights of a car bounced down the street and turned into the drive. McGee tensed, shrinking deeper into the concealing shrubbery. He got a heavy .45 caliber automatic out of its holster under his left arm and tucked it into the pocket of his raincoat, keeping his right hand tight on the butt.

The car growled slowly up to the garage and stopped. A big, beefy man got out, hunched against the rain, and stood briefly in the beams of the headlights, fumbling with a padlock on the garage doors. The garage doors swung back, cutting off McGee’s view, and the car snarled its way inside. McGee slipped out of concealment, went around the doors in a running crouch and into the garage.

When the big man shut off lights and motor and started to get out of his car, he backed right into the solid menace of McGee’s gun. He stiffened, standing frozen with one foot on the concrete floor and the other still on the running board.

McGee could see the white blob of the man’s big face swimming around slowly, trying to identify the man behind him. The private detective could feel an almost imperceptible quiver run up the gun to his own taut nerves, a telegraphed warning of big muscles setting themselves for explosive action.

“Don’t do it, Paul,” McGee said flatly, through his teeth. “I’m messed up so badly now that a little more can’t matter. Come out the rest of the way slow and easy.”

“You!” Homicide Inspector Paul Eldritch’s voice sounded thick and strangled. “You won’t get away with this!”

“I am getting away with it.” McGee snapped as his fumbling left hand found and snatched the big detective’s gun. “You can relax, now. All I want is to talk a few minutes while you listen. I knew you’d be home about midnight, even with your family away on a visit, so I came here and waited for you.”

“You murdering rat!” Eldritch spat furiously. “This is one trick you won’t wiggle out of. This time you’ll fit the chair and there won’t be any ifs or ands about it. We’ve got the town sewed up so tight you’ll be nabbed the minute you—”

“I haven’t been so far,” McGee interrupted dryly. “And for the record, I didn’t kill Jonathan Mainwaring.”

“Then he is dead?”

“You’ll get the answer to that one when I’m ready to give it. Nobody’s tried to—to make any trouble for Mrs. Mainwaring yet, have they?”

“Trouble?” Eldritch bellowed. ‘Nobody but you, you—you snake. Seeing you shoot down her poor, defenseless husband and then snatch his body—”

“I didn’t shoot him!” McGee raged. “And she didn’t even see him shot. All she saw was a poor, dumb Irishman sticking his neck out, to save her life.”

“Listen, Sam.” Eldritch’s tone grew wheedling. “What’s this all about anyhow? Why’d you go there in the first place? What have you done with that man’s body? You got some screwball idea in your noggin, I suppose, but it’s the kind of an idea’ll get you burned, sure as guns!”

“It might, at that,” McGee agreed soberly. “Listen, Paul, while I tell you what happened. You won’t believe it, but listen anyhow. Ten days ago, Jonathan Mainwaring hired me to guard him from attempted murder—”

“Who’d he think was gonna knock him off?” Eldritch barked.

“Hilda Mainwaring—his wife.”

“Wh-a-at? Why you low-down… Trying to throw the blame on that poor, grieving—”

“Shut up!” McGee snarled harshly. “I’m only telling you what he told me. His wife talked him into taking out a half-million-dollar paid-up life insurance policy two weeks ago. She argued that it was the only safe investment with conditions the way they are today and Mainwaring did it. The half-million was and is payable to his wife. Mainwaring didn’t think anything of that until, a few days later, he accidentally opened some of his wife’s mail and found it was all answers to her inquiries about steamship tickets and chinchilla coats and Pierce Arrow cars and the like. When he handed the letters to her, she denied knowing anything about them or ever making the inquiries.”

Eldritch growled something unintelligible. “Go on, scum,” he spat then.

“Mainwaring was a rabbity little Homer Feep kind of guy, outside of business hours, but he loved his wife. He tried to shut out his suspicions, but they wouldn’t shut. Then, to top it, a man calls him at his office and says to tell Mrs. Mainwaring she can get a special bargain on some jewelry she was pricing. Mainwaring carried the word home and again his wife denied ever hearing of the firm or the jewelry.”

“You mean,” Eldritch said heavily, “she got him to take out insurance for half a million slugs and then started getting set to spend it before she whittled him off?”

“That’s how it looked. Mainwaring was scared and sick, but he wouldn’t go to the police. Instead, he came to me, begging not for protection for himself but for me to figure some way to break up the scheme before his wife got into trouble. He still was thinking only of her.”

“So what did you do?”

“Investigated a little,” McGee shrugged. “It sounded crazy and after I saw Hilda Mainwaring, I was sure it was a sour pie. You’ve seen her. She’s one of the sweetest, finest little ladies on earth. Nobody could imagine her as a killer. At least I couldn’t and I told Mainwaring so. I tried to quit and he raised the ante to keep me on. I stuck a few more days, with no signs of trouble, and went out there tonight to tell him I was all washed up.”

“So,” Eldritch broke in, “you got to arguing and he called you some names and maybe made a pass at you so you grabbed out your rod—”

“Don’t be an ass,” McGee snarled. “I got there and followed him into his den to talk. He stepped in first and some guy outside opened up through the window. At least two shots got Mainwaring and knocked him back into me. Before I could untangle and snatch my own gun, the guy had vanished. Then Mrs. Mainwaring appeared and like a flash, I saw the whole dirty frame-up. So I snatched—”

“Like a flash,” Eldritch growled sarcastically. “You and your flashes. Of all the phony gags I ever heard—”

“All right,” McGee rapped suddenly. “The devil with you. I didn’t figure you’d hear me out. I’m going to play it my own way and let you eat dirt when it’s over. So long, sucker.”

“Wait, Sam!” Eldritch caught at McGee’s arm, swinging him back. “Look, I’m sorry I butted in. Go on and spill the rest.”

“Okay. Here’s the way the whole thing came to me. Somebody on the outside put a bug in Mrs. Mainwaring’s ear about the insurance. They sold her such a bill of goods that she sold her husband, figuring it was the right thing. When he took out the insurance, that set the stage. After that, this outsider went ahead with phony inquiries to big firms, using Mrs. Mainwaring’s name and fixing it so the answers would get to her husband, apparently by accident.”

“But, why? Why? It don’t make a bit of sense, Sam.”

“Why? You ape, to make Mainwaring suspect his wife and go to the police, that’s why. He’d go to you and you’d do just what I did—snoop around, tell him he was crazy and forget the whole thing. Then he’d really get killed and you’d say ‘Ah-ha’ and pull her in.”

Eldritch sank onto the running board, holding his head.

“So we pull her in and who collects any insurance?” he groaned. “You know darn well insurance companies won’t pay off if the beneficiary’s supposed to have bumped the policy holder, you dope.”

“Sure. But it wouldn’t take you more than a few days at the most to run into a stone wall on your investigation. You couldn’t pin anything on her because there’d be nothing to pin. You’d let her go and she’d collect the insurance.”

“So what?” Eldritch growled belligerently.

McGee snorted, as if in derision at Eldritch’s ignorance.

“So whoever’s behind the scheme,” he said, “forces her to hand over the money, telling her he has proof she killed her husband, and making the frame look so good that it scares her into doing as he says. Then he kills her, making it look like suicide, and leaving a fake suicide note confessing the murder of her husband. Maybe he even burns up a pile of dollar bills and says in the note that her conscience nagged her until she destroyed the blood money. That would close the case forever. Murder solved, guilty party punished and money accounted for. The real killer would be absolutely in the clear, with half a million to spend as he pleased and nobody to trip him up.”

“That,” Eldritch gusted, “is absolutely the most outlandish pipe dream I ever heard. You’ve done a whale of a lot of talking but you still don’t give any reason for beating it off with Mainwaring’s corpse.”

“You’re sitting on your brains again,” McGee said wearily. “Look, sonny boy. Without the corpse you can’t prove death, can you? All right, and until you can prove Mainwaring’s death, the insurance company won’t pay off. So I’m standing between somebody and a half-million take, and Mrs. Mainwaring’s in the clear. The killer had a good scheme, but I made it back-fire. Sure Mainwaring’s dead—as dead as your imagination—but nobody’ll know it officially until the guy who killed him is dead or behind bars. You want to make something of it?”

Eldritch tugged at his thinning hair. “When I think how peaceful crime was before you opened shop!” he mumbled. “So who’s behind this carnival of murder you got so beautifully doped out, Screwball? How you gonna trip the murderer?”

“It’s between three men,” McGee said thoughtfully. “When I walked into the murder tonight, I got a flash of this idea and worked by instinct when I snatched the body. Most of this I reconstructed afterward when I had time to think. At first it was simply that nobody had any other reason to kill Mainwaring. He was such a harmless, likable little guy, with no enemies and his business completely on the square. That was why I jumped to this idea of why he was killed. Then, thinking back, I figured who might be behind it.

“For one, there’s a fellow named Ashley, the insurance agent who wrote the policy. He’d insured Hilda Mainwaring before and was a frequent caller there. Then there’s Lofting, Mainwaring’s lawyer, who was an old family friend and the guy she jilted to marry Mainwaring. The third possibility is Luger, the family doctor. When Mainwaring first came to me, he’d been doing some nosing and had found out that either Luger or Lofting suggested the insurance. He thought Ashley, the agent, hadn’t been brought in until afterward, though nobody’s in a better spot to plan such a deal than the guy who sold the policy.”

“All right,” Eldritch said briskly, getting to his feet. “You maybe got something, at that, Mac. I’ll put men to work on all three of ‘em right away. You hand in Mainwaring’s body and I’ll call off the hounds. Of course, you’ll have to sit in jail for a couple of days but if this works out like you got it doped, I’ll see you get clear.”

“Oh, no,” McGee cried violently. “You don’t slap my pants in any jail-house while you investigate. The guy behind this will be too clever to leave holes, and I’ll wind up behind the usual eight ball. There’s only one way to get the killer. I keep the body of Mainwaring and use it to smoke out the guilty rat. He’ll be desperate to get his hands on that corpse.”

“You crazy mick!” Eldritch bawled furiously. “You play ball my way or I’ll send you over if it’s the last thing I do! Either come down with me now or I’ll have a ‘shoot-to-kill’ broadcast on you and put every reserve cop in town on—”

“I was afraid you’d be stubborn.”

Sam McGee sighed regretfully. His left fist balled and came up from his side. Eldritch heard the sharp rustle of McGee’s raincoat as the blow started. He tried to dodge and succeeded only in ramming his big square jaw straight into the punch. He sighed explosively and went down in a heap.

McGee rummaged around the garage, found a coil of clothesline rope and used it effectively. Finally he gagged the inspector and rolled his limp form into a corner.

“A fine cop you are,” McGee snorted at the deaf ears. “You forgot to tell me I was under arrest.”

He climbed into the inspector’s small sedan, kicked over the motor and backed out the driveway into the street. Ten minutes of tortuous driving along twisted streets brought him to the south edge of the city. He turned onto a small, rutted country road and drove steadily until the road ended suddenly at the edge of a cavernous pit.

McGee got out and stood for a moment, staring down into the pit. It had stopped raining, now, and the lightening sky reflected on the gleam of water far below. Off to one side, the headlights caught the gaunt framework of a steam shovel and the towering bulk of sifting screens.

This was a clay pit, the only one of its kind in that part of the country, from which a local pottery manufacturer dug a peculiar shade of red clay for the making of vases and lamps. It was deserted at this hour of the night, with not even a watchman on duty.

McGee stood for a moment, staring grimly down at the blackness of the pit. Then he gingerly let himself over the edge, slid down the greasy clay slope for a few yards and scrambled back up. When he reached the top, he was a mess. His pants legs and raincoat were liberally smeared with red clay and his feet were merely shapeless blobs of the same substance.

McGee spent twenty minutes cleaning himself off, removing the worst of the accumulation. Then he got back into Eldritch’s car and drove rapidly back into the city.

He stopped presently beside a white house, set back from a wide street. A small illuminated sign on the lawn bore the name “J. L. Luger, M. D.” There were lights on in the house, despite the lateness of the hour, and a big sedan was parked in the driveway.

McGee hesitated, scowling. Finally he shifted his gun back to his side pocket, went up over the lawn and rang the bell.

Presently a light came on overhead. The door opened, framing a chubby man with a black Vandyke beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He stared at McGee’s gaunt, mud-smeared figure and his lips tightened.

“Yes-s-s?”

“You Doc Luger?” McGee growled.

“I am. What is wrong? An accident, perhaps?”

“Not yet, Doc,” McGee said grimly. “But any minute, now, if you don’t behave. Scram along inside and don’t beef.”

He jammed his gun into the chubby man’s paunch and pushed. The pressure of the gun and McGee’s menacing attitude drove the bearded man backward. McGee followed him into a white-trimmed entry hall, kicked the door shut with one muddy heel, and jerked his head toward a lighted doorway down the hall.

“In there, Doc. And don’t get any ideas. This thing goes bang and somebody gets hurt every time.”

“What—what’s the meaning of this intrusion, sir?” Luger found his voice. “Put that weapon down or I shall call the police.”

“What’s wrong, John?” A slim, immaculate, gray-haired man suddenly appeared in the hall doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of McGee and the gun. “Shall I call for help?”

“Go ahead,” McGee suggested gently, moving the gun. “Try it, friend.” He jerked his head toward Luger. “Who’s this monkey, Doc?”

“I,” the slim man said frigidly, “am Cyrus Lofting, attorney-at-law. I demand to know the meaning of this outrage!”

“Lofting!” McGee’s breath gusted out and a grin tugged at his wide lips. “This is just perfect. Inside, you two, and don’t crowd to see who gets shot. If you behave, nobody will.”

He forced the two furious men ahead of him, into a comfortable, book-lined den, slapped a careless hand over their pockets, then nudged them down into chairs. McGee himself took a stand in the center of the floor, gun in hand, face twisted in an ugly snarl.

“The sawbones and the mouthpiece. This is fine.” His lips twisted in a crooked grin. “You want to see Mainwaring again?”

He shot that question out suddenly, harshly, studying them narrowly. Both men started violently and wariness came into their eyes.

“Yeah, I’m Sam McGee, if that’s what you’re thinking. Screwball McGee—Eight Ball McGee. The only guy in this whole town who knows where Mainwaring is right this minute.”

“Wh-where is he?” Dr. Luger choked, bending forward. “Is he badly hurt? What have you done with him? I’ve got to see him. He may need medical—”

“Anything he needs,” McGee cut in flatly, “I’ll give him. If you want to see Jonathan Mainwaring again, start digging.”

“Digging?” Lofting echoed blankly.

“Digging—deep into the bankroll, shyster. I’ve got Mainwaring and I’m keeping him until some of his pals want to see him bad enough to dig up twenty-five grand.”

“You—you scoundrel!” Lofting burst out furiously. “Don’t you realize that kidnapping is a capital offense? You’ll go to the chair for this!”

“Just remember that,”—McGee grinned nastily—“when you get any ideas about tricking me. I can’t fry any browner for knocking off a couple of dopes who got in my way. Are you going to play ball?”

“It’s murder!” Luger cried hoarsely. “Jonathan was wounded. He may die for want of medical aid.”

“If you love him so,” McGee sneered, “buy him back and get to work, Doc. It’s all up to you.”

“But we can’t raise twenty-five thousand dollars in a minute!”

“That’s okay.” McGee shrugged expansively. “I’ll give you until noon tomorrow. If you spill to the cops or try to cross me, you’ll never see Mainwaring again. I got him at a place where nobody’ll ever find him—dead or alive. You raise the dough and I’ll phone you at noon tomorrow and tell you where to leave it. Now sit tight and behave yourselves. I’m leaving and you’d better not try to stop me.”

He stood in the doorway a moment, studying their furious faces. Then, with a mocking salute, he spun around and ran out of the house. No one followed or tried to stop him.

Ten minutes later, McGee drew up in front of an imposing apartment building. It was the type using an automatic elevator and at this hour, the lobby was deserted. McGee barged boldly in, consulted the directory, then took the stairs to the third floor. At the door of three-ten he leaned on the button and waited, hearing the muted whine of the buzzer inside.

After several minutes he heard shuffling steps beyond the panels and the door slid open, to frame a heavy-eyed man in striped pajamas and blue dressing gown. The man’s sleepy eyes slid over McGee and down to the gun in his hand. Abruptly the sleepiness vanished, replaced by startled fear.

“You, Ashley, the insurance peddler?” McGee growled.

“Y-yes, I’m—”

“Then inside, lug. I want to talk to you.”

Driving the scared salesman backward, McGee slammed the door and jerked his head at a chair.

“I’ll make this short and sweet, guy. You know what happened to Mainwaring tonight, don’t you? Okay, I’m Sam McGee.” He waited, watching Ashley’s eyes flick over his mud-smeared clothing. “You know who I am and you know I’m tough and desperate. I got me a new wrinkle and I need you to help me play it, see. I’ve got Mainwaring in a safe place and he ain’t too badly knocked around. If he gets fixed up soon enough, he might live. If he lives, your company doesn’t have to pay out half a million bucks in cold cash. If he kicks off, you’re stuck. So how much is it worth to keep your trap shut and buy him back, all in one piece?”

“I—I—” Ashley wet his lips, swallowed noisily, and tried again. “I don’t—I mean, I never heard of such a thing. You want the Pinnacle Insurance Company to pay ransom for one of their policy holders to keep him from being killed?”

“Right,” McGee barked crisply. “You pay twenty-five grand or you pay half a million. Make up your minds—but make ‘em up fast. If anybody beefs to the law about this, Mainwaring dies and your outfit has to pay. I’ll give you until noon tomorrow to work it out. I’ll phone you here, at noon. If you want to save four hundred and seventy-five grand, it’s your only chance.”

“I—I’ll talk it over with them,” Ashley said.

“Don’t strain a tonsil doing it,” McGee growled, and turned to the door. “Remember, one phony play anywhere along the line and Mainwaring is all through. I get the same chair if I’m caught, whether he lives or dies, so I’ve got nothing to lose.” He went out, slamming the door.

In the sticky, ink-black darkness that preceded dawn, McGee crouched in the mud beside the little supply shanty on the edge of the red clay pit. His gun was in his hand and every nerve in his body was wire-tight with a tension that put an aching sickness in the pit of his stomach.

This was the payoff. He had stuck his neck out to the limit, now. If his scheme failed, it was the electric chair for Sam McGee, and no fooling about it.

He had Jonathan Mainwaring’s body and he had attempted extortion. Whatever his motive, those were the incontrovertible facts as the law would see them.

And from those facts, a jury could deduce only one answer—“We find the defendant, Samuel McGee, guilty as charged!”

Suddenly the tension flowed out of McGee’s body, leaving him cold and ready. Somewhere, off in the near darkness, a faint splash had betrayed an incautious footstep. Someone was coming, walking quietly through the night.

His scheme was working! But so much still depended on the soundness of McGee’s guesses—and it was all crazy guesswork.

Quietly McGee stood up close to the wall, waiting. Now that he was listening in the right direction, he heard other tiny sounds. The figure was coming closer, closer.

Without warning it was there—a blacker blackness at the door of the shanty. McGee could hear muted breathing, then the soft scrape of metal against wood. He tensed himself, lifted the gun and leaped at the dark figure.

He slammed into a thick, muscular body. There was a quick grunt of surprise and the body jerked furiously. McGee felt the cold hardness of a gun and slapped it away with his left hand, an instant before its flaming thunder split the night. Cursing, McGee wrestled with his unknown victim, slipping and splashing through the rain-soaked clay. He was clinging to the man’s gun hand, fighting to keep the gun from exploding again, and his adversary was clinging with equal desperation to McGee’s gun. Neither spoke a word beyond grunted profanity.

Suddenly McGee’s foot slipped and he started skidding. The movement help jerked his own gun hand free. He fell onto the body before him and slammed the barrel of his gun at a spot where he figured the head would be. It connected with a solid, satisfying thock. The squirming body went limp and McGee fell on it. This time he used his free hand to locate the unseen head and struck it again, hard enough to insure a long period of inactivity.

Then, grunting and panting, McGee kicked open the shack door and dragged his victim inside. With the door shut, he struck a cautious match and stared at the blank face of the man he had jumped. A gasping curse rushed out of his lungs.

He was staring at a square, reddish, totally unfamiliar face. For a moment, a sick sense of failure flooded McGee. He had banked his life on a desperate gamble and had failed.

Suddenly he lit another match and fumbled at the stranger’s pocket, turning out a sheaf of papers and a small, black case. He looked inside the case and the sickness went out of his nerves. It bore the card with the name, “Martin Eckson, Insurance Investigator.” McGee got up suddenly, blowing out the match.

“One down and two to go,” he whispered softly. “The killer had better be one of those two, or…”

He started to turn away and swung his face full into the beam of an electric torch that suddenly flamed at him from the doorway. He had left the shack door ajar when he dragged the insurance investigator inside and this other man had slipped up to it without a betraying sound.

The flash beam caught McGee flatfooted. He blinked at it for a dazed moment while a man’s voice, harsh and scratchy with tension, cried:

“There you are, you murdering kidnapper!”

The words were still coming from the unseen lips when the gun went off. It flamed behind the light and something like a padded hammer slammed into McGee’s shoulder and spun him around. He felt his own gun go flying across the shack, then he was sinking down onto his knees, scrabbling for it with his left hand.

The man with the flashlight came leaping forward and crashed into him, sending lances of pain through McGee’s wounded shoulder. He went over backward, using his knees and his left hand to fight off the kicking, clawing fury of the attack. He was weak and dizzy from the wound, but he managed to get leverage for his knees and force the other man back so that he could swing a solid punch with his left hand.

The punch connected and the flashlight went rolling across the floor. McGee reared up, following his advantage, and punched again. The man grunted and rolled away from him.

A face flopped into the wash of the light and McGee’s breath caught as he saw the unmistakable dark Vandyke beard of Dr. J. L. Luger, the Mainwaring’s personal physician.

Luger still held the nickel-plated pistol with which he had shot McGee, but he was dopey from the blows, and slow getting up. McGee reared forward and punched again. The doctor went out for keeps.

“That ties it,” McGee panted, struggling to his feet and using the flashlight to find his own gun. “Now for the payoff.”

Weak and dizzy, he struggled across the shack and stumbled out into the darkness. He had taken two steps across the wet clay when his knees suddenly gave out and he went down.

He was still pitching forward when bright lights stabbed out from all sides, pinning him pitilessly in their glare. McGee knew the lights were on him and that men were pounding forward, but all he could do was sit in the mud and sob harshly. Then machine-guns in the hands of the sharply halting men were on him.

“You’re covered, McGee!” It was Inspector Eldritch’s voice, lashing at him out of the darkness. “One move and you’ll be blasted! Throw away your gun.”

McGee moved weakly and the gun tumbled into the mud. Then Eldritch and half a dozen of his men in plain clothes, followed by uniformed officers were swarming over and around him, covering him with machine-guns and pistols and automatic rifles as Eldritch slapped at his clothing.

“You crazy Irishman, you’ve really fixed yourself now!” shouted Eldritch. “I almost believed your insane yarn back there until you knocked me out. Then, when I came to and worked myself loose, I found out about your going to Mainwaring’s friends with a ransom demand and—”

“Sitting—on your—brains,” McGee gasped, then he managed a twisted grin. “You dope, I—”

“Hey, Inspector!” One of the uniformed men was racing back from an inspection of the shack. “Mainwaring ain’t there, but two other guys are—Doc Luger and an investigator named Eckson from Pinnacle Insurance.”

“Luger?” Eldritch whirled, staring at McGee’s grinning face through narrowed eyes. “Irish, what’s behind this, anyhow? What was Luger doing out—”

“Who called you?” McGee cut in, recovering some of his strength. “Lofting, the lawyer, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was,” Eldritch snapped. “He’s right here with us now. Luger fell for your scheme and wanted to raise the money to save Mainwaring. Lofting did the right thing, though. He came straight to the police and told the whole story.”

“That’s right, McGee,” Lofting himself snapped, pushing his white face into the circle of light. “You ought to know better than to expect an attorney, sworn to uphold the law, to play along with your schemes.”

“You dope,” McGee growled, grinning at Eldritch. “Lofting’s the guy who shot Mainwaring. I got a good look at him as he fired through the window but I didn’t know who he was, then. Later, when I went around calling, I saw him and recognized him instantly as the killer I’d seen shooting lead into Mainwaring.”

“That’s a lie!” Lofting yelled furiously, his face contorted with rage. “You were out of sight in the hall—” He stopped short, catching at the words, staring wildly around at the circle of gaping faces.

“That was what McGee himself told me, tonight,” he creaked hoarsely. “He said he’d been out in the hall so he couldn’t see the killer. He—”

McGee laughed harshly. “That won’t buy you anything in court, Paul, but it points the way. You can see he’s the guilty rat, Inspector, and with that to go on you’ll be able to dig up evidence enough to burn him. Of course I didn’t get a look at the killer, or I wouldn’t have gone out on a limb like I did tonight. I had to smoke him out the hard way—and I did.”

“But—but Luger and that detective—” Eldritch cried, bewildered.

“My brains,” McGee said modestly. “I called on all three suspects with a wild yarn. But I first came out here and daubed myself with red clay. It’s the only red clay in this section and I took good care to parade around where they’d notice it. I could just see their eyes glitter when they spotted my ‘carelessness.’ This would make a good hide-out, so each one figured I had Mainwaring hidden out here at the clay pit. I wanted them to think that so their reactions would betray the guilty one. But I made it definite that any police interference would get Mainwaring killed.

“Ashley and Doc Luger both wanted Mainwaring found alive, if possible, so they kept away from the police. Luger showed the most nerve by coming out alone to try to ‘rescue’ his friend. Ashley brought in a clever insurance detective. But Lofting, here, didn’t want Mainwaring found alive. All he wanted was his corpse located, to establish evidence of death so the insurance money would be paid. So Lofting went straight to the cops—and wrote his ticket to the chair.”

Eldritch clenched his fists and looked at the sky.

“By heck,” he groaned. “By heck, he’s done it again. I get that Irish imbecile ticketed for the last walk and he wiggles out of… Watch him!” Lofting, taking advantage of momentary inattention, was whirling away in a desperate bid for freedom. He kneed one bluecoat, butted another, and sprang out of the light.

A policeman off to one side raised his tommy-gun. It stuttered for a second and something heavy and limp went crashing down into the deep clay pit to land with a splash far below. There were no further sounds of movement.

Eldritch mopped his forehead.

“Oh, well. That’s the only kind of a trial where you can’t fix the jury. Listen, you screwball, where is Mainwaring’s body? We’ve torn the town apart tonight—”

McGee laughed. “You always said the only friend I had in town was Jake, the morgue keeper, Paul. Jake was a real friend, tonight. He helped me undress Mainwaring’s corpse, ticketed it as a floater out of the river, and stuck it in the John Doe cooler at the police morgue.”

A RAT MUST CHEW, by Gary Lovisi Originally appeared in Hardboiled #23.

Jimmy Dongen was a Staten Island wise-guy with his dirty hands into more dirty crap than even he could keep track of. Anything and everything to make a buck and not just gambling and other soft vices, but nasty stuff like teen-age hookers, drug dealing in schools, selling guns to kiddie gangs. The guys under Jimmy saw him as a greedy fuck, the guys over him saw him as a greedy fuck who brought in the cash. He was a good earner so they all put up with Jimmy Dongen while he tried his best to smart-ass double-cross them all when they weren’t looking. He figured he’d end up with everything he ever wanted. I don’t think he even knew all of what he wanted–he just wanted.

My name is Vic Powers. I came into it originally back in the old days when I’d been on the job. Before they threw me off the force for being “unstable.” Hell, I wasn’t unstable, I was just damn angry that a lowlife creep had killed my partner, Larry, and I wanted to do something about it. Larry was the best damn friend I ever had. The best damn cop I ever knew. Damn right I was angry. I was fit to be tied! But I wasn’t unstable, least ways any more unstable than I’d ever been. But then again, I guess I could see their point, and it probably all worked out for the best. I wasn’t cut out to be a cop. Not the kind of cops they want. Yes-men, ass-kissers, sell-outs and politically correct rats–a lot of them no better than the criminals they are supposed to arrest.

Well, all that was a lot of water under the bridge now, but over the years Jimmy Dongen had moved up, turning into one of the biggest of the bad guys. But he’d made a lot of enemies along the way.

He told me once long ago, after I’d saved his ass, that he wanted to go straight.

I told him he was full of shit.

He had acted all serious about it back then.

I just looked at him and said, “Rats must chew, that’s just the way it is, Jimmy”.

He got all upset, thought I was calling him a rat.

I smiled, said, “No, Jimmy, you’re not a rat. Least far as I know, you’re not. You’re a scumbag, but you ain’t no rat.”

There is a difference.

Then I told him that to live a rat must chew. Rats — the four-legged kind, that is - have huge incisors that keep growing in their mouths and if the rat doesn’t constantly gnaw at things, constantly chew, cut and grind with those teeth to wear them down, the damn teeth will grow right into the rats brain and kill it.

“Nice way for a rat to die,” Jimmy had said.

“It’s like that with a scumbag like you, Jimmy. You’ll never stop. You’ll never go straight. It’s in the blood. Rats must chew and scumbags like you will never stop what they do.”

Then Larry and I cuffed him and brought him in.

Well, that had been a long time ago. Like they say, a lot of water under the bridge, a lot of blood too. Now Larry was gone and I was on my own.

Now I was a two-bit no-one in a world that had dreamed me out of its dreams a long time ago. So I did the next best thing, I hung in and survived. I did my best to make it day to day. Trying to beat the odds but coming up craps with every throw. In the meantime I never dared to hope.

It was after Larry had been killed, but before my wife, Gayle, had been murdered. That’s how I usually remember events in my life, I date them from who it was who was close to me — and when they were taken away from me. Killings, murders, my partner, Larry, my friends, my women, my enemies, my wife…

Anyway, Gayle was still alive back then and we were trying to have a real life. I was playing the hubby and loving it. Thinking of opening an office again, maybe a husband and wife P.I. team? A dream I shouldn’t have let enter my mind.

Then Jimmy Dongen entered my world again.

He was on the run.

The cops — crooked and otherwise, the mob, a Jersey biker gang that dealt drugs, an upstate Aryan Separatist group that paid Jimmy a lot of good money for some very bad guns. They were all after Jimmy and I was in Jimmy’s car parked under the West Side Highway while he was telling me all this crap.

I said, “Why, man? You had it good; you could have stopped the crap, taken it easy. You play so many games, so many sides against each other you were bound one day to get caught in the middle.”

“I know, Vic,” he said. “I guess it had to happen sooner or later. You know how it is. I got to do what I do. I can’t stop. I could never stop. Once I started a life of crime, Vic, once I started playing The Game, I just couldn’t stop it. I love it too much. Now I know there’s only one end for us all, eventually.”

“You know all this shit and you still fuck around.”

“Yeah, I know all this shit, and it doesn’t help me by knowing it.”

“Not if you don’t do anything to stop it, Jimmy.”

He smiled, “A rat must chew, Vic.”

I nodded.

The gun slipped into my hand.

I pressed it up against Jimmy’s temple.

Jimmy’s eyes blew up into big circles of surprise, and then understanding.

It was quick.

I pressed the trigger.

One.

Two.

He fell away from me.

I whipped the gun and placed it in his right hand, melding the fingers to the grip. Opened the door. Locked the passenger side as I got out of the car and walked away.

A rat must chew.

This was one rat that would never chew again.

A RIDE FOR MR. TWO-BY-FOUR, by Bruno Fischer

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Sept. 1943.

Sure I want credit, mister. A cop needs all he can get if he hopes for advancement. Lay it on as thick as you like in that magazine of yours. But the fact is, about all I did was throw monkey wrenches into the works—anyway, until near the end.

I got my first sight of that blue sedan on Route 202, a couple of miles outside of Paterson. One of those cold, steady rains was falling that turned to ice as soon as it hit the road. I was sitting in my patrol car watching the cars and trucks crawling along like they were feeling their way. Nobody was doing more than 20 that morning, and even at that speed the drivers were risking their necks.

So for a minute I couldn’t believe that I was seeing straight when this sedan came along doing fifty if it did a mile. It nosed out to pass a ten-wheel trailer truck, skidded clear across to the other side of the road, recovered just in time to miss a southbound coupe, cut in front of the trailer, and was on its way again.

I’d have given a day’s pay not to have to go after that maniac in that weather, but that’s my job. A couple of times I lost him at intersections and curves, but he stuck to the highway and was easy to spot. The car was a low-slung, two-tone blue job, with a New York license tag.

And it could step. Why we both didn’t pile up on the turns, especially when we had to brake on that ice, I’ll never know. I tell you, I was hopping mad. I crouched over my wheel, peering through my icy windshield and the blanket of rain, repeating aloud every cuss word I had ever heard.

Until at last, on a clear, open stretch, I pulled up alongside him. There was nobody but this little man in the car—or so I thought. When I gave him the horn, he threw a terrified glance at me. I was sure then that he’d been aware all along that I was on his tail, and he’d been trying to shake me.

He pulled over and I got out of my car and walked over to him stiff-legged so as not to slip on the ice. I was shivering from the cold and the rain froze as it hit my nose.

The words I was going to let him have were already blistering my tongue, but I didn’t get them out. Not right away, that is. There was something so small and queer and pathetic about him as he cowered behind the wheel that I took another look at him. He was the kind of middle-aged, rabbity, watery-eyed man you’d think would be the last guy on earth to go tearing along at fifty or better in weather that gave the toughest truck driver the jitters.

“All right, I was speeding,” the little man said. “Write out your ticket and let me go.”

“Just like that, eh?” I said. And I let him have both barrels of my tongue.

He sat there trying to shrink into himself. Not because of what I said. It was plain he wasn’t listening to a word of mine, and when I paused for breath I heard his voice.

“I lost my head,” he was muttering to himself. “But always the crowds. Even here in New Jersey the crowds.”

I got a queer feeling listening to him. A nut, I told myself. Then he seemed to be shaking himself out of a bad dream and turned his head to me, and I wasn’t sure. He was smiling now, looking as normal as the next man.

“I’m in a hurry, officer,” he said. “If you’re going to give me a ticket for speeding, give it to me.”

I asked for his owner’s and driver’s licenses, and he handed them to me. His description tallied all right, and there was no doubt the car was his. His name was John Luce, and he lived on Eighty-something Street in Manhattan.

“Speeding, hell!” I said. “That was reckless driving. And we don’t hand out tickets to out-of-state cars for that. We take them in.”

All at once he was the most scared-looking man I had ever seen.

“Take me in where?” he said.

“To the judge.”

“But I can’t go!” His voice was as shrill as a woman’s. “It’s impossible.”

“You think so?” I said. “You got room to turn here. I’ll be right behind you in my car.”

“Yes,” Luce whispered. “I couldn’t get away from the crowds.”

There he was, off again. Well, if he was really a nut, all the more reason for me to take him in.

I started back to my car. As I passed the rear left door of the sedan, I happened to glance through the window. A man lay on the seat, his face down, and buried deep in his arms, his hat setting on the back of his head. His legs hung off the seat.

“Who’s that?” I asked, going back to the driver’s window.

Luce was bent over, fumbling for some reason with the ignition key.

“A friend of mine,” he muttered. “He’s asleep.”

“Drunk?”

“That’s right,” Luce said quickly. His head came up and he looked at me, fear lining his face. “He passed out a while ago. I was speeding because I wanted to hurry him home.”

“Home where?”

“In—in Suffern.”

“That’s no reason to endanger lives,” I said. “He’ll keep. You lead so I can keep my eye on you. I’ll give you the horn when I want you to turn off.”

I went back to my own car. The blue sedan started with a jerk and made a bad U-turn which almost took it off the road. I yelled an oath after him.

We crawled at no more than twelve and sometimes fifteen miles an hour. John Luce was setting the pace, and now he was too cautious. I had a notion that he was trying to stretch out the trip as long as possible. And that was odd because a few minutes ago he’d been so anxious to get his friend out of the cold.

I don’t know, mister. Maybe if I was one of those super-detectives you meet in stories I’d have taken one look at the setup and known all the answers. I felt there was something screwy, but not too screwy. I mean, when you patrol the highways day after day you meet all sorts of funny people.

I guess I was thinking about that and maybe a little hypnotized by the rain and the monotonous fanning of the windshield wipers, because the next thing I knew Luce’s car was a hundred feet ahead of me and eating up the road. I stepped on the gas, and yelled out loud as if he could hear me, or as if it would do any good if he could.

Then he was swinging off the highway, skidding on two wheels onto a side road. I had no warning, but I had to follow. My wheels wouldn’t grip on the turn, and for a couple of sick moments I thought I was a goner. But I managed to right my car and high-tailed after him.

This was a bad road, all curves, tough for making time on a good day, and now sheer suicide. But I was so sore I didn’t care. I gave my car all it had. In a mile or two of the closest shaves I’ll ever have, I caught him.

When he saw me roaring up to him, the heart seemed to go out of him. He rolled to a stop.

Before I cut my motor, I shouted: “I got my gun out this time.”

And I had. I wasn’t going to take any more chances with that wild little man. His hand was sticking out of the car window when I walked up to it. The rain pattered on the money he held out.

“What’s that for?” I said furiously.

“The fine,” Luce said. “It’s all I have with me. Eighty-seven dollars.”

I was so sore I had to restrain myself from taking a poke at him. I said: “Stick it in your pocket. You’re coming in if I have to drag you all the way by your collar.”

“Please!” he begged. “Please take the money, or give me a ticket.”

His voice was the kind that would melt a stone; his watery eyes were blinking like he was about to burst into tears. I should have felt sorry for him, maybe, but all sorts of ideas were crowding my mind.

I said: “Why are you trying to bribe me with more dough than your fine would be? Why are you so anxious to risk your neck and your friend’s to get away from me? Who’s he, anyway?”

“I told you—my friend. He’s drunk.”

“I’d like to ask him about it,” I said.

I gripped the handle of the rear door.

“No!” Luce whimpered: “Please don’t disturb him. He’s sleeping. He—” The rest was a moan.

I had the door open and was shaking the drunk’s shoulder. His hat fell off the back of his skull, and I could see that he had thick yellow hair that curled up the nape of his neck.

“Wake up!” I said. “Come on, snap out of it.”

The drunk did not budge a muscle. I started to take my hand from his shoulder. My palm brushed the back of one of his hands. That hand was colder than the freezing rain.

I took a quick look at Luce. He was bent over the wheel, doing something there. I transferred my gun to my left hand, dug my fingers into the back of the man’s hair, and lifted the head.

I’m supposed to be hardened, but I let out a yell. The black hilt of a small kitchen knife protruded from his throat.

Then the sedan leaped. I was taken off guard like the greenest rookie. The door slammed my shoulder and spun me to the middle of the toad. The ice took my feet out from under me; the whole two hundred pounds of me hit the ground.

I got to my knees, skidding, and threw a shot after the car careening crazily with the back door flapping open. But the car had made distance, and I was dazed by the fall. Even before I shot, I knew the slug would miss by a mile.

Mad? Mister, I was shaking all over when I got to my feet. That little guy had made a fool of me twice. And that was the least of it. I had found a murderer; had caught him cold with the victim’s body, and I’d left him in possession of the car and victim and merely tagged after him for speeding.

I could see the Skipper’s face when he heard that, and it was as unpleasant a sight as that corpse with a knife in its neck.

That was why I didn’t radio in an alarm for John Luce and his blue car. I wanted a chance to redeem myself.

I didn’t catch sight of the sedan. My patrol car was doing everything but flying, but that little man was in a mighty big hurry himself. Now I understood why.

Then I was out on Route 202 again, only farther north. I swung into the highway without breaking speed. He had been heading north when I had first spotted him. Besides, anybody who was trying to shake a New Jersey cop would hop over into New York.

The state line didn’t stop me. This was murder, and I was in a hell of a spot. And then I saw that I was really in trouble, because I’d lost him completely.

I headed back to my own state, still not using the radio, desperately hoping for a break. And I got it—the only one.

Where Route 59 crosses 202 a short distance above Suffern, I spotted the two-tone car turning east toward Nyack. Evidently Luce planned to take the ferry across to Tarrytown and drive down to Manhattan on the New York side.

To my surprise, Luce stopped at once when I gave him the horn. For the third time I parked behind him and strode over to the other car. The dead man was no longer in the back seat, of course.

“Did I do anything wrong, officer?” Luce asked, trying to look as innocent as a newborn babe and not doing a good job of it.

“Cut it out!” I snapped. “Where’s the body?”

He gave me a weak, tight smile. “What body?”

I opened the back door and got all the way into the back seat. My gun was out. I said: “If you try any funny stuff, I’ll shoot.”

“You’re a New Jersey policeman,” he said. “This is New York. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“That’s right,” I agreed grimly. “But that’s my worry. Your worry is how to explain the blood on this seat. New York won’t have much trouble finding the body. The body and the blood in your car and my testimony will make an airtight case.” He swung around behind the wheel and stared at where I pointed at the rear seat. The kitchen knife, buried deep in the fleshy neck, had pretty well plugged up the hole. But there’s always a lot of blood in those wounds, and quite a bit had poured out on the seat and soaked into the material.

John Luce went to pieces. He couldn’t take any more. He dug the fingers of both hands into his cheeks.

“I—I didn’t notice. His face covered the blood. So many things I overlooked.”

“You overlooked plenty,” I agreed. “Getting rid of that body won’t do you any good—not after I’ve seen it. But most murderers aren’t clever. They get panicky; their minds stop working.”

He stared at me. “You think I—No—no! I didn’t kill him. My boy didn’t either. I know that now. I—”

He choked off the rest, realizing that he’d said too much.

“What’s this about your son being the murderer?” I asked.

“Son?” He huddled close against the window, a small, middle-aged man completely crushed. “I didn’t say anything about my son.”

“You said ‘my boy.’ That means your son, doesn’t it?”

Luce twisted around to me then. He looked so tired that it didn’t seem possible that he could stay in one piece.

“I did everything wrong,” he moaned. “But everywhere there were people. Listen! Bill didn’t do it.”

“Bill’s your son?”

He grabbed my arm, leaning over the seat. “Bill didn’t do it. I knew it couldn’t be Bill, even in those terrible moments after I found the body in the car. You’ve got to help me.”

“My job is to help,” I said quietly. If I brought him in with a full confession, I’d be sitting pretty in spite of everything. “Suppose you tell me about it from the beginning.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. There’s still a chance to do something, if I can make you see the truth.”

“Sure.”

John Luce said: “This morning I left the house at eight-twenty as usual to take the subway downtown to the office. I’m an accountant. Bill had left the car in front of the house overnight. I had a set of keys and I got into the car to drive it to the garage.

“On the corner I stopped for a red light, and it was only then that I happened to glance back and saw the man lying on the back seat. I knew by the coat and hat that it was George Maddock”

“Who’s he?”

“George Maddock is a radio agent. My son Bill is a radio announcer.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Bill Luce.”

“Yes. Well, when I saw Maddock in the back of my car, I thought he was drunk. I called to him, and when he didn’t answer, I reached back and shook him. There was something about him that frightened me. I got out of the car, opened the back door, and lifted his head.”

Luce closed his eyes; his voice dropped. “The first thing I saw was that knife sticking so horribly from his throat.”

“And you didn’t call a cop because you figured your son Bill had done it.”

He was silent for long seconds. “I’m not sure. The thing is, I recognized that knife right away. It came from our kitchen. I recalled that my wife was slicing limes with it while I was mixing drinks for Bill’s guests.”

“And you knew that Bill had used the car last.” I was becoming interested. “Go on,” I said. “Keep talking.”

“You don’t understand,” Luce said. “It’s true Bill drove Maddock and Monroe Gibbs to our apartment from the radio station. He intended to take the car to the garage later, but by the time the others left he was too lazy to bother. Bill is a fine, ambitious boy, but he is lazy about some things. He didn’t even bother to lock the car doors. If he had—”

“Is this Monroe Gibbs you mentioned the radio singer?”

“Yes.”

“Gibbs has a summer home near here on Ramapo River.”

“I know,” Luce said. “I guess in back of my mind that’s the reason I came this way across the Lincoln Tunnel instead of heading upstate. Because I felt that was the only way to save Bill. What would the police think when they found our kitchen knife in Maddock’s throat, his body in the car which Bill used last? And I knew that sooner or later they would also find out about that fight the men had.”

“What fight?”

“It really wasn’t much,” Luce said quickly. “I mean, it was chiefly between Maddock and Gibbs. Maddock was one of those blond, handsome men who played around with a lot of women. It seems that he had been seeing too much of Gibbs’s wife, and Gibbs had found out about it. Maddock was Gibbs’s agent as well as Bill’s, and Bill brought them both up to the apartment to make peace between them.

“Well, it didn’t work out at all, because Gibbs got madder by the minute. And when Bill tried to pacify him, Gibbs flared up. Gibbs said: ‘You should be on my side, Bill. Or don’t you know about Maddock and Helen?’ And Bill went white around the mouth. I guess it was the first he’d heard—”

He broke off with a gasp. He wasn’t very bright about such things, and I guess his mind was pretty foggy with strain. “Who’s Helen?” I asked.

“She’s nobody. Nobody at all.”

I said: “She’s your son’s girl friend. Bill found out then that Maddock was doing the same thing to him as to Gibbs. And Bill didn’t like it one little bit, did he? He probably went downstairs with the two men when they left.”

“But he came up in a minute,” Luce blurted.

“Enough time to get Maddock into the back of the car to talk things over and then stick the knife in him. That’s what you thought when you found the body. You figured that if you could dispose of the body somewhere and get rid of the knife, the police would have a tough time pinning the murder on your son.

“But you can’t dump a dead body in Manhattan in the middle of the day without being seen. You decided to get into the country and shove the body out on a seldom used road. But even on the Jersey side there were too many people and too much traffic. You got panicky. You started speeding to get away from the crowds.” Luce rested his head in his hands and looked at me in horror.

“No!” he said. “Perhaps at first I couldn’t think straight, but then I did. Bill wouldn’t kill a man, so it had to be Monroe Gibbs. Gibbs had more provocation than Bill; he’d had time to plan it.

“And then I remembered something. I remembered looking out of the window before I went to bed. Bill was upstairs then; I heard him in his room. And I saw Gibbs in the street lighting a cigarette. He was standing at the car when he struck the match, and he must have been looking into the back seat.”

“You’re the only witness,” I said, “and you’re Bill’s father.”

Luce touched my arm, urgently. “I’m not lying. I came this way for a reason. A murderer must be shaken after he kills. He wants to get as far as possible from the crime, especially when it’s discovered. He’d rather not face people. I called Gibbs’s New York home from Paterson. He wasn’t in. I made many calls. I couldn’t get him. He’s got a cabin out here in the country on Brigham Road. Listen! If he’s gone to stay in his cabin in this kind of weather, wouldn’t that prove he’s guilty?”

I laughed.

Luce sank back in his seat. “So you won’t help me after all? I thought if I told you everything, you’d do something.”

“You told me because it no longer mattered,” I said. “Once I saw that murdered man in the car, it was too late for you to do a thing. Gibbs would tell what happened in your apartment; the rest would come out. I’ve got only one job to do, and that’s to take you in.”

“It was too much for me,” he whispered. “I hadn’t even the courage to pull the knife out of Maddock’s throat and throw it away. That might have made a difference.”

I was wondering, then, if he wasn’t a lot cleverer than he looked or sounded.

The fact remained, he could be the murderer better than anybody else.

“You didn’t have time to hide the body where it won’t be found soon enough,” I said. “You’ll save a lot of trouble all around by taking me to where you dumped it.”

He nodded weakly. There was no fight left in him. He slid over and I got behind the wheel and turned the car. In a thin dead voice he told me where to go.

No fight left in him! That’s all I knew about him, mister. Though how could I guess that that meek little guy would only stop battling with the last breath in his body?

He directed me down one of those narrow side roads that are all up and down hill. There was one hill that was especially nasty with a sharp curve at the foot of it and the road like glass. And as I started to turn the wheel, John Luce hit me in the face.

That’s right, mister, he risked his life as well as mine doing what he thought he had to do. He didn’t have much steam in his fist, but it was enough to snap my head sideways. Then he was clawing at my hands, trying to tear them off the wheel. I shoved my shoulder against his chin and knocked him against the door.

But it was too late to do anything about the car. The motor had died, but on that ice the wheels were having their own way of it. The car was off the road and gliding over ice-covered grass, and a tree jumped up to meet us. I had too much to do to watch Luce. I didn’t see him reach into the dashboard compartment for a wrench. I didn’t even see him smack me with it.

I don’t know how long I was out. After a while I was aware of a terrific headache and I opened my eyes. I was slumped on the front seat of the sedan. I tried to get up and I couldn’t. My hands and feet were tied with heavy rope. He must have had it in the trunk of his car.

After a little squirming, I got my head up as far as window-level. The car had missed the tree. It had evidently skidded again, just after I’d been slugged.

I sank down again and tried the ropes. He wasn’t good at that either. I shouldn’t have much trouble getting loose.

“Lie still!” Luce said.

He was in the back seat, leaning over, and my gun was in his hand. There was something in those watery eyes of his that made me colder than the weather could.

“You can’t get away with this,” I said. “You—”

“Keep quiet!” he said, and there was no mistaking that he meant it.

He got a handkerchief out of his pocket and crammed it into my mouth and then tied a dirty rag across my mouth to keep the gag in. After that there couldn’t be any conversation. We stayed like that, me tied up in front and not daring to try to get loose, and he in the back seat with my gun.

After a while the rain stopped, but it got still colder. My muscles froze; my flesh ached and then went numb. And my head was on fire. Now and then I’d hear a car go by, but I couldn’t yell, even if that gag wasn’t in my mouth, because he had the gun. And a car parked off the road was a natural enough object. It didn’t arouse suspicion.

A couple of years passed before night came. Luce got out and walked around in the twilight. When it was completely dark, he opened the door and started to pull me out.

I’m close to two hundred pounds and he doesn’t weigh much more than half that, so he had quite a job, wheezing and panting, while I got a couple of bangs and bruises. But with that deathless persistence of his he finally got me out and dragged me behind the big tree where I’d be hidden from the road.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If I can, I’ll be back for you. Or I’ll let somebody know you’re here.”

I tried to tell him through the gag that I’d freeze to death. He listened to me as if my mewling meant nothing. His narrow shoulders were bowed, there seemed to be no bones left in his body.

“I’m so tired,” he muttered, “so very, very tired.”

He disappeared and I heard his car start, return to the road, and then drive away. Then I was alone in the cold and dark, except for occasional headlights flashing by.

All afternoon I had known that he hadn’t done a good job of tying me up, but I hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Now, even with my cramped, frozen muscles, I got loose in ten or fifteen minutes. I was lucky he hadn’t searched me and found my handcuffs.

My knees wobbled under me. For a mile I staggered along like a drunk till a light delivery truck picked me up. The driver took me to where I’d left my patrol car. Only it wasn’t there any more.

I stood there in the darkness staring at the empty road, though I should have expected that. Of course they’d sent out a call for me when I hadn’t reported in all afternoon. But I was sure it had been the New York State Police who had come across a New Jersey highway patrol car parked in their state. They’d inquired and then sent it back.

Three times I had let a murderer, or the accomplice of a murderer, make a sucker out of me. And he had my gun too. In other words, I was deeper in hot water than I could have dreamed of in a nightmare.

I’d cursed that little man before, but it was nothing to what I called him now.

In Suffern I got a taxi. In a few minutes I was back in New Jersey, where I could function legally again, though I was sure it wouldn’t be for long.

I didn’t go back to the barracks or even phone in. Instead, I had the taxi take me to Brigham Road, where I looked for the cabin Luce had mentioned. When I saw lights in the windows, I told the driver to stop and paid him off.

In the splash of pale light from the cabin windows, I saw a weird, distorted mass of shadow. It stumbled and staggered and made a sobbing, panting breathing. Without seeing it distinctly, I knew that it was a little man carrying a weight on his back much heavier than himself.

I started forward, took three steps, then stopped, remembering a thin voice muttering a short while ago: I’m so very, very tired. But not too tired. Never too tired.

I cut around to the front of the cabin. When I passed a window, I looked in. There was a rustic living room with a bright fire burning and a reading lamp lit over an armchair. Nobody was in that room.

I went up to the front door and knocked. Almost at once the door swung in. A short, meaty man stood in the hall. He wore a flannel lounging robe, scarf, and slippers, like a picture in a fashion magazine. This was Monroe Gibbs, the sweet-voiced radio tenor.

His mouth and eyes went wide at the sight of me. The color rushed from his cheeks.

“Are you Monroe Gibbs?” I asked.

He nodded, holding himself very stiff, waiting without breathing.

“That’s all right then,” I said. “We got a call from a neighbor that somebody was in your house. We had an idea that it was closed for the winter.”

His breath came out noisily. He smiled. “I ran up for a couple of days for a rest. Thanks for your-ah-vigilance.”

Gibbs started to close the door. I put my shoulder against it.

“Just a minute,” I said. “How do I know you’re Gibbs?”

“Why, I— That’s ridiculous. Everybody knows me.”

“I don’t. Can you prove it?”

He flared up, but he showed me papers in his wallet. I took a long time, listening all the while. Somewhere in the house a window opened. I wasted more time.

“Come, come,” Gibbs said impatiently. “I’m freezing out here.”

“Then let’s go inside.”

He threw me a sharp, suspicious glance and turned into the house. I followed him up the hall and into the living room. He stopped dead. I looked over his shoulder.

Even though I’d expected something like that, I myself got a slight case of willies looking at it.

“George!” Gibbs whimpered. He turned to me, and his face was broken and old. “Officer, what does this mean?”

“What does what mean?” I asked casually.

“That—that thing there?”

“What thing?”

“That man! That body!” He gripped my arm. He moaned. “Good Lord, man, don’t you see him?”

“See what?” I said. “Are you nuts? Nobody’s in this room but us two.”

He looked at me a long time, something in his eyes dying. Then he turned back to the thing standing against the window. Then he—

Well, mister, put yourself in Monroe Gibbs’s place. You’ve killed a man the night before. Then you’ve gone away to your country place so you wouldn’t have to face people and maybe police questioning before you got a grip on yourself. You’re pretty sure the murder will be pinned on Bill Luce, but all day you’re alone and worrying and a cop appears and your nerves jump.

Then suddenly you see the murdered man standing there before you, many miles away from where you’ve left him. The knife you’ve stuck into his throat is still there. The blood on the shirt and the face is sheer horror in the flickering light from the fireplace. The dead eyes stare at you.

And the cop standing right beside you doesn’t see it at all, so you know it must be a ghost, come back from the dead to accuse you.

Monroe Gibbs screamed. He clawed at me like a hysterical woman. He begged me to save him, and crazy words poured from his mouth. But words that made sense all the same. Words that told me all I had to know about who had murdered George Maddock.

Then I heard a sickening plop and a sigh. The plop was the dead body falling on its face. The sigh was made by John Luce as he fainted dead away on the other side of the window where he had been holding the corpse up.

There’s your story, mister. I got credit for bringing in the murderer of George Maddock, when all I did was to use my head a little.

All I have to do is think of a little man who kept losing his head and doing the wrong things. I think of him getting more tired than a man could be, and yet not stopping or letting himself be stopped because he had a son whose life had to be saved.

BEDHEAD FRED’S, REDHEAD’S DEAD, by Jack Halliday

“Bedhead Fred’s, redhead’s dead,” was scribbled on the note Sophie had placed on my desk. Clever. She needn’t have written anything else. All the facts were there; the words even had a bit of a rhythm and rhyme to them, if you were interested in such things.

I wasn’t.

My name’s Ed. Ed St. Clair.

I know this will sound like the ultimate cliche, but I am well and truly a private detective: a snooper, a peeper, a shamus, a flat foot, or anything else you’d like to add by way of description.

I’m a million miles from Mike Hammer, Paul Pine, Philip Marlowe or anyone else to whom you might wish to compare me. I’m not made of pen and ink, but, rather, of flesh and blood and bone. The real McCoy, or fair dinkum, if you’re at the bottom of the globe, and trying to prove to someone that I’m the genuine article.

I plopped into my leather chair and swung around to place my heels on the window sill. I just sat there, tapping the small slip of paper against my lower lip as I surveyed the sunset crawling up from the horizon to cast a melancholy shadow on the office buildings downtown.

Poor Fred. He always reminded me of the lead character in David Lynch’s quirky little film, “Eraserhead,” what with his great shock of hair standing at near-attention like a pheasant in full-preen mode. I suppose it was his trademark of sorts, that head of hair looking for all the world like the result of his having had a run-in with a faulty electrical outlet.

And now Thelma had had her ticket canceled.

She was about all he had left. He’d drunk his way out of a promising career in law. Lately, he’d been doing legwork for me (via computer, mostly) when Sophie was overworked or unavailable for some reason (usually troubles with her Alzheimer’s-challenged mother). I couldn’t complain about his thoroughness; it was just that his work was often interrupted by a seemingly unquenchable thirst for anything alcoholic—Long Island iced teas being his drink of choice.

Of course we would take the case; it was the least we could do for ol’ Fred. I suppose I felt responsible for him somehow. He was a lot like a stray dog, only with a much more unruly coat. A lovable guy, really, especially to Thelma. She had been raised in an orphanage and the two of them had met at a bar (what a surprise!) right after he’d lost out at law school. Her sadness and his self-sabotage met and married only a few months after he and she did. It seemed to be a union forged by the gods: that is, if they existed at all, and had a perverse sense of humor, to boot.

In any case, he was apparently alone again now, and I knew that didn’t bode well for him, not with his self-destructive tendencies.

But who would want to harm Thelma?

Normally, as an actor friend of mine says, “It always comes back to money, Ed.”

But she didn’t have any, at least not that either Sophie or I knew about. And, as I said, she didn’t have any family that she or we, or anyone else, were aware of, either. Her adoption was one of those “closed file” deals. To my knowledge, neither she nor Fred had ever had any desire to investigate further. This was a puzzler all right.

But where were the pieces?

I decided this little affair deserved some serious thinking so it was only a little while later that I made my way to my “private study”: “Henningan’s,” a small place just a few blocks from my office, (which is in the Tristate Building, by the way).

They might as well have put a copper nameplate on the last booth in the bar; no one but me ever occupied it. I had twenty odd years of seniority, and at this point, even the seat cushions were a custom fit. Zonie brought my usual: a gimlet with a Miller light, chaser. I know, I know, a strange combo, but “it is what it is,” as the Zen saying goes. In our vernacular, “If it ain’t broke…”

The bar was dark and cozy and just adjusting itself to the proper ambiance for juggling puzzle pieces. The night had nearly won its match against the last struggling rays of sunlight that were making a few stray dust motes visible in the otherwise tomblike atmosphere.

I was in the process of turning the cryptic pieces of this unusual game over in my mind, wondering where I could find an appropriate “board” to lay them out on, when a familiar voice called my name.

It was Elmo Cafaulis, a school chum I hadn’t seen since our twentieth high school reunion, nearly two decades ago. He looked like yesterday’s newspaper but his face was refusing to believe the press. His smile was as authentic as a Chinese Rolex.

“Holy smokes, Ed! Ed St. Clair. What are the chances?”

I half rose, pumped his hand, and plopped down in my seat as he joined me, collapsing on the cushion across the table from me. I saw Zonie out of the corner of my eye and nodded. She went to fetch two glasses of water and two menus. I was inwardly preparing to be bored out of my already pained skull by whatever it was Elmo had on his mind.

He was the kid who “got lost” in school. He wasn’t a jock, wasn’t a nerd and, well, wasn’t much of anything. But his father was a doctor and he was rich (compared to the rest of us) and he had a beautiful sister, a large house and access to beers and then some. Those questionable assets had earned him at least a modicum of acceptability in an all-boys’ catholic high school. But that was another lifetime ago. Yet here he was again, in this one; only now I would be footing the bill for the alcohol. Didn’t seem fair. Didn’t seem fair at all.

“So what can I do you for?” I asked.

He actually rubbed his hands quickly together like a low-rent Hollywood agent who’d just gotten hold of a “hot one.”

Zonie reappeared with the waters and my drinks. Elmo looked up and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.” She smiled, looked at me, rolled her eyes, out of his view, and whisked away. She was quite a gal.

“So anyways, you know my old man always wanted me to follow him in the ‘sawbones’ field”. I nodded. “Yeah, well, it never happened. But I did have a head for figures, female and otherwise,” he chuckled. Zonie returned, placed his drinks in front of him and rolled her baby blues at me again as she disappeared into another part of the bar. I nursed my drink and realized yet again how important it is to savor the good, simple things in life: like an expertly mixed gimlet, especially when you’ve been blindsided by an old schoolmate from forty years ago whom you weren’t even crazy about the first time around.

“Sorry, Elmo, but I don’t follow. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad you found your ‘niche,’ an’ all, but what’s all the excitement about and why tell me, and after all these years?”

He tasted the gimlet, turned his nose up like he’d just discovered a skunk on the table, and took a long pull on his beer. He leaned back, squinted at me and smiled like the proverbial cat.

“What?” I asked.

“‘What?’ he asks…yeah, ‘what?’ ‘What’ is a load of cash, Ed; ain’t been claimed by no one in too many years to keep track of, and we’re talking about musical ‘notes’ to the tune of two hundred fifty grand. That’s ‘what’.”

I drank half my beer in one go. “I don’t getcha, Elmo; really I don’t. I assume you know I’m a P.I. but I don’t do much in the area of corporate finance deals.”

He held his palm up in a “halt” gesture, which was what I wanted him to do. But, somehow, I knew he’d ramble on instead.

“All’s I need you to do for me—and for a nice ten percent commission—is a little ‘peepin.’ You got avenues and contacts I don’t and I’m guessin’ you can sort out the red tape angle so’s I can cash in.”

“On what?”

He broke into a wide smile that seemed like the genuine article compared to his previous attempt.

“An inheritance, that’s what. I got a distant relative on my mother’s side who’s the sole heir of a recently deceased tycoon of sorts, small time, but still, a bit of a ‘money boy’ in his heyday.”

“Go on.”

He nodded, looked back and forth quickly, and then leaned forward, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. This was starting to feel like a hardboiled, film noir picture from the forties.

“Anyway’s, I have it on good authority that this heir is, uh, deceased, too.”

“And?” I added, my frustration and annoyance growing in tandem.

“What I need you to do is to make double-sure there ain’t any other paperwork to stand in the way o’ me claiming the dough. You know, no spouse, kids, nothin’ like that.”

“I don’t get this. Why can’t you just suss this out for yourself? Why bring me or some other private dick into things? We don’t get rich, but not many of us do ‘freebies’ either.”

“That’s why I’m offerin’ ya twenty five grand. Thing is, the heir was an orphan. I happen to have gotten wind of the deal from a ‘business associate’ of mine who is currently living on the state’s dime: will be for another ten years or so. Anyways, he did some time with a guy who worked for the old man, discovered that the daughter had the same last name as my mom’s maiden name, was from the same state and county, etc., and I took it from there. If I go nosin’ around personally, it might make things a little dicey for me when it comes time to claim the cash. Ya wit’ me?”

Maybe it was his disagreeable demeanor, what with the lantern jaw, all but bald dome and little pig eyes of his, but even my gimlet was beginning to taste rancid.

“What was her name, this heir?”

“Her birth name was Julia Templeton.”

He paused to wipe his tiny, pouting mouth with his napkin.

“But her adoptive name was Thelma. Thelma Jean Robertson. Last known address: just a hop, skip and a jump from here.”

Suddenly, I wanted to toss the remnants of my beer in his puss.

“Recently deceased?” I asked myself with a sense of disgust.

How convenient. So he’d been on the wrong side of the law for years and cooking books for crooks and who knows what else all this time. I wanted to smack him right on his pock-marked, ruby red nose.

“Ed, can you look into this for me? Find out for sure that she ain’t got any living relatives, no husband, kids, somewhere, for instance?”

“I won’t promise anything, but I’ll check with my secretary and see if we can’t tie up any loose ends for you,” I lied. “We can certainly use the money. Like I said, this business isn’t like the movies. Dirty divorce cases don’t put you in Brooks Brothers’ suits.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” he said with a nod of finality.

I just sat there, staring and stewing.

He broke the awkward moment by wiping his hands together as though he’d encountered some cobwebs that wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Presently, his lifted his bulk from the booth and shoved a ham-sized hand across the table at me. He was well over six foot and must have tipped the scales at over three hundred pounds. He hadn’t missed many meals, that was certain.

After we shook hands I felt like dipping mine in lye. I doubted that it would have made a dent in the psychic slime that seemed to cling to my palm.

“Look forward to hearin’ from ya,” he said as he turned to leave.

“I’m at the Carlton, room 801,” he said with his back to me.

I was dumbfounded. I just sat there trying to process the bizarre exchange that had just taken place. My waitress brought me back from my reverie.

“Anything else, Ed?” Zonie asked, as she leaned over to put the empty glasses on her tray.

“Nothing comes to mind, Zonie; nothing at all.”

He was in the same condition as Thelma when I found him. Maybe they were similarly joined in spirit now, too. At least that was my hope. Although, if I were really being honest with myself, it was difficult for me to imagine good old Saint Peter pouring “Bedhead Fred” a Long Island iced tea up there in the glory world.

I’d gone straight to his apartment from Hennigan’s to let him know about my conversation at the bar with my unexpected guest from yesteryear, as well as my concern for his safety. My guess is he’d been dead for at least a day or two. A single bullet to the head, served execution style, courtesy, no doubt, of one Elmo Cafaulis.

I surmised that Elmo had found some information at Thelma’s indicating that she and Fred were an item. No doubt, that was something which Elmo decided he needed to do something about. So he’d “handled it.” Just like he’d taken care of poor Thelma.

I stood for a long while by the window, in front of Fred’s sofa, his head at my feet, the crazy hair bearing unmistakable but inarticulate testimony to his identity. I watched the cars whizzing by, their occupants busy with life, Fred’s having ended along with Thelma’s.

It didn’t take long for me to write up the results of my investigation into Fred’s and Thelma’s murders. I would give the details to the homicide division in the morning and Elmo would be entertaining the “city’s finest” in his suite at the Carlton sometime before lunch.

Sophie would be pleasantly surprised to discover that she was the sole beneficiary in Fred’s will, just as he was in Thelma’s. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars would be a big help to her with her mother’s Alzheimer’s care. And who knows, maybe I’d even get a Brooks Brothers’ suit out of the deal.

Back at my office, I paper-clipped my handwritten case notes to the small sheet that Sophie had left me.

Rather than begin anew, I simply added some poetic prose of my own to Sophie’s scribbled verse.

“Bedhead Fred’s, redhead’s dead; Ed’s spread read: ‘Fred wed lead.’”

‘Nuff said.

GENERALISSIMO FLATFOOT, by Walt Sheldon

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1943.

To a certain degree, I can take it. Like when the other cops salute me as I come into the squad room. Like when they click their heels and hand me scraps of paper marked: Communique. Or even when they port arms with an old mop, yank an imaginary bolt, and solemnly hand it to me for inspection. That I can always take.

But when old McGregney5 calls me “Generalissimo”—mister, I boil!

It must be the way he says it. His blue eyes twinkle and ten thousand leather-skinned wrinkles crease around them. To McGregney, time or place means strictly from nothing. He said it the night we were both sneaking up the back alley to the Hotel La Palace.

“Generalissimo,” he said, “better hike out your artillery. This rotten cop-killer might spot us before we get there.”

“The name,” I told him bitterly, “is William Clarence Link. Bill Link is even better. But not Generalissimo!”

It all started because McGregney walked in on me one night at home when I was working out a problem in tactics—Problem No.2 in Combat Principles, page 430, in my Basic Military Training Manual—with toy soldiers on my dining room table. The next day every cop in town knew about it, and—well, you know the rest.

“Generalissimo,” said McGregney, “we’ll know in a minute whether those stools were telling the truth about Killer Hurd being holed up here in the Hotel La Palace.”

I nodded. “He’s somewhere in The Warren. That’s certain.” I looked around the dim, puddle-splotched alley. The back of the Hotel La Palace was three stories high and the brick must have been red during, say, Lincoln’s administration. Right now it was a somber, ominous grey.

All of this place called The Warren had that grey feeling about it. Officially, The Warren was the 10th ward. It had once been the fashionable part of town, and in those days some grafting city boss had built under it an elaborate but highly unnecessary system of sewer tunnels. There were stories about those sewers—and the men who haunted them. Men like Killer Hurd, the cop-slayer, the guy McGregney and I had been sent to get.

We were a few feet from the back door of the Hotel La Palace when McGregney said to me: “Look, Generalissimo, you trot up there to the other end of the alley and cover me while I knock.”

I frowned. “That’s splitting the main force. One of the cardinal rules of warfare—”

“Phooey!” McGregney exploded.

“Oh, all right,” I said. McGregney was an old timer, and it was practically yesterday that I was still on probation. You know how it is. I frowned at him and trotted toward the end of the alley. I think it only took me about twenty steps to get there. That couldn’t have been a very long time. But when I got there, I turned around—I looked—and my jaw flapped. Breath piled up in my throat.

“McGregney!” I shouted hoarsely.

He was lying there in front of the door. And an ice pick seemed to be growing from the center of his back.

I raced toward him. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have been cautious, wary, but I was choked with emotion. Sure, I’d seen death before. I’d even seen dead cops. But never like this, never a guy I had known so well, had worked with, had kidded with.

I bent over him. He was struggling to breathe, but he couldn’t speak. I turned his head and held it, while my own throat got very dry. His lips moved, and I think they said: “So long, Generalissimo…”

His eyes seemed to be looking right into mine. They seemed to be telling me to get Killer Hurd. To live and fight against lawlessness, even as McGregney had done. To make the world unsafe for cop-killers—or any other kind of killers.

He died while I was thinking those things.

Never mind what I should have done. Never mind the official procedure. I stood up and pounded at that back doorway with both fists. I did that until the heels of my hands smarted and my uniform was covered with grey dust.

It helped, the pain of that pounding, and after a while I stopped. I felt a little foolish, but still plenty mad. Mad enough to step back and aim my gun very carefully at the lock on the door. I pulled the trigger and there was a lot of splintered wood and twisted metal. The door swung inward.

If you were ever a cop in a large city you know I shouldn’t have done this. I should have called an ambulance and made out an immediate report, and that sort of thing. After all I didn’t know McGregney’s murderer was in this La Palace Hotel. And there were always heels like Blawson, our squad sergeant, dying for a chance to take an ambitious young fellow over the coals, keep him as far away from that sergeantcy as possible. But I hadn’t cooled off yet.

I was in a kitchen. What had been a dull babble was now the sound of the bar room in the front of the building. You know what a noisy bar room sounds like? Multiply it by ten for the Hotel La Palace.

I stood there for a moment, noticed empty beer kegs and bare shelves around the place. Meanwhile I filled the empty chamber in my gun. I was clicking the cylinder back into place when the fellow with the checkered tablecloth around his waist and the huge watch fob hanging from his shirt pocket came in. He was big. With a winch and cable, he’d have looked like a barrage balloon.

“Well?” he said. His skin looked as though it might be greasy to the touch.

“I’m looking for a man,” I said.

“Yeah? What kind of a man?”

“A man whose hobby is sticking ice picks into people’s backs.”

“We ain’t got nobody like that here.”

“Maybe I better look, huh?”

“Got a search warrant?”

I didn’t answer that one. He was right, wasn’t he? I should have had a search warrant. Maybe another cop would have started something, blasted his way through the guy. But you forget this military business. It means discipline—playing according to rules. Silly, huh? Well you can give me the personal satisfaction that goes with it and take all the advantages of the other way. That, mister, goes for men and dogs and nations.

So I told him: “Okay, I’ll go inside for a short beer.”

“Then you’ll come in the front way,” he answered.

That was that. I stared into those hard eyes for a moment, then I shrugged. I about-faced, and that was when my toe scuffed into something on the floor. It was a square area cut into the planking—square with hinges—a trap door. One of the cracks was a little wide and I could see through it. I could see shining water—one of the sewers of The Warren.

At that point, Fatso dropped a gentle hint. He said: “Well, are you gonna scram or ain’t you?”

“Oke,” I called back mildly. And then I was out in the alley again. I was out in the alley and smack into the midst of a small conference which consisted of Lieutenant Gray and Sergeant Blawson standing over McGregney’s dead body.

The squad coupe was at the curb. They must have been cruising and heard the shots. Sergeant Blawson eyed me and said: “Well, where were you? And what happened?”

I told him. He turned to the lieutenant. “To me,” he said, “it sounds fishy.”

I was annoyed. “Fishy?”

“Yeah,” said Blawson. “You were told to stick with McGregney. You disobeyed orders there. Then, with McGregney dead and no sign of the killer, you should have gone to a callbox. On top of that you broke and entered this place.”

I might have known it. Blawson was hanging on to his sergeantcy by a spider-web, and anyone of us was very much in line for it. You get it, don’t you?

The lieutenant said to me: “There’ll be an inquiry, Link. You’ll be notified when to appear.”

I got the notice the next day. And when I appeared I got sand-blasted, immersed in hot water, and run over by a medium tank. All this from Blawson’s testimony. He did it—but neatly.

The boys in the squad room didn’t exactly smear balm on my wounds. Heaven knows what story Blawson had spread among them. When I came in, with orders to hang my uniform and leave it there for thirty days, they all stopped talking and turned their backs. The ice.

I realized, a little wryly, that now I’d have given anything to have them salute, or click their heels, or even put a broom through the manual of arms for my benefit.

I swallowed and went to my locker and changed into civvies. I gathered up some books—thirty days would give me a lot of time for reading. One of them fell to the floor and opened. I bent to pick it up and my eye caught something on the page.

This book was called Basic Military Training, and the chapter was marked: Combat Principles. The particular illustration I saw was labeled: The Assault.

The enemy was marked B, and his position was couched in a hilly forest, flanks and rear well protected by natural obstacles. The only possible attack was at his front line. The book said: “…the enemy position may be taken by having the riflemen fire as they move forward. The advance is orderly…”

I snapped the book shut and made a beeline for Lieutenant Gray’s office. I stormed at Lieutenant Gray and I pounded his desk and waved my arms and jawed at him until my neck ached. I got nowhere fast. But I wasn’t beaten, yet. Not by a long shot. Because, instead of heading home like I should have, I turned my steps toward the other end of town. I headed toward The Warren.

The Hotel La Palace, in front, had a big neon sign and dirty windows with chewing tobacco posters in them.

The smelt of stale beer hung around the place like poison gas. Through old fashioned swinging doors came voices and the buzz of electric fans. A group of hard faced, cigarette-lipping youths sat on a cellar doorway next to the window. They eyed me PSrigidly as I went in.

There were two bartenders. Fatso was at the rear, swishing a soaked rag on the bar, watching, mostly, a small service window to the kitchen in the rear. The other bartender was little and thin. He asked me through a gold tooth: “What’ll ya have?”

“Short beer.”

I paid him a nickel and sipped. I stepped behind somebody—out of Fatso’s view—and looked over the place. There were two doors, one to the kitchen, one to a desk and a flight of stairs. This was the “Hotel” part of the La Palace. So I gauged everything. I couldn’t get to that door without Fatso noticing me.

It called for strategy.

I remembered the Dead-End type youths outside. I left my half-beer on the table and stepped to the sidewalk. The biggest one was hawkishly thin, with a cap slapped over one ear.

“Hey you!” I called to him.

“Who you callin’—me?” he answered, surlily.

“Yeah. Wanna make five bucks?”

“Stop astin’ stoopid questions. Shoot the proposition.”

“You know Fatso in there?”

“Yeah.”

“You know the watch fob he wears?”

“Sure!”

“Five bucks if you get it.”

“When?”

“Right now. Get the watch and you get the five.”

Hawk-face turned and said: “Come on, you guys.” They all trooped into the bar room. For once I was glad about my uniform hanging in the locker. I didn’t have to follow regulations, now.

I counted ten, then followed. I didn’t wait long. Two minutes later Fatso was roaring curses at the gang and scrambling from behind the bar. He was holding on to one fellow and the others were passing his watch-fob back and forth with a lateral technique that practically any college backfield would have welcomed. I’d figured Fatso right. He was too smart not to notice the heist right under his nose.

So while this was going on—all of it quite absorbing to Fatso—I walked to the door and started up the hotel stairs as cool as an Eskimo’s nose in February.

The second floor hall was dark. The only light came from a blue bulb set in the middle of the ceiling. I could barely see the doors of the numbered rooms. I went to the first one and peeked in a keyhole. Some guy had a dame on his lap, but he wasn’t the guy I wanted. I shook my head and went to the next door.

Remember, I said a fellow hits a percentage on breaks? On the fourth door I got a bad one. A highly bad one. I put my hand on the knob, and the door swung open before me. There—only five feet tall, but huge-shouldered and flat nosed—stood Killer Hurd!

He looked just like his full-face and profile in the gallery. Same lacquer-like eye—same jutting jaw, like the bow of an aircraft carrier. One thing about that queer jaw, it was a perfect target far a K.O. blow.

I guess Hurd was as surprised as I was. He had his coat off, and I could see his shoulder holster nestling a forty-five automatic. Maybe he was even more surprised than I was, because, before he moved I had my fist swinging toward that jaw. But he rolled his head. The punch glanced off and the best it did was to send him staggering backward into the room, a little off balance.

When I lunged after him I met a pair of the hardest fists I’d ever felt. That was a counter attack of a little more power than I’d expected. Lots of tacticians have made the same mistake. I went down to my knees, and Hurd kept going. He leaped over me and beat it out of the room. It probably never occurred to him that I was alone.

I went after him into the hall and down the stairs. This was my day for running into people. As I rocketed from the stairway and into the bar room I suddenly hit the huge figure of Fatso. I bounced.

“You!” said Fatso. He reached for me. I slashed him across the forehead with my gun butt and he toppled like a condemned tenement. Leaving the shouting and milling men in the bar room behind me, I got into the kitchen just as the trap door was slamming shut.

It wouldn’t open for me. I peered through the crack and saw a length of rope holding it. And floating in the black water below was Hurd in a small rowboat. Then the rowboat disappeared. That fellow, Ripley, will be interested in knowing that I always grow ten thumbs on my hands every time I’m in a hurry. It was several minutes before I could get the penknife from my watch chain and slice through that rope. I opened the door and looked down at the black, shiny water.

I poked my head into the opening. Killer Hurd and the rowboat were far down the tunnel, just rounding a turn. To myself I said: “Jack Robinson.” By that time he was gone.

“He got away,” I mumbled. Or had he?

The advancing squad may often overcome natural obstacles by using natural means. In this the ingenuity of the squad leader will play an important part…

I looked around me. I saw the bare shelves and empty beer kegs of the kitchen. I didn’t stop to think, and a few minutes later I had four beer kegs on the floor and three shelves planked across them. I secured the whole business with the nails that were already in the shelves, hammering with my revolver stock. Then, grunting and groaning, I lowered all of it through the trap door, and dropped on top of it. Another piece of shelf served as a paddle.

There was one surprised Killer Hurd when I rounded that turn. He had slowed, was taking it easy, letting the boat drift.

“Put ‘em up, Hurd!” I shouted “You’re under arrest!”

He put ‘em up all right. He put the automatic up and blazed away. The bullet went wild, but the noise bounced around those cavern-like walls until I thought my ear-drums would crack. It made me flinch and that’s something you shouldn’t do under fire. My flimsy raft rocked back and forth madly. That’s why my own shot missed.

But there is the business of an ill wind. The raft was jerking and pitching so that Hurd’s next shot missed me. Well, it went on like that—until the echoes were all over the tunnel. The smell of cordite was sharp and stinging in my nostrils, and thin, blue smoke was doing a ghost dance over the water.

The bow of Hurd’s boat got caught in a couple of jutting rocks at the edge of the tunnel just about the time we both ran out of ammunition. I’ll say this for Hurd—he had plenty of courage for only five feet of man. He stood there waiting.

We came together. Hurd leaped and I leaped. We both met halfway and tumbled in a sort of bridge between both craft. Hurd had arms by Steinway, and one of them started squeezing my neck in a strangle-hold that would have made a boa constrictor green with envy. Jiggling lights were dancing in front of my eyes and my lungs were near-bursting balloons. Then the beer-keg raft and Hurd’s boat came apart and we both fell.

In that split-moment Hurd let go. In that split-moment I brought up an uppercut—just six inches of it, but fast, blurring—and it landed on the exact point of Hurd’s prow-like jaw.

He went to sleep like a baby.

I went to McGregney’s funeral the next day. I went to it in uniform, because they gave it back to me. In fact they did everything but kiss me on both cheeks. The Hotel La Palace had been cleaned up, and Killer Hurd was where they’d be sure to find him for the trial.

I was riding in Lieutenant Gray’s own car when he said:

“I still don’t see how you got away with it—walking right into the place and dragging Hurd out. The whole force has been trying to trap him for weeks.”

“Well,” I answered, “look at it this way. Hurd was an enemy force in a strong position. He’d bottled up his rear and flanks, and his communications were pretty strong. But while he was busy with all this, he forgot about his most vital defense point—his front line!”

“I think,” said the Lieutenant, frowning, “I see what you mean.”

I didn’t answer him. I’d just caught sight of a wreath in the car ahead. It was the one I’d sent McGregney. It was marked: From the Generalissimo.

DOOM BOOM, by Glenn Low

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Nov. 1946.

CHAPTER I

The boat whistles from the river gave a hollow, resounding tone, prophesying a change of weather. A neon-pinked fog swaddled the Hill District lights, throwing a shimmering orange gauze across the jitter-bugging letters of the mammoth electric chewing-gum sign on the city cliffs. Over the fog, and the world, the sky was minus a moon and starless. A moist vapor slapped gently at Detective Tony Childers’ good-humored face as he hurried from his car to Gentz’s candy store.

He was thinking of the two-gallon pot of coffee steaming away on the hotplate in his room at detective headquarters, also of the dozen doughnuts stored in his locker. He was hungry, and anticipation of the feed he’d promised himself practically had him drooling.

When old man Gentz had phoned in a while ago and reported that a dead man was sitting at a booth in his confectionery, Lieutenant Jock Anderson had singled Childers out to go take a look.

“The old guy’s probably boozy,” Anderson had said, “but go give it a look, Tony. Maybe some lug died of indigestion from eating some of Gentz’s gumdrops. I’ll keep the coffee warm ‘til you get back.”

“It’s a job for the uniforms,” Childers had complained. “They’re the lads who pull kids’ kitties off the trees and stir the snooze bums in the penny-clip joints. This is Homicide, but who’d ever guess?”

He drove the four blocks over to Gentz’s in his own car, fast, afraid some of the dicks would find and consume his hidden doughnuts.

Mr. Gentz met Childers in front of his store, a nervous grin splitting his fat wrinkled face. “It was only a customer we missed when we closed up,” he explained. “He was asleep in a booth. Somebody saw him through a window and phoned my house. I dressed and came right down. When I saw him sleeping there, I—I guess I flew off the handle a little. I thought he was dead. I’m sorry to have bothered you fellows, but I didn’t have the nerve at first to take a closer look.”

“Where’s the guy now?” asked Childers, no longer interested in the business.

“I woke him and he went home.” Gentz locked the store, then went to his car, parked at the curb. He offered Childers a cigar.

“Don’t use ‘em,” the detective told him.

Gentz thanked him, said good-night, then drove away.

“Rattle-brained old bunny,” Childers mused, then remembering the hot coffee and doughnuts made a beeline for his coupe. The cry for help came just as he slipped the key into the ignition. He scooted out, glanced up and down the block.

A moment later Simon Tork appeared in front of his shoe store eight doors away. The cry had come from that direction. Childers started toward the little shoe merchant. Two men left a car in front of Tork, walked over to him. They were strangers to Childers. When he reached Tork the men had returned to their car and driven away.

Childers had known Simon Tork for several years. “You hear somebody yap for help just now?” he asked after he’d greeted him.

“It—it was me, Tony,” said Tork, his flat, loose face twitching with what looked like fear.

“Those birds trying to lift your wallet?”

Tork wagged his head. “No. It was before they drove up, I was working late and—”

“Late?” Childers cut in. “You know it’s after two A.M.?”

Tork nodded loosely. “I’ve been having trouble with my old partner, Aussie Mellon. Two weeks ago I bought out his interest in the store. There were some receipts I couldn’t find. Aussie says he’s got more money coming—that I didn’t pay some bills like I said. We had a big fuss. So tonight I was looking for those receipts, to prove I paid those bills. A while ago I went into a little room behind my office where we keep some old files, and there—”

Tork stopped speaking, sucked in a long breath. He glanced up and down the block, his face pale, thin lips twitching. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “He’s still there. You’ll see why I cried for help.”

He pulled a ring of keys from his coat, stooped to unlock the door. A car turned from an alley, its headbeams stroking the business fronts across the street. Childers watched it a moment, then turned to follow Tork inside.

The storekeeper had unlocked the door when the car stopped behind them. There was a whizzing sound, a thud, a crunch. Childers caught Tork’s body as it slumped forward. The car roared away.

A hot wetness touched the detective’s hands. He caught the weakening shudder as life deserted the little merchant. Easing the body onto the pavement, he felt for the murder instrument.

He found it at the nape of Tork’s neck. Grasping a thin handful of feathers, he pulled it out. It was a huge dart with a striking point ten or twelve inches long. The point was set in a slim haft of leaded cork. The haft was tufted with waxed turkey feathers.

“Medieval,” Childers muttered, staring at the bloody dart. “Likely they had guns to back them up if it missed. Wonder why they didn’t use guns?” He looked back, saw wispy fog-goblins silently dancing along the thoroughfare. “Bullets can be traced, a thing like this, never,” he mused.

The sensation that hostile eyes probed him through the fog tingled his spine. On the river a boat whistle hooted dismally. A cat appeared, as if from nowhere. He kicked it away from the corpse, produced a flashlight from his coat, and entered the dark shoe store.

There was a phone on a wrapping counter. He dialed detective headquarters, told Lieutenant Anderson what had happened. “Yes,” he said, when ready to hang up, “it is a dart. A big one with turkey feathers.”

Anderson said he’d be right over, snapped back the phone. Childers entered the office in back. A door opposite him was closed. He opened it, flicked on the light.

A man lay in the middle of the floor. Childers recognized him, noted what looked like a bullet hole between his wide-stretched eyes. “Too bad, Joey,” he murmured, ovaling the deadish face in the light. “You sure came down in the world, working the bleed on small fry like Tork.”

The sprawled figure was Joe Estramer, alias a dozen other guys. Artist in blackmail, inventor of many new con-game tricks. Smooth, smart, deadly, cruel—Estramer had been the synthesis of them all. It would have been no surprise had Childers found his corpse in a ritzy suite at some swanky hotel; but here—here in a dusty back room of an ordinary shoe store?

Estramer wore a black and grey pencil-stripe suit, white shirt, maroon tie. A light grey felt hat stood, crown up, on the floor beside him. Facts in the killing seemed clear enough to Childers. The blackmailer had been there to squeeze money from Tork. Tork had killed him. Estramer’s pals had got even—

His deduction hit a snag. Estramer had never traveled with a pack. Estramer had always worked strictly solo. Childers wondered what blackmail engendering deed lived in Tork’s past. He couldn’t imagine Tork ever committing a crime. Before going to Estramer he moved a spot of light around the room. There was a blank wall, a filing cabinet, a corner, a window—

The light hit her and the girl screamed like she was stabbed. He saw trim heels, curvaceous legs, a slim ivory-colored hand as she scrambled through an open window. He heard her heels clicking on the alley brick as he went through after her. He was maybe fifty feet behind when she turned onto the through stem.

He almost bumped into three musicians as he turned the corner. A quick glance told him the trio was returning home from an all night shindig. One of them was a Goliath, a veritable man-mountain. It was he who grabbed Childers’ shoulder, jerked him up and back. “Hold, guy. What yer chasin’ the lady fer?”

Childers flashed his badge. The big man set him down like he was on fire. “She went that away,” he said, pointing to the black jaws of an alleyway. “Atween them buildin’s”

The alleyway was so narrow Childers’ shoulders rubbed. He made to thumb on his flash. It was slapped from his fingers. Something hard smacked his head, but he didn’t fade. He struck out blindly. Somebody grunted. A man’s voice said, “Take it easy, bo.”

Fingers clawed his gun from his shoulder-rig. Hands took him from behind. Then it really got dark—too dark for this world.

He heard a click, felt his feet leave the ground, only he still stood on something firm. His body shot upward, swung over, swayed slowly through space. Such a crazy angle? Why didn’t he fall, land somewhere? Something like hair was in his eyes.

A car’s motor roared. He was moving. Not an inch from his ear a feminine voice whispered, “Are you alive?”

He whispered back, “I’m alive. Who are you?”

“Miss Flower Blue,” said the whisper. “Who are you?”

“Tony Childers, a ham from Homicide.”

“A detective?”

“Suit yourself,” he said, disgustedly. “Could a detective get in such a jam?”

“Where are we?” asked the girl.

“I don’t know. Are you the girl I chased?”

“Must be,” she said. “But I didn’t kill Joey. I didn’t know you were a detective.”

“Who killed him then?”

“I don’t know. He’s been hanging around Annie Mayes.”

“Cockleburr Annie Mayes?”

“Yes. A while ago I thought he was on his way to meet her. I followed him in my car. You know, Joey’s been on his good behavior since that fur swindle at Fornash’s. You know about that?”

“Yes. Joey came clear on that play by less than the skin of his teeth. But it would take more than that to scare him out.”

“He’s been seeing Annie Mayes a lot lately. And last night I thought he was going to meet her. But he wasn’t. It was Julius Carp. He met Julius Carp.”

“Julius Carp? Hmmm,” purred Childers. “Wonder where we are? We’re moving. Suppose we’re inside a coffin?” The girl was cool. He marveled at her composure, thought it strange he’d never heard of her. “Could be,” she said.

Julius Carp’s dishy face with its pigeon-foot wrinkles, agate eyes, and pasty skin jumped in the dark before Childers’ eyes. The little trail away from hot coffee and doughnuts was sure leading into a morass-macabre.

The girl said, “Carp and two men, one of them a big fellow, got into Joey’s car. I drove around after them a while, then lost them. Later I saw Joey’s car parked near Tork’s shoe store.” She paused, her whisper seeming to dry out.

“Go on,” said Childers. While she talked there wasn’t so much danger their plight would send her into hysterics. So far she’d displayed admirable courage.

“I parked and waited in my car,” she said. “In a few minutes Carp came from an alley beside Tork’s store, glanced up and down the block, then went back. I got out, entered the alleyway, stood just inside it. After a while Carp and three men came from Tork’s store. Joey wasn’t with them. I knew Carp had gone through the alleyway and entered the store from the alley.

“I went back to the alley. At the rear of the store I found a window open. It was dark inside. I must have been crazy, worried over Joey like I was. Anyway, I climbed through the window, was feeling my way along a wall when a fellow came in with a flashlight—you.”

She was probably lying, Childers decided. He knew headquarters would never swallow such a story. “When I put the light on Joey was the first you knew he was dead, eh?”

“Yes,” she said. “I thought you were with Carp. That’s why I ran.”

“You knew Joe Estramer well, huh?”

“Very.” Her whisper was softer when she spoke of Estramer, sketchy with little bumps.

“You think Joey was in on some scheme with Carp?”

“No. Joey hated Carp.”

“Got any ideas?” He was guessing that she’d probably been in the shoe store with Estramer when he was killed, and was making her getaway when he discovered her.

“Only that Carp must be mixed in with Joey’s murder somehow. Carp is soft on Cockleburr Annie, and Joey’s been playing up to her. Naturally Carp wouldn’t love him for that.”

Childers knew Cockleburr Annie Mayes. She was the boldest item in females in town. She was beautiful with her boldness, though, a soft blonde with sad eyes. A hole-in-the-wall night club, the Cameo, over on Cameo Street, featured her as a singer. The night club belonged to Julius Carp.

Carp also owned another spot across town, the Medieval Sports Club, a joint where games of the Middle Ages were resurrected and indulged in by a bunch of crackpots. Carp was a master at discus throwing. Childers guessed that Cockleburr Annie had been beating Flower Blue’s time with handsome Joey Estramer.

Suddenly the girl moved a hand, pressed something against his chest. “It’s a gun,” she said. “I found it in Tork’s back room, near the wall. Maybe it’s the gun that was used on—on Joey.”

He took it, knew by touch that it was a .32 revolver. Sniffing it he knew that it hadn’t been fired recently. “I’ll keep it,” he said. “Tell me, where do you live, where do you work?”

“I live at Bixler Court. I’m a model at Fornash’s.”

“Live alone?”

“Now I do.” A moment’s pause, then fine said, “I didn’t kill Joey.”

“How’d you get in here—wherever we are?”

“I ran into a blanket, or something like one,” she told him. “I turned into an alley to get away from you. Somebody caught me in the dark, wrapped me, unwrapped me. I couldn’t see where they were putting me. A minute later they put you in—there’s a door of some kind.”

Suddenly all motion quit. Outside somebody said, “Okay. Fetch them out.” Whatever encased them moved, swung upward. “We’re being carried,” whispered the girl. “Do you really think we’re in a coffin?”

“Might be, but don’t get the jitters now. Keep your head.”

“They want to get rid of us because they think we know too much,” she said, her voice shaky for the first time. “They might bury us or drop us in the river.”

“We’d hear the boat whistles if we were near the river. It’s a foggy night,” he reminded her.

All at once it was as if they were inside a can and dropped onto the pavement. Maybe ten seconds skipped by, then there came a click. Fresh air flowed over them. Outside it was dark. A voice said, “Get out, flatfoot”

Childers obeyed. The click came again. Feet sounded, moving away. The gun that jammed Childers’ ribs held steadily. They were taking the girl away. He marveled that she didn’t cry out.

A jab from the gun punctuated a voiced order. “Move up, straight ahead.” Childers walked, counting his steps. Forty and he ran into a wall. No! A wall didn’t move. A sliding door. He was shoved into space.

He lit on his feet with a jar that burst a batch of stars in front of his eyes. The drop had been maybe fifteen feet. The darkness was airy ebony. Dropping to one knee, he felt the floor. It was sticky. He sniffed it. Oil.

A sliding, groaning sound came from above. Fear touched him a cold flash, passed on, leaving him angry, eager, ready to fight. Fight? The sound drew nearer, then something struck his face. He grabbed it. An oily cable. He knew where he was then—in a pit at the bottom of an elevator shaft. The elevator was coming down.

Childers moved fast, inspecting the walls with the flat of his hands. The walls were concrete, very smooth. He went onto his knees, felt over the floor. It was laid with unmortared brick. He stood up and bumped his head on the underside of the descending elevator. It was coming down slowly, filling the shaft like a cork fills a bottle mouth. Death would come like that, slowly, horribly.

Fear wedged a dry knot in his throat, raced his heart madly. The pattern of his coming murder was not intricate, but of a design that would baffle by its very simplicity. He would be found squashed, but who could ever say how he’d got into the pit?

He dropped to his knees. In a few seconds the elevator platform caressed his shoulders. He dropped onto his stomach, rolled over onto his back. If it came all the way he’d take it in the face, damn them!

Strangely then, Childers wondered if any of the boys had looted his locker in the squad room and eaten his doughnuts. His next thought was of something he’d once read—something about a dying queen who’d used her last breath to inquire concerning the fate of a fly that had buzzed into a spider’s web.

“How damned inappropriate!” he muttered. With a bumping crunch the elevator settled down solidly.

CHAPTER II

For perhaps a minute the elevator remained at the bottom of the shaft, then lifted slowly, stopping when its platform touched even with the basement ceiling. The basement was flooded with light now. A tall young man, nattily dressed, flashlight in hand, leaned under the cage and peered into the pit. All he saw was three stacks of oily bricks, two feet high and neatly placed. Above his head, noiselessly, Tony Childers swung out, let go the cable guides, and fell onto his back.

The man whirled, dislodging Childers. The detective recognized him as he jammed the unloaded .32 against his chest. It was a bluff he thought would work.

“You ought to make sure when you try for a kill,” Childers said, eyes gleaming behind big smudges of oil and grease. “Those loose floor bricks sure will cause you plenty of hell!”

The young man was Lloyd Fornash, son of the wealthy department store owner. Childers knew this was the Fornash Store basement. Lloyd Fornash was an assistant manager in his father’s store. He had a reputation for level-headedness, honesty, and ambition.

“I thought—” he stammered, staring into Childers’ grimy face, “that—you see—it’s like this. Our night watchman phoned the house a few minutes ago. I was the only one out of bed, so I took the call. He said someone had broken into the basement here. I came right over, and—”

“And didn’t call the cops?” interrupted the detective.

“I wanted to make certain before bothering them,” replied Fornash, his voice becoming more calm. “If it interests you, our night watchman has been murdered. Maybe you killed him?”

Childers gave a cheerless grin, stepped back. For the first time Fornash actually saw the gun. He deliberately lunged forward, sent a hard right at Childers’ head. It connected. Childers went down. While his head buzzed, Fornash tore the gun from Childers’ hand, then aimed a kick at his face.

Childers dodged it, grabbed Fornash’s foot with both hands and jerked. Fornash’s back smacked the floor. Childers had the department store executive’s throat in his hands when he said, “You don’t know me, squirt, but I know you. I’m Detective Tony Childers, City Homicide Detail.”

“We-l-l,” gurgled Fornash, wincing painfully, “why didn’t you say so? I’ll be glad to return your gun.” He did, graciously, not asking to see Childers’ badge, and said, “Come along, I’ll show you the night watchman, He was stabbed in the throat.”

One glance told Childers that a dart like the one in his coat pocket had punched the bloody hole in the night watchman’s throat. The man was sprawled at the foot of a basement stairway. He’d been dead only a matter of minutes.

“What time did he phone your house?” Childers asked.

“I can’t say exactly,” Fornash replied thoughtfully. “Twenty-five minutes ago would be a close guess.”

“That phone on an outside line?” Childers pointed at a telephone on a billing-clerk’s desk behind the stairway.

“Yes, sir,” said Fornash, clearing his throat uneasily. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Childers, just how did you get in here?”

“I was brought here. By whom I don’t know. After they came in here they didn’t turn on the lights. One of them pushed me into the elevator pit, then pushed the down button on the wall. The elevator is automatic, I know. At what floor is it usually parked at quitting time?”

“The first floor,” Fornash told him. “But the watchman often used it.”

Childers took the dart that had killed Tork from his coat. “Ever see a hellish thing like that?” he asked Fornash, holding it out. “Does anybody use such wicked things in games—target throwing?”

Fornash’s face paled slightly as he wagged his head. “We sell dart-and-target sets in the store, but nothing like that. I never saw one a third that large.”

“There’s a model works in your store. A Miss Flower Blue. Know her?”

“Yes, I—I—” Fornash’s voice jerked into silence, he sent a confused glance at the floor.

“Friendly with her?”

The executive lifted his head, eyes flashing angrily. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

“Right,” said Childers, smiling. “I take it you know Miss Blue is sweet on the crook, Joe Estramer?”

“That’s a lie!” Fornash’s face reddened, bulged at the jowls.

Childers laughed, “You’d know,” he said.

“I knew—know Joe Estramer,” retorted Fornash. “He swindled our firm out of a number of rare silver fox furs. He cleaned up something like twenty-five thousand dollars, then managed to come clear with the law.”

“It didn’t come under Homicide,” said Childers. “So I wouldn’t know. But I’m told you doubted your own furrier’s appraisal on those fox pelts and turned them over to an outside furrier for a check appraisal. It was too bad the outside appraiser turned out to be a crook. Handsome Joey is a slick number. One time he’s a fake prize fight promoter, next he’s a bogus real estate agent, and next he’s a big gee for a junky furrier—a little hophead who claimed you sold him some furs, and you couldn’t prove you didn’t.”

“Look,” said Fornash, his manner suddenly peevish, “I didn’t release those furs for appraisal. Permission was given by telephone, presumably by my secretary. But that was all wrong, and—”

“Skip it,” said the detective. “It didn’t come under Homicide. Now if there’d be been a murder… ” Childers picked a long bright blonde hair off his coat, glanced at it, decided Flower Blue was a blonde.

Fornash gaped at him, a puzzled frown creasing his face.

“One more thing,” the detective said, “anybody try to blackmail you lately?”

“No,” said Fornash.

“No?” Childers returned, flatly. He slipped the dart into his pocket, glanced studiously down at the night watchman’s purpling face.

“Why don’t you report this killing to headquarters?” Fornash asked.

Childers wrapped the golden hair around his finger, slipped off the curl, put it in a vest pocket. “My plans are different,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Am I under arrest?” Fornash asked as Childers took his arm.

“Not yet. We’ll find a cop out front.” There was a cop on the corner. Childers whistled to him. When he came up, Childers said, “A fresh stiff inside, officer. The store night watchman. Mr. Fornash here will explain—it was murder.”

“Where you pick up the oil, Tony?” asked the patrolman, squinting at Childers’ face.

“In an elevator shaft—I almost went to press. You’ll hear about it later. Phone Lieutenant Anderson, report the murder. Fornash will show you the corpse; also make certain Fornash is around when Homicide arrives. Get me?”

“I get you,” said the cop tightly, glancing at Fornash with cold eyes. “I thought you might be around, Tony. I saw your coupe parked up the block, and—”

“My coupe? Up which block?” interrupted Childers.

“This block. Up there.” The cop pointed the direction. “And I heard about you playing tricks over at Tork’s shoe store. Anderson’s sore as hell, the way you ran Homicide down to Tork’s to see a corpse that wasn’t there. All they found was a couple of puddles of blood, one out front and one in back. Anderson is shouting that Medical ought to send you to the behavior clinic.”

“It’ll all come out in the wash,” Childers said thoughtfully.

“Anderson’ll skin you for leaving here—if you do,” said the cop.

“I’ll risk it,” Childers said, shoving his hands deep into his hip pockets and gnawing his upper lip studiously. “You say my coupe’s up the block?”

“Don’t you even know where you parked your own car?” said the patrolman.

“Tell Anderson I’ll need that suspension for disobeying departmental rules. It’ll give me a chance to take the rest I’m going to need.”

Childers found his coupe parked up the block, like the cop had said, key in ignition where he’d left it. “Accommodating of them,” he mused, slipping under the wheel. He wondered why his coupe had been driven from in front of Gentz’s candy store—thought that perhaps riding space required by him and Flower Blue, with whatever had encased them, had forced part of the mob to find other means of transportation. The car that had stopped for Tork’s killing had been a sedan. If they’d needed his car, that meant there were several of them.

He switched on the ignition. Light from the instrument panel lit up the fresh blood soaking the seat beside him. His heels raked something on the floor. He reached down, picked up a pair of woman’s shoes. He recognized them instantly. They were the only things about her he could have recognized. His flash’s beam had limned them clearly as they’d disappeared through Tork’s back window.

In a twinkling he’d sent power to the coupe’s engine, angled it away from the curb. His lean jaws went squarish, his curved chin, blunt. He didn’t even think to abuse the swirling fog when it impeded his driving. He thought he knew where he was going now. He only hoped it wasn’t just a way station on a red road to hell.

At Julius Carp’s Medieval Sports Club the custodian was a scrawny man with a weedy mustache and shriveled face. When Childers knocked on the side door he opened it, but on seeing the begrimed condition of the detective’s face tried to close it again. Childers grinned, pushed in past him.

“It’s Homicide, old chum, so don’t mind the oil,” he said. He flashed his badge. “I’m interested in medieval sports, especially dart-throwing. Suppose you lead me to the range room?”

“Can’t refuse a copper,” wheezed the old man. “Nothin’ in the range room, though. Nothin’ anywheres. Mr. Carp keeps things on the up an’ up, I tell you.”

He unlocked the fourth door down the hall, stood aside for Childers to enter. “Here it is, the range room, like you wanted,” he said. “Look all you like. What’s the matter, somebody murder somebody?”

Childers didn’t reply. The range room was just that—a long narrow room with archery racks and dartboards at one end, a long row of targets at the other. Beyond the dartboards, filled with brightly feathered missiles much smaller than the vicious instrument that had killed Simon Tork, Childers saw an array of photographs tacked on the wall.

“Pictures?” he said, stepping over to stand in front of them, hands shoved deep in his hip pockets.

The old man shuffled to a stop behind him. “Yeah, some pictures of contest winners. Everyone of ‘em is a ace-high dart-thrower, too. Every one of ‘em is a prize-winner.”

Childers pointed to a picture of a pretty, wide-eyed brunette. “She’s a prize-winner, sure enough,” he said. “Who is she?”

The custodian’s reply wasn’t much of a surprise. “Miss Flower Blue. She’s one of the top-notchers. Won more prizes on the darts than anybody, ‘ceptin’ Guy Boomer.”

Childers’ gaze lingered approvingly on Flower Blue’s face for a moment, then he pointed to another picture, that of a big man with a head shaped like a keg. “Maybe that’s Boomer?”

“Right,” said the custodian. “He used to be a wrestler, an’ a good one. Now he kind of works around for Mr. Carp.”

A picture at the end of the row gave Childers a shock. “Lloyd Fornash comes here too, eh?” he said.

“Used to,” replied the custodian, “but not since last week. Last week him and Mr. Carp got to bettin’ money on a dart match, an’ Mr. Carp lost a great lot—a great lot! I reckon Mr. Fornash won ten, ‘leven thousand from Mr. Carp. Then he quit and wouldn’t give Mr. Carp a chance to win his money back. Mr. Carp got sore and ordered the young whippersnapper out of here. Told him never to come back, too.”

“Carp right handy with the darts?” Childers inquired.

“He’s good with ‘em,” said the custodian. “Throws a bit too hard, but he’s good.”

Childers turned to leave. “If you’d like to look in some of the other rooms, you’re welcome,” said the old man.

“No, thanks,” Childers said. In the hall he stopped at a phone booth long enough to make sure of Aussie Mellon’s address.

Simon Tork’s former partner in the shoe retailing business lived on Ridenour Street, in a little house that showed no light as Childers drove up and parked. After the detective had rung the door bell four times a hall light winked on. A minute later a wispy middle-aged man entered the hall. He didn’t open the door, but spoke through the glass.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Tony Childers. You know me, Mr. Mellon.”

“Yes—yes, so I do. What do you want?”

“There’s been some trouble at the shoe store. I want to talk with you.”

“I got nothing to do with the shoe store now,” said Mellon. “I sold my interest to Simon. I got nothing to do with any trouble of his.”

“Open the door,” said Childers, leveling his voice. “Tork’s been murdered.”

Mellon quickly unlocked the door, stepped back, holding a faded bathrobe tightly about his little figure. “I don’t know anything about it. Simon owed me money, but I don’t—”

“You two quarreled,” interrupted Childers, moving close to the frail man, “Simon refused to pay you some money you thought you had coming. This morning, around two o’clock, you killed him. I’m arresting you, Mr. Mellon.”

“No! No!” whined Mellon, “I was asleep at two o’clock. Honest. I didn’t kill Simon. He was my friend. A little squabble, we had. Yes. But nothing like makes for murder. I didn’t do it.” His voice softened, purring with defeat. “If my wife was only home she’d tell you the truth. She’d tell you I was asleep since early last night. And—”

Childers grabbed at Mellon’s bathrobe, caught the lapel, jerked it from the little man’s hands. Mellon was fully dressed, wearing a dark business suit. “You sleep like that—in worsteds?” asked the detective.

Mellon’s lips loosened, wobbled. “No. You see…” He gulped, sent out a colorless tongue to swab blistery lips. “I should have called the police,” he moaned. “But I was scared. I’ll tell you all about it. Only give me time. I’ll tell you, truly.”

He swabbed his lips again, stared at the detective with frightened eyes, then stared beyond him at the blackness beyond the door glass. A hard shudder traced his small frame.

“A while ago the doorbell woke me. I got up and came to the door. I was afraid of nothing then—I opened the door. Just like that—I opened it. And Simon fell—fell inside. He—Oh, heaven help me, Mr. Detective! It was horrible—horrible. Blood—blood…” Mellon moaned, wrung his pale hands. His chin jerked, tears broke from his fear-stretched eyes.

“How can I tell you?” he chattered. “They asked for five thousand—it was here. The money. I had it in the house. So I—”

The door swung open. No one was there. Out of the darkness came a soft fluttering sound, then a thud. After Aussie Mellon fell onto the floor on his back a thin wisp of feathers at his throat quivered.

Blood, as if drawn forth by that quiver, sprouted under the cork haft of the giant dart.

Childers threw a hand, mashed the light button, bringing darkness. He slammed the door, flipped home the night latch. “I wonder,” he murmured, “was that one meant for me or—him?”

He felt his way to a hall stand where he’d spotted a phone. He’d dialed the number so often that the darkness was no hindrance. A sergeant answered.

“You, Tony?” he barked. “We thought you’d been croaked.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Anderson?” Childers inquired.

“Out with the boys chasing old man Fornash’s only son,” said the sergeant. “The rich boy got away.” The sergeant drew his breath so hard it rattled in the receiver. “The beat cop found something you missed. It was in Fornash’s car—a dame’s purse. Identification cards in it too; belonged to a Miss Flower Blue. After the patrolman found it he was biffed on the noggin. Some of Fornash’s pals helped him get away.

“Anderson’s raising hell because you left a killer like him in one man’s care. He got the chief out of bed. The whole department’s on its ear. This time, Tony, your high-handed ways are going to cost you your job. The chief’s already said he’s going to kick you out of the department, and personally.”

Calmly, Childers said, “There’s a corpse at 2232 Ridenour Street. A poor little shoe salesman named Aussie Mellon. You’d better see to it somebody comes right over. And I won’t be here. Thirty minutes from now, if I’m able, I’ll call or come in. If I don’t, you can tell Lieutenant Anderson the dozen doughnuts in my locker are his. They can go as a peace offering from a dead dick.” He cradled the phone and began feeling his way down the hall, toward the back of the house.

He was sorry he’d ever bluffed Aussie Mellon, trying to scare out of him the full story of what had happened when the killers brought Simon Tork’s corpse to his door. He knew now how the blood had got in his car. They’d used it to transport Tork’s body.

The man clutching a gun, crouched and waiting beside Childers’ coupe, didn’t move until he heard a car’s motor come to life in the alley back of Mellon’s house, then he stood up, mumbling an oath. When he looked in the detective’s coupe, he cursed some more. This time Childers had taken the ignition keys with him.

CHAPTER III

Old man Gentz, the candy man, awoke from a troubled sleep with a hand gently pressing his shoulder. The bedlamp was burning when he opened his eyes. He came up with a jolt, stared wildly at the oil-streaked face of Detective Tony Childers.

“Nice and easy,” said the detective soothingly. “Your wife let me in, told me where to find you. It’s four A.M., and you’re not being arrested for killing a crook named Joe Estramer. That is, you’re not unless you refuse to tell me exactly what happened at your candy store this morning.”

Gentz gulped, twisted into a sitting position, then said, “He wasn’t dead—I told you the truth. He was alive, like I said. But he was not a customer. I didn’t know him.”

“But you really thought he was dead at first?”

“Yes,” Gentz nodded loosely. “I got the call and went to the store, like I told you. When I went in he was in a booth, his head back, his arms down. There was blood over his face, from a hole between his eyes. I didn’t go to him. While I’m standing there, scared, not knowing which way to turn, two men came in. I’d locked the door, but they had a key that fit.

“One of them, a big fellow, took a gun from his pocket. ‘It’s your pistol,’ he said. It was true; it was mine. The gun I leave under the counter, near the register.

“‘You killed that man,’ the smaller fellow said. ‘So we’re here to help you out. You pay us, and we’ll remove the body. If you won’t pay us, we’ll call the law. They’ll fry you for murder.’”

A helpless look clothed Gentz’s face. “So what could I do?”

“How much did you give them?” Childers asked.

“All I had in the store safe. Two thousand, three hundred dollars.”

“And what happened?”

“They went out. I thought they’d double-crossed me. I didn’t know what to do; then I did what I should have done at first. I called the police department.”

“And then?”

“When I came out of the phone booth the man I thought was dead was gone. He’d walked out. See? He wasn’t dead at all. It was a skin game, a swindle.”

“Let me guess how the man you thought was dead was dressed. See if I’m right. He had on a black and grey pencil-stripe suit, a maroon tie, a white shirt, a light grey hat.”

“Yes. Yes,” chattered Gentz. “That’s correct. Have you got him in jail?”

“No,” said Childers. “You made a bad mistake. You should have told me all about it at first.”

“I know, I know,” said Gentz, twisting his fingers together. “Has something else happened? Have they worked the same trick on somebody else?”

Childers nodded, taking the unloaded .32 from his pocket. “This your gun?” he asked.

“Yes.” Gentz nodded, staring at the weapon. “They didn’t give it back.”

“Maybe they did take the man from the booth. Maybe while you were at the phone—”

“No. They didn’t come back.”

“But you aren’t sure?”

“No, not sure, but almost. I don’t think they came back.”

“I think,” said the detective, moving to the door, “that you, Simon Tork and Aussie Mellon were guinea pigs in a test. Used to perfect an experiment before it was tried on bigger specimens.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Gentz, his face confused.

Childers grinned cheerlessly. “Guinea pigs carry no tales—but don’t worry about it.”

His grin quit. “Be ready to go down to headquarters. The police may need your help soon.” He went out, saying, “S’ long, Mr. Gentz.”

Childers thought he recognized the sedan parked in front of Julius Carp’s house on North Avenue. He drove on past, parked around the next corner. After talking with Gentz he’d searched the car he’d driven away from the alley in back of Mellon’s house. Besides other interesting things, he had found a loaded .45 automatic and a ring of keys. He had gun and keys as he walked back to Carp’s house.

Carp’s house was dark. The fog had lifted on a soft breeze. All objects near the street-lamps were clearly visible. Childers entered the vestibule. Carefully then, as noiselessly as possible, he began trying the keys in the door. One fit and he let himself inside. With the door closed, he stood in the dark, listening. Soon he knew others were awake in the house.

Voices, muffled and almost unintelligible, came from upstairs. One, vaguely familiar, said, “You’d better make the call, and fast.”

“First you’ll have to prove the girl is safe,” came the reply. “If you’ve harmed her I won’t go through with it.”

“You’ll go through with it, okay,” was the reply. “They’re your darts. The cops will find more like them in your room. They’ve already pinned one killing on you. Now besides looking for you, they want to know what you did with little Miss Blue. Since they found her purse you don’t have a ghost of a chance.”

“Kill me then,” retorted the familiar voice.

Another voice, soft and silky, broke in. Childers heard it, showed the darkness a satisfied smile. “We can turn the play,” it said. “It works either way. Stick a knife in your gullet and your hot-headed chum here will pay up. How about it, chummy? Fifty grand, cash on the barrelhead, and we’ll puncture his pipes and leave Cockleburr Annie’s knife in the hole. It makes for a motive. The dicks will believe she bumped him for killing her sweety.” The silky voice laughed. “Her sweety, get it? Little Joey Estramer, the bright-minded boy.”

“I’ll pay it,” came a muffled voice.

The familiar voice sounded, its tone desperate. “I’ll make the call. Give me the phone.”

“Seventy-five grand if you kill him and not me,” said the muffled voice.

Silky said, “Maybe you’ll make a higher offer, kid.”

There was a gasp. “Yes, yes. One hundred thousand!”

“One hundred and twenty-five,” bid the muffled tone.

“You want to go higher, darling, to save your life?” The silky voice was gloating.

“One-fifty,” came the choked reply.

The silky voice was confident now, viciously happy. “Whoever has the most dough lives to ride out a murder frame. Speak up, suckers.”

“I’ll pay two hundred grand. It’s all I got,” chokingly said the muffled voice. “Untie me. I’ll get it for you.”

“I’ll go higher!” sobbed the other bidder. “Give me the phone. I’ll make the call.”

“My friend and I will go outside and talk it over,” come the smooth-toned reply.

Childers saw a dim oblong of light on the upstairs ceiling blur as the men walked into the hall. From near the top of the stairs, Silky Voice said, “We’ll take the two hundred grand, then turn the play. After he hands over the money, we’ll kill him. The sap will still pay up. He’ll have to, or stew in his own broth.”

“Play both ends against the middle, eh?” came the guttural response. “In the end the sap will fry anyway. What sticks me is what we’re going to do with Cockleburr Annie.”

“Bury her somewhere in her leg o’ beef coffin,” replied Silky Voice. “Just leave Annie to me.”

“So far in this play, so good,” was the throaty reply. “We got guys in frames for the other killings, but we ain’t got anybody in a frame for Annie’s murder, if it happens. We’d be better off if you hadn’t led her on, got her all browsy over you. Her butting in on the Tork play wasn’t too good. It was the first hitch. That dick, Childers, was the next one.

“That flatfoot’s got more lives than a bobtailed cat. You got to give him credit, swiping Ray’s car while Ray was waiting by his jalopy, waiting to give him lead poisoning. He might get smart enough to find us. Ray’s car had a key to this place in it, also a gun.”

“He won’t come here,” said Silky Voice. “Gentz didn’t talk. Tork and Aussie Mellon didn’t get a chance. He hasn’t got a thing on us.”

“We got to bump old man Gentz,” was the reply. “We got to tighten things up. This game is going to earn some real dough. One more worry, though, the flatfoot has the darts to work on. He might go to the Medieval Sports Club and check on guys that can throw them.”

“And where will that get him? The guys we got in frames are all expert dart-throwers, except Aussie Mellon, and he’s croaked. The more the flatfoot noses in, the more he’s going to think wrong is right. I tell you I’ve planned this one solid. We’re manufacturing the reasons for blackmail, then collecting on them. It’s a sweet new angle. As the old saying goes, we’re having our cake and eating it, too.

“The old way a guy had to have something dirty in his past before the squeeze could be put on. Our way, we give them what looks like a dirty present. Frame them for murder, then let them see the frame—they’ll always fork over before you call the coppers. You saw how Gentz paid up, and Tork—and Aussie Mellon, too, when he saw Tork’s corpse. This racket is a natural.”

The guttural reply was tinged with some doubt. “The only hitch is Annie. We can leave the department store model where she is, let her rot if nobody finds her. What does she know? Nothing. But, Annie…”

“I’ll figure out a way to dispose of Annie, don’t worry,” said Silky Voice.

“The flatfoot knows we got her, don’t forget.”

“Sure, he does; but he doesn’t know who we are, neither does Annie. She hasn’t seen any of us. The only voice she’d recognize is mine, and she hasn’t heard it.”

“Let’s go in and collect, get this over with,” was the reply. The guttural tone was edged with impatience.

The sound of their voices dropped, became almost indistinguishable, as they reentered the room.

Childers moved forward, groping his way. Four steps and he kicked something that gave with a hollow sound. He went to one knee, felt along the wall. A leather object came under his hands. He finger-traced it. “A fiddle case,” he whispered. “The musicians…”

He recalled the human monstrosity that had stopped him in his chase after the girl. He hadn’t got a good look at the big ape’s face, but “Could be,” he mused.

He opened the fiddle case. A short-snouted automatic rifle was inside. He recalled there had been three musicians. He moved his hands, found another case—a monster. “For the cello,” he told himself. He found the huge metal clasp that locked it. He had to use both hands to pry the clasp open.

A scream from above brought him to his feet, automatic in hand. “I’ve paid you—don’t kill me! Don’t!”

Childers mounted the stairs four at a leap, thanking the heavy carpet that muffled his steps. It was rotten odds, four to one, but with the gun and a surprise entrance, maybe he’d have a chance. He couldn’t let murder happen under his nose and do nothing to stop it.

They heard him coming. The hall lights flashed on behind him. A huge form shadowed the stair well. Something wafted past his ears, thudded in the wall. The automatic pounded his palm, hard, as he drove lead and fire upward.

Fire and lead answered fire and lead. Something, like a mighty hand, grabbed his left wrist, jerked it. The big shadow up there was falling. He flattened to the wall, sidestepping the plunging body.

Two figures suddenly popped up where the big one had been. Guns roared.

Twin fingers of fiery death sought him out. His left arm went dead to the shoulder as a slug tore through it. He climbed on, leaping into the stifling smoke, upward, pumping lead! A hoarse scream. Another body hurtled down. The top of the stairs went vacant.

Down the hall a door slammed. Childers raced at the sound, tore at the door knob.

A warning voice came from beyond the door. “They’re not here. They slammed the door, went down the hall.” The warning came too late. Childers whirled. Joe Estramer stood at the end of the hall, an automatic in his fist. “Drop the gat, Tony,” he said.

Childers let the gun fall. “Hello, Joey,” he said, a cold smile flicking his lips.

“Not surprised, eh?” the blackmailer said.

“No. After talking with Gentz, I knew you were alive. You played dead in his candy store, so it was easy to guess you also played dead in Tork’s back room—played dead there to fool Cockleburr Annie. If she hadn’t been there to lure me away, I’d have found you out then.”

“And died for your trouble,” said Estramer. “One more step my way, and I meant to kill you.”

“Then I have little Annie to thank for saving my life,” said Childers. “I’ll not forget.”

“Dead men can’t remember, Tony.”

“But I’m not a dead man, Joey. Not yet.”

“You’re busy borrowing minutes, though. After you’re dead and rotten we’ll still be skimming along on the golden wave, playing our little game. Does that gripe you, shamus? Those two guys you gunned just now aren’t important. Are they, Ray?”

A voice behind Childers said, “No. Boomer was good with the darts, and Skinny was a good locksmith; but there are others.”

“Locking Annie and me in that fake cello case was a smooth stunt, Joey,” said Childers, talking to gain time, and not knowing what he’d do with it when he’d gained it. “Dressing your hoodlums up like musicians was another slick trick. Where you made your mistake was letting old man Gentz live.”

“Still time to fix that little slip after we croak you,” Estramer said.

Childers went on, “Gentz told me about you practicing your play on him. I figured if you’d played dead once, you’d do it again. I’d been to the Medieval Sports Club and found out Lloyd Fornash and Julius Carp had quarreled. That quarrel gave a motive, and put Fornash or Carp in a frame in case either of them was murdered. It was easy then to guess where and on whom you meant to pull your first big stunt. Especially after I learned Fornash had been grabbed away from the cop. It was logical you’d stage the play here, in Carp’s house.”

“Gab on, Sherlock,” said Estramer, grinning. “We’ll listen. I’m trying to think now who’ll pay up when he finds your corpse in his bedroom. Maybe it’ll be old man Fornash—could be he’d believe his son had killed you.”

Childers smiled. “Nice headwork, Joey. Only before I left Gentz’s house I phoned headquarters, told them where I was going. They ought to be outside just about this minute.” He knew the lie was weak.

Estramer’s wicked smile failed to fade. “And didn’t come in when the guns popped awhile ago? Don’t make me laugh. You know what, Tony, I think I’ll have Fornash kill you. It’ll be better to have a legit’ case when we go to bleed his papa. Open the door, Tony, and take a look at what we got in there.”

The detective opened the door. Lloyd Fornash and Julius Carp were tied in chairs. The strain the past few minutes had brought upon them was painfully evident in their haggard faces.

“Two valuable babies,” commented the man called Ray, coming in close at Childers’ back.

Estramer strode over to a clothes closet, opened the door, and helped out a pretty barefooted brunette. She was bound and gagged.

At sight of her Lloyd Fornash gasped. Estramer led her to a chair, then untied Fornash’s hands. “I got a little piece of work for you, kid.” he said. He took a giant dart from his coat. “I want you to throw this—right into the middle of the flatfoot’s neck. If you’ll oblige, and quick, I won’t push pins under your beautiful girl friend’s fingernails.”

Childers knew, then, why Estramer had grabbed up Flower Blue. She was the goad that made Fornash skip rope. Fornash shuddered, gasped, as Estramer put the dart in his hand.

Julius Carp spoke. “Fiends! Murderous fiends!” His voice was a rattling croak.

“He feels bad,” Estramer told Childers. “We got two hundred grand from him, now we’re going to bump him off.” He pulled a pin from his coat lapel, reached and got the brunette’s hand. “Pins under her pretty nails first,” he said. “Then a knife across her white throat, if you won’t play ball, Fornash.”

Fornash clutched the dart with trembling fingers, fought to force his eyes up to his target. The room grew quiet. After a few seconds the man called Ray said, “Make it fast. We’re taking too much time here.”

Fornash raised his hand for the throw. Childers glanced at Flower Blue, noting the beautiful, pure hazel of her eyes. He forced a stiff grin of defiance. They’d never understand, he knew, but he said it anyway. “This gives Lieutenant Jock the doughnuts.” He set his soul to meet death.

“You can keep the doughnuts, Tony,” spoke a steady voice from the door.

They all looked that way and saw Jock Anderson’s big square face, saw the Police Positive in his strong right hand, saw the hall filled with hard, official faces behind him.

Estramer and Ray did as told and shelled out their guns. “How—?” began Tony Childers, then, “Hello, Jock.”

Lloyd Fornash dropped the dart as Cockleburr Annie wriggled into the room past Anderson.

“You were in the fake cello case,” Childers said to her. “When I unlocked it, you got out and phoned headquarters?”

Annie nodded. “That cello case is the satchel they used to transport us to Fornash’s store. After they took you out and closed it again they turned on the lights. The night watchman saw them, and one of them killed him. From what they said I thought they’d smashed you with an elevator.”

Childers said, “Why did you lie, tell me you were Flower Blue?”

“I was scared. If you got away I was afraid you’d arrest me for Joey’s murder. Last night he forced Flower Blue into his car. I believed she’d killed him. I knew you didn’t get a good look at me.”

“How’d you know he’d picked her up?”

“After I found her purse and shoes in his car he told me. He said he was holding her to force a payment from Lloyd Fornash. I threw her things into a couple of parked cars while you were chasing me.”

The police had snapped handcuffs on Estramer and Ray; had untied Carp, Fornash, and Flower Blue. Flower was crying gladly in Fornash’s arms. Carp was folding a stack of money Anderson had taken from Estramer.

Childers took a curled, golden hair from a vest pocket, held it out for Annie to see. “Something you lost in that oversized cello case,” he told her. “It told me you weren’t Flower Blue after I saw Miss Blue’s picture at the Medieval Sports Club.”

He slipped it back in his pocket, said, “Too bad you had to fall for a lug like Joey, with so many right guys in the world. But maybe there’s one guy who knows enough about life that he could forgive a hell of a lot for the sake of a fresh start for a square little kid like yourself.”

Anderson came over. “Those two at the bottom of the stairs are dead, if you’d like to know,” he said. “And, Tony, there’s something I want to tell you. I—”

“Skip it, Jock,” said Childers, tiredly. “I know it all—I’ve heard it so many, many times. Insubordination. Willful neglect of duty. Disrespect for a superior officer…”

Unfazed, Anderson said, “I want to tell you that I think you rate a sergeantcy. You’ve got the guts and brains and—”

“Brains?” said Childers, arching oil-smeared brows in surprise. “Look, Lieutenant, I cracked up this bloody mess—okay. But I did it by following one wrong hunch after another. Can I help it if the little Cockleburr here made them all turn out right?”

DEAD WRONG, by Lucille Cali

Originally published in Hardboiled, January, 2009.

“I just want the bitch dead…I don’t give a damn if you shoot, stab or strangle her, that’s up to you, you know, whatever floats your boat. I would like her to suffer, the way she’s made me suffer. But that’s me, I understand if you want it to be quick. I just ain’t gonna give some money hungry twat half of everything that I worked so hard to get. I’m not doing it…besides; I’ve already got my eye on this tight piece of ass at work. I’m working on it; you know how that goes? Still, this bitch has morals and won’t let me hit it while I’m married. Do you know how hard it is to see that shit shaking in front of me everyday and not being able to hit it? And you can believe me; I am going to hit that! So I just need you to take care of this little matter for me as soon as possible and I will take care of you, like we agreed. You know, you’re costing me a hell of a lot less than she would have, a hell of a lot less!”

There was total silence in Detective Buff’s office as he stopped the tape recorder. Maria Colletti was in tears.

“So you can see for yourself,” he told her, “your husband has hired one of our undercover detectives to facilitate your murder. This is not a joke, he is dead serious, and if you don’t wake up soon you are going to be dead. Sooner or later, he will find someone to do it, or maybe he’ll get desperate enough to do it himself. Either way, you have a target on your head.”

“Detective,” she said, “there must be some misunderstanding.”

“Are you deaf? There is no misunderstanding, you heard it for yourself in his own words.”

“My Eddie would never do anything like this,” she said almost proudly. “He’s such a good husband. We love each other dearly. This recording, it doesn’t even sound like him.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Buff pleaded.

Maria just shook her head in disbelief.

Detective Nicholas Buff had it with trying to convince stubborn fools like Maria Colletti exactly how bad their loving spouses were. Everyday he sees the bumps, bruises and broken noses, and everyday he hears the same lame excuses. ‘He’s misunderstood’, ‘His mother abused him’, or even ‘It was my fault, I deserved it.’ It’s like he was beating his head against the wall. He couldn’t understand why these women protected their abusers. Meanwhile, why did his own wife find it so easy to leave him? He’d never even raised his hands to her. Even after he found out about the affair, he wanted to make things right, but she still left. That really bothered him.

“Listen lady, if you make us release your husband tonight and you go home with him, you’re risking your life. I can’t force you to bring charges against him. I think the District Attorney’s Office might still pursue this. In either case I think you should talk to a family member, or someone else you trust before you post bail for this maniac. Here’s my card and call if you need me, but please think about what you are doing!”

Maria stood up, wiped her eyes, straightened her suit jacket and said, “I appreciate your concern detective, however I think it is fair to say that I know my husband better than you, or the District Attorney. I don’t have to think about whether or not I want to go home with my husband. Now, I have given you a bonded check, please give me my husband.”

“You got it,” was all he said.

“Piece of shit assholes! They had me in a cell with rapists and murders. What the hell took you so long to make bail?” Edward Colletti was pissed; and he didn’t even think to hide that fact. “It’s not like we don’t have the money.” He continued. “If I were a pair of shoes on sale at the mall, I’d be in your God damn closet already.”

“I’m sorry Eddie” Maria said as she began to cry again. “They held me up, I tried to get you out sooner.”

“Wait one minute,” he barked, “don’t tell me you believe these assholes!”

“Oh no Eddie, never!” she cried.

Eddie grabbed her by her shoulders and yelled “Maria, you look me right in my eyes and tell me you don’t believe them!”

“Let her go. Come on buddy, ease off.” Detective Buff touched Eddies arm. “Do you want me to take you back inside? Take your hands off her and lower your voice.”

“Come on honey, let’s go home,” Maria urged.

Eddie grabbed her by the hand and they walked out of the police station together.

Later that night Maria prepared a beautiful dinner for Eddie. After such a stressful day, she sent him off to take a nice long hot bath while she got everything ready.

“Are we ready to eat yet?” Eddie yelled from his easy chair.

“Almost, baby doll!” was her reply. She loved to cook for Eddie, and he loved his dessert, which she was preparing ahead.

“What the hell is taking so long? I’m starving.”

“Give me a minute, sweetheart,” she said, and she was good to her word, within one minute dinner was served! Handmade manicotti followed by chicken cutlet parmigana, mashed potatoes and a big salad. Maria was a good cook, and a good wife. “How is everything baby?” she inquired.

“OK” he said as he inhaled everything like a vacuum cleaner.

“Why don’t you go watch TV while I clean up. Then we’ll have dessert!”

Eddie began to watch ‘Americas Most Wanted’. There was a story on about a guy whose wife had an accident in the bathtub. The guy claimed he went out and when he returned home found the door was locked, and he didn’t have his key with him. When his wife wouldn’t answer the door he got a neighbor to help him “break in”. He checked the bedroom; his neighbor checked the bathroom. It was the neighbor who found her, dead in the tub. The show told how the guy got away with it for 25 years, until his next wife also had an accident in the tub! Eddie began to think about it. There could be lots of household accidents, bathtub, the pool, garage, why even those basement steps were dangerous!

“Honey, here’s your dessert!” Maria presented Eddie with a beautiful bowl of berries, tossed in sugar with a touch of lemon and covered in home made whipped cream.

“That’s it, no damn Jell-O?” he complained.

“Sorry doll, we ran out, I’ll make it tomorrow,” she promised.

He really didn’t hear her. He was still thinking about those basement steps. Wait, maybe the back porch steps, that would make it easy for a neighbor to find her. But that might make it likely he would be seen tossing her down them, knowing his nosey neighbors. No, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of the basement steps. He could lure her over to the door, push her down the stairs, crack her head, crack it a little more, if necessary, then close the door and claim that he was out and didn’t know where his little pumpkin bitch had gone!

Eddie smiled for the first time since that rat cop ruined his plans, now he had a new plan and he was happy.

Eddie decided that he would put his plan into action right away. Then he would have all night to clean, tie up any loose ends and set up his alibi. He figured that he would tell the cops, after they found her of course, that Maria decided that they should spend a few nights away from each other, to allow them to clear their heads and that he never heard from her again.

How could they prove otherwise? He was a genius.

Eddie only wished that he had thought of this before involving a third party, but actually, this made perfect sense to him, and he giggled at the thought. It was a beautiful thing, and he was still on schedule with little miss tight ass! Imagine how sorry she would feel for him, losing his wife in such a horrible accident… This will certainly expedite his access to that sweet thing! He almost came in his pajamas just thinking about it. Almost, because he suddenly felt dizzy as he stood up. Must have gotten up too fast, and he almost fell over. Almost, because Maria was right there to catch him.

“What’s the matter baby doll?” she asked?

“Must be your lousy cooking, made me queasy, I feel sick.”

“Maybe you should lie down,” and with that she hit him with a bolt of electricity from a taser gun. She didn’t know how many volts of electricity shocked his already compromised body but he fell down like a sack of potatoes. Only potatoes don’t yelp like Eddie did.

“What the hell are you doing you bitch!” he screamed.

“What the hell am I doing? What the hell were you doing? Did you really think that I could be that stupid? That I could love you so much that I couldn’t see you wanted me dead? Nobody could be that damn stupid, except maybe you!”

“You bitch, you’ll never get away with this! They’ll hang you, nail you to the damn wall for it.” Eddie was in agony, so much so that he could hardly speak any longer; good thing he only need to listen…

“That’s the best part my dear. As soon as I heard about your plot to have me killed I knew what I had to do, but it was only when you said on that tape that you didn’t want to give me half of everything, that it suddenly dawned on me that you would be giving me everything; even my alibi. You see dear in a few minutes you are going to pass out from the sleeping pills I put in your dinner. Then I am going to shoot you with this gun. I bought it for protection I’m going to say. Then I am going to call Detective Buff, he gave me his card in case I needed it. I will be in tears of course and I’ll tell him all about the beautiful evening that I planned. I’ll tell him about the dinner and dessert I made and then I’ll break down when I tell him that he was right about you after all. I’ll tell him that you tried to drown me it the bathtub after watching that story on America’s Most Wanted. I broke away by luck, and made it downstairs where I found my gun, then shot you in self-defense.”

“They’ll never…believe you…” Eddie choked.

“Oh, they’ll believe me, my dear, because the best lie is one that is closest to the truth. Everything supports my story, right down to the freaking bath water you so considerately left for me to drain. You’re the one that’ll end up dead now—not me.”

Eddie gasped.

“Not quite as you planned, darling. You were so wrong, and soon you’ll just be dead wrong.”

GRIM REAPER’S HANDICAP, by Fergus Truslow

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, April 1945.

“Chipman? Room 1228,” the desk clerk purred. “Who is calling, please?”

“D’ Argonne—Eddy D’ Argonne,” I told him.

My palms were sweating and my stomach twisted up into a knot, I wondered if I’d ever get enough starch back into my knees to stick in the saddle tomorrow.

Don’t laugh. Maybe you’ll understand when I tell you that the hotel’s revolving glass doors bit off pieces of the boom of San Diego’s night traffic outside and churned them into the lobby, so it sounded just like a twelve-horse field coming up behind me, fast.

I had to hold onto the edge of the desk.

“D’ Argonne?” the clerk repeats, “Oh, yes.”

His polite smile breaks off at the edges into the ghost of a sneer. Of course anybody getting a good gander at my carrot thatch and freckles can connect the name.

You know, the jockey who lost his nerve after a fall in the middle of the field at Caliente. Remember? Yeah.

I tried to brace myself against the veiled sneer in the desk clerk’s eyes and I couldn’t. I hated myself for it. My eyes met his and turned away.

Deep inside me something was ticking like the fuse on a time bomb. But I couldn’t meet his eyes.

So I pried my fingers loose from the edge of the desk and walked toward the elevators, feeling the clerk’s stare drilling into my back every step of the way.

It was all right with me if he forgot to phone Chipman I am on my way up. When you want to ask a guy like Van a question like why he hires you to ride a race tomorrow, and then bets against his own nag, you want to walk right in on him without giving him time to think up answers.

I was glad when the elevator doors sliced off the sound that came through from the street. Until I saw the elevator jockey in the red jacket.

“Well, now, if it ain’t Mr. D’Argonne!” he whispered, letting a sly grin slide across his greasy fat face. “Where you working these days?”

That had a barb to it. He’d been a stable boy at Caliente until I caught him stealing sponges and chamois skins from my boss.

That fuse was buzzing, way deep inside me, but I was cold and numb in the chest.

“Naval Hospital, civilian employee,” I told him. “But I’m still in training.”

“Whadda ya do at the hospital? Hand out horse liniment?”

The two or three other passengers in the elevator snickered. I tried to grin, but it felt sick on my face, so I stopped trying.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Horse liniment.”

The elevator stopped. I got rattled and thought it was my floor. I saw it wasn’t and started back in. “Wrong floor!” I muttered. They were all grinning.

The elevator doors slammed shut in my face. “Hey!” I said.

I could hear them laughing in the elevator as it went on up past the floor.

For a minute I just stood there, with both fists balled up against the steel doors. My breath felt taut inside me. It didn’t go down all the way into my lungs, but only shallow and short. There was a funny taste in my mouth.

I could feel that fuse ticking slow and deep, and I wondered what’s on the other end of it.

So I walked up the stairs to my floor and down the hall, thinking.

I walked right up against a guy’s hand, pushing my chest. I realized somebody’d said something just before and that I’d only half heard it. I guess I was dropping a few stitches.

“What?” I asked, in a fog.

A chunky, bald guy in a blue serge business suit blocked the way. He said, “Where d’ya think y’ going, Shorty?”

I tried to make myself throw a punch, but a school girl could do better. The guy only grabbed my arm. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said slow and amused.

He held up a deputy’s badge. “House detective,” he informed me. “You can’t go any further down this wing without an invitation from the movie dame who’s taken it. She’s throwing a party for a Marine Defense Battalion just back from the South Pacific. Say, where did y’think y’was going, Shorty!”

“1228. Room 1228,” I said.

I guess it was the smell of his cheap cigar that made me feel sick. I was hungry—having a hard time to make the weight—and that makes your smeller sharp.

“1228 is back the other way,” he said, giving me a sharp look. “Down the hall and to the left.”

I went back and found it. Outside the door I stopped a minute. My heart flopped like a fish. It was one thing to think about how I’d lay it right on the line. It was something else to open that door and say it.

Just like it was one thing to dream about a comeback as a reinsman and another to know I had to go through with it tomorrow.

I’d started out walking a tightrope. It had turned into the thin edge of a knife blade way out over the steepest mountainside in the world, with a million people ready to laugh every time I hesitated.

The doorknob of 1228 seemed to get bigger, like a balloon being blown up. It swam at me out of a haze.

I took a big breath and grabbed it. The door opened and shut. I was inside.

Two men looked up quickly and moved quickly.

One of them was Chipman. His hand swept across the little dinner table and dropped a napkin on something that sparkled in the light.

The other guy was a blond Marine, about my size. He got halfway out of his chair in one move, and his right hand went to the sleeve of his left.

“Well, well,” Van Chipman’s suave voice said. His eyes were cold as pale stones in his dark, soft face. “If it isn’t that bootin’, kickin’ jock, Eddy D’ Argonne.”

The sneer in his voice built that ticking up inside me, speeded it.

“I had to talk to you, Van,” I said. My mouth was so dry I had to keep licking my lips.

“Mr. Chipman,” said Chipman.

I swallowed it. “OK. Mr. Chipman.”

I’d seen that blond Marine somewhere. He wore the shoulder patch of a South Pacific unit and the service ribbons to go with it. His thin face with the soft blond hair around it struck something in my memory like a warning gong. But I was too busy with Chipman.

“Listen, Mr. Chipman. I gotta know—”

“Listen, you ill-bred little saddle monkey, what do you mean by slamming into my room without knocking!”

I had a quick remember of the time he introduced me to his friends in the bar of the St. Francis after a day at Bay Meadows and was proud I called him Van.

I spoke up over the smooth, even ticking of that fuse inside me. “Why’d you lay five grand against Zalacain—your own horse—in the third race tomorrow?”

Chipman picked up a broiled lamb chop and took a bite out of it with even white teeth. “One thing at a time, little man,” he chuckled.

The way he said it hit me on a numb spot. I took it and yet wondered why I took it. Maybe I’m yellow. It’s what I’d been wondering, thinking…

The blond Marine never took his cold, washed-out blue eyes off me. He sat there and watched.

Chipman’s eyes showed his enjoyment. I was a sort of floor show for him while he ate. He put down the chop bone, picked up another crisp juicy chop and sank his teeth into it. My stomach twisted at the sight of it, I was so hungry.

“I don’t mind telling you why, really,” he said, chewing. “I’m betting against my own nag, because you’re up in the saddle, and you’re yellow!”

It was like he sneaked up and soused me with a bucket of ice water. It knocked the breath out of me. I took another step forward, the ticking of that fuse beating against my wishbone, now.

“Chipman…” the word tore my throat.

“You see,” he grinned. “I only own a fourth of Zalacain, and the other owner will race him come hell or high water. I want to buy the rest of that horse cheap. He’ll sell after you lose tomorrow. A yellowbelly jock can’t win races.”

“I’ll win! I’ll boot him home!” My mouth was bone dry.

“Will you? I’m a sort of a connoisseur of cowardice. I think you’ll remember how it feels to be out in front of a big field when something goes wrong and you have to hit the dirt. You’ll hear the rataplan of those hoofs and…”

I shuddered. The boom of traffic drifted up to the hotel windows from the street below. To me it was like hoofs pounding, thundering at me, and I was down smelling the dirt, tasting it again, knowing what I was going to get.

“Damn you!” the words stuck in my aching throat and came out in a kind of dry sob. “You dirty, crooked—”

“Oh, come! I’m not essentially prejudiced against honesty, if it’s convenient,” Chipman chuckled, licking grease off his fingers.

I picked up his napkin off the table and threw it at him. Then I realized what I had done.

A blaze of blue-white light lay there where the napkin had been. Diamonds! And what diamonds!

The smile faded off Chipman’s face in a wink. The lines on his face went the other way—up and down.

The Marine shoved back his chair. A thin-bladed stiletto came out of his sleeve, but the look on his thin face didn’t change. It had been there all along, and now it fitted.

I remembered now. At Santa Anita once, somebody’d pointed him out. I didn’t know they took cons in the Marines, I thought. They don’t, the answer came off my own tongue in a mumble.

“Never mind, Smitty. Don’t dirty up the floor. It’s not necessary,” Chipman purred.

“Not necessary?” Smitty’s voice was falsetto. He didn’t take those washed-out blue eyes off me, and he didn’t put away the stiletto.

“He’ll play ball,” Chipman said sharply.

Will I? I thought. Will I? Just like I’d been asking myself for days, weeks, months, if I was really yellow.

Inside I can feel that fuse going tick-tick-tick and I wonder.

“Since you’ve cut yourself in on this deal,” Chipman remarks in suave tones, “take a gander at that chair over by the window.”

It was a big easy chair and the reason I hadn’t seen the guy in the grey suit before was that he’d been slumped way down, passed out. His face was a pale, dirty yellow.

I put my hand to his forehead. Not dead. A glass on a side table gives me the idea. I poured a couple of drops into my hands, rubbed them together and sniffed.

“Mickeyed,” I whispered.

“Just a little bad ice in his drink,” Chipman said cynically. “We want you to get rid of him for us.”

I faced them, my lungs working hard for air. I wondered if they could hear that buzzing inside me. It was loud, now.

Van Chipman was grinning. Smitty stood there with his shiv glittering palely under a rich floor lamp.

“Just leave him on a bench in the Plaza, Eddy,” Chipman told me. “Take him out the back way.”

“What if I don’t?” My voice sounded like it belonged to somebody else.

Chipman closed in, licking his lips. “Pick him up.”

I found myself reaching over to pick the guy up out of the chair. It was a funny feeling, wondering if I was going to do it and finding myself doing it at the same time.

With one corner of my mind I noticed a funny thing about the set-up. The guy’s shirt wasn’t buttoned and he looked like his clothes were thrown at him.

Instead of picking the guy up I pulled open the unbuttoned shirt. His belly was a dirty yellow color!

It did something to me. That yellow belly!

The fuse inside me stopped ticking and there was a long pause.

One step I took toward Chipman. Two, three, and it blasted, welling up out of me like a depth charge of T.N.T.

“You dirty pair of heels!” I yelled. “I’ll see you in hell first!”

Smitty came gliding across the floor with his stiletto balanced like a toy.

“You hooked those diamonds from the movie queen throwing the party down the hall!” I snarled. “You’ve got a record a mile long. Jewel thief and killer!”

The traffic below sounded like a twelve-horse field coming up behind me all right, but I loved it!

A breath of air hit my lungs and went all the way to my toes. It’s the first in a long time!

With one hand I tipped the dinner table over in front of Smitty as he closed. With the other I grabbed a wine bottle and swung on Chipman.

It caught him a glancing blow. He went down. I gave my undivided attention to Smitty, who was weaving around the corner of the messed-up table like a blond weasel, with the cold-looking shiv in his grip.

“You’re no Marine!” I sneered at him. “Come on, mix it!”

Smitty shook himself, blinked his pale eyes, and dived at me.

With one hand I clamped down on his knife wrist and with the other I crossed hard to the mouth. Blood spattered. Smitty whimpered. Yeah. Whimpered.

This cold-blooded little killer didn’t like being pushed around by a jock ten pounds under his own weight.

I slammed home a couple of hard rights. The stiletto clinked on the floor. A left straightened him up. Another right put him away for keeps.

I sucked in a breath of that swell new air I seemed to be breathing, and turned.

Chipman was up and snarling like a mad dog while he fumbled in a desk drawer. He swung around with a little black automatic.

I saw his face twisted with the thoughts that were in him and I knew I was going to get it, but I rushed.

One, two, three—I charged across that room at him feeling like a giant inside.

A gun shot crashed against the walls, stunned my ears, but I didn’t feel hurt. I kept going, wondering if it didn’t hurt to be shot like this.

Then I saw. Chipman dropped his gun and crumpled into a chair.

The house dick stood in the doorway, a whiff of cordite spilling from the business end of his gun.

I pulled up short. “These guys swiped some diamonds,” I began.

“Yeh, yeh,” he cut in. “I heard the whole thing. I followed you to the door and listened outside.”

So I sat down in a chair and what do you think? Right beside me was all that food messed around on the floor. Lamb chops, and potatoes with cheese melted all over them and everything.

I’d had a hard time making the weight. The smell of it hit me and I passed out.

When I came to, the house dick was pouring brandy into me. “Get away from me with those calories,” I said, shoving him. “I got a race to ride tomorrow!”

The old zip and zest was back in life. I knew the thundering hoofs of a twelve-horse field was going to sound like music to me.

The dick is talking. “Huh?” I said.

“I said—how’d ya know the guy had mickeyed the Marine and swapped clothes so’s he could get into the movie dame’s suite?”

I walked past Chipman, who sat groaning in a chair, and pulled back the mickeyed man’s shirt and pointed at his belly.

“Whew!” whewed the house dick. “Yellow as gold!”

“It’s the atabrin they take for malaria in the tropics,” I explained. “I work at Naval Hospital. You see a lot of Marines like that when they first come back.”

“It was the yellow belly that upset the deal then,” the house dick chuckled.

“Yeah,” I grinned. “The yellowbelly!”

My eyes met Van Chipman’s, and Chipman’s dropped first.

SUICIDE SOUVENIR, by Dennis Layton

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1943.

Detective Perry’s eyes rested expectantly on the frosted-glass panel in the door to his office. A grotesque shadow was plastered there, cast on the glass like a picture by a motion picture projector. It moved around in indecision and groped for the knob of the door.

Matt Perry half rose from his chair, pulling open the top drawer of his desk and exposing an ugly Mauser pistol which rested there, primed, loaded and ready for trouble.

The door burst open without warning. A girl plunged into the office wildly. Astonished, Perry stared at her.

Her blonde hair was blowing around crazily without a hat covering it. She was small and chic. She ran right up to the desk. “What can I—” Perry began.

“Can’t explain!” she interrupted rudely. She thrust her right hand forward and deposited something on the desk. “Hold it until you hear from me,” she said swiftly. “And don’t let it get out of your hands.”

“Hey,” Perry exclaimed. “What in hell is this? Just a second, lady, I want to—”

He was talking to air. She turned around and was out of the office like a wraith. Perry bit his lip. But stunned as he was by the sudden procession of events, he made up his mind in a split second. His hand dove into the desk, came up with the Mauser which he jammed deep in his coat pocket.

Then he lanced away from behind his desk and went out after her. He scuttled to the elevator bank. But he was too late.

Just as he got there, the sliding door of the shaft slammed shut. Through the small glass window in the door, he could see the cage close and the car zoom down towards the street.

“Damn!” Perry muttered.

It would be senseless to try and beat the girl down by taking the stairway. It was seven flights to the street floor of the Lanin Building. She would beat him easily.

He pressed the down button. Luckily, another car was just on its way to the main floor. It opened up. He rushed in, watched the gates close and felt his stomach rise queerly as the car sped down like a plummet.

“Hey, Joe,” Perry called to the elevator starter on the main floor as he leaped out. “Didja see a blonde? Small, no hat?”

“Yeah, Mr. Perry,” said the starter. “She went out the Fifth Avenue way. I remember her. She was a stunner.”

“How long ago?”

“Half a minute or so.”

Perry tore along the main floor to the Fifth Avenue exit. Out in the street, he searched frantically for some sign of that brilliant yellow hair. But he could find nothing like it. A line of taxicabs caught his gaze. He snapped his fingers knowingly. The girl had lammed in a cab. She wouldn’t take any chances on his catching up with her.

Disappointed, Matt Perry returned to the elevator bank. He stepped into one of the elevators and was whisked up to the seventh floor where his office was. He got out, feeling sorry for himself because he hadn’t caught the girl. As he walked down the marble-like corridor of the floor, he noticed that the door at the end of his quarters was open. He had left it closed.

The Mauser appeared in his hand like magic. He stole agilely down the remainder of the hall to his office. Silently, he peered in. There was a dead man on the floor.

“What the hell!” Perry whistled. He entered, closing the door behind him and putting the big pistol away. Then he stooped down over the man.

“Toby Beck!” Perry breathed, recognizing the dead man as one of the most elusive professionals of the city. It didn’t jell at all. First the girl who had left something on his desk. And now Toby Beck, gunman and chiseler, a cooling corpse on his floor.

Beck was dead. But he wasn’t stiff. Rigor mortis had not begun to set in. And the flesh was warm. Perry realized that Beck had died here in the few minutes that Perry had spent below, in pursuit of the blonde. But how had he died?

Perry examined Beck, frankly baffled. There wasn’t a bullet wound anywhere on Beck’s body. Nor a sign of blood either. Perry turned over Beck’s right hand.

In the center of the dead man’s thumb there was a tiny, almost invisible drop of blood. Just that. Nothing else.

Perry got to his feet and lifted his telephone from its pedestal. He called the elevator starter in the hall below.

“Listen, Joe,” he said, “did anyone come down from the seventh while I was out?”

There was a long pause while the starter made inquiries. “No, Mr. Perry,” Joe replied finally. “You weren’t out long enough. No one came down.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Perry. He hung up.

For the first time, he noticed the thing that the frantic blonde had left on his desk. It was a bronze casket, beautifully hammered. It was about four inches long and two inches wide. The sort of thing a rich girl would put her jewels in.

Perry picked it up and looked at it. There was a little catch on the front of it where you opened the thing. Perry ran his fingers along it to open it.

Simultaneously, the telephone rang. “Hello,” said Perry, putting the casket down for a second. “Matt Perry speaking.”

“Mr. Perry,” came a breathless feminine voice at the other end of the wire, “whatever you do—don’t open that bronze casket. I forgot to tell you when I left it— but don’t open it. It’ll kill you in a second if you do!”

“Say, what is all this?” Perry asked sharply.

“I can’t explain now,” the girl replied. “I haven’t time. They’re following me. Just hang onto that casket and don’t try to open it. And if a man named Toby Beck comes looking for it or—”

“Beck’s dead,” said Perry. “Right here in my office.”

“Oh!” he heard her cry. “He tried to cross them, the fool!” She was silent for a second. “Lock it up,” she said then. “Lock it up, Perry. Hide it!”

“Okay,” Perry replied. “But who in hell are you?”

“Call me Lois,” she answered. “Lois Ward. That’ll do until I get in touch with you.”

“But—” Perry began.

He heard a sharp click and he knew that the connection had been severed. She was gone again. And there was no use tracing the call. If she were in flight as she had said, then the call had come from a public booth. He had the bronze casket. She said she would come for it. He had to be satisfied with that.

Perry put the casket in the top drawer of his desk and locked the drawer, placing the key in his pocket.

The corpse of Beck loomed up again. Perry realized that he’d have to report this to the homicide bureau. Otherwise, Inspector Lowery would raise the roof.

There was a knock at the door of the office.

It startled Perry only because he had not expected it. He glanced warily at the frosted glass. He could see it was a man.

“Come in,” he said, patting the bulk of the pistol in his pocket.

He was right. It was a man—a huge giant of a man, uncouth and bestial. He wore a slouchy topcoat, a faded gray fedora and dirty brown shoes. A ragged cigar perched in the corner of his mouth as he eyed the corpse of Toby Beck on the floor and grunted.

“You saved me the trouble,” he said gruffly. “I was after Beck. How’d you put him away?”

“I tied him to a buzz saw,” replied Terry sarcastically. “Who in hell are you?”

The man flashed a golden badge with a spread eagle on it. “Twenty-two,” he said. “Name’s Rick McKenzie.”

“Let me see that badge,” Perry said suspiciously.

McKenzie shrugged, smiling, and handed his badge to Perry, who examined it carefully. It was the original all right. No fake. The number twenty-two was emblazoned on the shield.

“Federal operative, eh?” Perry said, handing the badge back to McKenzie. “Well, what’s in your craw?”

McKenzie pointed to the corpse. “How’d you get Beck?”

“I didn’t get him,” said Perry. “He—”

There was a pause. Perry remembered the secret the girl had left with him.

“I get it, I get it,” remarked the Federal man. “He tried to open the casket, eh?”

“What casket?” asked Perry innocently.

McKenzie laughed. “Stop stalling, shamus,” he said. “You’re a good dick and a steady worker. Don’t pick no quarrel with me. I know the dame left the bronze casket here.”

Perry eyed McKenzie silently.

“Sure,” the Federal man continued. “I’ve been on the trail of this gang for the last two months. Today, that dame tried to shake me off. She had the bronze casket. She was making a delivery. I followed her—chased her. She came here and when she left—the bronze casket wasn’t with her.”

There was a fishy look in the Federal man’s eyes which Perry didn’t like much. Perry leaned forward and said politely:

“You don’t tell me.”

“I do tell you!” snarled McKenzie, exasperated. “Listen, Perry. I’ve been pretty nice with you so far. If you get tough, I’ll crack down. You’ve got that casket here. The dame left it here—a blonde with taking ways. Are you an accessory after the fact? Or do you hand the casket over and report this stiff to the cops?”

“What’re you after?” Perry asked.

“Dope,” said McKenzie.

“The birds who’ve been unloading the white stuff in New York, eh?” Perry was pensive. “And what’s in the bronze casket—just supposing there is such a thing?”

“There’s a load of heroin and coke in it,” said McKenzie. “Worth about twenty grand.”

“And what’s the girl got to do with it?”

“She belongs to the gang. The passer.”

“And who’s in the gang?”

“Say,” remarked McKenzie balefully, “What is this—an inquest? Go to hell, Perry. I don’t have to tell you anything. Hand over that casket!”

“Sure, sure,” said Perry easily. “I’ll hand it over—on one condition. You’ll have to identify it.”

“That’s easy,” grinned McKenzie. “The casket has a label on it. Alex Jerome, it says. And the address of an antique shop.”

“Alex Jerome, eh?” murmured Perry. “A.J. Yep, that’s all I wanted to know, brother. Now reach for your ears. And no funny tricks on account of my trigger finger has got St. Vitus dance.”

The big Mauser was in Perry’s hand, accurately aimed at the pit of the Federal man’s stomach.

McKenzie stared at the gun in stupefaction, his mouth agape, the shredded cigar falling to the floor. “Hey,” he exclaimed, “are you nuts?”

“A little.” said Perry. “We all are. But this is the first time I ever knew a Fed by the name of McKenzie—Rick McKenzie— to go around wearing a tie pin with the initials A.J. on it. Mister, you’re sure careless. You oughta picked a name like Arthur Jones or something.”

McKenzie laughed deeply. “Pretty smart, Perry,” he complimented, sitting down in the chair in front of the desk. “Pretty damn smart!”

“Keep your paws on the arms of that chair,” Perry said meaningfully.

“Keep your shirt on,” replied McKenzie. “No need to wave that rod at me. I’m not heeled.” He paused. “Look here. Perry, how about a deal?”

Perry smiled. “A deal?”

“Yeah—a deal. You name your figure. Then hand over that bronze casket. You’ve got me. You’ve got me cold. I ain’t Rick McKenzie. I never heard of such a guy. I’m Al Jerome and that’s my casket.”

“Sure,” nodded Perry. “I knew that all the time.”

“You did—how?”

“If a punk like Beck—who was on the inside, a member of your dope gang— didn’t know any better than to try to open the casket and get bumped off as a result, how could you, as a Fed, have known about it?”

“Sound,” nodded Jerome alias McKenzie.

“Furthermore,” continued Perry, “how come a Fed would know how much value the white stuff in the casket had? Or what kind was in there?”

“I’m not such a hot actor, eh?” said Jerome.

“No. Now where’d you get that shield?”

“Name your figure,” Jerome evaded, “and let me have the casket. After all, Perry, you lose nothing. You make a helluva lot.”

“I promised a lady,” said Perry, “that I’d hold it for her until she wanted it. Ain’t that a shame?”

“That bim!” snapped Jerome. “She’s just a double-crossing doll, Perry. She tried to put one over on me.”

“You sure have a glib tongue,” replied Perry. “I wouldn’t believe a dope peddler if he were my own father.” He reached over and picked up his telephone. “Hello, operator,” he called, “connect me with the Department of Justice in New York.”

Jerome sighed mournfully. “All right, Perry,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I did the best I could for you.” He half turned in his chair. “Let him have it, Louie!”

Perry shot his eyes towards the door just as a big hairy hand with a gun stuck in and fired twice, rapidly.

There was no sound, just a dull plopping. The long ugly gleam of a silencer on the end of the hostile gun took the voice out of the bullets.

Perry fired the Mauser once before he dove down behind the desk away from the furious drone of the hot slugs as they whizzed past his head and chest. The telephone dropped to the desk.

At the door, the bullet from Perry’s gun smashed through the frosted glass, leaving a little hole there from which radiated jagged serpentine lines.

Beyond the frosted glass, the shadow of a man sagged. The gunman whom Jerome had instructed to kill Perry had taken Perry’s pellet in the chest through the frosted glass.

As the dead man at the door struck the floor with a thump, Jerome catapulted forward out of his chair, clawing at a shoulder holster for his own weapon. It jumped into his hand as Perry’s head bobbed, up from behind the desk, sighting along the Mauser’s barrel.

Crack!

Jerome fired blindly at the dark bulk of Perry’s skull. There was no silencer on Jerome’s revolver and it thundered like a howitzer.

Perry instinctively recoiled as the slug bit into his cheek angrily, creased a living flaming welt across his face and then sang on to splinter the floor.

The Mauser twitched three times. And Perry saw his three slugs eat into Jerome’s coat. When Perry fired, he rarely missed.

But Jerome only laughed satanically at the slash of the bullets in his chest. They did not seem to stop him at all. One more saffron lance of flame lunged at Perry.

The bullet missed. How, he never knew. At that pointblank range, Perry should have been a cadaver. But the very wildness of Jerome’s shots had saved Perry’s life.

Jerome’s revolver clicked metallically as the hammer hit steel instead of the brass rim of a cartridge.

Perry knew it was futile to snap bullets at Jerome’s torso. The killer had on a slug-proof vest. There was his head. But Perry knew that Jerome was worth more to the government alive, rather than dead.

He jumped at Jerome, jamming his Mauser away. He knew Jerome’s gun was empty. The clip had run its length. Disregarding the swinging revolver which Jerome still held in his hand, using it as a club, Perry poked the man stiffly in the face.

Jerome shrieked in pain and whizzed the revolver around at Perry’s unprotected skull. Perry ducked. And he ducked clear. But he overlooked one thing.

Jerome did not hold onto the gun. He let it fly. And it zoomed at Perry with terrific force. While Perry had recoiled enough to be out of range of Jerome’s swing, the revolver caught him in the right temple with a gruesome thud.

It knocked him over backwards, but not completely out. He could faintly see, through a black swirling mist which swept in front of his eyes.

He dimly made out Jerome stepping over him. He felt the killer’s hands going through his pockets. Then the vague shuffling sound of an opening drawer.

Perry struggled within himself, trying to get up and stop Jerome from getting away with the bronze casket. But actually, although his striving turned over in his mind, he never moved on the floor.

Jerome took the casket out of the drawer and slipped it into his pocket where it made an awkward bulge. He stooped over Perry, his eyes blazing with fury. He reached to pick up Perry’s own Mauser, discreetly tucked away in the shamus’ pocket.

Perry would have to be put away. That was evident. He knew too much. And Jerome plainly intended to do the job right then. But the slap of footsteps on the marble floor of the hall deterred him. There he stood amidst two corpses and an unconscious man. In his pocket—the bronze casket.

His eyes flung around the room swiftly. He saw the black outline of the fire escape outside of one. Still glaring ominously at Perry’s prostrate form, he leaped to the window, opened it and climbed out. He shut the window after him and disappeared so down the escape.

Almost at the same time, Joe the elevator starter, burst into the room. He took in the macabre bodies, the telephone on the floor, the bullet-ridden frosted-glass panel.

“Jeez!” he muttered.

He thought Perry was dead, too. But as if in protest to this, Perry groaned and sat up, rubbing the side of his head. His senses slowly cleared. He got to his feet, stared at the open drawer of his desk.

“You’re alive,” breathed Joe, as though he had seen a walking specter.

“Hell, yes,” said Perry. “How’d you happen to come up, Joe?”

“Gert took your call on the switchboard downstairs,” said the starter. “She was locating some number for you when she heard shots. She came out a-runnin’ and sent me up.”

Perry nodded. “Good work. You saved my life.”

He picked up the telephone. “Hello—”

“Yes, Mr. Perry,” cried a frightened female voice.

“Thanks, Gert,” said Perry. “All okay now. Joe got here in time. Quick thinking. You oughta get a raise.”

“I’m so glad,” replied Gert tremulously. “But don’t hang up yet, Mr. Perry. A call just came for you. I’ll put it through.”

“Right.” He waited while ear-racking clicks split along the wire. Without warning, a bass, irascible voice broke into being.

“This Matt Perry’s office?”

Perry tensed. He had a quick hunch. He played it. “Yeah.”

“Lemme speak to McKenzie.”

“Stop stallin’, mug,” snapped Perry, disguising his voice. “This is A.J. talkin’.”

“Listen, chief,” said the voice. “This is Scarotti. I got the dame—you know, the blonde bim. What’ll I do with her?”

“Take her to headquarters, regular place,” replied Perry. “I’ll be along soon.”

“Didja get the bronze casket?”

“I’ll say. I hadda cook Perry. He knew too much. Beck tried to cross us. He’s dead. And Perry got Louie.”

“Hell!” exclaimed Scarotti. “Get away from there, chief. And get away fast. I’ll see you at the store.”

“Right.”

Perry hung up. Joe, the starter, stared at him.

“Call the cops, Joe, will you?” Perry asked. “I’ve got to be on my way. Tell Inspector Lowery I’ll give him the entire works when I get back.”

“Y-y-yeah,” faltered Joe. “B-but suppose you don’t come—”

“In that case,” smiled Perry, “have him look up a bird with a moniker like Alex Jerome. Get it?”

“I—I get it, Mr. Perry. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” said Perry grimly.

He caught the elevator down to the main floor. As he swung out toward the street in a purposeful stride, he felt the Mauser battering his hip as it fell to and fro with the movement of his body.

There was a red taxi at the curb in front of the Lanin Building. Perry cautiously glanced around to make sure no Tommy-guns were set on him. He realized that Jerome wanted him out of the way. And the killer might have had some strong-arm men along with him other than the man called “Louie” whom Perry had shot.

The coast-seemed clear. Perry shot out across the sidewalk and leaped into the car. “Church Street,” he snapped to the driver.

“Yes, sir!”

Perry settled back on the cushions. Instantly an arm encircled him, dove into his coat pocket. It came out with the Mauser’s snout pressed into his side.

“You’re getting dull, Perry,” said Jerome, laughing gutturally. “Very dull indeed.”

Perry went taut. “You think so,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Jerome, tightening his mouth and jamming the Mauser tightly against Perry. “And don’t try a break, shamus. I’ll cook you right here if I have to. I’m not choosy.”

“Okay, okay,” said Perry nonchalantly. “I’ll be good. Better give the hack driver an address, Jerome.”

“Yours’ll do,” Jerome sneered. “The one you gave him, I mean. Church Street, eh? Right where my antique shop is located. Yeah, that suits me fine. I can’t think of a better place to knock you off.”

They were silent for a while as the taxi tore along.

At length, Perry asked: “How’d you spot me? Did you just wait until I came down?”

Jerome roared with laughter, never for a second relaxing the pressure on the Mauser’s trigger.

“Man, are you dumb,” he exclaimed. “Did I take you! Listen, you dumb flatfoot—that was me telephoned you in the office. I knew you’d pull off a disguise if I said I was someone else asking for A.J. I did that to decoy you downstairs. And you fell.”

“Yeah,” murmured Perry. “I fell. Then you didn’t get the blonde girl, eh?”

“I didn’t,” said Jerome. “But Scarotti will.” He chuckled. “Boy, did you fall for that old gag!”

“Sure, I fell,” agreed Perry cannily. “What’re you after the dame for? She cross you? Same as Beck?”

“Naw,” grunted Jerome, his face darkening. “She’s a Fed, you sap! Lois Ward’s her moniker. She’s been on me for a coupla weeks. I wasn’t even wise. I never heard of a female Fed operative before. But today when Beck was making this delivery, she jacked him, got the casket and tore. Beck followed her. He telephoned me when she went to the Lanin Building. I knew then she was going to your office.”

“And Beck—instead of trying to get the bronze casket with its load of dope back for you—tried to open it and take it for himself,” said Perry.

“That’s right,” Jerome nodded. “He was gonna give me a sob story about how the dame had taken the stuff. But I had a protection against that. In this racket, the only one I trust is myself. And when a delivery is made, the receiver is the only one who knows the secret.”

“The secret of the needle in the casket clasp?” Perry asked casually.

“Yeah,” frowned Jerome. “How did you know?”

“A speck of blood on Beck’s thumb.”

“Yeah? And what else do you know?”

Perry shrugged. “Oh, you probably had the needle loaded like a snake’s fang. I’ll say you used prussic acid.”

“Now ain’t that bright,” remarked Jerome acidly, “You’re one bright boy, Perry, But I never heard of prussic acid being deadly through the skin.”

“No,” agreed Perry. “But if you sucked a stuck thumb and got it in your mouth, you’d be dead before you could swallow it.”

“You’re one bright boy,” grated Jerome. “You know all the answers. It’ll lighten my heart when I see your toes sticking up.”

“Who was the receiver?”

“Go to hell,” snarled Jerome. “I’ve been sitting here, answering your fool questions. Don’t think you’re baiting me, Perry. I’m not spilling anything. You’re taking your last ride—and it’s just about over.”

“Here y’are, boss,” called the hack driver. “Four bits.”

“Get out and pay him,” ordered Jerome. “No funny stuff or I’ll drop you in the street. Remember—there’s a gun in your back.”

They got out. Perry handed the driver a one dollar bill. The driver took it, stared at it for a second, then handed Perry fifty cents.

Perry, his eyes boring into the taxi driver’s, said: “Keep the change.”

“T’anks,” nodded the driver. He stuck the car into low gear, goosed the accelerator, and shot away in a cloud of white, oily smoke.

“Still smart,” muttered Jerome. “You play right along when you got a life to lose. All right. Turn around and got into the shop. And keep on going until I tell you to stop.”

“Sure,” said Perry.

He turned and entered the small obscure antique shop on Church Street. Alex Jerome followed closely behind him, prodding him along with the Mauser.

The front part of the shop was deserted. It was dark there, too, and replete with curios and pottery of various kinds.

“Nice place,” murmured Perry.

“Thanks.” said Jerome sardonically. “Go through that back door right ahead of us.”

They went through it. A small dank corridor led on to another room far beyond. Jerome motioned Perry silently along. They reached the back room. Jerome knocked three long ones and one quick short one.

The door opened.

“Hello, Scarotti,” said Jerome. “I brought home the bacon.”

“Perry!” exclaimed the big scar-faced hulk at the door. “Chief—what in hell’s happened? Where’s Louie and Beck?”

“It’s a long story,” said Jerome. “Perry here knocked off Louie in a gunfight. Beck tried to cross us. He’s dead.”

“Dead? But how?”

“I ain’t saying,” replied Jerome. “There’s a few things I have to keep to myself so’s I’ll have a check on you mugs,” Jerome chuckled. “What the hell, Scarotti—we’re the only two now. It’s a bigger split—” he paused menacingly. “Unless you got other ideas?”

“Hell, no, chief,” protested Scarotti, trembling and licking his lips. “You know I’m with you. I got the dame like you said.”

“Lois Ward?”

“Yeah,” nodded Scarotti. “She was on her way to Center Street. I let her have it on the back of the head and shoved her into a cab. She’s over there on the sofa. Still out.”

“What about the hack driver?”

“I took care of him.”

Jerome handed the Mauser to Scarotti. “Hold it on Perry. If he moves—let him have it. He’s got to go anyhow.” Jerome walked to the sofa and looked down at the blonde girl. “Still out, eh?”

He pulled out his stickpin and rammed it cruelly into her leg. The girl cried in pain.

Jerome grunted. “Playing possum. I thought so. Get up, sister. You’re gonna do a lot of spieling before we croak you.”

Lois Ward got to her feet. She saw Perry.

“Hello,” she said coolly. “Sorry to have gotten you into this mess.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” replied Perry dryly, “for the world.”

“These rats were crowding me,” she said. “I was near the Lanin Building. I thought of you. That casket had the evidence. I was afraid they’d lift it before I got to H.Q. So I dropped it with you.”

“And here we are,” smiled Perry.

Jerome’s face tightened. He wheeled on Lois Ward and grabbed her arm, twisting it slightly. “I don’t want no trouble,” he snarled, “getting answers. You talk and talk fast. Anyone else on the case with you?”

“My, my,” Lois Ward murmured. “Look at his face, Perry. He’s diabetic, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” sneered Jerome. “A bright girl, eh? Well, you talk fast, sister, or Scarotti will pull that trigger a couple of times and bank your boy friend on the floor.”

That got her. Lois Ward’s pretty face paled swiftly.

“I’ll talk,” she whispered.

“That’s better,” growled Jerome.

“Look,” said Perry, “mind if I smoke a cig?”

Jerome grinned. “I sure do, bright boy. I’ve heard about the tricks you pack up your sleeve. A cigarette makes a swell blowgun, don’t it?”

“Give me one of your own then. You wouldn’t refuse a fellow one last cig, would you?”

“Here’s your cig.” Jerome threw him one. “Watch him, Scarotti.” He turned back to Lois Ward. “Who’s with you on the case?”

“No one,” she said.

Perry cocked his head around at Scarotti, the cigarette in his mouth. “Give me a light,” he said.

Scarotti, still holding the Mauser against Perry’s back, let his left hand slip into his pocket and withdrew a packet of safety matches.

“Light it yourself. No queer tricks. Or I kill.”

“I don’t doubt it,” murmured Perry, striking a match.

In the movement, he had slowly turned himself so that he nearly faced Scarotti directly. As he lighted the match, Perry pressed the back of his right hand against the upper pocket of his coat.

Simultaneously, a wispy stream shot out into Scarotti’s beetle-browed face right out of the small pearl stickpin in Perry’s tie.

Scarotti gripped at his eyes, screaming at the torture which the gas sent through his body. Perry spun around like a top. One of his hands tore the Mauser out of Scarotti’s hairy paw. The other clipped the screaming man on the point of his jutting jaw and crashed him to the floor senseless.

There was a long thin bread knife on a small table in the room. Scarotti had been making a sandwich when they entered. Jerome snatched up the bread knife and threw Lois Ward back with him on the sofa, pressing the blade against the pale white skin of the girl’s throat.

For a second, Perry was lost. He didn’t know what to do. Lois Ward took matters in her own hands. In horror, Perry saw her twist her neck under the knife and sink her white teeth into Jerome’s hand.

She drew blood. Jerome howled, infuriated, and tried to pull the knife into her throat.

But Lois Ward was smart. She had thrown herself down, a little to one side.

Perry pounced on Jerome, swung his fist. He knocked him solidly back on the sofa, unconscious.

Lois Ward jumped around and looked at him. “Some wallop! I’m glad you didn’t shoot him.”

Perry sighed. He felt like a wilted lily. “Nice going, pardner,” he said in a small voice. “But you took a chance biting his hand.”

She got to her feet and smiled. “Not so much,” she said. “The fool had the dull edge of the blade against me. He didn’t know it.”

There was a battering at the door. The hollow reverberations of police clubs beat on it!

“You wanted him alive, eh?” Perry said.

“I’ll say,” replied the girl. “He’s just one of a chain. We’ll find out the others through him. Who’s outside?”

He unlocked the door and opened it. Inspector Lowery, his burly face crimson with excitement, burst wildly into the room with two homicide bureau detectives behind him.

“I thought so,” he cried. “All cleaned up! Damn you, Perry, you never give the cops a chance!”

Lois Ward’s mouth was agape. “How did the police find out?”

“The driver who brought Jerome and me here,” explained Perry. “I handed him a dollar bill. It’s a special one I have fitted up for emergency cases. It carries a little note that says: ‘Call Inspector Lowery at police headquarters and tell him Matt Perry is in trouble. Give any other information you know.’ I’ve used the gag before.”

“Yeah,” said Inspector Lowery sourly. “Another one of Perry’s tricks, miss. Some day he’ll run outa them and—”

“I’ve got a million of them,” said Perry, grinning broadly.

HAIR OF THE CAT, by Robert Turner

Originally published in Crack Detective, June 1947.

He stood there in the small town police station, feeling scared and hot and awkwardly big. He tried to think, but all that kept biting into his mind was that this was wrong and crazy; it couldn’t happen like this.

Some of it was familiar, though; some of it was right out of his own mystery novels. Or maybe his play now running on Broadway. The dented spittoons and dirty, cracked walls, papered with Wanted posters, were familiar and the naked light bulbs cutting a fog of smoke.

But the rest was wrong. There was no third degree, no brutality. Police Chief Karlin was only a stodgy, gray-haired man in shiny serge. The town’s three policemen were just tired, middle aged men. Even he, Lee Parker, didn’t fit. He was no hard bitten character in a crime story. He was just the average small town Joe.

Janie, his wife, had been miscast, too. She was not beautiful; she was not crying. Her eyes were hot with unshed tears but that was all. Her quiet little face was pale and she perched primly on a chair, clenching a wadded handkerchief. She looked at the center of the floor and talked in a dull monotone.

She told how she and this Dade McCreery had gone together out west, before she was married to Parker. She told how McCreery came to see her tonight, first time in seven years. He had been drinking and she tried, but couldn’t get rid of him.

“Then,” she went on, “Dade grabbed me, tried to kiss me. I hit him in the face and tried to get away. I gave one yell before he got hold of my throat, I—everything went dark…When I came to—well—Mr. Jerome, our next door neighbor, was there. He had heard my screams, came running over. And Dade—Dade McCreery, was on the floor. He was very still and his eyes and mouth were open…Mr. Jerome, he was calling the police.”

Chief Karlin poked out his lip, closed his eyes. He said, tiredly: “You didn’t kill him, Mrs. Parker? I wish you’d tell us. You had reason, Lord knows!”

The balled handkerchief changed hands. She pushed at her hair. “No,” she whispered. “I told you, no.” She kept saying that.

Karlin insisted: “Think. You were terrified. You grabbed your husband’s golf trophy off the mantle. You didn’t know what you were doing. You hit McCreery—”

“Stop it!” Lee Parker said.

Karlin opened his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at the service button in Parker’s lapel, apologetically. “I have to do this, son. It happened. She ought to tell us.”

Parker moved toward his wife. He was shaking and his throat was choked up. Janie stood up, walked into his arms and the weeping that had been too long held back came upon her. He held her tightly while Karlin and his men looked away, fidgeting.

Waiting for her to quiet, Parker remembered, irrationally, that about now, across the Hudson River, in New York, people were coming out of the theatre, talking about his play…

“The biggest mystery thing to hit The Stem, since The Cat and The Canary,” Gilman, his agent, called it. It was making Parker a fortune. Hollywood had just paid seventy five thousand dollars for picture rights. All the years he and Janie had struggled along on small book royalties, and now Janie pulled away from him, dabbed at her eyes. “I—I’m sorry, Lee.” She tried to smile. “How about the lawyer—Crimmins, was it? Did you get him?”

He nodded. “He couldn’t make it here, tonight. He’ll come first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said. She turned away quickly.

Chief Karlin sighed. “That’ll have to be all tonight.”

Parker touched Janie’s shoulder, but she didn’t turn. “I’ll be here first thing tomorrow, baby,” he said. “Crimmins will get you out of this.”

“Yes,” she said “All right, Lee. I’ll be all right.”

He went into the hall. A half dozen city reporters swarmed around. “This on the level, Mr. Parker?” a tall, lean faced newsman demanded. “It’s a little hard to take—mystery writer’s wife mixed up in real-life murder. This isn’t just a press gag for your play?”

“I wish it was,” Parker said, and pushed toward the door. He knocked the hands from his arm and walked out of the jail building. Green doorway lights tinted his big boned face, a weird and sickly hue.

The street, as he crossed toward a cab, was shiny black with summer night rain that had come and gone in the past hour. He tumbled into the hack, murmuring his home address.

As the car lurched away, the lean-faced reporter jumped onto the running board. “Give us a statement, sir. Do you think she’s guilty? You going to stick by her?”

The cab driver shoved the reporter off the running board and Parker was glad of that. He wouldn’t have known; he really wouldn’t have known what to say.

He laced his fingers between his knees, tried to force order into his mind. He wondered why Janie had never told him about this Dade McCreery and the old days before she was married. She’d told him little of anything about her past, he realized now. She had been in town, working at the library, but a short time when he’d met her.

The cab passed through quiet, shadowed streets, lined with dripping trees. The tires on the wet pavement, made an hypnotic whine of sound and some of the events of the past couple of hours came back to Parker’s mind.

He had come from a Dramatist’s Guild meeting in New York, about ten-thirty. He’d begun to run when he saw the blinking red lights of the town’s only police car in front of his house. He saw his neighbors gathered in groups on the lawn, gasping, whispering. He’d never forget the way they’d looked at him. Inside, he ran, yelling Janie’s name, sick and weak in the middle. But Janie wasn’t there.

A policeman was there, dusting fingerprint powder around. Henry Jerome, the old gent who lived next door, was there, watching the cop and absently brushing at the cuffs of his tweed slacks, as though he’d just spilled something on them.

The furniture was tumbled out of place and an antique chair that Janie prized was broken. There was a great, dark stain on the blue rug he had bought the week before. The bronze statuette of a golfer was lying on the floor, its base discolored and sticky, the rest of it covered with fingerprint powder.

Unaware that Parker had come in, the policeman said to Henry Jerome, conversationally: “Her prints are all over that there bronze doohickey. Looks bad.”

Parker said: “What is this? Where’s my wife?”

While they told him, Parker stared at Spooky, his wife’s jet black cat, sprawled near the club chair. Spooky had been kicked or trampled to death. Queerly, Parker remembered how he had complained to Janie about the cat clawing up furniture, shedding its long black hairs. He felt small and mean that he had ever quarreled with Janie about keeping the pet.

Parker’s thoughts returned to the present as the cab halted in front of his house. He paid the fare and turned through the hedges, up the short path to the house. He went up onto the porch, banged open the screen-door and swung into the living room. He stopped cold, just inside the doorway.

The girl stood by the fireplace, hands flat on his hips. Her eyes, staring at him, were black as jet. She was pretty except for her mouth, which was too small and spoiled looking, turned down at the corners, bitterly.

Parker turned his gaze from her and sent it around the room. The room had been upset before; it was worse now. Sofa and chair pillows were strewn around the floor. Books were pulled from their cases. A trash basket had been emptied out, its contents poured through.

“What are you doing here?” he said. “Who are you?”

She didn’t speak. She took several steps toward him, stopped. Her hands kept clenching and opening. She moistened her lips, tossed a bang of black hair away from her eyes.

In a tight, brassy voice, she said: “You hid the letters damned well, didn’t you? Or did the police get them?”

He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

She tried to run past him toward the door. He grabbed her wrist, flung her into a chair. He stood there looking down at her, breathing stertorously. “What letters?” he said. “Where do you fit into this?”

Her long white fingers clutched the chair arms. “All right,” she said. “I came here to get the letters, but I didn’t find them. I was going to use them to make you pay plenty. Just like Dade McCreery was going to make your wife pay, in the first place.”

He took a deep breath. “Suppose you start at the beginning. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She didn’t look at him. Through her teeth, she said: “Maybe I don’t need the letters. Maybe just knowing what I know will be enough.”

She twisted her wrist from his grip, but didn’t attempt to get up. She went on: “It’s going to cost you plenty, Lee Parker, your wife killing my man. With some of that money, maybe I can give Dade the biggest, best funeral a guy ever had.” Her eyes got dull. “That will be something, won’t it?”

“Don’t you understand,” Parker told her. “I don’t know any of this. You’ve got to tell me the whole thing.”

She looked at him, suspiciously. Finally, she said: “Maybe you don’t at that. Maybe she would have kept that from you.”

She told him, then. Unknown to Janie, Dade McCreery had been a small town bad man when she met him. One night after he robbed a filling station, police picked him up while Janie was with him. Dade claimed he’d been with her at the time of the crime. Foolishly, she’d tried to help him, reaffirmed the lie. She took a jail sentence as his confederate.

For a short while she believed that they had both been framed, wrote to Dade from prison. But soon after, other inmates made her see the truth. She finished her sentence, left that part of the country, never saw Dade McCreery again.

“Until tonight,” the girl finished up. “Last week, Dade saw pictures of you and your wife in the paper, about you getting all the money from the movies. He still had Janie’s letters. He came out here tonight to blackmail her.”

Lee Parker didn’t answer right away. He knew what the police would think about this. It looked like Janie had killed McCreery to stop his blackmail, get the letters. She could have faked her faint when she heard Henry Jerome enter, cooked up the other story so that the police would believe that there had been a third, unknown party, who had been the killer, or that Janie had killed McCreery in self defense. If the blackmail letters were brought into it, it might become premeditated murder. It would go hard with Janie, then.

“I see,” Parker said, finally. “So now you are going to blackmail me?”

The girl’s lids half closed over her black pin-pointed eyes. Spots of color came into her cheeks. “Listen, mister! I was waiting outside in the car. I heard your wife scream. I saw a neighbor come running over. I waited a few minutes and then I went around to a side window and peeked in. Dade was—Dade was lying on the floor…” She shook her head as though to clear the sight from her mind. Her voice rose and she went on:

“Then I heard Janie tell the neighbor her story and I turned and ran to the car, drove away. I didn’t want to get mixed up in it. Half way back to New York, I realized that your wife must’ve just cooked up that story. So I came back. I—”

Lee Parker didn’t hear the rest. He was looking around the room. Every once in awhile he sculled his foot at the black hairs on the rug, shed by the dead Spooky. He got to thinking about the blackmail letters. The police hadn’t mentioned them, so they had not got hold of them. This girl here had been searching for them, obviously had not found them. She had covered the room pretty well, so they could not have been hidden here.

He remembered that he had not talked with Henry Jerome, the next door neighbor who had been in on the thing. Perhaps Jerome had seen the letters, could tell him something about them.

“Look,” he said to the girl. “I’m going next door for a few minutes. Stay here. Don’t try to run away, I’d only call the police and they’d pick you up in nothing flat.”

She just stared at him with her dark, wild looking eyes. She didn’t say anything. He turned away from her and went out of the house, cut across the lawn to Jerome’s property. Lights were still on in Jerome’s house. He moved around some shrubbery, passed the window of a lighted room.

Inside, Parker got a glimpse of Jerome, a tall reedy old bachelor, in his pajamas, ready for bed. Jerome was holding a pair of tweed slacks under a living room lamp, brushing industriously at the cuffs with a whisk broom.

Something clicked then, in Parker’s mind. Cat hairs! Earlier tonight, when he had come in and found out about the murder, Henry Jerome had been there, brushing at the cuffs of his slacks. He was doing the same thing again, now. Jerome must have got Spooky’s hairs all over his trousers? That meant something now.

Thoughts whirled through Parker’s brain. He remembered the sweet gentleness of his wife, Janie, and knew that she had not lied. She couldn’t have done the murder. Yet somebody had. He remembered the missing letters—and that Janie had never mentioned them. The little pieces began falling into place like the pattern of a jigsaw puzzle, almost complete, so that you can visualize how the whole will look.

Parker moved away from the window, ran around to the front of the house, leaped up the steps onto Henry Jerome’s front porch. He tiptoed in, without knocking or ringing, entered the living room as Jerome was placing his carefully folded slacks over the back of a chair under a lamp.

From the doorway, Lee Parker said: “I’ve come for the letters.”

Henry Jerome turned, blinking, his gaunt face drained gray. Pussy-willow like tufts of eyebrows raised over his deep set blue eyes. His small mouth pursed. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you, Parker. You gave me a fright.”

Parker said, stolidly: “You found the letters on the floor, while you were waiting for Janie to come to. You read one of them. You knew what they would mean to Janie’s case. You were going to blackmail me for them.”

A vein stood out at the side of Henry Jerome’s high forehead. His Adam’s apple moved in his long neck. “Well,” he said, “why don’t you sit down. Maybe we can talk it over right now.”

Parker’s eyes moved to the tweed slacks on the chair, then back to Jerome. “Those letters don’t mean a damn anymore,” he said. “They won’t make a case against Jane for McCreery’s murder, because she didn’t kill him.”

Jerome glanced at the tweed slacks now, too. “Look,” he said, softly. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind, Parker. Maybe I’ve decided to play square with you. After all, I don’t want to—” He stopped abruptly.

Lee Parker’s face was dark with anger. His fists began to open and close. A choking was in his throat so that he could hardly talk, but he made it.

“Tonight,” he said, “you heard Janie scream. You rushed over, but Dade McCreery wasn’t dead when you entered like you said. He was still choking Janie. He turned on you and in the fight that followed, you grabbed the bronze statuette, Jerome. You hit McCreery with it, not Janie.”

Outside, night wind rustled the trees, flung rain against a window.

“You got scared, then,” Parker went on. “But Janie was still out, didn’t know what had happened. You put the murder weapon in her hand after wiping your own prints off. You saw the letters, over which Janie and McCreery had been fighting and got that bright idea.”

Jerome said, hoarsely: “How do you know all—”

Parker cut in. “The cat gave you away, Jerome. In your fight with McCreery, you kicked Spooky out of the way, killed him. Long haired cats shed this time of year. You got black cat hairs all over your trousers, Jerome. You’ve been brushing them off all night. But there’ll be a few left for the police microscopes to find.”

He stopped talking, suddenly. Henry Jerome was staring over his shoulder. Parker turned, saw Dade McCreery’s girl standing in the doorway, watching them.

“So you’re the one who murdered Dade,” she said to Jerome. “I can see it, now. What Parker said is true.”

She took two steps into the room. “I’m glad I followed Parker over here, now. The other business is all out, I guess. But I’ve got something left.”

There was a rush of movement behind Parker. He turned just as Henry Jerome reached a nearby desk, yanked open a drawer and whipped out a Colt .38. He covered Parker and the girl.

“You—you’re McCreery’s girl?” Jerome said.

“Yes.”

Henry Jerome fell back. His head swerved from the girl to Parker like a man watching a ping-pong game.

“Stay away from me!” he cried.

But she kept moving toward Jerome, obsessed. Parker watched her, and the old man, with that gun jerking in his fist. He had to do something to stop this. His eyes searched the room, came to rest on a nearby table. He reached for a package of cigarettes and matches there, casually.

Parker struck a match, but didn’t take the cigarette from the package. He put the flame to the cellophane around the cigarettes. He hurled the sudden puff of white flame across the room at Jerome.

Jerome screamed as the fiery package hit his chest. He knocked it away in a shower of sparks. Parker hit him around the knees in a headlong dive. They crashed back to the floor and the .38 went off with a sharp clap of sound.

Parker’s ears rang but he held down Jerome’s squirming figure. It took several seconds for his hands to find Jerome’s skinny neck. Jerome’s head thumping the floor took all the fight out of him.

Lee Parker stood up, slowly, flexed his fingers. He turned toward the girl. She was standing in the same place, posed, almost. She was looking into space.

Parker felt suddenly all let out—he walked toward the phone…

Dawn was bright-hot in the sky when he and Janie left Police Headquarters. On the way home, she explained that she had never told Lee about McCreery and her prison record because she was afraid of how he might react.

They didn’t talk about it after that and Lee Parker knew that he would never write another murder novel. There were other things a man could write about.

HERO, by John L. French

Originally published in Hardboiled, January 2004.

Darnell grew up with heroes. He had found them in a forgotten crate in the basement of his parents’ newly rented house. Exploring shortly after moving in, he discovered them in a storage area under the basement stairs. The books that contained their stories opened to him a world of flying men and dark avengers, of chaos and evil, of order and justice. Seven years old, he did not wonder why none of the heroes were black, or why none of his neighbors were white.

Over the years, his fascination with his comics and pulps lead to a love of reading in general. This lead to an increased interest in school. And as he learned history and science and math, he grew apart from the friends he had made. Although he still played ball with them after school and hung out with them on Saturday afternoons, when it grew dark he went home to read and study. His friends stayed on the corners and when the darkness settled, they studied different things.

At night, the city became another place. Darnell’s friends learned this quickly. They saw the drug deals go down and watched the dealers get rich. They saw arrests, some of them brutal affairs during which the police were more interested in their own safety than the rights of innocent men. They also saw that the ones who were arrested returned to the streets the next night. They heard of murders, although the second and third hand stories which reached their ears had by then been glorified into tales of bravery and cunning. The heroes of the street became those who could make the biggest deal, defeat and bury their rivals and laugh at the attempts of the police to put them away.

Darnell learned none of this, not then. His heroes remained those who lived in the two dimensional worlds of his books, where justice was always certain, the law always right and the bad guys always lost. His friends never spoke to him about the night time. They liked Darnell, but he was not of their world and they would not share it with him.

But Darnell knew about drugs and crime. He knew about racism and the reported brutality of the police. He knew about the gangs and the murders. He had read about it in his newspapers, and so he was certain that he knew all about it.

In the summer of the year he started middle school, Darnell entered the world he thought he knew. As a teen he stayed out later. The long summer days that bypassed evening and went right into night found him on the streets and corners so familiar to his friends. Brought up on heroes, he could not understand a world where the criminals were successful and unpunished, where the police showed contempt for the law they enforced and where justice was less of an ideal and more of a bad joke.

He tried to make it right. He would call the district police station and tell them of the drug dealers and where they could be found. But when one of them disappeared for a few nights, another took his place. If he heard of a crime, he would call the detective unit he thought would be most interested and wait in vain for a return call. Once, he witnessed a police officer beat a man who had just been arrested and handcuffed. He called the department’s Internal Investigation Division to offer his observations and testimony. He was assured that the matter would be investigated and resolved. The officer who took his call hung up without taking his name.

In July of that year his father took advantage of a pay raise and bonus and the family escaped the city for a week at the ocean. They returned to their home to find its kitchen window broken, unlocked and opened. The VCR and television were gone and the remaining contents of the house scattered. The police officer who came to take the burglary report did just that and no more. He took their names and a list of the missing property and then, after telling them not to touch anything until the Crime Lab arrived, left without talking to any of the neighbors. Two hours later, the technician from the lab showed up. Although she was friendlier than the officer had been, and worked hard in searching for fingerprints and other evidence, she found nothing usable. When asked, she explained that there was little chance that their property would be returned or the burglar identified.

Not much changed for Darnell in the next few years. He continued to do well in school. He still bought and read comics. Detective stories had replaced the hard-to-find pulps. There were still too few black heroes, the ones presented being merely variations on the white man’s themes. It was ironic, he thought, comparing the worlds he read about to the real one he had come to know.

“If anyone needs heroes,” he thought, “It’s us.”

He thought about the role models that were offered his people. Most of the athletes used drugs themselves. And while the ministers, activists and politicians were important to the community and deserved to be respected and emulated, to ten and twelve year olds their lives lacked the excitement and rewards of the outlaw culture of dealing, shootouts and narrow escapes from the law and rival gangs.

When Darnell was a junior in high school, two of his friends wandered onto the wrong street wearing the wrong jackets. Mistaken for members of a rival gang, they were shot down from a moving car. The only evidence found were a few mutilated bullets, none of which were useful for comparison even if a gun were found. Despite the usual public outcry and promises from officials that something would be done, the murders quickly became just two more drug killings, to be solved only if a dealer gave up a name in the hopes of making a deal.

Some people were shocked into action. Support and drug awareness groups found new lives. A neighborhood watch was re-instituted. After a few weeks all but a few students had left the groups, and the pressures and business of daily life soon caused the watch to go back into dormancy. Darnell and the rest of the remaining group members tried to interest their fellow students in the fight against drugs, but most were too busy with sports or school, or too lazy to care, or too involved with drugs themselves. One student wrote a series of articles about the drug culture for the school newspaper. He did not name names, but the pictures he painted were clear enough to most people. The severe beating he received was more of a lesson than the articles could ever be. No more were printed. The groups soon broke up.

A hero was needed. The law had failed. Worse, it had surrendered the streets. The police were now the recorders of crime, not the avengers. The activists and ministers had failed. They could not inspire the people to rise up and expel the demons from their midst. The community itself had failed, giving up and accepting crime as the price you paid when you could not afford to move. Having grown up with heroes, Darnell knew that when everyone else has failed, only a hero can succeed.

At first, it was easy. He had come to know the streets, but had never become part of them. He was as anonymous as anyone could be. A few blocks from his home, his face was not at all familiar.

Money was not a problem. Knowing that he would need a stake, he took the best from his comic and pulp collection and sold it to the book dealers he had come to know. Instead of taking store credit or buying more books, he had other plans for the money.

He next made small purchases from several dealers so that each would recognize him when they saw him and regard him as a sometime customer. During the first several buys he was so scared and anxious that the dealers mistook his sweat and anxiety for the onset of withdrawal. Each time he made a purchase he quickly sought solitude, disposing of the drug as soon as he could. His one fear was that he would be stopped by a police officer out to make his quota of arrests by busting users and not pushers. Staying away from places too close to home, he soon became a semi-familiar face, a regular whom no one really knew.

His working capital started to run low. He had planned for that. Having established himself as an occasional user who bought from several dealers, he no longer had a need to buy drugs.

He bought the gun from a “regular” dealer, a small man in a dirty sweat suit who did nothing to disguise his profession. Darnell told him what he wanted, then left. An hour later he went back to the same corner and traded the last of his comic book money for a small .32 caliber semi-automatic pistol.

On the way home, Darnell could feel the weight of the pistol in the pocket of his sweat shirt. He felt different. He felt dangerous. The people he passed on the street were also different. Now, they were his. Some were his to protect—the kids running down the sidewalk, the old men sitting on their marble steps replaying last night’s ball game, the young girls coming home from their honest jobs at the sub shop. Others were his prey. He could pick out the dealers, the gang members, the ones who were the reasons he had bought the gun, the ones he would hunt.

He did not use the gun that night, or that week. The gun lay where he had hidden it, behind a panel under the stairs where he had first found his heroes. Each day he would tell himself that that night he would go out, that tonight was the night he would start the hunt. Each night would be filled with reasons and excuses not to go out. His sleep was broken by disjointed dreams of discharging guns and exploding faces, of being chased through endless alleys by freshly dead drug dealers. He would wake up afraid of the night, afraid of the gun, feeling a failure and a coward.

He would get rid of the gun, he decided, just throw it away, then he would not have to worry about it. Then he remembered why he had bought it. That night he went out.

“Just a test,” he thought. “If the moment is right—a dark street, no witnesses, no police, I’ll do it. And if I can’t, I’ll drop the gun in the dumpster and at least I tried.” He expected to come home unarmed.

It was warm for April, everyone was out. Darnell felt relief that tonight it would end before it could start. He walked the streets, rejecting each dealer as he saw him, willing himself to believe that it was impossible to use the gun without being seen.

“Hey, Schoolboy,” he heard from a dark alley. “Still armed and dangerous?”

It was the dealer who had sold him the gun. “What you do with it? Going to hold up Leon’s Lake Trout?”

Without thinking, Darnell said, “I’ve been looking for you. This thing doesn’t work.” He pulled out the gun and walked into the alley.

“You got the safety of-”

The gun went off. Darnell quickly turned around. No one was looking into the alley. No one would, in that neighborhood, look toward gunfire. He then looked at his victim. The dealer had fallen backward. The hole the bullet must have made was invisible in the man’s dark clothing. His eyes were open, staring at Darnell in surprise and death. Darnell looked at the gun in his hand, the gun he had not meant to fire, the gun he had planned to give back. He ran, praying that the alley had another exit.

He made it home without being stopped. The gun hidden, he hid himself in his room. He did not sleep that night.

“What if he wasn’t dead? He looked dead, should I have checked? Could he identify me? Would he? Did I touch anything?” These thoughts worried at him. He washed his hands several times. He told himself it was to get all traces of gunpowder residue off of them.

That morning, having spent the night at the window waiting for the blue flashes that would signal advancing police cars, he saw the paper thrown onto his front porch. Rushing outside, he had the paper opened before he was back in the house.

He found the article on the second page of the local section. The dealer’s death was one of four that evening. All of the killings were reported in one story, none were given more than two paragraphs. The paper reported the finding of the body about an hour after Darnell had gotten home. The police stated that the killing had obviously involved drugs and believed it was one of several related shootings.

As his worry was replaced by relief, Darnell felt tired. He told his parents that he had been up all night and was too sick to go to school. He went back to bed and slept until the afternoon.

Darnell knew that the police might still have his description, that they did not tell the press everything and that they probably lied to the media as a general principle. Still, the fact that he was home and not downtown at police headquarters meant that he was not an immediate suspect.

Calmer now, he reviewed what he had done. The dealer was dead and had not lived to give a description. He was not a named suspect and too many people matched his general appearance for him to worry about anything but bad luck. He had never been fingerprinted, so even if he had left a print it could not be identified. He was as safe as he expected to be when he planned this.

He killed his next man quite deliberately. Still nervous and scared, he used that feeling as he approached the dealer.

“You selling tonight?”

“Always open, what you need?”

“Not here.”

“Why, you scared of the cops? I got my boys either end of the street. They see a car, you’ll hear ‘Five-O’ same as me.”

“Look, I get busted again, I’m an adult. Ain’t no juvey court. I got to be careful. You don’t want the business, I’ll go someplace else.” Darnell turned toward the alley.

“Man, you buying, I’m selling.” The dealer followed.

Darnell turned just as the dealer entered the darkness of the alley. He fired twice into the man’s face, the bullets striking his cheek and eye. Darnell made sure that the ejected casings were in plain view, then fled the alley. His victim lay slumped against a wall, a crooked smile and a bloody wink waiting for whoever found his body.

Darnell did sleep that night, not well, but he slept. In his dreams he saw vague forms, the men he killed, future victims, the police, all staring in silent accusation.

The body was not found until the morning. Dark alleys in that neighborhood were not well traveled. It was not until a derelict stopped to relieve himself that the dead dealer was noticed. It was not until the trash men came to pick up the garbage that the police were called.

In the next few weeks, three more dealers were killed. From each scene the Crime Lab recovered .32 caliber cartridge cases. As Darnell had planned, these casings were matched in the firearms laboratory and all were found to have been fired in the same weapon. It was the only lead that the police had. There were no prints from any of the scenes, and descriptions from the few witnesses who had come forward were so varied that they could have been describing different people.

Darnell did nothing stupid. He did not return to any of the scenes, choosing a different site for each execution. He did not call in false descriptions of the assailant in the hopes of leading the police astray. And he told no one of his crusade, so there was no one to inform on him. Unless he was careless or unlucky, he was safe from arrest.

With each death, sleep came easier. He was still troubled by disturbing dreams, but the accusing faces and the chases through endless alleys were no worse than his previous fears and nightmares of what the drug problem was doing to him and his world.

The toll was higher than Darnell knew. By chance, the first two dealers had worked for the same gang leader, who decided that their deaths had been the opening moves in a war that had been developing between his and another organization. In retaliation, he ordered the deaths of several of his rival’s dealers. In turn, his rival ordered out his own troops. In the resulting chaos, the deaths of three additional dealers went unnoticed by the gangs, were ignored by the press, and were merely recorded by the police.

Darnell was not surprised that there had been no mention of the killings in the papers or on TV. The police do not usually admit to, much less inform the press about, a series of related deaths, especially one for which they have no suspects. Darnell planned to correct that after his next hunt. He would send a typed letter to both of the city’s papers, all of the television stations and to those radio stations that still regularly broadcast the news. His letter would reveal how and why the deaths were related, and announce his campaign to the city. He would invite others to join him, and together they would rid the city of the plague of drugs. He would, of course, leave the letter unsigned. He had considered using a pen name, but signing himself “The Scourge” or “The Dragon” seemed a bit silly. Besides, all the really good names had been used by the comics.

Two weeks went by before Darnell found his next target. Because of the war, dealers had been extra cautious. Police patrols had been increased and the gangs’ own hit squads were out looking for rivals. Finally, he found a target.

Darnell made his connection and was told to wait on the street. The dealer turned away and went down an areaway that connected the street with the back of the vacant house where he kept his goods. Darnell waited until the dealer was halfway through the tunnel before quietly following him. It was not until the dealer was in the yard that he noticed Darnell. He was dead before he could object.

The gunshots had just finished echoing when Darnell heard the sirens. From the sound they were heading his way.

“Damn!” he thought, “not now.”

Whether they were for him or not, he could not take the chance. He could not be stopped anywhere near the body, and not with a gun. He quickly wiped it off, dropped it by the body and fled through the back alleys, wiping his hands as he ran.

Just as Darnell had met with the dealer and was arranging his buy, a bored patrol officer decided it would be fun to roust a group of kids on the corner, not knowing that he would be interrupting a drug transaction. One of the kids shot him three times, the large caliber bullets easily penetrating his body armor. The officer lived just long enough to call for help.

Except for the vague description of “several black males,” the officers responding to the call for help had no idea who they were looking for. They covered the area, looking for anyone suspicious. The police helicopter reported that a young black male was running through the alleys just a few blocks from the scene of the officer’s murder.

The increasing sound of the sirens and the darkness of the alleys conjured up Darnell’s nightmares. He ran blindly, convinced that the entire police force was hunting him. The connecting alleys through which he fled seemed endless, so it was a relief when he finally saw an exit to the street. Then he saw the police car and knew the game was over.

The rookie officer had stationed herself at the end of the alley for a purpose. Based on the helicopter’s report, this was the running man’s most likely exit. She was convinced that it was he who had gunned down her fellow officer. As Darnell came out of the alley and raised his hands in surrender, she fired three times, hitting him twice. He fell, and died.

The officer who had killed Darnell was assigned to administrative duties pending the hearing that would, to no one’s surprise, exonerate her of any blame in his death. After the police tried and failed to connect him in some way to drug activity, a department spokesman called Darnell “a victim of a tragic accident which at times is inevitable in our ceaseless campaign against drugs.” The deceased officer, whose boredom had killed two people, was hailed by the mayor as “a fallen champion in the war against crime, a true hero for our times.”

BLACKMAIL IN THE RED, by Chester Whitehorn

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Feb. 1945.

Julius Conar, efficiency expert for Wendell Toys & Games Co., adjusted his glasses and checked the list of figures on his desk. When he finished his count, he leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled. The report showed a considerable saving over the previous month, a considerable saving.

Conar was pleased, with himself, with his own efficiency. He was a small man—paunchy, pinkish, slightly bald—and he enjoyed his position immensely. There was a great satisfaction in telling the owner of a company that he couldn’t buy this, couldn’t spend that. It was power, and Julius Conar loved power, loved it as only a small man can. The phone on his desk rang. The smile left Conar’s face as he leaned forward. He became briskly businesslike. Lifting the receiver, he spoke an abrupt, “Yes?” into the mouthpiece.

“There’s a Mr. Harry Nichols calling, Mr. Conar,” the switchboard girl’s voice replied. “Will you speak to him?”

Conar hesitated, He became confused. His briskness deserted him. Some of the pink drained from his face.

“All right,” he said, at last, “put him through.” His voice was hoarse.

The girl made the connection. A nasal voice spoke Conar’s name. Conar answered automatically.

“I just thought I’d call,” said Harry Nichols. “Just sort of sociable.”

“What do you want?” Conar demanded stiffly.

“Now is that a nice way to talk to a friend? A friend calls sociable and you treat him like a disease. Is that a way?”

Conar tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he repeated his demand, “What do you want, Nichols?”

“Okay. Okay. If it’s got to be business right off, it’s got to be. I’ll tell you what. I got a chance to swing a good deal, see? But I need some dough. About five hundred. It’s some deal.”

“I told you a month ago—” Conar began. “You promised to destroy the letters if I gave you a thousand dollars. Why haven’t you kept up your end of the bargain?” His voice grew weakly threatening. “I won’t give you another cent. Not one more cent.”

“They’re such nice letters,” the nasal voice sighed mockingly. “They read so pretty. Especially the one that starts, ‘Dearest Lambie.’ That’s a corker. Your wife would love that one; wouldn’t she, Conar?”

Sweat trickled down the small man’s round forehead.

“You wouldn’t dare. Not my wife. You wouldn’t dare.”

“I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” Nichols laughed. “Not that you give a rap about the woman herself. No. But she has a nice piece of change in the bank. You’d never get a chance at that, if I showed her the letters.”

Nichols voice became dead earnest. “I’ll tell you what, Conar. I’ll give you a break. I could keep milking you until you were dry, if I wanted to. But I’ll give you a break. You can have the letters for five thousand. Give it to me in a lump sum and I’ll slap the letters right into your palm.”

“But I haven’t got that much,” Conar pleaded. “I swear I haven’t.”

“You could raise it. Besides, you’ll get ten times that from your wife sooner or later.”

Conar straightened in his seat. Nichols was right, he decided. His voice held a determinate ring as he said, “All right. I’ll raise it somehow. When do I meet you?”

“Tonight okay? At nine. Grantland Hotel. Room four-twelve.”

Conar breathed, “Yes, tonight,” and hung up.

For a long time Julius Conar sat very still. Beads of sweat still stood out on his forehead. His undershirt was soaked. Finally he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. He felt a little better. There was plenty of time until nine o’clock; time enough to worry then.

The report on his desk still awaited a signature. His pen scratched as he signed. The desk blotter dried the scrawl, and he rose from his seat.

It felt good to walk out of the office—like leaving a prison cell. His footsteps echoed as he marched, almost briskly, down the corridor to Oscar Wendell’s office.

Oscar Wendell, president of Wendell Toys and Games, was a stout, shaggy headed man. Great, bushy eyebrows made him look almost fierce.

It was he who had seen the need of cutting expenses, who had hired the efficiency expert. Conar, however, was made aware, from the first day of his employment, that he was nothing more than a necessary evil. Mr. Wendell despised efficiency experts, especially brisk little men who thrived on being petty.

Conar knocked on the office door, then entered. Wendell’s secretary showed him into the president’s inner sanctum. For the tenth time, as he stepped into the comfortable private office, Conar tried to think of an excuse to cut expenses by making Wendell do without a secretary.

President Wendell nodded his great head at Conar.

“I have my report for last month, Mr. Wendell,” said the small man. “I’d like you to check it. You’ll see the results of my methods.”

Wendell accepted the report wordlessly. He scanned over it swiftly. A protest welled out of him at the third item. “Two secretaries fired? Why?”

“Mr. Reese and Mr. Morgan are sharing the same girl now. And in the future Mr. Martin will use a dictaphone for his dictation.”

Wendell grunted and went back to the list. A moment later he said, “Oh, come now, Conar. This is really too much. Items seven and eight are ridiculous. What good will it do to remove desk lamps from all the offices? And how much can we possibly save by refusing all letters with postage due?”

“Mr. Wendell,” Conar said briskly, “you hired me to save you money. In order to do that, I must have a free hand. More than that, I must have co-operation. Item seven will save almost ten dollars a month in electricity. Ten items like that will add up to a twelve-hundred dollar a year saving. Item eight is also a very small saving, but—”

Mr. Wendell interrupted by sighing his resignation. Waving his hand slightly, he said, “All right, Conar. I guess you know your job. This report shows you’re getting results, so I’ll say no more.”

Conar smiled his triumph. He enjoyed Wendell’s annoyance.

But by a quarter to nine that evening Conar had forgotten his victory. Once again his brisk manner deserted him. It was almost time for his appointment with Harry Nichols.

Conar had gone home for dinner after work, had spent an endless two hours with his wife. Finally, at eight o’clock, making an excuse, he left home.

In the inside pocket of his overcoat he carried an envelope containing one hundred fifty-dollar bills, drawn from the bank that afternoon. His right hand pocket was weighted down with a loaded automatic.

The small man entered the Grantland Hotel at five to nine. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor. His face was grim as he marched through the deserted corridor, noted the stairway exit, then found room four-twelve. He rapped sharply.

Nichols opened up immediately. He squinted at Conar, smiled, and stood aside as the small man entered.

Conar waited uncomfortably while Nichols shut the door. He stared at the blackmailer’s back. Nichols was slightly taller than himself, a hawk-faced man, redheaded, pinch-eyed, skinny. Conar hated him; hated him, not because of what he stood for, but because Nichols could force him to do things. Conar disliked anyone with more power than himself.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Conar,” Nichols said, turning from the door.

Conar was annoyed by the man’s politeness. It gave him a feeling of being played with.

“Where are the letters?” he asked coldly.

Nichols studied him, and something approaching disgust came into his hawkish face. His nasal voice lost its polite tone as he said, “I don’t like you, Mr. Efficiency. And I don’t trust you. You’re always so businesslike, so that’s how we’ll do now. Let’s see the money first.”

Conar was suspicious, but he took out the thick envelope. Nichols reached for it. The smaller man withdrew it quickly.

“The letters,” he said.

Nichols removed a packet from his pocket. There were five letters. Conar licked his lips when he saw them. What a fool he’d been to write them. It wasn’t like him to lose his head over a woman.

“Let me look at them,” he said, holding out a shaking hand.

Nichols laughed and opened the envelopes one by one. He held up each letter in turn and Conar recognized the handwriting.

“Here’s how we do it,” Nichols said. “I don’t want no trouble with you, so here’s what I figured out. I’ll stick the letters in a hotel envelope and address it to you. We’ll mail it right outside in the chute. Then you give me the dough and we’re done.”

“Why don’t you just hand me the letters?” Conar protested. “I’ll give you the money. Why make a fuss?”

“Because I don’t want no kid games,” Nichols replied. “You know, like, ‘You give me first.’ ‘No, you give me.’ If I hand you the letters, you might try to run out without paying. And I know damn well you won’t give me the money first. So we don’t play games. We drop the letters in the mailbox and that’s that.”

“What’s to prevent me from running out once they’re mailed?”

Nichols laughed, “I figured that too. The mail don’t get picked up until ten o’clock. Right up to that time, with the hotel manager vouching for me, I can get the letter back.”

He paused, then said, “It works your way, too. You watch me mail them. You pay me. Then you sit here with me until after ten so you know I don’t pick them up.”

Conar shrugged, nodded. The plan was good, and safe. It satisfied him. He gave Nichols his office address for the envelope. It wouldn’t do to have his wife get hold of the letters now.

Nichols finished addressing, wrote, “Room 412,” under the hotel address, explaining, “In case I have to identify it,” and pasted a stamp in the upper right hand corner. Conar watched him slip the letters in and seal the envelope.

They left the room together and Nichols dropped the letter in the mail chute. Conar followed the blackmailer back to four-twelve.

The small man stared at the back of Nichols’ head as he fumbled his key in the lock. Conar felt differently toward the man now. He had nothing to fear from him. He felt contempt, a desire for revenge. The worry and hate he’d known in the past months welled up in him.

“See how easy,” Nichols was saying, lightly, as the door swung in. “Everything’s settled. You give me the money. We sit and talk a while. And soon—”

Nichols’ back was still turned. Conar felt the gun in his pocket. He hadn’t intended using it—or had he? It was fear of Nichols made him carry it, he’d told himself. But now the burden of fear was lifted. And it was hate he felt. Strong hate.

His hand whipped from his pocket. Nerveless fingers clutched the weapon, not as a gun, but as a heavy lump of steel. His arm, swung in a high, swift arc, came down on Nichols.

Metal cracked dully on bone.

Nichols dropped without a sound. Conar stood over him, panting. His face was flushed.

A sense of power flowed through him, more power than he’d ever felt before. He’d never done anything like this before.

Stooping quickly, he touched the fallen man. Nichols didn’t seem to be breathing. Conar felt for a pulse. There was none. It was unbelievable. One minute there was life, and the next—How puny man was. He died so easily.

Conar arose, backed into the corridor, and closed the door. He ran down the hallway toward the stairway exit.

The next two days were the happiest in Conar’s life. He worked hard at the job he loved; slashed ruthlessly at unnecessary expenditures. He was completely unburdened, unworried. Within him burned a fierce sense of freedom. It placed a stronger power, a stronger moral power, in his hands. He was rid of the only shadow in his life.

On the second morning, Conar waited for the letter. It didn’t arrive in the first mail, but he refused to worry. There was another delivery at ten-thirty.

At quarter to ten, Conar’s phone rang. The switchboard girl announced, in an excited voice, that two men were on their way in to see him. They just barged through, she told him. They were policemen.

Conar mumbled, “Thanks,” and hung up. Panic mounted in him. Why were they here? They couldn’t possibly have traced him.

He arose and started for the door when it opened.

Both men were hard-looking and formidable. They towered over him. They dwarfed him.

“Conar?” one asked,

He nodded dumbly.

“We’re from headquarters. Homicide. We want you to come along with us. There are some questions about the murder of Harry Nichols.”

“Harry Nichols?” Conar asked. “Harry Nichols? I don’t know a Harry Nichols.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Conar,”—Conar felt a bewildered rage at the man’s tone,—“you knew Harry Nichols. He was blackmailing you, remember? And you killed him.”

Conar gasped, “I didn’t,” as he watched the big man take an envelope from his pocket.

“You probably would have gotten away,” the detective said, “if it wasn’t for these.”

“But I mailed them here,” Conar protested weakly. “How—?”

“And they got here, too,” the detective replied. “Yesterday they got here. But someone in this company was saving money. This morning they were back at the hotel.”

The big man held forth the envelope. Conar stared at it. His eyes grew hot, and stung, and teared.

Scrawled in pencil, he read the word, “Refused.” And stamped in red ink, the words, Postage due 3c.

MEET MY MUMMY, by Elroy Arno

Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1947.

The Intellect had both his feet up on the desk top, a cigar clamped between his teeth, hands folded across his chest. He said:

“Well, don’t stand there holding the door up! The hinges are strong enough. Come in.”

The Intellect is a nice, friendly name for the boss, Larry Haynes. Haynes runs a two man agency that handles confidential investigations. I’m the number two man. He runs the agency and I run my feet into the ground, coming in sometimes with results, more often, with corns. I eased myself down on the edge of the desk doffed my hat and rubbed a wet, irritated crease around my head where the sweat band had cut in.

“I’m quitting the Vaney set-up,” I said. “Old man Vaney will have to track down his own wife. I think the woman’s on the square with him.”

The Intellect scowled.

“Forget all about Vaney,” he said. “Something new has come up.”

I suppressed a moan. That’s the way the Intellect works. We never make much money, but we have fun. We skip blithely from case to case, solving very little and eating less.

“Good,” I said and found a cigarette crumpled into the lower basement of my coat pocket. “Good, indeed. And what millionaire is going to remember us in his will for proving that his wife is giving him the runaround?”

The Intellect smiled blandly, tossed a half inch of very bad cigar into the waste basket and trimmed the end of a new one with his penknife.

“Calm yourself,” he said. “No more divorce cases, not for a while. All you got to do is find a beautiful blond. We get paid a cool ten-grand.”

I chuckled, even if my heart wasn’t in it. I’m not the light-hearted type as a rule. Corns on the feet and a pocket book without anything to pocket makes me a glum character. The smoothness of my boyish face has long since been erased by wrinkles that spring up in the damndest places.

“I bet on a horse once,” I said “He would have paid fifty to one, if he had won.”

The Intellect came out of his chair slowly, and unfolded his six feet of handsome frame. He passed an envelope to me. He stood back, chewed on the new cigar and regarded me with the look of a parent who knows what is good for his son.

“Okay,” he said. “Now laugh.”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales. I opened the envelope and a five by five photograph fell out. I looked over the girl printed on the glossy side.

“Nice,” I said, and shook the envelope. “I don’t see any hundred bills inhere.”

He groaned.

“Take, my word for it,” he begged. “You find that girl, and we get ten thousand—cash.”

I kept on staring into his honest gray eyes. I wondered how often they were really honest.

“We get ten thousand,” I said. “Even split. I get something in advance.”

The Intellect and I trusted each other like brothers—and no more.

His face, turned red faster than a changing traffic light.

“There will be expenses, of course,” he said.

I nodded. “About a hundred bucks worth, to begin with.”

“But I only got one-fifty this morning!”

“You’re a liar,” I said, “but I’ll still take a hundred. Do I work today or go home and soak my feet?”

He brought out folding money and slipped me two fifties off the top. I thanked him for it and put in into my vest pocket. No use fighting with the Intellect. He pays you what you bleed him for, and as far as cash is concerned, he’s anemic.

I looked down at the picture of the girl and kept on looking for some time. She looked right at home in a bathing suit, although there wasn’t much room in it. Her picture was taken on a beach somewhere, with a lot of sand and water tossed in for local color. She was spread out in the sun, and what that babe didn’t inventory wasn’t worth putting on the books.

She had legs, a torso, all the proper curves and some that weren’t quite proper. There was a lot of honey colored hair that flowed down her shoulders and acted as a back-drop for a very nice face and two wide, innocent looking eyes. I’d have bet a lead slug that those eyes were blue, though the picture didn’t say so. Yes, she was all there, with some interest added to the principal.

After a while, the Intellect took the picture gently but firmly but of my hand.

“You’re stout and not as young as you used to be,” he said firmly. “Remember that blood pressure. This kind of a dish is too rich for you.”

I ignored his insults.

“Half of ten thousand bucks is mine for finding that?”

He nodded, but it hurt to make the split even. His face took on that “we got business to discuss” expression.

“Her name is Miss Lion,” he said. “Miss Neva Lion.”

“Queen of the jungle? L-i-o-n, like in lion?”

“Right. It seems that she’s got a father who…”

“That’s funny,” I said.

“You aren’t,” he went on. “Shut up and listen. Frank Lion, her father, makes a living digging up mummies.”

“His own, or other men’s?”

“Mummies from Egypt,” he snapped. “Mummies for museums. Get some sense and stop being so damned clever.”

“Okay,” I said. “Mummies—like in Egypt.”

He glared at me and went on talking. “Lion and his daughter left California a year ago. They came here and bought a ritzy joint out in West Hills.” West Hills is the high income spot of the city. Those subdivided heavens out there even cost money to look at. Nice, though, if you got lettuce.

“Right after they moved here, our client, Mrs. Ruth Ford, stopped getting letters from Neva, Frank’s daughter.”

“She’s got nothing on me,” I said. “I never have gotten a letter from the babe. Something will have to be done. On top of that, who the hell is Ruth Ford? Where does she come in?”

The Intellect placed his cigar gently on the ash tray, leaned back in his chair and stared at me somberly.

“But go on,” I suggested. “I love to see a cart drawn before the horse. Don’t tell me anything in an intelligent manner. I couldn’t understand you if you talked sanely.”

“I’m trying,” he croaked in despair. “Try harder.”

“Okay. From the beginning. Ruth Ford is bout forty. She arrived in town today, from California. She’s Neva Lion’s married sister.”

“You’re in focus now,” I said. “Keep shooting.”

“This Ford dame saw our ad in the Times. She came here to talk. It seems that she’s tried to get into her father’s house to see her sister. They won’t let her past the gate. She tried half a dozen times, but there is a tough guy standing guard over the gate of Frank Lion’s estate, and he isn’t letting his guard down. Ruth Ford got sore and came to us.”

“I am puzzled,” I admitted. “There are cops in this town, or there were when I broke the speed laws last. Why didn’t she go to them?”

He hunched his shoulders.

“I don’t know, and for ten grand, we’ll do anything she wants us to. What’s the sense of telling her there are cops. Maybe she don’t know.”

“It’s crazy,” I said. “It smells to high Heaven and none of it makes sense. I guess maybe ten grand is pretty heavy lettuce.”

He sneered at me.

“This Ford woman is worth a million. Nice clothes—nice build.”

“To hell with her build,” I said, “She’s probably as crooked as a Scotchman’s cane. I’ll take a chance. How does she want me to work?”

The Intellect leaned on his elbows and issued the day’s bulletin.

“Go out there and find Neva Lion. I don’t care how you find her. Just don’t try to make love to her or get yourself killed. I hate to waste that hundred bucks you’re carrying on you. When you prove to me and this Ruth Ford that Neva Lion is alive, safe and in good health, we collect,”

“Funny about this Ford chicken,” I said. “She bothers me a lot. Just because her sister doesn’t write letters, she comes all the way from the coast to see if she’s okay. The more I worry it around in my mind, the more muddy the water gets.”

The Intellect nodded.

“I didn’t think about it when she was here,” he admitted. “You may be right, though. Look out for dark alleys until we get this thing figured out.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “your intellect amazes me.”

I tossed my cigarette stub on the carpet, made a mental note to sponge another one as soon as I could, and put my hat on. It was still sweaty and uncomfortable.

“The address is 124 Foothill Boulevard,” The Intellect said helpfully. “It hadn’t ought to be much of a trick to get in.”

I smiled at him pleasantly.

“Go back to sleep,” I told him, “Rest while you can. Someday I may walk in front of a slug and you’ll have to go to work.”

I left him resting comfortably, thank you.

One-Twenty-Four Foothill Boulevard was a high wall, made of rock, and stretching endlessly along the left hand side of the street. There was an iron gate with sharp spikes along the top of it. Beyond the gate, I saw a drive winding out of sight up a hill covered with evergreens. The spikes on the gate looks as though they’d tear the devil out of my pants. I thought it over for a while, and decided upon the director friendly approach.

I wandered across the street and pressed the bell button on the gate, there was a little rock house behind the wall. A guy came out of it and walked toward me.

I had fifteen feet and a few seconds to look him over, He was about six-foot-three, his face had been run through a meat grinder, and his fists looked like small smoked hams. He didn’t come close to the gate. His voice, I’m sure he didn’t have any choice in picking it out, sounded like a foghorn that was doing its worst.

“What you want?”

I didn’t want anything—from him. I figured I’d try being a good pal.

“I have to see Miss Neva Lion,” I told him. “Her sister asked me to deliver a message to her.”

It was the truth, and so help me, I tell the truth until it hurts. When it hurts, I stop telling it.

“She ain’t here,” he said.

“Then I’d like to talk to Mr. Lion,” I tried.

He stopped grinning. Anyhow, he wiped off the Frankenstein smile. He acted like he had just tasted blood.

“There ain’t anyone coming in,” he said, “Start burning shoe leather, Shorty,”

There’s a name I can’t stand. Maybe because it hits so close to the truth. You can call me Shorty if you keep smiling. He wasn’t smiling.

“Listen, you ugly imitation of a sewer cover,” I said “When you talk to a gentleman, act like you know it.”

I thought he was coming right through the gate without opening it. About that time, someone screamed bloody murder somewhere up the drive. His face went white and he forgot I was there. He turned and started to run, I heard a man’s voice shout.

“Hurry, Lester. She’s hiding in the woods.”

So the battered guy who watched the gate was named Lester. I knew that, and I knew someone was chasing a female through the woods. That sure was an exciting and exclusive patch of evergreens. How I’d have liked to get over the wall. For a while I thought about calling the cops. Then I remembered the noise they made, coming with their sirens and their big mouths wide open. I decided I didn’t want them around, not right away. This was a one-man high wall job. I sauntered along the walk and found a spot where the shrubbery was grown up thick between the outside of the wall and the sidewalk. I slipped into the shrubbery. I heard the high-pitched scream again, on the far side of the wall. I figured as long as a woman can keep on screaming, she’s alive and probably in pretty good condition. It’s when they’re quiet that I get worried.

I tried to scale that wall, fell twice, and the third time, managed to hook my fingers over the top. My full weight hung on those fingers and something was sure trying to make mincemeat of my hands. I let go, held down the urge to yelp like a wounded pup, and sat on the grass—hard.

Through blurred eyes, I examined two hands that looked like something the butcher throws out the back door. Some bright guy had planted a lot of broken glass along the top of the wall. Deep, bloody gashes were all over my fingers. A couple of them looked like they’d be dropping off before I could tie them together.

I had to get hold of a Doc and some bandages. Maybe I needed a splint. I wasn’t sure, I went away from there. To hell with the screaming woman. I’d save her after I saved myself.

I was in a very ugly mood. If I had had a baseball bat, I’d have waited for Lester and played a little nine hit game with him. I didn’t. I went looking for a doctor who had a pretty nurse.

When the moon shines over West Hills, it isn’t just an ordinary shine. It sort of glows and shimmers. That’s what so much exclusive real estate does to a poor guy’s mind. I never saw such a pretty place.

If I hadn’t been carrying two handfuls of tape and gauze, I would have appreciated the scenery more. I stood in the shadows opposite the gate and wondered what had happened to the woman who screamed. I wondered if she was still able to scream now. I had done a lot of figuring before I went back to 124 Foothill Boulevard that night. I guessed that the scream probably belonged to Neva Lion, and that, maybe she wasn’t so happy after all. Anyhow, Neva Lion or not, I had a score to settle with Lester. He made me very angry. He was probably the playboy who stuck all that broken glass into cement on top of the wall.

I didn’t ring for Lester this time. I went back to the spot where I had tried to climb the wall that afternoon. I took off my top-coat, which I had worn to hide the junk I was carrying with me. That coat was a sort of wardrobe trunk and packing case for a length of rope, heavy gloves, a small flashlight, short length of lead pipe and some brass knuckles. Brother, I thought as I removed these loveable objects from the coat, this is war.

I hid the coat under the bushes and tried a toss over the wall. Twice the loop in the end of the rope missed and fell back in my face. The third time it caught. I tested it and it seemed strong enough to hold.

I looked up and .down the street and it was deserted. I went over the top carefully, and the gloves protected my hands from the glass that had been cemented along the top of the wall. I was puffing by the time I got up there and pulled the rope behind me. The waistline is beginning to sag just a little and can’t take much of that stuff.

I hoped there wasn’t a tiger trap on the other side, figured there wasn’t and jumped. My knees came up under my chin and I damned near knocked myself out.

I was sitting in the middle of a pine thicket, and I couldn’t see three feet in any direction. After a while I got my breath back, used it sparingly and started out to explore the place. I went uphill and came out on the drive. I felt as though I might need an Indian guide to help me find the house. Lester could wait until I came back. I was saving the best part of everything for Lester.

The road was a winding affair that took in a lot of scenery. I suppose it was nice if you went for that kind of stuff. I didn’t. I was worried about my neck. The house was easy enough to find when I came out into the open. There was about ten acres of lawn so smooth you could play billiards on it.

A big pile of bricks and windows stood in the center of this lawn, a square house with a lot of bulk and very little beauty. There were a few windows lighted on the first floor.

I stayed in the shadows and moved around until I got to the rear of the house. It was in the shadows, because the moon hadn’t climbed high enough to floor the whole scene. That was fine.

I like shadows, I could see at least a half dozen lighted rooms, though, and I didn’t want to move in while the place might be waiting for me. I found a little bench in a rose garden and sat down to wait a while. The roses smelled so nice that I got drowsy and in a very sentimental mood. I must have dozed off.

I dreamed about a rose-covered cutie who came along and spent a few dream minutes with me, running her fingers over my smooth cheeks and smooching lipstick on my mouth. It was all very cozy until I made the mistake of opening my eyes.

Not three inches from my eyes was a very unromantic looking Great Dane.

I jumped a couple of feet and wondered how big a chunk of my trousers he’d settle for. The pooch growled and moved back. The growl came up from down deep, like thunder on a quiet night. My hair stood on end but I didn’t growl back at him. Finally I decided that I’d better learn to like dogs then and there. I would greet him on the friendliest basis possible.

“Nice pooch.” I said. “You’re all right, fella’.”

He seemed to appreciate my good neighbor policy. He came back and licked my cheeks again. Not that I liked it. I just wasn’t in a place where I could afford to be fussy.

He put his front paws on my shoulders and attempted to sit on my lap. There was too much dog for that kind of stuff. I said:

“How about getting down?”

He didn’t get the idea so I had to force myself to my feet. The pooch walked around me a couple of times and sat down to wait. I mopped my forehead.

“I got errands to run,” I said. “How about scramming?”

He couldn’t have regarded me more tenderly if I had been ten pounds of horse meat. I glanced toward the house. All the lights were out now. My wrist watch showed midnight. I had been sleeping for some time. I could take a chance of going into the house now, if I didn’t have to take this overgrown pooch along for company. Damned peoples’ watchdogs, anyhow, I thought. They’re always lousing up things.

“Look, sport,” I told the pooch. “This isn’t for you. You’re a nice guy and all that, and I appreciate your company, but you better go back to your bed. It’s late and…”

I started to move away from him and he moved with me. I stopped and he stopped. He whined softly.

Instantly I was wide awake and looking for trouble. The pooch wasn’t so dumb. He sensed trouble a split second before I did. It gave me time to drop flat on my stomach behind a low hedge. A light flashed on up near the house. It made the area for fifty yards brilliant as day. I lay still, the pooch at my side. The light went out again. Someone had been taking a look around the place.

I got to my knees slowly, then went down again. There was a stairway that led under the house to the basement. Somewhere down there a door opened. There was a brief flash of light, then two figures came up and across the lawn directly toward the hedge where I was hiding. I held my breath and wished the pooch would do the same thing. Away from the house, I could see the men quite clearly. Lester walked ahead of Frank Lion. Lion was carrying a girl, and it was a nice, heartwarming little scene. The girl had a wealth of dark hair that flowed all over her shoulders and Lion’s. Her face was pressed against his chest and her arms were around his neck. It looked as though he had wrapped a blanket around her, and that was about all.

Once away from the house, and not ten feet from the pooch and me, they paused. I had a pretty good look at Lion. He was clad in a dark silky looking robe and leather slippers. He had some nice clean-cut features and well-combed, silvery blond hair.

Lester seemed to be taking a last look around, and I tried to dig a hole with my belly and crawl into it. If it hadn’t been for that hedge, I’d have made an awful big bump on that lawn.

The pooch growled suddenly and my heart did a double handspring and tried to crowd out my tonsils. Lester said:

“The dog is down there by the hedge. Shall I lock him in?”

Lion got a firmer grip on his load and started out in a direction that would take him safely by me, if he didn’t look around again.

“Let him go,” he said. “You better get back to the gate.”

Lester started back alone, about ten minutes. Far down in the direction Lion and the girl had gone, I heard voices. I heard water splashing. There was a light that bobbed around down there, reflecting on water.

Fifteen minutes. I didn’t like the idea of having Lion and Lester on both sides of me like this. I didn’t have any choice. I started toward the light down among the trees. There was a little pool, surrounded by pine trees, and looking a lot as though it belonged right there, nestled between small hills.

I’ve been blowing my breath for a long time, so maybe you won’t believe all of this. I was sober, though, and although this was strictly dream stuff that I was looking at, it wasn’t phony. I swear it wasn’t, because I’m sober when I write this, and it still seems kind of nuts.

Frank Lion, the man with the silvery hair, was sitting on a little white bench at the edge of this pool. He looked a little drunk, and a little as though he was in a trance. He was staring straight ahead of him, toward the water.

The pool itself had a lot of big, yellow water lilies blooming on its surface. Long, climbing vines grew around the edge of the water, and snaked upward into the half dozen willows that seemed out of place in the scene. There were a lot of huge, orchid-like blooms springing from those vines. They didn’t fit the scenery either. They looked like something dragged out of a jungle dream and replanted in the wrong stage-set.

There was a little boat floating on the surface of the pool, and the boat was shaped like a half-moon. Inlaid gems glistened and radiated color from the outer shell of the craft. I remember in a kid’s book, reading about a swan boat, propelled by a lot of ducks with a superiority complex. This was a swan boat, right out of the fairy books. Four snow white birds were towing the shell-like boat slowly across the pool; They were all rigged up in silvery wires that kept them held fast to the thing.

The whole thing gave me a pleasant if slightly crazy feeling that I was staring at a dream. That dream stuff went to my head like a wine, because the girl who rode the swan boat was something to really weave dreams about. Her hair flowed like black silk about her shoulders and her waist. She was high-priority stuff from any angle, but posed as she was with nothing but the blanket of hair trailing about her milk white body, her fingers making little trails as they dipped into the water, she was enough to make the army start home from the South Pacific on water-wings.

She was a peaches and cream edition of something to keep young men from leaving home—if it was her home. She had all the usual eye-filling features—only more so. Her lips were brilliantly red and her eyes, when they lifted and sparkled in the moonlight, might have been glistening rain drops on a very black surface.

I started feeling very warm around the collar and in the mood for a boat ride. Funny how that girl exercised a hypnotic effect on me. I forgot all about the man seated on the bench, and about Lester, the big stoop down at the gate. Then the pooch growled and I snapped back to my normal little world.

This wasn’t any place for me to settle down permanently. Regardless of all the pretty poses the babe assumed, she was nothing but an un-exploded atom bomb to me. She might blow up any time, right in my face.

I wasn’t any closer to finding Neva than I had been hours ago. It was time to fold my tent and quietly steal away. I did. I might have made it too, but the pooch, still with me like a shadow, growled and got all excited. He made so much noise that Lion sprang to his feet, got a look at me and yelled for me to stop. A small flashlight pinned me down with its spot and I decided that speed was a necessary factor. I started to run. Something exploded and I ducked, started to look for a tree to get behind, and another shot tore up the turf close to my feet. The last thing I remember was the warm, unpleasant feeling you have when a slug tears a hunk of flesh off the side of your hip. Man, how I had learned to love that dog.

I opened my eyes again somewhere on the seventh level of Hell. I could feel the Devil’s first assistant, trying to cook me until tender, over a bed of coals. Before I opened my eyes, I made up my mind that someone had rolled me over, pushed a handful of liquid fire into a wound on my hip, and was stirring it in with a barbed hook. I could hear a lot of voices—and finally they all got together and became one voice.

“He’s all right. I have the slug out.” It was Frank Lion who spoke.

His voice was impersonal and professional. I had a vague idea that he was talking about me. I opened my eyes. I closed them again, I was on my stomach, my arms and legs strapped down, staring at a white, brilliantly lighted sheet.

I kept quiet, trying to figure out how I could get out of there and start moving in any direction that would take me away—‘way away. Without trying to struggle, I said:

“I’m alive, and if I’m going to be allowed to stay that way, how about giving me back my hands?”

I heard Lester swearing, and Frank Lion cautioned him against any rough stuff.

“He’s weak,” Lion said. “I went to a lot of trouble to keep him alive. We can’t afford murder now. It’s messy and complicated.”

I cussed Lion and said:

“Turn me loose, and I’ll take care of myself.”

He chuckled, and it was a mirthless sound.

“For a little punk, you’ve got courage.”

“Never mind the petty compliments. Wait until my partner starts tearing this place apart looking for me.”

I wasn’t fooling anyone. Not even myself. I knew the Intellect was home pounding the pillow with every snore in him. They figured I was a lone wolf, and they weren’t far wrong.

Lion untied me and I sat up. I laid down again, fast. My hip felt raw and hotter than live steam, My head spun around clockwise about fifty times before I cushioned it on the table again. I wasn’t so hot as a hero.

“Pick him up,” Lion said.

Lester picked me up with all the tenderness of a mother lion handling her cubs. The procession started to move. We went down a lot of dark halls and Lester dropped me on a bed and went out. They locked the door. I went out too—like a light.

When I came around again, I felt a lot better, in a lousy sort of way. My mouth was full of dirty cotton and my hip felt as though it had been slept on by an elephant. I was in an eight by twelve room with a bed and a chair. There wasn’t any window. I worked on the door for an hour, and gave up after trying to pound it down with my bare hands. All I got was some fresh cuts on my hands.

I tried to play smart. I dropped on the bed and played the waiting game. Three—four hours crawled past. Lion came in. He sat on the edge of the bed and offered me a cigarette. Even Lion couldn’t make a cigarette taste bad. I sucked at it until the ash burned my fingers.

“Who hired you to come here?”

I grinned in a brotherly manner.

“I came over the wall to smell of your evergreens,” I said. “I get lonesome for the woods. I’m part Indian.”

He tossed his own cigarette on the rug-less floor and pushed his heel down on it.

“I should have killed you last night,” he said.

“I’d have died without pain,” I said. “I don’t feel very good alive.”

He had an unpleasant sneer. On him, it looked natural. I’ll bet he spent hours in front of his mirror, curling that nice blond hair. I wanted to smash a few of those even, white teeth out of line.

“I’m puzzled,” he said.

“Me too. For instance, I’m wondering where you’ve hidden Neva, after she had the screaming fit yesterday and tried to break out of this joint.”

I rocked him back on his heels a little with that crack. His face turned white and he did a lot of searching for the right words to use on me next. After he found the words, he faltered a little getting them out.

“See here,” he said, “you saw my daughter last night, down at the pool. Now make sense, will you. If you tell me who you are and who sent you here, maybe we can make a deal. I don’t like to get bloody about this. You keep your mouth shut and maybe you’ll live awhile.”

I played coy.

“I’m the original mystery man,” I said. “If my partner, the other man from nowhere, goes down to the office this morning and finds me missing, he’s going to know where to look for me. He’ll probably bring a flock of cops along to keep him company. Lester is tough, but he ain’t that tough.”

Lion actually smiled.

“Lester is quite capable of taking care of himself. Right now, he’s waiting to take care of you, if it becomes necessary.”

He wasn’t bluffing any more. Personally, I was getting damned sick of his talk.

“The corpse will be found in the garden wearing blue marks around his neck,” I said. “Frank Lion will spend some pleasant days in jail, prior to his march down the last mile.”

He sprang to his feet.

“Damn you,” he snarled, “you won’t talk sense. I’ve got no more time to waste. Are you going to tell me who sent you here, and why, or…?”

“Sure I’ll talk,” I said. “Tell me where Neva is, and I’ll talk—to her. After that, if she’s okay, I’ll go pleasantly on my way. You can spend the rest of your life looking at that interesting little side-show you like to stage down there on the pool. Nice work you got, if I do say so myself.”

His fists were clenched but I had him worried. Lion wouldn’t have hesitated to murder me, if he’d dared to. He wasn’t soft. He was smart. He knew that without blood on his hands, he still had a way out. Once he murdered, time and the cops would catch up with him. With me alive, the problem was still his and mine.

“I don’t know why you want to see Neva,” he said. “You saw her last night. She’s well and happy. I’ll admit the girl has strange habits. It’s—it’s a little quirk in her brain. She isn’t just right. As her father and as her doctor, I humor her and keep her protected here where others can’t trouble her peace of mind. Don’t you understand? Neva isn’t balanced, mentally. What you saw last night was the portrayal of a part she plays. She imagines herself a Princess. I make the little act she puts on as real as possible, to keep her from growing violent. It works. She’s happy and I’m doing what any father would do.”

It was a nice story. I think he had it all worked out—except that the girl on the lagoon had black hair, and little Neva was a blond.

“Sorry,” I said. “The babe on the lagoon is a cute customer. She isn’t your daughter.”

He hesitated, sorry to waste that nice play-up on me, yet knowing that he had lost.

“My pal will come through that wall like a bulldozer,” I said. “The cops play for keeps. You better let me in on this little game we’re playing.” There was a battle going on in the man’s mind. His fingers got all twisted up in his hair and he worried them down across a drawn face. He looked like a lion tamer with a new cat in the act. One that he wasn’t ready to handle. He stood up and said:

“I think you’re a madman, and I don’t know why I humor you. However, if after seeing my daughter, you’ll shut up and get out—and keep your mouth shut, maybe we can do business without a gun.”

I gathered my wits up with as much speed as I could, because I didn’t really think he was going to play my kind of ball at all. We left that room as friends, each wondering when the axe would fall.

The house was all right. There was a lot of it, some of which I saw on the trip down three flights of open stairs into a huge lounge. I backed up to a fireplace big enough to roast a stuffed ox, and looked over the layout. Lion left me there and went away on a little trip of his own.

“I wouldn’t try playing clever,” he told me. “If you stay put and on your good behavior it may pay off. Otherwise, the finish will not be so pleasant.”

I wasn’t very scared of him now, but after all, I did want to see Neva Lion, and why should I toss the opportunity out the window. I wandered around among the davenports and richly comfortable chairs. Some collection of knick-knacks.

Five minutes passed, and me without a smoke. My nerves became edgy. Then Lion came back, and at his side, her arm about his waist, was Neva. That photograph wasn’t even a good advertisement for the real thing. Neva Lion smiled at me in a sleepy, disturbed manner. Lion said:

“This may puzzle you, Neva. I’m going to introduce you to a complete stranger, let him talk to you, and then hope that he’ll go away and stop troubling us. Frankly, it makes very little sense even to me.”

He had either done a lot of talking to the girl before he brought her in, or she was too damned dumb to care who I was or what I wanted. I felt prickly heat all over my body. This was a situation that troubled me all the way down to the foundation. If this part of Lion’s little act was on the level—I was a damned fool at best. It was actually none of my business how he lived or who he chose for companions. If Neva was okay, I was a sneak thief, a prowler, a fool, and deserved to be shot.

I said:

“Miss Lion, a friend of yours asked me to call on you and ask if you were well. This friend had reason to think that you were in trouble.”

I was watching her closely for some signal, if she wanted to give one. There was a lot of stuff written between the lines in this little show and I hoped to untangle some of it. The girl gave me a nice, if slightly impatient smile.

“I think you’ll understand if I agree with father. This whole scene is a little insane, isn’t it? Of course I’m all right. I’m quite happy, and will be, even if you are forced to cut your visit short. Do you understand that, or shall I write you a letter to express myself more clearly?”

My face was about the color of a boiled beet. I made funny noises in my throat and felt like a kid who’s being kept after school for throwing spitballs at the teacher. I looked around for a hole to crawl into.

Lion was grinning—quite happily. I kept on staring at the girl because she was wonderful material to stare at. Still, things weren’t on the up and up. Something about her appearance?

There was enough sex appeal packed into that dress she wore, to take my mind off anything else. It didn’t. I knew that she was all tied up inside and ready to bust. Her eyes were devoid of sparkle. She walked stiffly—as though two thirds tight. There was something wooden about her actions and her body.

I wanted to get out of there. I had more than I could handle, in two or three ways. Lester was still hanging around down at the gate, ready to take me apart.

“I get a very clear picture that I’m as welcome as a snow storm in June,” I said, and tried to smile. “Sorry I caused all this trouble, both for you and your father. I’ve been taken in for a sucker, and all I can do is say I’m darned sorry about it—and get out.”

I pretended to work up righteous indignation toward my client.

“I’m telling you, Mr. Lion, some people give me a pain in the neck. If I’d been you last night, and you sneaked into my property, I’d have shot to kill. This client of mine is either nuts or making a fool of me—and that isn’t hard. You’re a good sport for giving me a break I don’t deserve. If the cops took me in, I’d sit in the cooler for a long time for trespassing.”

He took all of it. He was eating out of my hand. All the time I was keeping an eye on Neva. She wasn’t even listening to me.

I said goodbye in a nice humble way and got out of there.

If I had fooled Lion, I didn’t even make an impression on Lester. He was waiting for me at the gate.

“Come back again some time, you bum,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to scatter you around the scenery.”

I didn’t even answer him. I had a lot of important things on my mind. I caught a cab at the corner of Hillside Avenue and Foothill Boulevard. There was a coupe following us when we entered the village of West Hills. Lester was driving it. I got a couple of good looks at his ugly pan. Lester didn’t like to see me go away without finding out where I was headed for. I didn’t blame him much.

“There’s a coupe behind us,” I told the driver. “That coupe thinks it’s smart enough to trail you. I think ten bucks worth that you can leave him in the dust. What do you think?”

The driver didn’t even look around. I saw his head tip up as he took a look through the rear-view mirror. Then we went away from there. He must have learned to drive by following a rattlesnake track. It was wonderful.

I stopped at a drug store in West Hills and called the Intellect.

“Look, my traveling friend,” he greeted me, “I’d like to see you once a week or more. I get lonely when you go away and don’t pay an occasional visit to the office. We still do business at the same address.”

“How’s Mrs. Ruth Ford, our rich client?” I asked.

“She’s been here this morning,” he said. “She’s got to have results.”

“Then she’s talking to the wrong man when she looks at you,” I told him. “I got ten bruised and broken fingers, a kiss on the puss from a Great Dane, saw an angel riding in a swan boat and got a slug buried in my hip.”

“You’re drunk,” he snapped. “You get the Hell down…”

“Shut up. I saw Miss Neva Lion. She said she was fine, and would I please go away because I bothered her. She’s nicer than the picture. Aren’t you jealous she didn’t insult you personally like she did me?”

The Intellect was raving by now. I’ll bet he was chewing on the telephone cord. “If you don’t grab a cab and get down here…”

“Again—shut up,” I said. “You’re going to work for half an hour. It will be a strain. Save your strength. Tell Mrs. Ford that she should stay out of sight until I contact her.

“Call police headquarters and get a line on a big, toothy gorilla named Lester, who is employed by Frank Lion as personal watchdog. Find out where Lion got all his knowledge of surgery. These answers should prove very interesting and maybe, puzzling. Don’t try to figure them out. I can’t.”

I hung up. I went out of the booth and sat down at a little table near the back of the store. I called the kid over from the fountain.

“You got any coffee?” I asked. He nodded.

“You take cream and sugar, mister?”

“And spoil the coffee?” I asked.

He went back of the counter and started to pour a cup from a glass coffee maker.

“Don’t put it back on the fire,” I called to him. “Bring all you got over here.”

He came back, a steaming cup in one hand, the coffee-maker in the other. He looked a little worried, but he put the stuff down in front of me. I gave him a buck.

“Keep the change and treat your girl friend,” I said.

I stayed with that pot of coffee until there was just a brown stain in the bottom of the glass.

The Intellect was all flushed and excited when I went in. He had spent a busy half-hour and was ready to retire for the day. For the first time, however, he seemed more interested in what was going on than in his own problems. I told him the whole story, and peeled down to show him where Lion had taken the slug out of my hip.

“Probably it would have been better if he had aimed at your head,” was his interesting comment. “This might give you trouble in your old age.”

Then his eyes narrowed with thought.

“You think Neva Lion is okay?”

“She says she is,” I told him. “Did you find out what I told you to?”

He looked unhappy because I was talking some and telling him very little.

“You didn’t give me much information to go on,” he complained.

I laughed.

“With the brain you’ve got, you don’t need to know much.”

He didn’t know if I was insulting him or giving him a pat on the shoulder blades.

“I called Foggerty at headquarters,” he said.

Foggerty was a good flat-foot with several promotions behind him. He wore some shining stuff on his uniform, but he was still just a cop. He was a good Joe.

“Goon,” I said.

“Foggerty did some work in the files,” he said; “He checked up on the employment agency through which Lion employed this guy, Lester. Lester has a long record. All small theft jobs. He used to work at the Museum when Lion was there. He stole a mummy and they got sore and made him bring it back. I think he could have stolen a lot of stuff that would be more interesting and valuable than a mummy.”

“You’re not paid to think,” I said. “That takes care of Lester. We can have him hauled into the lock-up any time for assault and battery. Maybe we can get him on a murder charge, if he meets me in the dark again.”

The Intellect looked disgusted.

“Lion went through medical college some time ago,” he said. “I found that out in checking back through the registry. He took four years and left there ready to practice surgery. Never hung out his shingle.”

“He’s a millionaire,” I reminded him. “Lion doesn’t have to work.”

He had nothing to add to that, so I asked:

“Where’s this client of ours, Mrs. Ford, staying?”

He followed me to the door and talked while we went down the hall toward the elevators.

“She arrived from California and went directly to the Arms Rest Hotel. She’s stayed there ever since. I called her after I talked to you. She’s going to stay put until we contact her.”

I reserved my own opinions until we reached the small but very swanky lounge of the Arms Rest Hotel. It wasn’t a well advertised spot. Not the type of place that you went to unless you had a heavy roll of the green stuff, and heard about the Arms Rest from a friend.

The desk clerk was a small faced, slim figured punk who examined us for bed bugs as he listened to the Intellect make talk. After he had given us the once over, he called Mrs. Ford, and seemed surprised that she thought it would be nice if we came right up.

The Intellect handled all the little details, like giving the floor number to the elevator girl, telling her what a pretty little thing he thought she was, and leading me gently down the hall to room 324.

Ruth Ford had approached middle age, and was trying to stay on the right side of it. She still had a nice figure, not hidden very well under the black lounging pajamas she wore to the door. Her voice was soft, but with an edge on it. She said:

“I’m glad you’ve come. I’m frightened. Something terrible is happening. I detected it in your voice.”

She talked to the Intellect and included me in with an occasional glance.

“This is my partner,” the Intellect pointed me out like something he usually kept in the closet and brought out to show his guests. “He has some questions to ask concerning your sister.”

We all sat down in a cozy circle around a cocktail table. Ruth Ford poured some drinks and made sure that her pajama neckline was loose enough to give us a sneak preview of coming attractions. We passed around some words on the weather, and I tossed a mild bombshell into the witty conversation.

“Too bad you had to leave that fine climate for all this,” I said, indicating that I didn’t like our own weather too well. “I imagine, that even those past weeks of rain on the coast, would have been preferable to our fog.”

Her face turned a trifle red, but she was fast on the draw.

“California,” she said, “offers variety, regardless of the weather.”

Nothing to pin on her at this point. I asked her about Neva and the date on which the girl stopped writing letters to her. I killed ten minutes checking up on facts that I didn’t need or already had. It gave her a chance to be kittenish, and throw her charm around some more where it could be gazed upon and approved. Nice enough, but I hate coy women. We found ourselves at the door, going out. I said:

“Well, thanks a lot, Mrs. Lion”

I caught her with her rough nerve edges exposed. She was badly flustered. The Intellect said:

“Mrs. Ford.” And then to her, “My partner has a way of mixing his names in a hat and drawing out the wrong one.”

I said I was sorry, and we got out. She was shaking a little. It was wonderful, the speed she used in getting that door bolted behind us.

“You’re the clumsiest fool in the business,” the Intellect stormed when we were once away from the hotel.

We hailed a cab and I settled back and closed my eyes. My hip hurt, my fingers were like raw beefsteak and my head ached.

“I didn’t make a mistake, calling her Mrs. Lion.”

The Intellect sucked in his breath sharply and I could feel him stiffen at my side.

“Okay, Sherlock,” he sighed, “suppose you tell me all about this little game of guessing.”

I tried to push my headache out of the way by pressing my fingers against my forehead. It didn’t work.

“It is a guessing, game,” I admitted. “But here’s what I’m guessing. Mrs. Ford and Neva Lion aren’t sisters. Mrs. Lion, alias Ford, is Neva’s mother.”

“And how did you reach this marvelous decision?”

“It’s easy,” I said. “Compare their ages and their appearance.”

“The Ford dame isn’t bad,” the Intellect sighed.

“That’s because in old age, your tastes are dulled. Now listen. I’ll talk. Then you tell me what you think. Mrs. Ford rushes to us and wants to learn why her sister hasn’t written to her for a month or three. She comes all the way from California on that one lead. Does it make sense?”

“It might. Women are funny.”

My temper was getting bad.

“It didn’t happen,” I snapped. “It didn’t, because Mrs. Lion wasn’t in California. She was scared to death when she suspected that I knew her secret. When I called her Mrs. Lion, she went to pieces. It showed through the veneer of sex she was parading around. Now, how did I guess? It’s evident. She’s registered in a small, exclusive hotel which doesn’t even advertise. How would a stranger, fresh from the railroad station, find the Arms Rest Hotel? The answer is, they wouldn’t. She’s about Frank Lion’s age. She has the same general appearance as Neva, but she’s old enough to be the girl’s mother, and she is. Something pretty bad is happening out there at 124 Foothill Boulevard. Something that frightened her out of the house.”

“But listen,” the Intellect protested. “Why did she come to us? She knew we would find this out. She knew we’d label her a phony.”

“Did she? I’m not sure. You didn’t suspect it. No, I think Mrs. Lion picked out a small, unimportant outfit. We sure fit that classification. She doesn’t dare to set the cops on her husband. She doesn’t want any part of it. Why should she worry if we find out who sheds, after she has done the thing she wanted to do all along.”

The Intellect looked dazed.

“And just what was she trying to do?”

“Quite simple,” I told him, but I didn’t think it was simple at all. It was a complicated mess, and I wasn’t even sure that I knew much about it—yet. “She knows that all is not sweet and sane in her home. She wants to start trouble and get out herself without hurting her neck or her reputation. She doesn’t care who gets killed, as long as it isn’t her. She picks out a small agency and sets us on the track. Now, all she has to do is wait for us to uncover trouble and get a good taste of it. Then the cops will step in and clean up everything so that she can have the whole thing settled without involving herself.”

We had reached the office. The Intellect paid our cab fare and we raced for the only comfortable chair in the office. He won. His legs are longer. He chewed on a cigar butt which he had hidden in an empty file drawer. He thought for about ten minutes, and then said bitterly:

“Okay, suppose you’re right? What do we do now?”

“I’d drop the whole thing if I did what my better sense tells me to.”

He moaned about that for a while.

I had been paid. I had certain obligations. I like to hear him worry out these things in a pathetic voice. I found a cigarette that had crept through a hole in my coat pocket and folded itself into the lining. It wasn’t in bad shape. I lighted it.

“I might drop it,” I said. “I might make you go to work and make an honest living. I didn’t say I was going to.”

He looked as hopeful as a bird dog on a day old scent.

“I got some pet hates for Lester and Frank Lion,” I said. “They’re running things about their way, out there in that little private world. I think some day I’ll hit Lester with something. Something heavy with rough edges.”

I stood up.

He looked happy again. I was afraid he would try to give me a pep talk.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Where can I get in touch with you?”

The telephone broke into the script at that point, and the Intellect always on the trail of easy money, made a dash for it. He carried on an intelligent conversation for some time. He used one word. It was, “No,” used over and over in various octaves.

When he hung up, he had a hurt, bewildered look on his face. I didn’t have to guess. Someone had yanked a bank account out from under his eyes.

“She’s dead,” he said. It didn’t tell me much.

“Sure, she is,” I said. “She deserved it. She’s been dead for years from the neck down. Who is she?”

“Mrs. Ford—I mean—Mrs. Lion. Oh, what the hell. Everything is turned upside down. She was strangled right after we left. The manager called her about a new lamp. He tried to get her five times. The desk clerk hadn’t seen her go out. They went up.”

He gulped.

“Foggerty’s over there now. The desk clerk said we were up to see her this afternoon. He knew who I was. Foggerty says get the hell over there right away.”

The whole thing didn’t shock me much. The dame had been playing with the atom. It busted over her head. I don’t like murder very well, but I no longer scream at the mention of the word. I said:

“You see Foggerty. I got other troubles.”

He grabbed his hat and tried to push me out the door.

“You’re in this as deep as I am,” he said.

I played coy.

“Not me, boss. I got a date with a little blonde out at West Hills. It’s urgent. If the murders are started, that little chicken might be next in line.” We parted, not exactly on the best of terms. I’ll bet he cussed me all the way to the hotel. I wouldn’t know. I acquired another pair of brass knuckles, an automatic and some ideas.

The ideas weren’t so clever. Mine aren’t.

I walked right across the street as though I belonged there. I started ringing the bell on the spike-topped gate. I had it all figured out. If I couldn’t sneak into the house, I’d go in the front door.

I waited until Lester came tripping lightly down the drive from the gatehouses. Then I put my thumb on the bell again and left it there. It was a loud bell. It got on his nerves. He came toward me with a haze of sulphur smoke around his head. He knew a lot of naughty words.

“You little dried up, pot-bellied—”

“Whoa,” I said, flashing my nicest smile. “Lester, sometimes I don’t think you like me.”

He stood on the other side of the gate and the Great Dane galloped down the drive and took his place at Lester’s side. The pooch growled. It sounded like he meant it. He was a great bluffer.

Lester uttered a few more remarks on the condition my neck would be in if I didn’t leave that spot.

“I’ll set the dog on you,” he shouted. That sounded like a great idea. It might work.

“I dare you to,” I said.

It had developed into one of those arguments kids get into over their pet bag of marbles. Lester unlocked the gate and the pooch came pouncing toward me. I held out my arms as if I was greeting my best friend’s wife.

The pooch growled and put his front paws on my shoulders. I braced myself and submitted to some wet kisses. I didn’t like them, but I did like the way Lester’s eyes popped out at the little scene. He started yelling at the dog, trying to bully it back behind the gate.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’ll both come in. He likes me. He won’t be any trouble. I got to see Mr. Lion anyhow.”

It almost worked. I got in all right, and fast. About that time, Lester gathered his wits together and rushed me.

I was as ready as I’ll ever be to meet a tank coming at full speed with the gun turret working. I double up my right hand under the glove, felt that nice pair of knuckles underneath, and let it fly from way down.

I put everything I had into it. It was a nice effort. Lester stopped coming, rocked back and forth a couple of times and grabbed his jaw. My fist felt as though it had just gone through a brick wall. Lester’s eyes opened wider and wider and he just stood there. I tried again, straight arm, right into that spot below the ribs. It was low and dirty. Lester grunted and sat down. Then he rolled over, doubled his legs up against his stomach and howled. I didn’t pity him a damned bit. I walked past him and on up toward the house. It would be an hour or so before he got his stomach lining straightened out so he could fight again.

I got twenty yards before I saw Lion running toward me. I jumped into the evergreen grove that grew close to the road. He hadn’t seen me. He ran toward the gate without stopping.

Opportunity evidently was waiting—at least for a while. I ran in the opposite direction. My footsteps were damned far apart. I was in a hurry.

I didn’t ring the bell. I went into the hall at the front of the house and stopped because there was something there I hadn’t seen before, and I was very much interested.

Both sides of the hall were lined with mummy cases. I never could warm up much toward mummies. They’ve been dead too long to be very attractive. These fancy boxes in the hall had a lot of ugly faces painted on them. They gave me the willies. There was one, though, that looked interesting. It was open, and it was empty. There was a mummy loose in the house.

I wondered if anyone else was around. I wasn’t worried about meeting the mummy. I was wondering a lot about it. I listened intently, but could hear no sound. I walked the length of the hall that divided the house, in two parts. An open door invited me to take a peek. I did, and went down the broad staircase into a brilliantly lighted room below. It was square, decorated with white, very clean enamel, and there was a table in the center under a bright spotlight.

Frank Lion had been plenty worried when he left the house. I suppose he had heard the bell and wondered if Lester had things under control. He left the doors open behind him, and it made a pretty broad trail for me to follow. So I had followed it; I was here—but what now? I moved across the room, giving an imitation of a man who’s scared and wants to run away.

I lifted the sheet, took a quick look, and found out where that damned mummy had gone.

I kept on staring at the thing under the sheet, but my eye sockets were begging my eyes to come back in where they belonged. The mummy was a hideous collection of bones, held together by brown, parchment-like skin. You could count every bone and joint. You could look at the wrinkled mouth, grinning and open, to reveal brown teeth. Hair, like black horse hair, was matted and twisted around the neck and shoulders.

I covered the thing up and waited for my blood pressure to go down to normal. A corpse isn’t bad when it’s fresh.

I didn’t like this Egyptian importation. It had been dead long enough to take on a personality all its own, and I didn’t like it.

Then Frank Lion’s footsteps sounded in the hall upstairs. It was a guess, of course, but I figured he was on his way down here. I had about thirty seconds to find a place to hide. I could fight, but if I did, I wouldn’t learn anything more about the mummy, and other details I had come to clear up.

The sheet was large. It hung to the floor on one side of the table. I went to my knees and grunted my way under it. Sort of a lower berth, with a babe without much sex-appeal occupying the upper. I waited.

The footsteps came down the stairs and assumed the form of patent leather shoes and neatly creased trousers. The patent leather shoes went briskly across the room and I heard the click of a house phone being taken from the hook. Lion’s voice said:

“Lester?”

Evidently it was. Lion sounded angry, and very impatient.

“He’s not down here. Search the grounds. Find him this time and put him away. I should have done it when I had the chance.”

I guess Lester thought he needed help because Lion listened a minute and swore at the phone softly.

“Never mind. It’s your job and you can catch him or get out. If you wish to go on living in a world without iron barred windows, find him.” He hung up.

For a couple of long minutes he moved from place to place in the room, and although I could see only the feet and the lower part of the trousers, I knew that he was preparing for some work at the table. Then he went to the stairs and touched a light switch. The room blacked out. I felt prickly heat traveling up and down my neck. A soft, glowing light came from above the table. I could see little slices of it reflecting on the floor. It must have been some sort of a heating lamp.

Then Frank Lion’s footsteps traveled up the stairs and I heard the door at the top slam. A bolt rasped into place. I climbed out from under the table and looked around. Little Miss Egypt, of what year I don’t know, was fairly glowing in the heat light treatment. I wondered how long it would be before her B.O. would get into action.

So far I had some additional information and didn’t know what to do with it. I gum-shoed up the steps. The door was locked from the outside. I went back down and moved around the room like a small squirrel in a big cage. There was one more door. I slipped the bolt and opened it. It was the door that led up a flight of steps to the rear of the house.

If I went out that way, I’d be seen. After that, it was just a matter of time before I got tossed out again, or worse. No, I’d stick around a little while yet. This was always an avenue for escape if it became necessary.

Footsteps in the hall above again. It was beginning to become a habit, and my nerves rubbed on each other until they produced a short circuit. The whole mess was getting too hot, and I wasn’t getting anything but added trouble. I ran up the steps as quietly as possible and tried to press myself into the wall behind the door. The bolt rasped and Lester came into sight, a hulking shadow above me.

“Mr. Lion,” he bellowed, and pushed the door open, I was behind it. He rushed past me, thundering down the steps. Evidently he didn’t like the mummy, relaxed under the glow of the heat lamp. He came back up again.

He never did find out what hit him. I let him have about six inches of lead pipe over the head. He tipped backward and thumped all the way to the cellar. The sound was soft music to my ears.

Just to make sure he wouldn’t get another opportunity to go snooping around and get himself hurt, I wrapped him up neatly with some rope that lay in a corner with a lot of packing cases. I pushed him up on the table where he could get the benefit of the heat lamp, turned him gently so that he would awaken with his eyes staring at the comfortably warm mummy, and covered them both with the sheet. Lester was in for some more bad moments, when he awakened.

I bolted the basement door behind me and rubbed paint off the wall, all the way along the hall, to make myself a small target. My ears kept me posted on who wasn’t around and I made a tour of the downstairs rooms. There were a lot of them, but Neva Lion didn’t materialize.

I tried the second floor, stopping occasionally to look out toward the front of the house. I don’t know where Frank Lion went. He still had me worried.

There was a third floor. I found Neva in a small bedroom, stretched out on the silk spread with nothing on but some smooth, very white flesh. She was, according to my understanding of such things; deader than a smoked herring.

The girl was even more lovely than I had thought. I would no more have touched that delicate face than I would have tried to paint over a masterpiece. She was lying on her back, her honey-colored hair acting as cushion to the small, well formed head. Every line was softened and made more beautiful by the blue silk stretched beneath her.

I stood there cussing Frank Lion for doing this to an Angel. I was so interested in cussing Lion that I stopped worrying about him until he pushed a rifle barrel into my back.

“I wouldn’t turn around if I were you,” he said in a soothing voice; “This time I’m not going to worry about where I hit you.”

He didn’t have anything to lose now. He knew what I knew, and that was too much. He couldn’t let me go again. I’d come back—with a lot of little helpers.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Don’t let me suffer.”

He chuckled. I never, did like his kind of humor. It wasn’t healthy.

“You still have courage,” he said. “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of things you don’t understand. You worked just a little too fast for us.”

I kept my mouth shut. I concentrated my eyes on the body of the girl. It kept me from being frightened. I was still so sore I didn’t have time to sob about my own tough luck.

“Satisfy your curiosity?” he asked. The rifle was rubbing the skin off my back.

“Suppose you take that cannon away from my back. I can’t think straight.”

He stepped back a few paces. I pivoted, slowly.

“Thanks,” I said. “You can still hit me at ten paces, if the mood takes you.”

He nodded, his eyes bright, not speaking. I sat down on the edge of the bed. My hand touched the girl’s arm. It startled me. The flesh was warm. Then, she couldn’t be dead. I think he noticed the change in my face.

“You’re really not too bright, are you?” he asked.

Lion was the sort of guy who would do a lot of talking if I could get him started. I knew the type. He had done something that he was very pleased about and he wanted to share his secret. I talked because I didn’t want him to lose interest and pull that trigger.

“You know, Lion, your wife is smart.”

He wet his lips with his tongue. The rifle wavered a little.

“Where does she figure into this?”

“You’ve been wanting to know where I came from,” I said. “Well, there’s no secret now, because your wife is out of the way. She hired me to throw a match into this mess and watch it explode.”

His face betrayed color. His eyes, no longer bright, were narrowed.

“With her out of the way,” I said, “I don’t care if you guess the rest of the story. She was putting up the cash and when that stops coming, I stop working.”

“You’re damned right you do,” he said. “You stuck your neck out four miles and it’s too late to pull it in again.”

I chuckled. I tried to make it sound full of humor and goodwill.

“I am the son of a long line of turtles,” I told him. “Let me explain. Ordinarily, this would be a tough spot to be in. Me, I’m a hard shelled turtle, and I can get my neck into that shell pretty fast. For instance, I know that you found out where your wife was hiding out. You put her out of commission a few hours ago. Now then, if I pointed you out as a strangler, you wouldn’t have a chance to drill me. You’d be busy saving your neck.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t tell me anything. He just started moving toward me with that rifle ahead of him. He was going to murder again any time now, and it was a pretty personal problem with me. I talked big to get him excited, and I guess he was.

“You came back once too often,” he said. He hardly spoke above a whisper.

“Sure, big shot,” I teased him. “Shoot me right up close, so there’ll be a big hole. You’re having fun with those dried up hunks of humanity in the basement. They can’t fight back. Your daughter couldn’t fight back either. You kept her doped to the ears.”

WHAM…

Just before he pressed the trigger, I took a dive. I had been trying to time it. I wasn’t quite right. The slug tore a red hot hole in my right shoulder. I rolled over and over and found myself under the bed. Lion had lost his calm now. He didn’t know just what to do, and while he was trying to figure out where I was going to show up next, I came to my feet on the far side of the bed. The rifle was slow merchandise to use in the small room. I took a short run, put both feet ahead of me through the window and landed amid splintering glass on the porch roof ten feet below. It broke my fall. Half dead and unable to hold on, I rolled across the roof, grabbed for the edge and got a finger hold. I saw him at the window. I dropped to the ground and started to run.

He fired again, and the bullet buried itself in the turf at my side. I held in the blood that was spurting from my shoulder. The arm didn’t hurt any more.

I zigzagged across the lawn toward the garden. Ahead of me was the pool where the swan boat was tied. I had a chance to get out, if I played it right. I kept on going until I was about ten feet from the pool. Looking around, I saw that Lion, still in the window, had the rifle lifted to his shoulder. I heard the slug sing past me and dropped on my belly. I lay still, trying to make it look good. Then I started to crawl, dragging one leg behind me. I guess he figured I was winged. I wanted it that way. When I looked again, he wasn’t there. It would take a minute for him to rush downstairs and come out by the rear door. I took a swift sprint and went into the pool head first. I forgot to close my mouth and took a gallon of water into my system. By the time I had come up to exchange the water for air, Lion was out on the lawn. As quietly as possible I sank to the bottom of the pool. I found a handful of weeds, and held on to them. The water was cool and very clear. Some distance away, the hull of the boat was visible in the shimmering surface of the pool. It was pretty close to evening. I had to wait for dark. I swam underwater and came up on the far side of the boat. I held on to the side of the boat and took a big mouthful of clear air.

Lion was on the other side of the pool, and I don’t think he was very happy. His language didn’t sound that way. He spent ten minutes wandering around among the trees, and had to give up. He went back to the house.

I crawled out of the pool and managed to make the trip down to my special entrance over the wall. I took it by degrees. Once I was over, I felt better. Down at West Hills Village I found a doctor and had my shoulder cleaned up and bandaged. I lied to him. I said I had been cleaning a gun and it had turned on me and let me have it. Guns are very nasty like that, I said.

He eyed me carefully and pretended that everything would be all right.

Could he have my name? Usual report to the police. I gave him my name and my address.

“124 Foothill Boulevard,” I said. “I’m staying with Mr. Frank Lion.”

I’ll bet he was on the telephone three minutes after I left. That was what I wanted. Foggerty would be here looking for me, and the Intellect would not be far behind. I might need them.

By the time I got back, it was dark. Climbing that wall was a cinch for me now, even with a game arm. I felt more natural going in this way than I would have through the gate. Safer—also.

The room below the house was empty. The door was open that led down to it. I had left it locked. Both Lester and his mummy were gone. So was the table. I ducked out into the night again and circled so that I could look up toward Neva’s room. There was a light in the room. Whatever Lion was up to, he was in a hurry. As long as I was circulating, he had to move fast.

I’m not built for Superman stuff. I managed to huff and puff my way up the column of the porch to the roof. I was still ten feet below the window. I couldn’t stretch myself that far. The bricks were rough, with one or two turned endwise and set in for scenic effect. That’s a very poor ladder for a fat man, but I tried it. I made it. I was under the window with two jutting bricks and ten feet of oxygen under me.

It wasn’t comforting.

Lester was in there, and Frank Lion, and a lot of stuff I’ve never seen before.

I was glad I’d come for the show. Neva’s body still lay on the bed, not a muscle, not a finger, moved from the original position.

This mummy was there, on the table, her sheet missing. She didn’t seem to mind. At the foot of the bed there was a big cabinet with dials and tubes and wires dangling all over it. It was something out of a nightmare, in the Superman vein. Lester was imitating a big, dumb ape with his mouth hanging open. That was an easy part for Lester. Lion busied himself by carrying hands full of copper wire and attaching them to various spots on his daughter’s body. For each wire leading to Neva, there was another clipped to the mummy.

Lion seemed well satisfied with the arrangements, for he worked swiftly and well. Perspiration stood out on his face. His hands, very white under the light, were shaking.

He stepped to the light switch and turned out the single bulb that illuminated the room. Then the tubes on the machine started to flicker, became powerful and the cabinet hummed like a queen bee. Then I held on and watched it happen.

Neva Lion seemed suddenly to change. Her white, delicate flesh turned dark, then brown. It shriveled and her flesh seemed to fall away beneath it…

I held down a yell of terror. I kept looking, forgetting that my face in the window might be seen anytime. No danger. Lester and his boss weren’t looking for anyone in my direction.

The girl was changing before my eyes, into a bony, mummified corpse. Then I knew what Lion was doing. He was destroying his daughter and producing a sort of cross-current that gave her qualities to the mummy on the table.

Flesh filled out under the cracked, dried skin of the thing on the table. The skin itself changed color and glowed with life. The face took shape.

Lion had discovered the deadly secret of exchanging one life for another. I knew that this thing had taken place once before. The mummy, now a well formed, sleeping girl with long black hair, was the same creature I had seen floating about in the boat on the surface of the lagoon.

I wanted to do something. I wasn’t in a position to do anything but hold on. In three minutes, and they seemed like centuries, the thing was over. Lion was turning off the machine and wrapping the girl in a soft blanket. Lester covered the thing on the bed. They left the room and I started backing downward as fast as I could. I did all right until I was six feet from the porch roof. Then I took the fastest way.

I lay still on the rooftop and watched them carry the girl to the garden. Lion’s voice came up to me clearly.

“Watch the gate. We’ll be out of here in an hour. The shock would be too great to her if we left at once.”

Lester growled something I didn’t understand and went back toward the front of the house. So this was the payoff. After Lion was out of sight in the darkness, I crawled down the post and followed him. In the shelter of the trees, I watched him place the girl on the bench near the water and pull the swan boat toward him on a long rope. He gathered her into his arms and placed her in the boat. Her arms sought his neck and drew him down close. Their lips met. The girl was like a hypnotized thing. She moved slowly, without energy, without interest in anything but him.

“You have awakened again, Princess,” Lion said. “We will go soon, to strange places in this world.”

He was a pretty convincing wolf as wolves go.

“I am glad,” the girl said.

“I made you sleep again,” he said. “Now you will remain awake and will not suffer. Do you like your lagoon and your swans?”

She nodded and the long, ebony hair moved in the breeze.

“I brought you to your lagoon so that you would not be frightened. Will you leave with me, and not be frightened when you see strange things? Will you trust me?”

“I am safe with you,” she said. “And very happy.”

I looked away from this tender scene and thought of the ugly corpse on the bed in Neva’s room. I fought down all the emotions I felt toward the dream stuff in Lion’s arms. Who was she? Nothing but a mummy, I told myself. A damned, dried up mummy who had no reason to live again.

When I had worked my temper past the lukewarm point and it was boiling, I stood up and went toward Lion. I pushed my automatic ahead of me. They looked pretty silly when they saw me. The girl didn’t mind. She was out cold as far as thinking was concerned. Not Lion. He knew I wasn’t playing games this time.

“I’m not talking very much,” I said. “I’m not wasting any lead.”

He managed to drop her and get to his knees. The girl threw her arms around him and he tore himself loose. She started to sob.

I said, “You got fifteen seconds to start talking.”

I sounded pretty frightening. My voice slipped way down into the bass key and I imitated a tough guy who is having fun being that way. I guess I was.

He talked.

“You’ve got to let us go,” he said. “There’s nothing in this for you. I’ve got money. I’ll pay you well. Give me an hour. I can pay.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” I said. “Stand up.”

He slipped and fell flat on his back. He got to his feet. He was a changed man. I guess the strain had been pretty heavy on him. He really liked that kid in the boat and he had worked hard to keep her.

“I don’t like men who murder their wives and their daughters,” I said. “They stink—in any language.”

Lion got some control over his voice. “I had to kill my wife,” he said. “She wouldn’t shut up. I offered her money and a divorce. She would have gone on talking.”

“You strangled her,” I said.

He took a step in my direction. “Don’t you—can’t you understand what this means to me?”

“Sure,” I said. “I understand that there’s a girl upstairs who gave up her life for this.”

He started to plead his case, and he would have, made a clever shyster lawyer.

“You haven’t anything to gain by this,” he said. “I worked for years to perfect the thing I have done. I wasn’t a criminal. I found that I could bring life back to people of the past. I didn’t mean any harm.”

His voice became cool and technical. He was so wrapped up in his own greatness that he forgot to be frightened.

“I can steal the blood, the soul, even the atom, structure from one person’s body and transfer them to another. I doped the person from whom I stole. I gave them back their life when I had completed the work.”

He looked tenderly at the girl.

“I was learning history from the very lips of the past. Then I created this—this girl. She was lovely. She stole my heart. I couldn’t bear to send her back to the tomb.”

He paused and made a futile little gesture with his hands.

“I fell in love.”

“Nice sentiment,” I said.

He sent a flood of words at me. He recited a well learned lesson.

“I wanted the Princess. My wife thought I was mad. She saw the girl in my arms. She learned what I had done. I told her she was crazy. I went on and built the lagoon down here. I put the swan boat and the swans on the lagoon. All this cushioned my Princess from the shock of entering this world. My wife left, but I could not let Neva leave. Then you came, and I had to revive Neva so that you could talk to her.

“Tonight I have brought my Princess back to the lagoon for the last time. If you help us, we will both be gone from here in a few minutes. Think, man! I can make you rich! You will speak to no one. No one will ever know.”

“It sounds profitable for me,” I admitted.

“It will be,” he said eagerly. “I’ll write a check. You name the amount.”

“It sounds profitable,” I repeated. “It also sounds like the kind of a deal a skunk like you would dope out.”

He was coming after me. There was an insane streak in the man. He had the spirit of an animal, fighting for its mate.

“You spoiled everything,” he said coldly. “Why didn’t I kill you when I had the chance?”

He moved like lightning. The girl cried out as he hit me in the belly! It knocked the wind out of me, but I brought the barrel of the gun down on his head and saw red. It was his blood.

He fell back and hit the trunk of a pine tree.

He grunted and didn’t move again.

I don’t know how I went through with it. I never really use my head for anything but taking the brunt of any attack. I must have been thinking without realizing it. I took the girl by the hand and dragged her toward the house. She didn’t have any fight in her. She was like a sleepwalker. I guess I’m human. I wondered for a while, when I was close to her, if it wasn’t a good idea for me to skip the country—and take my little mummy with me. Then I got back on the right track and didn’t dare to look at her again. She had a lot of figure that would have made me happy, if I could have forgotten Neva.

I locked her in the room with Neva. I didn’t worry about her much. She slumped down on the bed and sat there. I got Lion and dragged him up to the house. His feet beat a tattoo on the stairs and I grunted and strained until we reached the room on the third floor.

I dumped Lion in the corner of the room. He was still out cold. I picked up the girl and put her on the table. She couldn’t think for herself. She didn’t have an ounce of fight in her.

“Don’t worry, chicken, this isn’t going to hurt—much.”

I had been day-dreaming for a long time. I didn’t think of Lester again until he came into the room like the Twentieth Century on a record run. It wasn’t time now to employ idle conversation. I saw him coming, that meatball face of his all lighted up with a slaughterhouse look. I pivoted and drew at the same time. I pumped lead into him until he stopped coming and went down on his knees.

Even then he wasn’t afraid. He tried to speak twice, and finally got the right words out.

“Don’t—shoot—any more,” he said, and slumped down on the floor. I didn’t.

It wasn’t necessary.

When I got through with Lester, Frank Lion was on his feet again. He was so groggy he didn’t know what it was all about. He was game, though, and desperate. He staggered toward me.

“Stay away,” I said. “It’s my party now.”

He didn’t hear me. His eyes were glazed over. He was breathing hard. He grabbed a handful of tubes and was going to break up the machine. I let him have it. I emptied the automatic into his guts. He didn’t have time to ruin the cabinet. He let go of the tubes, grabbed himself with both hands and went to the floor. Saliva was drooling from his mouth. Then the saliva was red. He wasn’t going to get up.

I don’t know how I did it. I go to church only on Easter Sunday. I don’t ask God for a lot of things that I’m better off without in the first place.

I guess I have a photographic mind.

I had watched it all happen once. I figured I had to try.

I locked the door. I’m glad I did. Before I had turned my back, I heard footsteps pounding up toward me. The Intellect was shouting my name. “Okay,” I said. “I’m in here. The door’s locked. Don’t break it down.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You go down stairs and wait there. I got something to do. I’ll come down when I’m ready.”

The Intellect sounded hurt.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

I sighed. I was busy tying the girl down to the table. The copper wire came in handy. She didn’t protest. Her eyes never left Lion’s corpse.

“You’ll get it, all right,” I called to the Intellect. “You wait a while, and you get more than you asked for.”

He was arguing with someone outside the door. After a minute, they all went away.

I tried to figure out all the wires. Evidently Lion had had trouble on the same thing. They were labeled, on the face of the cabinet. “Right foot” — “left hand“—”negative“—”positive.”

I guessed that the Princess ought to be negative, and hoped I was right. Neva was positive. I got all the wires in place.

I’ve never prayed. I looked up toward the ceiling, because that was supposed to be the right direction to look in at a time like this. I didn’t see the ceiling. I saw the clear, star filled sky beyond it. I don’t know what else I saw, but I said:

“It isn’t for me. It’s for Neva. She’s a pretty good kid. She deserves some help.”

I pressed the switch that lighted the tubes.

I think if I had had another slug in my gun, I would have used it on myself in those next few-moments. Nothing happened! I gave up. I looked at the poor, dead thing on the bed and there was sweat standing out in beads on my face. Then my eyes started to sting, and I wiped them with my coat sleeve. That wasn’t sweat.

Slowly, the change started to take place. I leaned closer, not during to trust my eyes. There was movement below the skin. There was color, coming slowly back to the skin itself.

Gradually, the change became complete. I have never witnessed a miracle before. I wouldn’t know how to tell it, so a person could understand. Maybe Lion could, but not any longer for he was dead.

I went down the stairs carrying Neva in my arms. I left the door open upstairs because no one was going to get away—not now. I had wrapped Neva in a soft blanket, and I carried her proudly, holding her close to me. She was my baby now, and I had given back her life to her.

She wasn’t awake. The drug would hold her in its spell for a long time. Her body was normal, though. So normal that it made my heart beat like a trip hammer.

The Intellect met me at the bottom of the steps. Foggerty and a half-dozen cops were there. They started asking questions. I didn’t let go of Neva. I didn’t feel the wound in my shoulder. I felt swell.

“You’ll find two dead men and a mummy upstairs,” I said to Foggerty. “When Frank Lion died, he had confessed to murdering his wife. He tried to kill his daughter. She’ll tell you that when she’s normal and well again. The other corpse is an ex-con. You won’t have to jail him. You can bury him instead.”

“You said there was a mummy,” Foggerty said, and I didn’t blame him for looking at me as though I’d better go to the hospital myself.

“Just misplaced,” I said. “Put her back in her coffin in the front hall. She won’t hurt you.”

We all stood there wondering what to do next. I said:

“How about an ambulance and a police escort. This girl needs a doctor.” Foggerty came out of his trance and jumped for a phone, I eased myself into a chair and cuddled Neva’s head on my shoulder. Her clean, blond hair tickled my nose. It smelled wonderful. In her sleep, she snuggled closer. They all went upstairs. When they came down, they tried to pump me.

“I’m not talking yet,” I said. “I’ve got business first. When Neva feels better, I’ll try to tell you some things I don’t know much about myself.” Foggerty was a good cop, and a good guy.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure, you better rest up. You’ve been shooting to beat hell, and you collected a little lead yourself. I think everything is going to turn out okay.”

I heard the police siren in a distance. I stood up and Foggerty made a path to the door for me.

In the ambulance, I started to feel a lot better.

SATAN TURNS THE TIMETABLES, by David M. Norman

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Sept. 1943.

The accompaniment of hissing steam, clatter of the drawbars, and the clickety-clack of wheels on rails never soothed Joe Mead into relaxing his vigilance. Piloting Number 74 through one of the worst stretches of track required a man’s full attention.

Joe Mead, grey, grizzled, and weather-seamed, leaned out of the locomotive cab window, eyes on the road-bed every second. Pretty soon he’d reach that sharp curve which by itself was bad enough, but a man couldn’t throttle her down too much because there was a steep grade just around the bend. It was an engineer’s nightmare, but Joe Mead had taken it so often, he scarcely thought about the matter.

He glanced at his fireman who was resting on his shovel.

“Ever get notions?” Joe Mead asked. “Call ‘em hunches if you like. I’ve got a feeling we’re in for trouble.”

The fireman made a derisive wrinkling of his nose. “You got the heebies, Pop. Anyway, nothing better happen to this train. Not with fourteen cars loaded with passengers.”

“Nothing will,” Joe Mead said grimly. “Sure, it’s the heebies, all right. I get ‘em every time we roll through here. It’s where Midford got his five years ago—when the locomotive and tender went over. Midford was my pal. We started work together and planned to retire together. Hey—make me some steam. We’ve got a schedule to fill, or didn’t you know that?”

The fireman grinned and went to work. Joe Mead stuck his head out of the cab window again and saw the start of that bad curve in the powerful headlight. The locomotive took the corner gracefully. Joe Mead breathed a sigh of relief that was suddenly cut short.

There before him, directly in the middle of the tracks, was a man. He stood not two hundred yards away so that the big headlight beam shot above him. Yet the man was illuminated well—as if the light formed around him like a halo. “Midford,” Joe Mead yelled. “Midford!”

It was his friend, dead for five years—killed close by in an accident. Midford—whom he had known so well and could never mistake. Midford seemed huge, towering, and he stayed right in the middle of the tracks. Joe Mead grabbed the brake and yanked it with all his strength. Steel scraped against steel, throwing sparks, jolting the whole train.

But it was too late. The train, traveling at fifty-five miles an hour couldn’t possibly be stopped. Joe Mead saw the man loom up larger and larger. Then the locomotive blocked his vision. Why hadn’t the man moved? Of course it couldn’t have been Midford. Joe Mead had been one of the pall bearers at his funeral, but no matter who he was, it became cruelly apparent that he’d deliberately committed suicide.

The heavy train came to a stop. Joe Mead leaped out of the cab and raced down the tracks. A brakeman and conductor, armed with lanterns, joined him. His fireman came up, well to the rear. “What happened?” the conductor asked.

“A man, on the tracks. Looked like Midford to me,” Joe Mead explained. “He stood there, let the train hit him. Help me look for what’s left.” The conductor glanced at his watch and turned to the brakeman.

“Go back half a mile and stand by to signal Number 40. We’ve a twenty minute leeway, thank goodness. I’ll have Joe Mead signal with the whistle if we finish up before then.”

The brakeman hurried down the tracks. Joe Mead and the conductors, now aided by every employee on the train, started hunting the corpse. They looked up and down both sides of the train while the conductor’s face expressed more and more doubt.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure I saw him,” Mead said curtly. “I’ve got good eyes. He was there and he couldn’t have jumped. Never!”

“All right, Joe,” the conductor said, “but the body didn’t just vanish. Even if it did, there’d be blood stains. This baby you pilot doesn’t tickle people she hits.” Another man, waving a flashlight, approached. He was burly, wore an old straw hat and overalls.

“I’m the signalman at the crossing,” he explained. “What’s the matter?”

Joe Mead whirled toward him. “The man I hit stood just behind the crossing and your shack. You must have seen him.

“What man?” the signalman asked. “I didn’t see anybody, and I watched you roll through here. It’s the only excitement I ever get in this forsaken spot.”

“You—saw nobody? No one at all?” Joe Mead passed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t understand it. I feel all right. I know what I saw, especially since the man looked so much like Midford.”

The fireman nudged the conductor and motioned him away. He dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Pop was talking funny just before it happened. Said he had a premonition or something. Maybe the poor guy has gone crazy.”

“Crazy or not,” the conductor snapped, “we’ve got to roll out of here. Watch him. If he acts funny again, pull the brake. Get aboard and signal the brakeman to come back. We can still get away before Number 40 shows up.”

Joe Mead got under way in quick time, but he kept shaking his head from side to side. He couldn’t understand it. The man had been there, right in the middle of the tracks and yet there’d been no corpse, no blood—nothing. Joe Mead began wondering if he was going crazy, as the fireman and conductor suspected.

Five hours later Joe Mead stumbled into his little house not too far from the roundhouse. He liked to hear the engines hiss steam, clang their bells, and hoot whistles. Someone was seated on the tiny porch. Joe Mead drew back in sudden alarm, and then he peered through the darkness.

“Why it’s Steve Abbott. I’m glad to see you, Steve. How is the detective business or—wait, I get it. They’ve put you on my neck.”

“That’s right, Pop,” Steve said. “Let’s go inside. More doggone mosquitoes around here than you could take care of with ten gallons of citronella. Unlock the door. I’m not going to clamp handcuffs on you, Pop. I’m just here to help you, and at nobody’s orders either.” Mead opened the door, turned on lights and sank into an easy chair. He put a pipe between his teeth and forgot to load it.

“Steve—I’ve just been through the mill. I don’t blame the boys for reporting me. That’s their business and maybe they’re right, too. What happens when an old-timer like me sees a man, dead for five years, standing in the middle of the track? Knows the man must have been hit, but there isn’t a trace of a body or a drop of blood.”

“They put ‘em away,” Steve Abbott grinned. “Come on, Pop, brace up. If you say that’s what you saw, then I know it’s the truth. You don’t imagine things. But I listened in at a meeting and well, frankly, they’re thinking of putting you on the shelf—unless we can prove there was a trick of some kind.”

Joe Mead nodded slowly. “I suspected that. All right, but how can we prove something that maybe never existed? I did see that man, or whatever it was. I—Steve—are there such things as ghosts? I was thinking of Midford just before it happened.”

Steve Abbott shrugged. “Who am I to say there are no ghosts? I don’t believe in ‘em, but they scare the devil out of me anyhow. Pop, you’re upset, so in order to straighten you out, I’ll promise this. Tomorrow night I’m going down to the stretch where you saw the ghost. I’ll stay there as long as necessary, search every inch of the track. There must be something.” Mead reached into his pocket.

“Steve, I found this about where I saw the man or—ghost. It must be one of our signal flares except it’s made of metal instead of cardboard. Of course the thing may have been there for days, but I picked it up anyhow.”

Steve took the metal cylinder and sniffed of it. “This wasn’t hanging around for days, Pop. You can still smell the burned chemicals. I’ll take it along. Meantime, go easy no matter what the big boys say to you. Don’t feel bad if they refuse to let you work tomorrow. When I get through, I’ll either prove you did see something or—”

“Or I’m crazy and not fit to be an engineer,” Joe Mead put in wryly. “Good, Steve. That’s the way I want it. A man who sees images on the track isn’t safe to handle a train.”

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Steve said. “Things to do tonight. Get some rest, Pop.” Steve went out slowly. He spent several hours checking on men who had reason to dislike Pop. There were several. They were jealous that he piloted Number 74, a crack train. Steve hardly believed any of them could be capable of a trick against Pop, but he had to make sure. When he finished, he knew none could possibly be guilty.

There were questions he wanted to ask Pop, but Steve decided the old man needed a night of complete rest. It was nine in the morning when he approached the little bungalow again. Nobody answered his knocks. Steve frowned and went around to the back door where he drew the same result.

He checked a wave of sudden panic, went to the garage behind the house and got a steel tire tool. With this he forced a cellar window, let himself through it, and was soon on the first floor. He called Pop’s name without result and then started searching the rooms.

He half-sensed what he’d find. Pop Mead’s body dangled from a rope tied to a hook in one of the big closets. He’d been dead for hours. Steve sat down slowly. Poor Pop had firmly believed he’d gone mad and taken the easy way out. Then Steve jumped up. Pop wouldn’t have done such a thing. Not Pop Mead. He stepped into the closet, looked around, groaned. He knew what the police would decide.

If this was murder, Pop’s hands would have been tied. There’d have been signs of violence, clues, furniture disarranged. Steve searched the body. Then his face became very grim. He searched the whole house next, before calling the police.

The medical examiner made a quick decision—suicide under emotional stress. Steve agreed with him outwardly. To himself he had other ideas. Until mid-afternoon he worked furiously in the railroad company’s offices, studying schedules and employment records.

Steve Abbott, a railroad detective, didn’t know too much about homicide. He was no city cop with laboratories at his command, or hundreds of men to help check details. He was virtually alone. Because if he vouchsafed an opinion, he’d have been promptly put in the same class with Pop Mead.

But Steve Abbott was sure of one thing. Pop Mead had seen a man standing in the middle of the tracks. A man who let himself be run down. No matter that there were no traces of the death. That would somehow be explained when the case was finished.

Back in his apartment, Steve changed to some old clothes—really old clothes. He wanted to look like a tramp. He’d often put on a disguise of this kind. It served well when he made investigations along the railroad’s right of way, especially in the isolated regions where gentlemen of the road were no rarity.

He boarded a fast freight and got off two miles north of the spot where Pop Mead had seen his phenomenon. It was dark by the time he got there and Steve carefully checked both his flashlight and his gun, well concealed beneath his clothes.

Then he walked casually up the tracks. First of all, he wanted to examine the signalman, on duty at the seldom used crossing. Most of these fellows, he knew, were odd ducks, especially when they were assigned for months to some isolated spot like this.

He saw the little gatehouse, with a light in its single window. Steve moved up to it carefully. In about ten minutes a fast freight was due to come through. The signalman would get his lantern, take up a position at the intersection, and be ready to flag any cars or teams that might come through. The lantern, Steve saw, was placed on the tiny platform behind the shack.

He eased himself to the ground about a dozen feet away. He pulled his battered hat well down and feigned sleep. He heard the freight in the distance, heard the signalman grunt as he got out of his chair, and a few seconds later, someone shook him.

Steve opened his eyes sleepily and blinked in the rays of the lantern. Then he gave a nervous jump as if he expected the signalman to take definite, harsh action.

“What are you doing here?” The signalman peered at him.

“Just takin’ a nap,” Steve answered. “Can’t a guy lie down where he wants to?”

“Sure,” the signalman agreed. “Stay there all night if you want, but I’ll fix up a spot inside. You look hungry. Wait’ll I highball this freight through. Then I’ll fix something.”

“Gosh—thanks,” Steve replied. “I expected to be booted out. You’re a pretty swell guy.”

“Call it lonesomeness,” the signalman shrugged. “I’m so lonesome I’d even talk to a bum. Hang around. I’ll be right back.”

Steve Abbott entered the shack and sat down. He would have liked to search the place, but it was impossible. The signalman could easily see him moving about through the window.

The freight roared through, cars loaded down with armaments from middle west factories and destined for the Big Battle. They were vitally needed, and that freight was really laying on the steam.

The signalman returned after the freight rolled away into the night. He set the lantern down on the platform, stepped into the shack, and closed the door. He put his back against it.

“Okay, bum,” he snapped, and his attitude had changed radically “How long were you out there and how come you picked my shack to sleep near?”

Steve sensed what was coming. “Why—I just happened by. I was tired—”

“You’re a liar,” the signalman snarled. “Talk or, so help me, I’ll make that pan of yours uglier than it is now.”

Steve knew just what was expected of him. Gentlemen of the road didn’t fight. They take the easiest way out. He began sidling toward the door.

“I’ll go. I didn’t mean nothing. Honest—you got no right to muss me up. I haven’t hurt you.”

The signalman stepped away from the door and opened it. “Scram,” he barked.

Steve moved cautiously. He sensed a trick, but he had to play dumb. No matter what happened, this man must not suspect that he was anything but a tramp. As Steve started bolting through the door, the signalman moved too. He intercepted the railroad detective by shoving a massive arm in front of the door.

Before Steve could do anything about it, the signalman smashed at him with his other fist. Steve took the blow and reeled backwards. For a second his fighting instinct and temper rose to the boiling point. The signalman moved in fast then. He drove Steve back against the wall, hit him unmercifully and as a last gesture, seized him by both shoulders and hurled him through the door. Steve landed with a painful thump, got up, and began running.

“Come back and I’ll break your dirty neck,” the signalman called after him. “No bums allowed on this right of way, so remember that.”

Steve disappeared into the darkness, but he didn’t go far. Now he was certain the signalman had reasons why he didn’t want an intruder around. That meant Steve wouldn’t leave for any reason whatsoever. He took refuge behind a bush and crouched close to the ground. His whole body ached from those blows and the fall. One thing he was well aware of—the signalman knew every trick of fighting and he’d be a mean opponent in any mixup.

Steve felt blood on his hand. He reached for his flashlight to see how bad the wound was. The flash was gone. He broke out in a cold sweat. Without question it had fallen out of his pocket during the fracas. If the signalman found it, he’d suspect his visitor wasn’t a bum. Tramps don’t carry flashlights which can be sold for two bits at any hock shop.

Steve crossed the tracks. He rolled up a sleeve and pulled down his luminous wrist watch, purposely hidden until now. In twenty minutes Pop Mead’s old train would roll through. Things should happen then if Steve’s hunch was right.

Then Steve suddenly gasped.

There was someone in the middle of the track! There was someone who was illuminated by a strange light that seemed to form a halo around him. The figure stood there, perfectly immobile. The man wore a peaked cap, a handkerchief wound around his neck, and overalls and jumper. Steve’s eyes grew wide and round.

It was Pop Mead, standing in the middle of the track just as the ghost of Midford had been there. The ghost which only Pop had seen.

For a moment Steve Abbott almost thought Pop looked as he did when he’d seen him last, strangled by a rope affixed to a hook in his clothes closet. Then he noticed there was half a smile on Pop’s face as if he was enjoying his part in this grim, grisly business.

Steve drew his gun and noticed that his hand shook badly. The ghost stood there, daring him to come closer. There was a certain wavering quality to the spectre. Then Steve really got a shock. Right through the spectre he could see one or two stars. The image was transparent!

Steve gathered all his courage, shook off a feeling that made him inclined to run, and slowly advanced toward the spectre. He could see Pop’s features very plainly now. He seemed much bigger than in life. In fact, he was about eight or nine feet tall, which lent additional horror to the scene.

Steve gave vent to a shout, more to bolster his own nerve than anything else. Then he charged straight at the ghost. He was within a dozen yards of it when the image vanished. It was cut off from his vision as sharply as a broken movie film suddenly leaves the screen.

Steve stood there, puzzled and scared. The gun hung limply in his hand. Darkness closed around him like a tight shroud and he shivered. Then he heard a sudden rush of footsteps, and a shadowy form came lunging at him. Steve did his best to lift the gun into position for firing, but he was too late. The attacker hit him below the knees, and Steve went sprawling along the right of way.

He arose to his knees. The figure let loose another attack. This one with his feet. A shoe clipped Steve alongside the face, and he fell flat again. When his wits stopped gyrating, someone grabbed him by the collar, and he was hoisted up. His own gun was buried in his midriff, and behind it was the scowling face of the signalman.

“Since when do bums carry flashlights and expensive guns?” the signalman growled. “You’re a Federal detective. Some kind of a detective anyhow. Well, I gave you a chance to get out of here, but you didn’t take it so now you’ll get the whole works.”

“What made that ghost of Pop Mead appear?” Steve asked gently.

The signalman laughed. “You would like to know that. Maybe I’ll tell you, but not right away. Yes, I will tell you. I wasn’t joking when I said I was lonesome. I’d even talk to a man I intend to kill during the next fifteen minutes. Turn around and start walking toward the shack. Easy now—I know all about guns.”

Steve obeyed the order because anything short of that would have been suicide. He entered the shack and was promptly ordered into a corner. He stood there, hands shoulder high.

“So you want to know about the ghost,” the signalman smirked. “Do you think it will scare the engineer of Number 74 enough so he’ll make a quick stop.”

“Pop saw Midford’s image and he stopped,” Steve answered. “Certainly the train will be brought to a halt.”

“Good. Thanks for telling me. I figured you were some kind of a cop when I found the flashlight. So I turned on the ghost. If anything would draw you into the open, that would. It’s perfectly simple. All you do is create a screen of a certain kind of heavy smoke. Stuff that will stay put even if there is a mild wind. Then you throw the image of the ghost upon that screen and—there you have it.”

“Do you murder men with as much efficiency?” Steve asked.

The signalman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re referring to Pop. That was a good job. I’ve been trained in the art of murder, my friend. Trained well too. You merely hold a man firmly, get the rope around his neck and then affix the other end to a hook. You grasp the man’s legs and put all your weight against them. He can’t reach you and he strangles quickly. There are no marks. No need to tie the hands and make it look like murder. I knew they’d put it down as suicide.”

“What’s your game?” Steve asked. “Or wait—I ought to know. You intend to stop Number 74. Following her up, with only a couple of minutes leeway, is another train. A freight, crammed with ammunition, tanks, plane parts, and soldiers. I’ll bet there’s a photo of Hitler in this shack.”

“I am not foolish enough to keep such a thing,” the signalman growled. “Anyhow, the freight won’t see Number 74 stalled on the track until it’s too late. There won’t be time to send the brakeman back to signal. Wait—you will see the best wreck ever staged in this country.”

“So you intend to keep me alive that long,” Steve grunted. “Suppose I don’t want to stay alive? Suppose I’d rather be shot now?”

“You will live long enough,” the signalman promised. “I shall see to that. I want a witness to my handiwork, even if he will die two minutes after it happens. Stand where you are. Take one step forward and I’ll cripple you.”

Steve calmly lowered his arms, reached into a pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes. He put one between his lips, lit a match, and cupped it to his face. With a deep scowl he turned away, as if he didn’t want to look at this murderer any longer.

As he turned, Steve’s left hand moved quickly and lifted a signal flare from a number of them racked on the wall. When he turned around again, the signalman seemed ready to shoot. Steve’s hands were behind his back. Suddenly one of them came forward. It held the signal flare with a sputtering fuse, burned down to the point where the flare would ignite.

As the flare started to burn, Steve hurled it. Molten chemicals were given off. The room became brilliantly red with the flare. The signalman fired twice, but he was half blinded, half apprehensive of the sputtering cylinder. He missed. Steve had moved rapidly and he was coming at the man now, well under the threat of the gun.

They collided with force enough to send the spy reeling backwards. Steve grabbed his gun hand, gave it a hard twist, and the weapon rattled to the floor. In the distance Steve heard Number 74 roaring in.

He closed with the spy, smashing home several good blows and taking just as many, until his senses reeled under the punishment. He had to keep going. If the spy scored a lucky hit, he’d quickly snap on whatever kind of a projector he used to send the image of a dead engineer on his screen of smoke. Number 74 would grind to a halt and not long afterward, the freight would smash into it.

Suddenly the spy whirled and picked up a stool. He was getting desperate, too. He swung the stool at Steve’s head, hit his shoulder. Steve went down on his knees. Again the stool was raised, but this time Steve rolled out from under, and before the spy could get his balance, Steve had him around the legs. He crawled on top of the man and smashed home short, hard punches. He held the man there until Number 74 went roaring past. Almost on her heels came the long, heavily loaded freight. When it had passed by, Steve arose and let the spy get to his feet also.

Steve said, “You murdered Pop. He found the cylinder you used to create your screen smoke. He didn’t know what it was, but you were afraid he might show it around so you killed him. Testing your ghost device on him was just a rehearsal.

“You got a picture of Midford from an old newspaper reporting the wreck. You used that in flashing your image on the screen. It was easy enough to get Pop’s picture from his apartment where you killed him.

“What you intended to do to that freight and to those people on the passenger train, was ghastly, but it didn’t happen. You did succeed in killing Pop though, and what I’m going to do to you is just punishment for that crime. Put up your hands because when I get through, you’ll be in a prison hospital for some time before they carry you to the chair.”

I DIE DAILY, by H. Wolff Salz

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, April 1945.

In the fog-choked darkness, the warehouse loomed like a spectral bluff. Not a sound broke the brooding midnight silence.

Joe McCabe was sure the stool pigeon’s tip that Lou Fox and his boys were working the Sayer warehouse tonight was a bad steer, until he and Detective Sergeant Allister stumbled over the lifeless figure of Officer Jordan in the cobblestoned alley! The patrolman had been shot in the back, a typical Lou Fox touch.

A strange truck stood at the loading platform, and confirmed the obvious conclusion that the warehouse crooks were at work within the ancient mildewed building.

Joe McCabe saw Sergeant Allister grope for his gun. His heart began to pound with a fierce, painful velocity. He opened his mouth to suggest that maybe one of them had better go back to the car and radio headquarters for assistance. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, biting into his lower lip to keep from speaking.

He knew he was scared stiff. It was that same paralyzing fear that had always numbed his body at the first whiff of danger. The fear that made him hate himself.

It had always been that way. He remembered how it had been when he was a kid of ten, and Butch Cleary, the block bully, had demanded a piece of his candy bar. Joe had been afraid of Butch. But he would have died if the crowd of kids who had been drawn to the impending battle like flies to sugar had realized how scared he was. He had waded into Butch, landed a couple of punches, then found himself stretched on the sidewalk with a swelling, bleeding nose.

Butch got the candy, but the other kids helped Joe to his feet, enthusiastically pumped his back, and praised him for his bravery in standing up to Butch. They had never discovered what a coward he was.

Then in high school, Joe remembered the fear that had seized the pit of his stomach when Judy Allister had asked him if he was going to try for the football team. But he had been even more afraid of her scorn if she discovered that the mere thought of football scrimmage frightened him.

He had gone out for the team, made it, played each game with a dread that numbed his body. Somehow he had managed to do things the right way at the right time and they called him a star. Neither Judy nor his teammates had ever learned the truth.

Now, he was on the detective force, teamed up with Sergeant Mike Allister, the most fearless cop on the force; a man who was said to hate a coward with a cop’s badge as much as he hated rats like Lou Fox. And it was Judy Allister, Mike’s daughter, whom Joe wanted to marry. That was why he had tried so hard to get on the force in the first place. Judy had always said that the man she’d marry would be like her dad.

Joe McCabe’s teeth bit deeper into his lip. What a fraud he was! Trying to pass himself off for a man like Mike Allister, a man who didn’t know the meaning of fear!

Joe felt Sergeant Allister’s grip on his arm.

“Draw your gun, son. Those rats are up on a higher floor on the other side of the building. That’s why we don’t see any lights. We’ll give them a surprise party.”

The palm of Joe’s hand was sticky as he fumbled for the gun in his shoulder holster. Like a man walking in his sleep he found himself moving forward at Allister’s side.

The warehouse loading door was unlocked. Sergeant Allister eased it open, shouldered inside. A pulse hammered in Joe’s ears as he followed. A single weak bulb burned at the foot of the dusty wooden stairway. The single, gate-protected elevator shaft was dark. The freight elevator was evidently parked at an upper floor.

Sergeant Allister’s eyes were bleak, hard, as he moved without hesitation to the narrow stairway. Not a sign of fear showed on his set face. The man was made of solid granite!

Joe prayed the sergeant wouldn’t look back at him. He knew his face must be chalk white. He dreaded the look of contempt that would come over Allister’s face if he glanced at him and realized the truth.

The brittle ancient wooden steps seemed to creak loud enough to awaken the dead as they inched upward. Joe knew that he and the sergeant would be clay targets for a hidden lookout in the gloom overhead. The sergeant, though—he was oblivious to the lurking danger.

The wild, desperate urge to turn and scuttle for safety ran through Joe’s aching body like a searing fire. Yet, somehow, he managed to keep a step behind Allister. He had to go forward with the sergeant! He’d die of shame if Allister ever discovered the truth.

Suddenly a startled face appeared from around the bend at the landing overhead. At the same instant Joe heard the reverberating report and saw the spurt of flame. Something like an angry bee sang past his head. Behind him he heard the slug rivet into decaying wood.

Sergeant Allister’s gun barked at almost the same instant. The face overhead disappeared. The sergeant pounded upward and Joe found himself moving along with him.

They rounded the bend, triggering at the rapidly scattering figures in the gloom. There were three of them, diving for the protection of huge packing cases that crowded the low-ceilinged room.

Joe fired at one of the scurrying figures, saw the man nose-dive to the floor and lie still. He heard a startled, pained gasp to his left. He saw Sergeant Allister crumple to the floor, and leaped to his side.

Allister’s face was white. “Got me on the kneecap—never mind—go after those rats!”

Joe heard a loud, splintering crash of glass. His head jerked up in time to see the two unharmed members of the Lou Fox gang plunge through a window at the opposite end of the long room. The fire escape, he realized.

Somehow, he found himself pounding across the floor towards the shattered window. He threw one leg over the sill. Below, in the darkness, two figures were visible, darting like monkeys down the steep steel ladder.

He plunged out on the landing, clattered downward. A spurt of flame blossomed below. A hot gust of air fanned Joe’s face. He triggered at one of the figures, heard a scream of terrified agony. The figure detached itself from the steep ladder, plummeted downward, and disappeared in the darkness.

The other figure reached the second floor landing. Darts of yellow flame spurted in rapid succession from his gun. Joe flattened himself against the steel stairway, then realized he was a perfect target standing where he was. He clattered rapidly downward, toward the figure below, triggering as he descended. The answering shots ceased abruptly.

When he reached the second floor landing, the figure lay in a crumpled, motionless heap. Joe bent, looked upon the twisted, white face of Lou Fox. He was dead.

When he returned to Sergeant Allister’s side a few moments later, the sergeant was sitting up, twisting a blood-soaked rag around his knee.

Joe couldn’t control the quivering of his lips as he told the sergeant that Lou Fox and his gang were through for keeps. His knees were suddenly weak.

Sergeant Allister managed a twisted, pained grin. “Son, you’re what I call a man after my own heart. It took real guts to go after those rats out there on that fire escape.”

This was too much for Joe. He laughed suddenly, an hysterical uncontrolled laugh.

“You’re talking about guts and me?” he cried. “You’ve got no idea, Sergeant! I’m the biggest fraud you’ll ever meet! I was scared stiff every minute we’ve been in this building! I’ve been scared stiff all my life of anything that smelled like danger! The only thing that’s kept me from showing it is that I’m even more scared of being called a coward!”

Sergeant Allister grinned. “Sure, danger scares you, son. What do you think it does to me?”

“You! Why, you’re the guy they say doesn’t know what fear is!”

Sergeant Allister’s right eyelid drooped in a roguish wink. “That’s a reputation I got burdened with years ago. And all these years I’ve been scared to death the other guys would find out what a fraud I am. Everyday I die of fear. Fear, son? Why, that’s part of courage. Real guts is when you’ve got the sense to be scared like hell and still have the moxie to deliver the goods.”

MAHATMA OF MAYHEM, by Robert Leslie Bellem

Originally published in Thrilling Detective Magazine, April 1948.

CHAPTER I

MAN WITH A GUN

I was moving toward the Brown Derby for a snifter of Scotch and a bite of supper when an object much firmer than a banana dug into my spine and a masculine voice behind me said huskily: “Take it easy, brother, or I’ll blast a cavity in you as big as the Holland Tunnel.”

For an instant I thought it must be some dimwit’s idea of a practical joke, for nobody but a shmoe would poke a gat in your back on the corner of Hollywood and Vine at eight o’clock in the evening with the sidewalk full of witnesses. At least that was my first reaction, but I changed my mind when I caught the metallic click of a gun’s hammer being cocked. Then I realized I was up against a bozo who meant business.

“I said take it easy,” he repeated, breathing the words down my neck and emphasizing them with another jab of his roscoe. “Unless you want your tripes ventilated.”

Since I didn’t want to have my tripes ventilated on such an elegant California night, I slowed my pace to an easy stroll and presently drew to a halt at the curb; leaned indolently against a convenient lamp post and assumed an air of casual disinterest. I wanted to turn around and confront the character with the cannon, but I suppressed the impulse. He sounded like a man with an itchy trigger finger, and experience has taught me I’m far from bullet-proof.

“Okay, New York,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m taking it easy, as requested. Now kindly tell me what this is all about.”

“Where do you get that New York stuff?” the husky voice sharpened. “You don’t know me. You ain’t even copped a look at me yet. So what’s with this New York routine?”

I said: “Elementary, pal, elementary. For purposes of comparison you mentioned the Holland Tunnel a moment ago. The Holland Tunnel is strictly New York. Nobody but a native of Gotham would speak of it so glibly, off the top of his mind. Therefore you’re a New Yorker.” I didn’t bother to add that his accent reeked of the Bronx; that would be giving away trade secrets. And after all, does Gimbel tell Macy?

“Clever, ain’t you?” the voice growled admiringly.

“Private dicks have to be clever to stay in business, and by a curious coincidence I’m a private dick.” I made my tone mild, to lull him.

Then I bunched my muscles and leaped straight up, grabbed at the lamp post and clasped it to my bosom the way a monkey climbs a coconut tree. Simultaneously I lashed back with my brogans—and had the satisfaction of feeling both heels slam into a flabby stomach. The impact was immediately rewarded by a moan and a sudden expulsion of breath, like the whoosh of air escaping from a punctured tire.

Releasing my grip, I dropped back to the sidewalk and swung around face to face with the Gotham gunsel. As faces go, his looked pretty painful. His thin lips were twisted in a sickened grimace, his muddy brown eyes were as dull as tarnished pennies and he was doubled over like a case of ptomaine poisoning. With his left hand he was clutching at his damaged midsection, while the nickel-plated rod in his right drooped forlornly and forgotten.

I swooped for the weapon, got it, stowed it in my pocket. Then I straightened him out of his cramped crouch and supported him with a counterfeit tenderness that was exclusively for the benefit of a few dozen assorted passersby who had stopped to stare.

“One side, folks,” I said pleasantly. “My chum, here, is very sick. We were rehearsing a movie routine that backfired, so make way while I take him to first aid.”

That’s one nice feature about Hollywood—you can get away with almost anything if you say it’s for pictures. The crowd opened up and I nudged my anguished captive around the corner where my coupe was parked. “In with you, bub,” I said grimly. “Before you get hurt.”

“I already got hurt,” he whinnied, massaging his battered equator and crawling aboard my bucket. “Man, the way you can kick!”

I wedged myself under the steering wheel alongside him. “I’ve doubled for practically everything else,” I said. “In case you aren’t aware of it, my name is Nick Ransom.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m a snoop.”

“I know that, too.”

“And before I went into the private eye racket, I was a stunt man in the galloping snapshots,” I continued. “I ran a firm called Risks, Incorporated, specializing in spurious thrills at fifty bucks per broken neck. That’s in case you’re wondering how I was able to shinny up that lamp post and give your abdomen a helping of shoe leather.”

He said bitterly: “Go ahead, boast. I deserve it. The Mahatma warned me you was a tough baby to handle. I should of knowed better than to get so close to you, but I was careless. Now I guess you’ll be turning me over to the bulls, huh?”

“Not quite yet,” I said, and set fire to a cigarette, blew smoke in his puss. “First we play a little game entitled questions and lumps. I ask you questions, and if you don’t sing the correct answers you get lumps. Do I make myself clear to you?”

“Yeah.” He shivered visibly, though the night was warm. “Too clear.”

“Good,” I said. “Now then, your name.”

He made a sour mouth. “This will slay you. Reginald Percival Clancy. Now go ahead and laugh. Everybody always does.”

I was in no mood for jokes. “Okay, Reginald,” I said, without cracking a smile. “Next we take up the matter of this Mahatma you mentioned. You say he warned you I’d be tough to handle. That indicates you’re working for him and he hired you to pull a stickup on me. Right?”

“Not a stickup. A snatch. You know, a kidnap caper, sort of. I tried to pick you up when you left your apartment a while ago but you drove off too fast and got away from me. So I tailed you in a taxi and caught up with you here. There wasn’t no real harm in it, though. That is I mean—”

“Whoa. Not so fast. Go back a little. Who is this Mahatma? What’s his square monicker?”

Reginald Percival Clancy made a vague gesture. “Mahatma Guru is what he calls hisself. That’s all I know. I only been working for him a few days.”

“Oh, come now!” I said “Mahatma is Indian for instructor, and Guru means almost the same thing. Mahatma Guru? That’s like saying Professor Teacher. Don’t dish me that brand of double-talk, Reggie. It will only buy you bruises.”

He sulked. “Look, it ain’t my double talk, it’s his. The Mahatma’s I mean. I’m leveling with you, gumshoe. He calls hisself Mahatma Guru, and he reads horoscopes or something. Claims he can see the future.”

In my business it pays to keep a line on all the phonies floating around, but Mahatma Guru I’d never heard of.

“He must be new out here,” I said.

“Yeah, he just hit town this week and hired me to be his handy man. So tonight he tells me he wants you brang to him—”

“Oh, so?” I cut in. “Well, that’s just dandy. He’ll certainly get his wish. When I get through with him, he’ll see stars that aren’t in the horoscope. What’s the address?”

Reginald mumbled a number over on Van Ness, near the Paramount lot, and I tickled my starter, fed my coupe gas. Nine minutes later I dropped anchor near a bungalow with overhanging eaves and a wide, deep front porch—a relic of the good old days before architects brought modernism to the architecture of Southern California. It had probably been standing there for twenty or thirty years, and barring earthquakes and termites it would stand for twenty or thirty more. It was a modest house, substantial but self-effacing, and it didn’t look at all like a joint where murder had just been committed.

Shoving Reginald P. Clancy ahead of me, I found the front portal unlocked and barged in without knocking. A moment later I was looking at a corpse.

CHAPTER II

POSTPONED DEATH

For a man who had just got established in Hollywood that week, Mahatma Guru had made plenty of progress—at least from the standpoint of interior decoration. My first impression was that I’d entered a sound stage by mistake and had stumbled onto a set dressed for a Boris Karloff production. The vestibule had been enlarged to make a waiting room, and its walls were draped in black cloth of a spongy texture, like graveyard moss.

Cabalistic signs of the zodiac were painted on the cloth and glowed against the black background like daubs of radium, a weird effect guaranteed to give you the horrors. A man with claustrophobia would have blown his wig the minute he walked in, and if he stayed very long you’d have had to tote him away in a straitjacket.

I’ve got steady nerves myself, but that black-draped outer chamber put goose pimples on me. Maybe it was the dead still air, the lack of ventilation. Or on the other hand, maybe my intuition was functioning overtime. Whatever it was, I had an abrupt hunch that trouble loomed in the offing. The hunch became a positive conviction when I stepped into Mahatma Guru’s parlor. Here the ceiling had been swathed in folds of purple velvet that sagged down like the underside of a tired barrage balloon. Large tinfoil stars were attached to the massive wrinkles, while the room’s walls and windows were masked by an array of Oriental silk screens, opulently decorated with embroidered dragons and werewolves. In one corner there was an open sarcophagus of early Egyptian vintage, occupied by a mummified tenant who had obviously become defunct around the time King Tut cashed in his royal chips.

It wasn’t the mummy that flabbergasted me, however. In the middle of the room there was a circular table of clear plastic, the kind that bends light-rays. A full zodiac had been etched into the table-top, and concealed somewhere under the circular rim a fluorescent tube glowed brightly. Its light followed the etched design in the lucite and then sprayed upward, dramatically revealing a human face. At least I hoped it was human. For a brief instant I wasn’t any too sure.

The head was engulfed in a turban of black satin, from which a red jewel glittered bloodily. Below this there were two dark eyes in hollow sockets, a nose like an eagle’s beak, a saffron-sallow complexion and a beard. I’ve lamped a lot of facial foliage in my time, but this set of spinach took the prize. It was black and curly and parted in the middle, sweeping to east and west like a bifurcated broom.

“What the dickens,” I said when I got my breath back. “A growth like that could send Gillette stock down six points.”

The whiskers stirred in what might have been a faint smile—I wasn’t positive. The one thing I could be certain of was that the hairy face was attached to a body. As my eyes grew accustomed to the subdued light I saw that the man was seated on a chair resembling a high-backed throne, upholstered in the kind of cloth they use for lining coffins.

He wore a single robe-like garment of purple to match the ceiling, and his hands were folded on top of the lucite table. They were long-fingered hands, and at first I thought they were dirty. Then I realized the black smudges weren’t dirt. They were tufts of hair. Each finger had as much as the average man uses for a mustache. In my disgust, I said something low but emphatic.

“Aw!” Reginald Percival Clancy protested. “You hadn’t ought to talk to the Mahatma like that, Mister Ransom. It ain’t respectful.”

I said: “So this is the Mahatma, hey?” I pulled out the rod I had glommed from the New York torpedo and brandished it menacingly. “Okay, fortune teller, let’s talk business.”

The whiskers moved again, and a voice came out of them: deep, resonant, profoundly soothing, almost hypnotic.

“Business. Ah yes. That is why I had you brought to me.”

“Now just a minute,” I snapped. “You didn’t have me brought to you. I came under my own steam. To prove it, let me call your attention to this heater I’m holding. It formerly belonged to your stooge, here—Reginald. I took it away from him. If I had wanted to, I could have made him eat it. And unless you offer a plausible explanation of this whole screwy caper, I may make you eat it.” When the whiskers stirred this time it was a definite smile—benign, gentle and somehow patronizing. White, even teeth glistened in startling contrast to the black foliage, while the tip of a red tongue moistened equally red lips.

“Spoken bravely,” Mahatma Guru intoned in that basso profundo voice. “And you are indeed entitled to a full explanation. This screwy caper, as you term it, was based upon my desire to hire you.”

I blinked at him. “I don’t get it.”

“I shall try to make it plain. This morning I discovered that my life was in danger. There was murder in my horoscope—”

“Now cut that out!” I snarled. “Save your horoscope hogwash for the suckers. I’m not having any.” All the same, his tone made the short hairs prickle at the nape of my neck.

He moved his hands on the lucite table top. “Please do not interrupt. As I say, I foresaw my own murder. But the stars merely incline; they do not compel. Warned in advance, there was a slim chance that I might avert this danger—if I could hire someone of dauntless courage to protect me.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I said.

“I do not seek to flatter you. I had heard of your reputation for toughness, and frankly I doubted it. So I decided to test you. I sent Clancy with orders to bring you here at gun’s point. If he had succeeded, it would have indicated that you were not as brave as you were supposed to be. In that case I planned to pay you for your inconvenience and dismiss you. But if you disarmed Clancy, I would know you were the kind of a man I needed.”

Wacky as this sounded, it still added up to make sense. When I analyzed it I could begin to understand why Reginald Clancy had turned so meek after I bested him. I’d measured up to qualifications, so naturally he had been only too eager to steer me to his boss. What Mahatma Guru wanted, apparently, was a detective who went around kicking people in the stomach.

That part was okay, but what I didn’t swallow was the fortune telling routine—the horoscope warning of murder. I said so, very bluntly.

“You’ll have to do better than that stars-foretell-death stuff, chum.” I leered at him. “If you’re figuring on hiring me, be more specific. Who is it wants to kill you, and for what reason?”

“The planets do not name names,” he said slowly. “When I sent Clancy out for you, I did not know who desired to murder me. I only knew that I was in great peril from an unrevealed source.”

I said: “Now wait. Are you trying to say you want me to begin fine-combing Hollywood on a blind hunt for some character who may be gunning for you? Do you expect me to go through the directory, starting with the A’s and working down the alphabet? That’s ridiculous.”

He nodded his black turban. “I agree. Such a search would be both foolish and fruitless. I would not even suggest it. Moreover, it would be unnecessary—because, you see, within the past hour I have learned my enemy’s identity.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“She is a very lovely woman, and her name is Lola Dulac. She is my wife.”

I gazed at him, flabbergasted. Lola Dulac was one of Paratone Studio’s brightest stars, a dainty and diminutive brunette who had skyrocketed to the top of the Hollywood heap within a period of three brief years. Starting out with bit parts in B pix, she had swiftly graduated to big-budget epics and leading roles. Now she was Paratone’s biggest box office attraction and her annual income tax would have kept me in Cadillacs for the next decade. Calling her a potential murderess seemed as absurd as dunking your doughnuts in prussic acid.

And besides, the Dulac doll couldn’t possibly be Mahatma Guru’s wife. She was already married to Pete Hollister, a character hambo on the Paratone payroll. They’d got hitched in Nevada less than six months ago and they were reputed to be the happiest couple on the Coast.

I took a step toward the illuminated lucite table and favored the Mahatma with one of my best sneers—the kind I reserve for people I dislike.

“You’re commencing to irritate me, pal,” I said. “I happen to know Lola Dulac and her hubby. I knew them long before they got married. I’ve been to parties with Lola when she was single, and I’ve doubled for Pete Hollister in danger routines when I was a stunt man. They’re both nice kids. Lola especially. Anybody that says she’s the killer type is either insane or a liar. Furthermore—”

“Wait,” he interrupted me. “Before you permit your misguided chivalry to make an idiot of you, let me tell you that Lola visited me while Clancy was out looking for you. In fact, she had left this house only a few minutes before you and Clancy carne in. Having murdered me, she went away quickly.”

I did a double take. “Having murdered you?”

“With a small automatic. Either a twenty-two or a twenty-five I think. Not that the caliber matters. At such close range, any gun would have been quite effective. Clancy, the room lights, please.”

Clancy sidled to the wall, flipped a switch. Bulbs glowed in an old fashioned chandelier overhead, at the center of the droopy purple ceiling drapes. Then Mahatma Guru dramatically opened his robe, pushed the circular table away from him, stood up and intoned sepulchrally:

“I forced myself to live long enough to tell you what happened. Behold my death wounds.” He sounded almost smug as he said it.

I took a petrified gander at the crimson rawness near his heart. Then he slowly toppled, and I leaped forward to catch him. I didn’t quite make it.

He folded over, sank back in his throne and buried his whiskery map on the lucite table top, spang in the middle of the glowing zodiac. Clancy shoved me aside, rushed for his boss and then pulled back, shuddering.

“Jumpin’ jitters!” he said soberly. “The Mahatma kicked the bucket!”

CHAPTER III

LAPSE OF MEMORY

Frantically I hunted for a phone but there wasn’t one. If I hankered to do any dialing, Reginald Percival Clancy informed me, I would have to go elsewhere. “The Mahatma ain’t had time to get one put in,” he said. “And besides, if you’re thinking about calling a doctor it won’t do no good. What the poor guy needs now is a undertaker.”

“What he needs first is a flock of cops,” I snarled. “Hold the fort.” Then I went racing out to my coupe, swung it in a U-turn, and headed for Melrose Avenue. Melrose is a business thoroughfare and I was looking for a drug store or a beanery with a public phone booth.

I found a phone.

Two minutes and one nickel later I was talking to police headquarters, and another minute got me my friend Ole Brunvig of the homicide squad. “Nick Ransom talking,” I said, and gave him the Mahatma’s address on Van Ness. “Better get out here fast, and bring the help with you. I’ve just stumbled into a murder, senior grade.”

Brunvig sounded as though he might be having trouble with his ulcers. “Just my luck, Sherlock!” he complained fretfully. “Haven’t you got anything better to do than hunt up homicides to dump in my lap?” Then, wearily, in a tone of embittered resignation: “Who’s dead?”

“A star gazer, name of Mahatma Guru. He died of slugs in the chest. It seems he cast his own horoscope and discovered murder in it, so he tried to hire me for protection. Unfortunately I didn’t reach him in time to do any good; he had already been shot when I arrived. He told me he was killed by—”

“Now wait!” Brunvig’s infuriated bellow sliced across my monologue. “What kind of curves are you pitching at me? What’s this about horoscopes and a dead man naming his murderer?” Suspicion came into his voice. “Listen, if you’re drunk, I’m going to have your license withdrawn, friendship or no friendship. I mean that.”

I told him to go climb a string. “It so happens I’m sober,” I said. “This Guru guy had been shot a while before I arrived. His injury was fatal but lingering. He managed to stay alive until I showed up, so he could give me information. Then he joined his ancestors.”

“Oh, yeah? Why didn’t he phone some law? Why didn’t he phone a doctor? Why didn’t he—”

“His joint isn’t wired for sound,” I butted in. “Which is why I’m talking to you from a pay station. Now grab your car and get out here.” I hung up before he could ask me any more childish questions, barged back to my bucket and started back for the Mahatma’s place.

En route, it suddenly dawned on me that I’d neglected to tell Ole the essential ingredient of the story—the part about Guru naming Lola Dulac as the killer who’d shot him. That was the crux of the whole scenario. A dying man’s testimony regarding his murderer is admissible as evidence in court, provided the victim knows he’s dying and there are witnesses to his statement. Guru, by saying Lola Dulac was the person who shot him, had handed her a one-way ticket to the gas chamber, and if I had remembered to mention it to Brunvig, he would have sent out a bevy of bulls to nab her, pronto.

As it was, she might even now be taking a powder for parts unknown, and if she succeeded in evading arrest, it would probably be my fault. I wondered if that, subconsciously, was the way I wanted it. Your mind pulls funny tricks on you sometimes, and I had always had a warm spot in my heart for Lola Dulac. It was difficult for me to see her in a murder role—she wasn’t the killer type. Maybe that was why I’d failed to put the finger on her. Maybe, without realizing it, I wanted her to beat the rap.

On the other hand, perhaps Ole Brunvig’s crabbiness had caused me to skip mentioning Lola in connection with the kill. Maybe, away down deep, I’d hoped to make the case tougher for him. When I considered this, I knew I’d dumped myself in a jackpot. Anyway you looked at it, I had withheld important information, and just as soon as Brunvig found it out he would blow up like Vesuvius. I had a dismal mental picture of myself shorn of my license and forced to go back to studio stunting.

“God forbid!” I whispered piously as I parked. Then I drifted into Mahatma Guru’s implausible parlor, wondering if I might save face by leaving Reginald P. Clancy here to admit the cops while I sallied forth personally to pinch Lola. If I handed her to Brunvig on a silver platter, maybe he would overlook the boner I’d pulled.

I found Clancy walking around disconsolately, biting his fingernails. He greeted me with a plaintive: “Aw, gumshoe, what kept you so long? I don’t like this idea of having to stick around with a stiff. Gives me the willies.”

“I’m not too fond of it myself,” I said, and stole an unwilling glance at the Mahatma’s body. He was still slumped in the throne-like chair and doubled over with his whiskers crinkled under his face on the lucite table. His black turban was askew and his short hairy hands groped stiffly at nothingness as he slept the long sleep.

I moved toward him, thoughtfully. Clancy widened his peepers at me. “Hey, flatfoot, what you going to do?”

“A favor for the morgue orderlies,” I said. “If we let this fellow stay in that position much longer, rigor mortis will harden him like a pretzel and they’ll have to press him between the pages of a dictionary to straighten him out for the stretcher.” I beckoned. “Here! Come help me put him on the floor before his joints get stubborn.”

“Oh, no.” Clancy’s expression got mulish. “Not me, Hawkshaw. Somebody else, maybe, but not me.”

“What’s the matter? Scared?”

“Dead guys is out of my line. Besides, you ain’t supposed to touch no corpse until the cops gets in their licks first. I seen that somewheres in a book.”

Tentatively I flexed the murdered Mahatma’s arm and it resisted me. “I guess you’re right, Reggie,” I said. “It’s too late anyhow.” It wasn’t too late for me to rectify a blunder, though, and I made for the door. “When Lieutenant Brunvig gets here with his homicide henchmen; sing him the story and then tell him I’ve gone witch hunting.”

“Huh?” he looked perplexed.

“It’s self-defense,” I explained. “I don’t want my license yanked for a mistake I made, so I’m doing something about it.”

“Mistake? What mistake?”

“I forgot to tell Brunvig about Lola Dulac.”

He stiffened visibly. “You mean the dame who croaked the Mahatma? You forgot to put the heat on her?” A scowl darkened Reginald’s face. “Say, listen here, you wouldn’t be fronting for her, would you? I wouldn’t like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the Mahatma.”

I said: “Your loyalty to him is very commendable indeed, considering that you’ve been working for him less than a week. Apparently you’re a citizen who likes to see justice prevail.”

“Yeah, is that bad?” he demanded righteously.

“Not at all, pal. I’m the same way myself. By the same token, if you think I’d front for a murderer you’re as haywire as eleven to the dozen. Remember I’m a private dick, which makes me a sworn arm of the law in a left-handed way. When they issued my tin they made me take an oath to uphold the statutes of California, including the ones applying to homicide.”

He pushed out a sullen lower lip. “Well, you told the Mahatma you was a friend of the Dulac jane, and—”

“Ah, step aside before I lose patience and kick out your front teeth. I said I was going out witch hunting, didn’t I?”

“Oh,” he relaxed. “Now I get it. You’re going out to find the broad, eh?”

“That I am,” I said, and took off for the Hollister home. But when I got there and told Lola’s husband what had happened and what I wanted her for, Pete Hollister swung a roundhouse haymaker that was aimed full at my dewlaps. Had it landed it would have knocked me into the middle of next November.

It didn’t land, which was a break for my insurance policy. An inch was all it missed me, but an inch is all you need when you’ve got fast reflexes. I stepped inside the punch and said softly:

“I hate to hurt you, Pete. Don’t make me.” He was big and tough and full of fire. His tallness topped my six-feet-plus with a little to spare and he outweighed my hundred and ninety by a good ten pounds, maybe more. He didn’t have much science, though, and besides, he’d telegraphed that blow before he threw it at me, so I let it zip around my neck. Then I rammed him backward and pinioned him firmly against his patio wall.

It was a modest patio with a modest swimming pool, behind an equally modest stucco wigwam. To get there you rolled up through Laurel Canyon almost to San Fernando Valley, then twisted to the left on a corkscrew cutoff that led into a tiny, boxed-in arroyo. Here Lola Dulac and the Hollister ham had built their nest after that Nevada wedding ceremony six months ago, and here I’d come to intrude upon their private paradise. In exchange for which I had almost got my block knocked off.

The drive from the Mahatma’s stash on Van Ness had taken less than thirty minutes, whereupon I’d jingled the doorbell and been welcomed by Peter Hollister in person. He was young and blond and vigorously muscular, with a theatrical voice and matinee idol mannerisms that would always keep him from being as big a star as his handsomeness would otherwise warrant.

In the pictures he always played second fiddle to his wife, who was a genuinely talented actress. Not that Pete seemed to mind this state of affairs. In the years I had known him he had grown accustomed to a minor spot on the screen, and if he ever had any ambition he had long since subordinated it to the meteoric climb of Lola’s spectacular career. In brief, he was an incurable ham. He knew it, he couldn’t do anything about it, and so what?

CHAPTER IV

INDIGNANT HUSBAND

You can’t help liking a fellow who realizes his own limitations that way, particularly when he accepts it gracefully. As soon as I crossed his threshold he affably offered me a nip of Vat 69, which happens to be my favorite beverage. I took a rain check, however, because I had more important things on my mind.

“I’m looking for Lola,” I told him.

“She’s not here.”

“This is important,” I said. “Don’t lie to me, Pete. Trot her forth.”

He studied me. “Hold on, Sherlock. You’re not acting like an old friend who sent us a wedding present—you’re talking like a detective on the prowl. What’s the idea?”

“I just told you. I want Lola.”

“And I just told you she’s not at home.” He gave me a cynical grin. “Maybe you’d like to frisk the premises?”

“Thanks.” I pretended not to realize he was being sarcastic and took a brisk stroll through the various rooms and even inspected the rear grounds, the garage and the patio. It was refreshing to see a movie star’s home that wasn’t dripping with opulence. Ordinarily, when an actress breaks into the upper brackets of Hollywood’s financial nobility, she surrounds herself with liveried lackeys, a mansion the size of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and three or four boudoirs finished with mink wallpaper.

But Lola Dulac had both dainty tootsies on the ground, and if you believed the gossip along the Sunset Strip she was a mighty close cookie with a buck. It had probably hurt her all the way to her insteps to have extension phones put in the bedrooms. According to rumor, she held onto her money the way iron filings cling to a magnet. She was one star who wouldn’t wind up rocking away her old age on the front porch of the motion picture academy home for indigents.

Also, she was a star I was unable to locate anywhere around her undistinguished shanty. “Sorry, Pete,” I apologized to young Hollister after I’d strolled around the swimming pool and even peered down into the water. “It wasn’t that I disbelieved you, but I had to make sure.”

“So all right. So you made sure.”

“Yeah. Where is she?”

“None of your business until you tell me what it’s all about. I don’t like mystification. I’m beginning not to like private detectives, especially a private detective named Nick Ransom, see?”

I lighted a cigarette. “Lots of folks don’t like me. Look, Pete, is your marriage to Lola on the up and up?”

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at.”

“Did she have another husband ahead of you?” I said. “One she neglected to divorce?”

“Now you’re being fantastic, flatfoot.”

“I’m in a fantastic racket, and answer my question. Did Lola ever mention being hooked up with a fortune teller calling himself Mahatma Guru?”

Hollister’s jaw jutted and his kisser became an ugly thin red slit. “Who is Mahatma Guru?”

“A dead guy,” I said. “A dead guy who used his last breath to name Lola as his killer.”

That was when the Hollister hambo swung on me. “Don’t you dare call my wife a murderess!” he yelped and came at me.

I eluded the poke and jammed him to the patio wall. “Quit acting like a sap,” I said sternly as I kept his long, meaty fingers from wrapping themselves around my windpipe. “In the first place, I’m not here to make a pinch. I just want to see Lola before the cops get to her. I’ve got to hear her side of the story—if she has a story.” Then I got his arm in a lock that would ruin him if I poured on the pressure. “Besides, I didn’t call Lola a murderess. The Mahatma said it.”

“You’re a liar!”

“Maybe the Mahatma was, but I’m not. I heard him with my own little pink ears.”

“Then you’ll never repeat his testimony,” Hollister said wildly, writhing in my clutch. “I’ll see to that!”

I said: “Be yourself, Pete! I’m not the only one that heard it. There was another witness, a stooge named Reginald Percival Clancy, believe it or not. I left him to guard the corpse until the law arrived. By now he’s told them the whole thing, with gestures. In fact, the cops are probably on their way here right now.”

He stopped struggling and fixed a frightened gaze on me. “You mean they’ll arrest Lola and maybe convict her?”

“There’s very little maybe about it, junior.”

“But—but—” he choked. “No! I can’t let that happen, Ransom! I’ve got to do something—you’ve got to help me!” Sweat stood out on his forehead.

“Don’t blow a gasket,” I said. “That won’t help.”

“But Nick, what are we going to do?”

I said: “That ‘we’ stuff sounds sort of foolish when you won’t even tell me where to find her.”

“Listen,” he said. “If I tell you—if I take you to her—will you promise not to take her to jail or turn her over to the cops? Will you give her a chance?”

“You’re asking a lot,” I said. “You’re asking me to betray my oath and jeopardize my license. What’s in it for me?”

“What do you mean, what’s in it for you? You’re my friend and Lola’s, aren’t you?”

I lifted a lip. “Forget that. I’m in this business for the dough. I’m saving up a retirement fund so I can quit before some wise disciple engraves my vital statistic with a bullet.” I rubbed the ball of my thumb across my fingertips. “You know that folding stuff they put in banks?”

“You heel,” he whispered, looking shocked. Then he said: “Okay, if that’s how it’s got to be. How much?”

“You’re doing the buying. Make an offer.”

“Fifty dollars?”

“Don’t be parsimonious,” I parried.

“All right, then, a hundred.”

“A niggardly bid if I ever heard one.”

“It’s all I’ve got available. Every last dime.”

“I’ve been known to accept checks.”

He flushed. “Our account’s in Lola’s name. She’d have to make it out and sign it.” He brightened. “Which she’ll do. I know she will. She’s got it to burn. She’ll pay you any price you ask. Any amount you name—if you get her out of this murder mess.”

“Better slip me that century you mentioned,” I said. “Advance retainer, you know. Cash on the line before we start.”

He was in no position to argue. He got out his wallet, dredged up a thin sheaf of crisp green lettuce; mostly fives, tens and singles.

“Bloodsucker!” he called me bitterly.

I let him have that one—he was entitled to it. I said: “And remember, I guarantee nothing. If Lola’s guilty, it’s just too bad. But if she convinces me the Mahatma lied about her, I’ll do everything possible.” I tried to make this ambiguity sound sincere, but I had my mental fingers crossed.

Hollister swallowed the routine. “I know I can count on you—now that you’ve had your pound of flesh.” He added sourly: “You’re a chiseling creep, but you’re tops in your line, and even if Lola killed that bearded skunk, I’ll stand by her. I’ll stick to her no matter what happens. Let’s go to her.”

We went out to my jalopy. “Where?” I said.

“Paratone. They’re shooting some night retakes on her new picture. For heaven’s sake, hurry!”

I didn’t need him to tell me to hurry. Just as I swung out of his private driveway another car came rocketing toward us, barreling into the arroyo with its red spotlight cutting a gash in the velvet night and its siren shrieking banshee soprano to the echoing hills.

“Company coming!” I said. “Unless I miss my guess a mile and two-fifths that will be Ole Brunvig and his homicide heroes.”

We were blocked. The arroyo road was a narrow blacktop ribbon barely wide enough to let two cars pass each other if they crawled in second gear. The way that prowl buggy was whamming toward us in the road’s very center, there wasn’t a chance in the world for us to squeeze by. Not unless we took off and flew.

Hollister moaned: “We’re sunk! They’ll nab us and run us downtown and leave men to wait here for Lola when she comes home, and they’ll arrest her!”

“Quiet,” I growled. “Hang onto your bridgework, bub. You paid me a century and you’re about to get value received.” I then put my lever in low, yanked the wheel around, gunned hard on the gas, and went straight up the side of the mountain.

CHAPTER V

FRIGHTENED STAR

My rear treads clawed at rocks and gravel and sagebrush, took a deep bite of traction. My front wheels bounced like dice in the bottom of a cement mixer, tried to twist the tiller out of my desperate fists. I hung on, torturing the machinery until it squealed for mercy, and we kept going up.

Far below, that cop sedan roared by with its exhaust spitting sparks. Presently you could hear its brakes screeching as it skidded to a stop on Pete Hollister’s driveway. Then I bent my course downward again.

For an instant my coupe teetered and almost went over on its side, tugged by gravity’s invisible ropes. I fought the wheel and got past the danger point, headed for the highway. We rocked and jounced like an idiot on a pogo stick, or a mountain goat leaping across a drainage gulley, and finally got some paving under us again. Heading buckety-blip for the Laurel Canyon highway, I remarked: “Blamed good thing I took postgraduate work in movie stunt driving, eh? Now before our headquarters friends get turned around to trail us, we’ll be long gone.”

The Hollister ham mopped at his mush with a limp handkerchief and looked like a man who had just seen his guardian angel molt a quart of tail feathers. Shaken, he huddled beside me in a speechless condition, which suited me fine. I wasn’t feeling very conversational anyhow. I settled deeper in the seat and aimed for the Paratone lot out in the valley near Warner Brothers.

At the main gate Hollister waved his employee’s pass and an imitation cop on guard duty nodded us through. Parking the coupe away out back near the big open air scene dock, I hopped out.

“Come on, Pete, let’s not waste time. Where’s Lola working?”

“Stage Ten, she told me.” He spurted ahead of me, his long ungainly legs working like scissors as he hurried by the scene dock and down a long, meagerly lighted studio street. I pelted in pursuit, past a row of gigantic sound stage buildings with roofs like magnified Quonset huts, dug in my heels where Hollister had halted before an oversized sliding steel door that had a black numeral “10” painted on it. The door was closed, and in a square box with a frosted glass window a red light glowed. Even as I looked, the red winked off and a green bulb lighted up.

When the red was on, it meant a scene was being shot inside and you didn’t dare open the door for fear of spoiling a take. But as soon as the green showed, I knew the cameras had stopped rolling. I shouldered Hollister aside, applied my heft to the portal, slid it open along its overhead track.

Inside, on a lighted drawing room set, I buttonholed a cameraman. “Hey, pal, is Lola Dulac on deck?”

“Nope. We’re holding the next scene for her. She was here when we started shooting after supper but she got a phone call and had to scram for a while. We’re waiting for her to come back now.” He took a look at his strap watch. “Maybe she’s in her dressing bungalow getting ready. Tried there?”

“I will,” I said, and turned to Hollister. “Show me the way.”

He nodded and again went ahead of me. We circled the writers’ building and the studio commissary, both of them now dark and deserted, and presently came to a double row of miniature cottages not much bigger than automobile trailers but all fancied up with pastel paint, vine-covered trellises and half-pint porches. Each bungalow was just about large enough to accommodate a single dressing room and a shower, and lights gleamed in the one at the south end of the string.

“That’s hers,” Hollister said, and went into a sprint.

I kept pace, and we reached the tiny building in a dead heat. By stretching, I got the doorknob before he could seize it. I started to give it a twist.

He grabbed my arm. “Just a minute. Maybe she’s undressed. I’ll go first, if you please.”

“At a time like this you worry about modesty?” I snapped. “Be your age! I’ve seen unclad cuties before, and I rarely cast glances at other men’s wives—especially if there’s killing involved.” I wasn’t taking any chance that he might go in and spirit Lola Dulac out a back door before I could talk to her. “Let go of me.”

He let go, and I put my weight to the woodwork. It gave, and before you could whistle Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto I inserted myself into the dressing bungalow.

Lola Dulac was there, sure enough, and she wasn’t undraped—but her emotions were, through. She was as pallid as milk. Her lips were quivering out of control and there was fright in her eyes: stark, undiluted fear. Her small form was dressed in a low-cut evening gown of white satin that had probably cost Paratone several hundred dollars, and the way it set off her curves made it worth every dollar. But I had no time for art appreciation—I was too busy wondering what had shocked her into the obvious panic she was showing.

I said: “Hi, Lola! Pardon the haste, but I’ve got some questions that need answering—”

“I’ll ask them,” Pete Hollister said from behind me. “Lola, my darling, did you shoot a fortune teller named Mahatma Guru tonight as he sat at his horoscope table?”

She walled up her eyes and pitched forward in a swoon.

I caught her as she dropped. Her knees buckled and she collapsed in my clutch, whereupon I carried her to a tiny divan, stretched her on it.

“Water, Pete; quick!” I told him.

Hollister barged to the miniature bathroom, came back with a dripping towel and squished it on his wife’s colorless face. Gasping, she snapped out of her faint.

“Wh-wha-what—where—”

“Better stay conscious, kitten,” I advised her. “There’s not much time left.” Then I gave her the story, fast and complete. I told her how I’d been taken to the Mahatma’s home, how he’d accused her of plugging him and then died. I ended with: “He claimed you were his wife.”

She drew a ragged breath. “God help me—I was.”

“Huh?”

“I was his wife.”

Hollister’s optics stood out like oysters on stalks. “Lola—you don’t mean that.”

“It was back East,” she said in a voice suddenly drained dry of inflection. “Years ago. He didn’t call himself Mahatma Guru in those days, he was billed as Wizardo. He had a magic act, and did fake mind reading. I was his assistant in the audience; we worked codes. Later I married him.”

I said: “And divorced him subsequently, of course?”

“N-no. He got into the fake spiritualism racket and bilked a number of people. The police caught up with him and he was sent to prison. He escaped a few months after that, and then I—I got word he’d been killed in an automobile accident. I came out here to Hollywood thinking I was a widow, thinking I was free. I got a chance in pictures, and made good, and—” Brine coursed down her wan cheeks as she turned an appealing glance to Hollister. “I met you, Pete, and we fell in love and got married, and I thought I’d finally found happiness. Then just a few nights ago he phoned me. At home. He wasn’t dead. He was alive!”

“But not for long,” I remarked. “What did he want?”

“He knew I had remarried. He threatened to expose me as a bigamist unless—unless I did what he wanted.”

“The blackmail bite, eh?”

“N-not exactly. At first he demanded money, and I flatly refused. Then he said he would make a compromise. If I would send him a lot of clients—steer famous stars to him—he would let me alone.” She dabbed at her moist eyes with a fragment of lace doing duty as a handkerchief. “So many movie people patronize astrologers and fortune tellers, you know. And Wizardo—Mahatma Guru now—said he could clean up if he had some big names on his clientele list. He gave me four days to make up my mind, and said if I didn’t follow orders he would expose me and wreck my screen career.”

I thought that over, keeping my eyes on her agitated face. Finally I said: “Quite a creep, the Mahatma. So then what?”

“I came here to the studio this evening for some retakes. He phoned me—”

“Himself, personally?”

“No, it was a man who called himself Clancy and said he worked for Mahatma Guru. Clancy told me Guru wanted to see me at once. Not at his home, but on the corner of Gower and Sunset across the street from the Columbia Broadcasting building. I w-went there. I waited, and waited.”

“He didn’t show up?” I prompted her.

“No. So then I drove by his house and there were police cars all around, and I heard somebody say a fortune teller had b-been murdered and they were looking for an actress who had killed him, and then somebody else mentioned my name. I was p-petrified!”

“You drove straight back here to Paratone?”

“Yes. Next you and Pete came in.”

I said: “Of course you realize your alibi leaks like a sieve. You say you were at the corner of Sunset and Gower. Any witnesses to back you up?”

“N-no. None. But I didn’t kill him—I didn’t!”

Hollister took her hands in his. “You mustn’t lie to us, Lola. If you’re guilty I’ll stand by you. And Ransom, here, will do all he can. I’ve already retained him for cash.”

“I’m not lying!” she whimpered. “I didn’t kill him, I swear I didn’t! If he accused me it was because he was vindictive. He was getting even with me because I’d remarried; because I was a movie star and he was jealous, envious. It’s got to be that way, it has to be! Somebody else shot him, and he knew he was dying, and wanted to get me in t-trouble—”

As if on cue, her phone rang just when she said that last word: trouble. I uncradled the instrument. “Yeah?”

A male voice rumbled on the wire. I listened, then hung up in a hurry and faced them.

“That was the main gate. Brunvig of Homicide is on the lot and coming here with Clancy,” I said.

CHAPTER VI

ANOTHER KILLING

I couldn’t have created more consternation if I’d announced a delegation of boa constrictors. Pete Hollister and his lovely but woebegone wife gulped with dismay. Then she moaned and asked what was she going to do, and he said he didn’t know, but he would stick by her no matter what happened. It was all very touching.

It didn’t solve any problems, though. And I wasn’t quite ready to throw the brunette movie star into the arms of the law—not until I could do a little checking on Reginald Percival Clancy. When I threw my thinking machine into high gear I realized Clancy was the key to a lot of riddles.

Reviewing matters at a rapid velocity, I came to a hair-trigger conclusion and acted on it. I jumped to the wall switch, cut off the dressing bungalow’s lights.

“Outside!” I yapped. Grabbing Lola I propelled her through the doorway. “Make this fast, pet,” I told her. “Know where the scene dock is?”

“Y-yes. On the back l-lot”

“My coupe’s parked near there. Scram in that direction. You can sit in the car if it seems safe, but if you hear anybody coming, hide. Sneak in the scene dock and squeeze yourself beneath a property staircase or something. Go on, now. Blow.”

She blew.

To Hollister I said: “You take the other way around and stand sentry duty so you can warn her in case of trouble. Savvy?”

“Right,” he said, and hurried out.

I waited just long enough to scratch a match and light a cigarette. Then I loped toward the main gate and kept an eye peeled for callers. Sure enough, callers showed up in the form of Ole Brunvig and Reginald Clancy. Brunvig, beefy and looking dyspeptic, spied me and emitted a snort of rage.

“So here you are, are you? This Clancy character tells me you knew right along it was Lola Dulac who bumped the Mahatma but you deliberately clammed up on me.”

“I forgot,” I said meekly, casting a dark scowl at Clancy. “I had a lapse of memory.” Ole’s neck swelled around the top of his collar and his complexion turned an apoplectic shade in the glow of a studio street lamp.

“Lapse of memory, hey? You’ll have a lapse of license, big odd. I suppose you’ll try to tell me it wasn’t your coupe flying up the side of that mountain when I drove to the Dulac girl’s house. I suppose you’re going to say you didn’t come here ahead of me so you could keep her from being arrested.”

“Stop supplying me with dialogue,” I said. “I’ll furnish my own, and it won’t be anything like what you’re screeching. As a matter of cold fact—”

My cold fact was drowned by a gun shot. From somewhere close by in the surrounding shadows a roscoe roared: Ka-Chow! in spiteful accents. Hard on the heels of this flat, barking report, Reginald Percival Clancy dropped with a hole in the head. The bullet had drilled a hole through his noggin, and he was dead before he hit the ground. He bounced once, and a macabre shudder twitched him. Then he lay still.

The unseen cannon spoke again. A tongue of orange yellow fire licked toward me, ribbonlike, and I felt a slight plucking at my right shoulder followed by a quick stinging burn, as if a bee had used me for a pincushion. I let out a yelp and dropped behind Clancy’s motionless form.

Ole Brunvig stood there with his mouth hanging open and a look of blank stupefaction on his face. Suddenly he clawed for his service .38 in his back pants pocket and the gun stuck there. He began racing around in concentric circles, yelling in rage.

At last he gave a mighty tug and the rod came loose with a tearing noise, pocket and all. He stared at the cloth clinging to the gat and called tearfully upon heaven to witness that he had just ruined a brand new thirty-dollar suit, adding that it wasn’t even paid for.

“Charge it to the city,” I snarled. “Duck before you’re a clay pigeon.”

I started rolling frantically in the direction of a property rain barrel that somebody had left out in the open overnight, seeking its dubious protection before the next shot could nail me to the earth.

There was no next shot. An abrupt silence descended, so thick you could cut it like limburger cheese. Then footfalls sounded in the distance.

I leaped upright, fastened the clutch on Brunvig’s arm.

“Come on, Ole. That was one homicide I didn’t count on, and it’s time for the payoff. Client or no client, we’re going after Lola Dulac.” I started to run toward the back lot.

Brunvig followed along in my wake. “I get it now! She killed Clancy and tried to kill you so neither of you could testify that you heard Mahatma Guru’s dying accusation naming her as his murderer!”

Another voice chimed in from the darkness as a bulky shape detached itself from the vicinity of my coupe and dashed toward us. “Good grief! You mean Lola sneaked away from here and committed another killing?” It was Pete Hollister joining us. “That was what those shots were I just heard? She murdered Clancy?”

“No,” I said, and whisked out my pencil flashlight, drenched him in its narrow beam of brightness. “No, Lola didn’t shoot the Clancy ginzo. You did.” Then, to Brunvig: “Better put the cuffs on him, Ole. He’s the guilty man!”

“Guilty?” Hollister strangled. “Me?”

I said: “Yeah, you. Guilty of double murder—because you’re the guy who shot the Mahatma, too.”

He flinched as if I’d slapped him across the face. “You’re out of your senses, Ransom!” he yelled. “That’s crazy talk!”

“Clues are never crazy when there’s evidence to back them.” I said. “And I found plenty of both. To start with, the Mahatma who apparently croaked before my eyes had long-fingered, hairy hands, but when I got back after phoning headquarters from a pay station the corpse had short, stubby fingers. Then I touched an arm. It resisted me. Rigor mortis. But that was too soon for rigor mortis to set in. Which meant a switch had been pulled while I was out phoning. The dead man was not the one I’d watched dying.”

“You’re insane!” Hollister sneered.

I said: “No, I’m just clever. This real corpse with stubby fingers was the genuine Mahatma, and he’d been bumped off quite a while earlier—long enough to stiffen. Therefore somebody else impersonated him when I first drifted into his parlor, somebody in an excellent makeup job, including red grease paint on his chest to look like a bullet wound. This impersonator had enacted a role for the sole and exclusive purpose of accusing Lola Dulac of the killing—an accusation which would legally stick because it came ostensibly from the murdered Mahatma’s lips.”

“Poppycock.”

“The same to you,” I responded, “with freckles on it.” I tapped him on the chest. “Now this corpse-switching routine had been pulled in my absence, but in Reginald Clancy’s presence. Therefore Clancy was in on the deal up to his tonsils. He was working in cahoots with the dead Mahatma’s impersonator, the man who was trying to frame Lola Dulac for the job. I could have pinched Clancy at once, but making him squeal was something else again, and my time was short. So I left, knowing the cops would hold him. Then I started out to locate Lola, ask her if she knew of any enemies who would want to push her into the gas chamber.”

“Melodrama!” Hollister scoffed.

“Yeah? You’re the ham with the melodrama, pal. Your voice is theatrical enough to fit that resonant basso-profundo routine you gave me when you were pretending to be the dying Mahatma. Moreover, your fingers are long and meaty—as I found out when you tried to throttle me when we were fighting on your patio. Finally, you gave yourself dead away in your conversation. You made some bad slips, without even realizing you’d made them.”

“Such as?” he asked.

“First you said: If Lola killed that bearded skunk. Later you mentioned her shooting him as he sat at his horoscope table. But I hadn’t told you those things, so how could you know unless you’d been there yourself? And if you’d been there, you were the man behind the plot. As soon as you got the real corpse in place, you stripped off your makeup and scrammed out to your home in Laurel Canyon. You were waiting for me when I showed up. You’d had plenty of time for the trip. And just now, you shot Clancy so he’d never be able to confess and implicate you. He’d given his testimony to the dicks, and his usefulness to you was finished. You erased him. The shot you fired at me, though, was just window dressing, an attempt to make things worse for your wife. Actually, anybody who’d put a bullet through Clancy’s conk would be too good a marksman to miss me.

“A fat lot of proof you’ve got for all this!” He showed me his strong white teeth. “You haven’t mentioned motive. Why should I frame my own wife?”

I flipped away my butt. “Jealousy, envy, greed, opportunism—those were your motives. I noticed extension phones in your joint. Bedroom extensions. I think you must have listened in, the night Mahatma Guru phoned Lola and put the blackmail bite on her. You realized she had another husband—in marrying you she’d committed unwitting bigamy. I imagine that made you sore, being an egotist. Also, you were envious of her screen success because you were only a character ham with a flair for makeup and impersonation, whereas she was a top star. And finally, she held the purse strings, held them tight. I learned that by asking you to bribe me, and all you had was a paltry hundred clams to offer.”

“So what?”

“So you kept yapping about how you would stick by Lola regardless of her guilt. I’m guessing now, but I think you hoped to profit by the publicity you’d get: Actor Husband Loyal To Movie Star Murderess. Shucks, some studio might slip you a starring role on the strength of the notoriety. But mainly you craved to croak the man who’d been your wife’s first hubby, and you wanted your wife to take the rap. Then your vanity would be salved. You’d inherit Lola’s estate, and perhaps be a famous movie actor. How’m I doing?”

“Rotten. You’ve got no proof.”

I said: “A paraffin test of your mitts will show if you fired a rod recently. A microdermal inspection will indicate if you’ve been wearing Hindu makeup. Fingerprints will prove you were barging around the Mahatma’s house. And—”

That was as far as I got. He jumped back and yelled: “You’ll never put me in jail!” and started running.

Ole Brunvig raised his .38, triggered it and missed. Then Lola Dulac came blipping from behind some props.

“I heard it all!” she cried. “And I still love you, darling. Oh-h-h, Pete, I’ll protect you!” She tried to reach him, shield him. Romance, it’s wonderful!

Only instead of shielding him she accidentally tripped him. He lurched, staggered, and came spang into Brunvig’s line of fire. Brunvig’s roscoe yammered: Ka-Chee! and the Hollister hambo bit the dust, deader than canceled postage.

“Well, what do you know!” Brunvig said. “I fogged him plumb through the spine. We save the trouble of a trial.”

“Yeah,” I growled, and went to the weeping Lola. I didn’t intend to refund that hundred bucks, but I was ready to give her anything else, within reason.

ROOM 801, by Jack Halliday

I suppose I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. Love’s like that, isn’t it? I mean, the real item, the kind that hurts you late at night when you can’t keep yourself from remembering what she looked like when she was sad and wistful, or how her hair matted against her cheek when her tears stained it, or the way the dimples seemed to appear from nowhere when you really made her laugh.

It was a humid August afternoon, the fifth of the month to be precise, and I was hot and bothered and feeling melancholy like I always did around this time. Dates are like that with me. June first is another red-letter spot on the calendar. But I won’t bore you with meaningless details. Meaningless to you, I mean. To me? Everything about her is meaningful to me. Always has been. Even after all these years.

The flight had been uneventful and the rental was actually ready on time: the right model and everything. A lanky fellow with bad skin and oily black hair greeted me. He slid the contract my way and I signed it dutifully, forced a smile and began the half-hour drive to the hotel.

I don’t remember anything particularly interesting about any of the scenery on the way over. I was just glad to disembark from the car and roll my suitcase through the doors and up and into the reception area of the Brock Plaza Hotel.

The girl behind the desk reminded me of her: bright brown eyes and light blond hair. I noticed the very fine, light hairs that decorated her tan arm as she slid the registration form across the desk. We went through the particulars and I actually felt the pulse in my neck when she slid the key case toward me. The number 801 was inked prominently on the cardboard holding the plastic room key. I snatched it up, tapped it a few times against my five-o’clock-shadowed chin and sidestepped a too-eager hotel employee looking for a tip from me for allowing him the privilege of doing something slower than I could.

The elevator smelled like the kind of lemony cleaner they used on the floors of my high school longer ago than I care to remember. The ding of the elevator signaled that my destination was even closer now. The carpet was comfortable under my feet and a Latina housekeeper avoided my eyes as I made my way past her, magnetized by the door to the room at the end of the hall. I never could get used to the pictures decorating the hallway. Black and white and yet just as interesting as if they had recently captured some newly discovered wonder of the world this very morning.

In a moment I was once again inside the small, well-appointed room. In one way, it was decidedly nothing special. Yet in another, to someone with trained eyes like mine, it was a portal to another day and another time and another lifetime altogether. The room may have been inexpensive, but it was priceless nonetheless.

I rolled my luggage case against the wall and moved across the floor, beside the bed, and slid the curtains aside. You could barely see the Falls, but they were there all right. No telling how many marital unions they had witnessed. Time had marched on and thousands of gallons of water had poured into the Niagara River in a sort of inarticulate wedding serenade to the nameless and faceless copulating couples who had begun their marital journeys on the Canadian side of this famous little town. It had worked its magic for us too.

But that was “long ago and far away.”

I freshened up and arranged my toiletries mechanically on the sink top before I fired up a cigarette and plopped down onto the bed without even turning down the spread. I gazed out the window, mesmerized by the sight and sound of the water, wishing for all the world that this time, this year, I would finally be cleansed of it all.

I must have dozed off and when I came to I realized how hungry I was. After a quick bite at one of the eateries in the arcade attached to the hotel I decided to take a leisurely stroll up the main thoroughfare, stopping for junk food desserts at a couple of kiosks and finishing up at the wax museum. She always loved that place. It absolutely amazed her, the craftsmanship of the entire affair. How she used to marvel at the rich and famous, captured by wax and tool, frozen in time and place, for the entertainment of seeking and searching eyes that would never actually view their flesh and blood counterparts. I felt her elbow in my ribs the evening she asked me when I thought we’d be looking at her likeness. We both had a great big laugh over that one.

And that’s why I killed him.

What else is there to do to someone who puts out the kind of light she had within her?

I found myself at the top of the long busy hill, the street filled with visitors and honeymooners from who knows where and staying for who cares how long. It was beginning to drop dark and the familiar pall began surrounding me with its usual solemnity, even with the lights and hubbub of the crowd demanding my attention. I had learned long ago how to ignore demands of any kind from anyone. My father had taught me that. “A man’s attention comes at a price” he used to bark. “And that price varies with the worth of the man.” Needless to say, he considered himself “priceless” and very rarely let anyone capture his full attention for any appreciable length of time.

I found an empty bench and took a seat, lit a cigarette and squinted through the column of smoke lazily lifting itself heavenward as I replayed the familiar facts of the situation yet again.

We had met here, she and I, and had to steal what meaningful moments we could in-between her daily commitments; and they were considerable and non-negotiable. But find them we did, and enjoy them, we most certainly did, as often as her schedule and our ingenuity allowed. It was arguably the greatest and most fulfilling month of my entire young life. We shared a bond unlike any we would ever have with any other person. And yet, for different reasons, neither of us even knew each other’s real names.

The air was getting cooler now and the crowds were beginning to thin out some, but I couldn’t seem to find the energy to get up and go on back to the room.

That room, with its manacling memories, was my master. It had been that way since the day I’d found the note. Just like a scene from a movie, she’d left a pale pink envelope on my pillow just before she’d up and left town without so much as even a hint of a warning. I’d gone out for a local paper and planned on reading it over a cup of coffee in the room. I knew she’d be out until late because of her work. When I opened the door, there it was, center stage on the bed that had been carefully made by the early morning cleaning crew. I quickly scanned the room for any hint of her lingering presence. There was none except for the faint aroma of perfume on the envelope and the lipsticked-kiss on its underside. Not only the air in my lungs, but the energy of my entire life itself, seemed to sigh out of me as I lay back on her pillow, snatched up the letter and then began to read its contents.

Apart from the usual and expected pledge of love, she shared a very real and urgent fear for her life. The note, apparently scrawled very quickly, intimated that she had inadvertently become involved with some rather unsavory characters. It had become clear to her that in their collective mind she was possessed of information potentially damaging to their business and political interests. I considered the idea preposterous of course, but also found it difficult to believe that she would deliberately concoct such a tale. What possible motive would she have? And why share the information with me? But, as I said, I could think of absolutely no reason why anyone would want to wish her physical harm. In my mind she was simply no threat to anyone nor anything.

I folded my arms over myself and squeezed. I found my eyes filling up once again at the memory, and after all these years. I looked out at the lights of the city shimmering in the darkness, like so many beacons of hope promising a better and brighter day that never seemed to arrive. I was a prisoner in self-imposed isolation from life and really living it. I owned only a month. One month that brought love into my young heart, and, eventually, murder. Here I was, some sixty years later, still stubbornly stuck in the past, clutching at a memory as ethereal as the smoke from the dying embers of my cigarette.

And so I watched and waited, and matured and mated, and took on all the trappings of life as it’s normally supposed to be lived. But always, in the inner recesses of my mind, the contents of that note remained. And the name. “Sal Lombino,” she’d written. “If anyone is ever involved in any violence toward me, it will be him.”

I learned the trade and did my part in the family concern without too much anxiety over her. After all, it had been almost a decade by that time, without even a hint of her suspicions and fears having even a remote possibility of being fulfilled. We’d gone our separate ways, with no bitterness on either of our parts. I had kept abreast of the important facts of her life, including her failed marriages and work success. But for the most part, she drifted into the background of my mind as I sought to live my life without her, pouring all of my energy into “making it” according to the common definition of the term in corporate America.

But all of that changed the day I read about her death, almost ten years after our brief encounter. The various stories were so conflicted that I eventually hired my own private investigator, to no avail, it seemed. The contents of her note now stood out in bold relief in the very forefront of my mind. I began to do my own investigating, primarily into the life and times of Sal Lombino. It wasn’t long before I finally had enough material to connect the dots in a series of events and innuendos that did, in fact, involve his business and political associates. I came to the very sad and sobering conclusion that she had, indeed, died at the hands of someone in Sal’s employ.

It’s difficult to describe the process that takes you out of your comfort zone and catapults you into another life altogether. But it happens, usually without your permission. At least that was my experience. I knew that I had to acquire retribution for her and closure for myself. And I also knew that that meant my becoming involved in a degree of violence I’d previously known only from motion pictures and television dramas.

Due to the fact that some of our business connections occasionally intersected in various ways, I was able to get closer to Sal’s life than the average uninvited individual.

I arranged a meeting with him at his private office uptown. That entire evening was surreal beginning with the unlocked door at the front of the gaudy affair he called home, to the opened, inner office of his private place of self-employment. He was completely alone in the imposing domicile.

He wore a satin smoking jacket, a ring on every finger and a gold chain around his flabby neck, sparkling as it lay nestled among his graying chest hair. His salt and pepper hair was a close-cropped crew cut. As he stood to greet me, he resembled a crude caricature of a Hollywood agent. He opened a cigar box next to his desk blotter and lifted one of Cuba’s finest out and toward me. I declined, his smile faded and he motioned for me to sit down. I gladly complied.

“So, it’s been a long time, eh Boy? What’s up?”

I slid the slightly worn envelope across the desk to him. His pudgy fingers opened it and he tilted it toward the light from his green and gold desk lamp. Presently, he sighed and slapped the contents down on his desk. He squinted as he pierced me with cold, dark eyes containing the warmth of century-old marbles.

“You kidding? Me? Seriously, I’m supposed to be involved with some frail’s death?”

My inarticulate reply was the report of the .38 Colt Detective Special which I fired directly into his forehead. He went suddenly slack-jawed, eyes wide and instantly bereft of either anger or attempted intimidation. A halo of smoke and the odor of cordite surrounded him like the spray from the Falls you feel as you pass under them on one of the scenic boat tours.

But that was Chicago, not Canada. And it was ten years after my month in heaven with her, now, some fifty years in the past.

I lay for quite awhile atop the spread on the bed we’d shared sixty odd years ago. I clasped my hands behind my head and stared vacantly at the night sky beyond the window. Tomorrow, this August fifth would become yet another bead on the string of consecutive yearly trips to this haven of hospitality, this monument to lovers seeking to seal their vows with a honeymoon spent at true love’s ultimate cliche.

I ordered room service and lingered over a breakfast shared with her, at least the “her” of my brightest and best recollection. Kisses warm and sweet, the embrace of her lush body and the sharing of an emotional bond I would never even come close to duplicating with another woman, filled my mind. And then I knew I could return to the present, at least for one more year.

The corridor was cool and quiet and I nodded with appreciation at the black and white photos on display in the hallway as I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator. Yet another blast of air conditioning greeted me as the doors opened and I approached the registration area of the hotel’s well-appointed foyer.

The same young lady from yesterday afternoon was at the desk and smiled warmly as I slid my room key across the counter.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“About the same as usual” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

She wrinkled her nose, looked quickly back and forth and then leaned toward me and whispered, “You know Marilyn Monroe stayed in Room 801 when she was here filming ‘Niagara’ back in 1953.”

“You don’t say? Why, I guess I was nearly twenty years old back then,” I responded with a smile.

She continued. “That room’s still an attraction after nearly sixty years.”

I offered, “My father was slightly acquainted with her back in those days if I recall.”

Her eyes widened with interest and then she added, “You may have noticed that the hotel has candid photographs of her mounted on the walls in the hallway leading to her room. She was born June 1st, 1926 and died August 5th, 1962. Imagine, she only lived for thirty six years and yet they reckon there was never anyone just like her.”

I signed the bill as I responded, “No I suppose not.”

Then the sweet young thing took my key and room charge slip. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Lombino.”

NO LIVING WITNESS, by Emile C. Tepperman

Originally published in Secret Agent X, June 1934.

Cronin jabbed his automatic in the man’s stomach. The street, close to the water front, was dimly lit, deserted at night. Cronin’s thick upper lip curled back mercilessly from discolored teeth.

“Stand still, guy. Don’t raise your hands—just keep ‘em where they are. Only don’t make no funny moves, see?” He accompanied the admonition with a jab of the gun.

The victim was short, lean, and hard-featured. He evidently knew all about what a Colt can do to your insides if it’s fired with the muzzle against your stomach. For he stopped perfectly still.

“If this is a holdup, you can have my dough. There’s a ten dollar bill in my pants pocket.”

“That’s all I need,” said Cronin. “Turn around.”

The other turned, very carefully.

Cronin dug his hand into the man’s pocket and dragged out the ten dollar bill, keeping the gun handy. He pocketed the bill, and suddenly his big ham-like arm encircled the little man from behind. He almost lifted him off his feet, and whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna knock you off, fella. Jake Cronin never leaves a living witness!”

The lean man squirmed, his hands clawing at the implacable arm about his neck. He tried to talk, but only a hoarse cackle gurgled out of his larynx.

Cronin’s eyes glittered with killer’s lust. He gloated, his lips close to the other’s ear. “In case it makes you feel better, you ain’t bein’ rubbed out by any ordinary stickup. I’m the guy that pulled the Associated Jewelers job. That was a fifty grand haul. I just gotta have some spending money till the fence comes through with the dough for the swag.”

The little fellow’s face was purpling. He raised his heels in the air and drummed frantically at Cronin’s shins. The sudden pain of the kicking heels drew an oath from the killer’s lips. His arm tightened viciously. There was a ghastly crunching snap, and the little man ceased struggling. Cronin expelled his breath in a wheeze and dropped the inert body. It sprawled slackly on the pavement, the head tilted back at a gruesome angle.

The man was dead, all right. Cronin knew a broken neck when he saw one. Stooping, he started to go through the dead man’s pockets. There was an interesting bulge under the vest. But he was interrupted. Hard heels turned the far corner of the block, and he recognized the figure that passed under the street lamp. It was Detective Sergeant Pell.

Cronin cursed and melted into the doorway from which he had ambushed his victim. He felt his way through a black hallway, out into a back yard, over a fence and into an alley that led to the street beyond. As he emerged, he heard the blast of a police whistle. He grinned. That would be Pell, finding the body. Well, let him find it. They’d have to chalk up another murder to the unknown “Strangler’s” account

He strode swiftly away. A few blocks west he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and entered a drug store. He bought a couple of packages of cigarettes, changed the ten dollar bill, and went into a phone booth. He dialed 211 and, when he got the long distance operator, he asked for a Chicago number. He got his connection, and a thin, rasping voice said, “Hello.”

“This is—you know who,” said Cronin, “callin’ from New York.”

“Gott!” said the voice. “Not Cro—”

“Shut up, you fool! You want to advertise it? It’s bad enough I had to call you up. I was sick and tired of hiding out in that stinking boarding house room for five days. And no dough. When I gave you them sparklers, you promised to send me the cash as soon as you got back to Chi. Well, where is it?”

The voice shrilled despairingly. “Gott! Don’t yell like that! I told you it might take me a couple of days to raise the money. That’s why you held out two of the stones. You were going to pawn them, no?”

“Yes, and all the hock shops were wised up. I couldn’t take a chance. If the cops caught on I was in New York, they’d figure me sure for that job. I’m supposed to be up in the mountains. I had to go out and get me some spending money on the q. t. tonight. So well where’s the dough?”

The operator broke in. “Your time is up, deposit ninety cents for one minute more, sir.”

Cronin thumbed three quarters, a dime and a nickel into the slots, and heard the other saying, “I raised twenty grand for that stuff this morning, and sent it with a guy named Gadwin. He’s flying to New York—started early this morning. He should be there by now. Hurry up back and you’ll maybe meet him.”

“You sure you gave this guy Gadwin my right address, Dutchy?”

“Yes, yes. The right address he’s got written down, with that phony name you’re using.”

“Okay,” said Cronin. “I hope you ain’t stringin’ me, Dutchy. If you are—”

He hung up and strode out, keeping his hat brim low.

With the change of his ten dollar bill, he stepped into a lunch wagon and downed a plate of ham and eggs, two cups of coffee, and a cut of apple pie. He bought a newspaper and a fifteen-cent cigar, and strolled back to his rooming house.

Two-thirty-one Ellery Street, where he was temporarily stopping under the name of Jonas, was one of a row of bedraggled, crumbling four-story houses not far from the water front. Each one sported an eight-step stoop and a “furnished room” sign.

With his usual caution, he surveyed the street from the doorway of the corner store, and seeing that it was clear, walked swiftly to number two-thirty-one and ascended the stoop. He stepped into the dark hallway and stopped, motionless, his hand arrested in mid-air toward the shoulder clip where his automatic rested.

The powerful beam of a flashlight caught him full in the eyes. A moment later the hall light was switched on, the flashlight off, and his blinking eyes discerned Detective Sergeant Pell, covering him with a very steady thirty-eight.

“W-what’s the big idea?” he mumbled. Sergeant Pell was grim, the bleakness of his face denying the levity of his words. “Well, look who’s here! If it ain’t Jake Cronin in the flesh! And here I was thinking you were far away in the mountains!” While he talked, he frisked him deftly, and took the automatic.

“How’d you know I was here?” Cronin asked, dry-mouthed.

“Just an accident, Jake, just an accident. I wasn’t looking for you. But now I know you’re in town, I’m beginning to get ideas about that Associated Jewelers holdup, Monday, where the girl cashier was killed. Looks just like it might be one of your jobs. Let’s go up to your room and kind of glance it over.”

Cronin felt a thick sensation in his chest as he led the way upstairs with Pell’s gun an inch from his spine. The two diamonds he had held out were pasted to the bottom of the bureau drawer in his room. A good place to hide them from the landlady or a casual visitor, but they would never escape Pell’s practiced search.

“How—how did you find this joint?” he demanded again, over his shoulder.

“It’s funny about that,” said Pell. “I wasn’t looking for you at all. I was looking for a bird named Jonas. You see, I ran into a guy with a broken neck down by the water front. He had a wallet pinned under his vest. In the wallet was twenty thousand berries in big bills, and a card with a name written on it—Jonas, two-thirty-one Ellery Street. So I moseyed over, looking for Jonas, and who comes walking in behind me but Jake Cronin!”

Cronin stopped short on the staircase, his face gray with the realization of what he had done. He turned quickly, his arm coming backward in a short arc. His elbow jabbed Pell in the mouth, and the detective was thrown against the wall. Cronin faced him snarling. His right fist, balled into a vicious weapon of hard knuckles, was coming up in a smashing uppercut, when Pell’s gun began to roar. Three times it kicked as he pulled the trigger. The slugs caught Cronin in the chest, and he toppled down the steps with a frightful cry that was drowned by the reverberations of the gunshots in the narrow hallway. He was dead when he hit the landing.

TARAWA PAYOFF, by H. Wolff Salz

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, June 1945.

The pain-reddened fog lifted from his eyes slowly. Lying on his back, he stared up at towering dark buildings and thought, “What the hell are brick warehouses doing on Tarawa?” His hands groped out beside him and he thought. “What’s a concrete sidewalk doing where hot sands ought to be?”

The pain, though—the numbing pain that sliced upward from his hip to the base of his skull, and the wet sticky feel of leaking blood under him—that was unchanged.

He remembered slowly, a little incredulously, like reality probing tentative fingers into a nightmare. Tarawa and the hunk of Jap shrapnel in his hip were five months behind him. This was the States, and he was back on the force, where he’d been before the Marines. Before Guadalcanal, New Guinea, Tarawa.

No sense to it. Why was he stretched on his back staring at the stars? Why the fire in his hip? The leaking blood? Why was his head going around like a Fourth-of-July pinwheel?

Take it easy, Johnny Tobin. Take it easy.

Remember Gin-Eye Macklin? They had told Johnny about Corporal Wesley “Gin-Eye” Macklin when he woke up on the hospital ship steaming back to Hawaii. Johnny would have bled to death where he fell on the beach, if Corporal Gin-Eye hadn’t scuttled out into the open in the face of blistering machine-gun fire and dragged Johnny back into the foxhole.

You never did thank Gin-Eye for that little service.

What’s the connection with now? With city sidewalks and dark warehouses? With the knifing pain in his hip and his head going around like a B-24 prop?

Scraps of memory penetrated the fog of pain like fast-moving scenes through a rain-drenched train window. Ruth. She hadn’t wanted to marry him. No, that wasn’t right. She had wanted him to get a cushy office job. “Weren’t the foxholes and jungles and Japs enough excitement for you! Must you live your whole life doing a job where you’d never know when some rat’s bullet will reach out for you in the dark!”

They had compromised. If he became a sergeant in six months she’d marry him. “If you get the promotion,” she’d agreed. “I’ll at least know there’s more of a future for you on the force than a lifetime of pounding pavements.”

What’s the connection with Corporal Gin-Eye, Johnny?

If his head weren’t going around so fast maybe he could think. Corporal Gin-Eye Macklin. He was a hero, coming home. The Congressional Medal. Something about knocking off forty monkeys and bringing a Jap general back alive. It was all in the newspapers. Corporal Gin-Eye was a local boy. He got a big spread, like he deserved.

Johnny Tobin sat up suddenly. His lungs emptied of air in a gasp of agony as pain blitzed his nerves. The body was still there, awkward, lifeless, its middle-aged face white in the pale glow of the street lamp at the mouth of the alley, exactly as it had been before Johnny passed out. Like the words in the song, it all came back to him now.

He’d been patrolling along quiet, respectable Parkmoor Place when the man darted from the dark house and ran for a car. The second man who came from the house was wounded, shot in the shoulder. He had blurted out the details to Johnny. He’d come home late with his wife and discovered the crook robbing his wall safe. The crook had fired one shot and escaped without the loot.

But he had left an apple core in the safe.

Johnny had used the house owner’s roadster in the wild chase. Dark streets, screaming tires, around corners on two wheels, and finally to this river warehouse district.

Johnny had known who the crook was. The Apple Eater. The man who had robbed a hundred wealthy homes and always left his queer signature behind. An apple core. The man whose long series of jewel thefts had the top men on the force tearing their hair. And the commissioner had promised a promotion to the man who ended the Apple Eater’s career.

He remembered thinking, as he sent a slug into the fleeing car’s rear tire, This guy’s for you, Ruth, for the promotion the commissioner promised, and the wedding bells and orange blossoms.

It all came back to him now—with a wrench that twisted his heart and a lump that choked his throat. The leap out of the roadster as the fleeing sedan crashed into a store window. His quick shots as the Apple Eater jumped out of his car and darted for the alley. The crook’s answering shots, and the slug that knifed into his thigh and crumpled him to the sidewalk. Then his last shot that brought the crook down like a clay pigeon.

The Apple Eater was dead when Johnny reached his side, from a slug that had gone through his heart.

Johnny remembered the slug. Biting his lips against the pain that cut through his body, he crawled towards it, scooped it up and went back to the dead man’s side. From the distance came the wail of sirens.

Johnny fought off the dizziness that returned with his movements. He wrenched the crook’s gun from the stiffening fingers and laid his own gun on the cold hand. Painfully, he groped across the sidewalk, found the lip of the sewer at the curb and tossed the dead man’s revolver in. The death slug from his own gun followed it.

The sirens were approaching fast. He inched back to the lifeless body, fumbled through the dead man’s pockets. Nothing incriminating. Only one thing left to do before the enveloping fog overwhelmed him. The wallet and letter that still lay on the sidewalk beside the body had to be returned to the dead man’s pocket.

The wallet with the identification card that said, Lester R. Macklin. And the V-mail letter that had traveled halfway around the world from the South Pacific. The letter that started, Dear Pop and was signed, Gin-Eye.

Corporal Gin-Eye Macklin, who was following his letter home as a hero.

Two squad cars arrived at the same time. Somebody put an arm around Johnny, held him up.

Johnny heard himself talking, in a voice that sounded as if it came from a tomb. “The Apple Eater…chased him…shot his tire. He ran to alley. I followed. He got me. That man…lying there…was walking by…tried to help me…took my gun…started to chase Apple Eater. Apple Eater shot and killed him. Got away.”

He heard a gruff voice growl, “Practically had the Apple Eater in his hands and let him get away! How do you like that!”

Another voice said, “You mean how’ll the commissioner like that!”

The first voice said, “This dead guy, here. He sure had guts, grabbing Tobin’s gun and going after the Apple Eater. Plenty guts! Like a hero, if you ask me.”

Somebody was helping Johnny to his feet. A tourniquet had been tied around his thigh. They were helping him towards a squad car. There was a blur in front of his eyes. The spinning wouldn’t stop. What was it he wanted to say to the dead man? He couldn’t seem to think.

“That was for Gin-Eye,” he murmured. “For services rendered.”

WRONG NUMBER, by John L. Benton

Originally published in Thrilling Detective, Feb. 1948.

Mary Marshall fumbled in her evening bag, seeking the key to the apartment door. From an open window at the far end of the long seventh floor corridor a chill wind swept toward her, and she remembered it had started to snow as she got out of the taxi and entered the lobby.

“Having trouble?” a voice asked.

She turned to find a man standing in the open doorway of the apartment across the hall. The room behind him was dark and he loomed tall and shadowy in the doorway, his dark eyes gazing at her intently. His suit was blue and his shirt a dark gray, his tie bright red.

The suit and shirt blended with the shadows so that only his face and necktie were clearly visible.

“No trouble, thank you,” Mary said, and she found it hard to make her tone casual and impersonal. “I was just looking for my key.”

She found the key and drew it out of the bag, and then glanced up. He was still watching her. She wondered how long he had been standing there. She was sure his door had not been open when she left the elevator and came along the hall, and yet she had heard no sound until he had spoken.

“You are Miss Mary Marshall,” he said finally. “I’m Lansing Cooper, and I have a message for you.” He stepped out from the shadows and she saw he was older than she had thought at first. “A rather strange message.”

“A message for me?”

The wind that blew along the corridor was stronger now. Mary could feel the damp chill through the mink cape she wore—a breeze ruffled her blonde hair. She unlocked the door of her apartment, swung the door open, then turned to Lansing Cooper.

He closed the door behind them as he followed her along the short hallway of the apartment. She switched on the lights in the big living room and turned to face him again. His hair was thick and dark, but there was a lot of gray at the temples, his face was lean, and he wore his clothes with the casual air of one who selects the best of everything as a matter of course.

“I’ve been trying to think of a way to explain about the message without sounding completely wacky,” Cooper said with a smile. “It is hard to do.”

“At least it sounds intriguing,” Mary said. “Do sit down.”

She tossed her cape aside and sank into a chair. The clock on the mantel over the fireplace told her it was just two-thirty in the morning. She wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake in going to a night club with Tom Bradford after the show, for she was very tired. Still she was very fond of Tom. He was young, attractive, and his work as a first grade detective gave him so little time off that it had been nice to do as he wished tonight.

“About the message?” Mary asked, noticing Cooper was staring at her strangely.

“Oh, yes, about midnight my phone rang,” he said. “I answered and a man asked if I lived in the same apartment house with Mary Marshall the actress. I said I believed you lived across the hall from me, though we had never met. He said he had been trying to reach you all evening, but got no answer.”

“Naturally, since I was at the theater acting in the show,” said Mary. “Go on.”

“Here’s the silly part of the whole thing,” said Cooper. “The man on the phone said, ‘Give Mary Marshall this message—tell her this is Barton Thorne calling and she is going to die before morning.’”

“Barton Thorne!” Mary stared at Cooper, and there was fear in her lovely eyes. “But he’s been dead for ten years!”

“I told you the whole thing was silly.” Cooper rose to his feet and began to pace the floor. “Probably the work of some crank who knows you’re a popular actress and wants to annoy you.” He paused and stared at her. “Though I didn’t like the way he said you were going to die before morning. That sounded like an actual threat.”

“You mean you think I might be murdered?” Mary asked like a frightened little girl.

“I doubt it,” said Cooper. “But there’s no sense in taking any chances. Perhaps we had better report the whole thing to the police.”

“And have them think it is just an actress trying to work a publicity stunt?” said Mary. “They will think that you know.”

“I guess so.” Cooper dropped into a chair. “Tell me about this Barton Thorne, who was he and what happened to him?”

“He was an actor,” Mary said slowly. “We both started our careers together fifteen years ago. Just a couple of kids who wanted to go on the stage, and were lucky enough to get a break. We did a dance routine in one of those reviews with a lot of young people in the cast. After that I went in for dramatic acting and Barton kept on as a dancer.”

“And you were a success and he never amounted to much,” said Cooper. “That it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Mary shook her head. “He was drowned while swimming at a beach in New England one summer about ten years ago. The body was never found.”

“Then there is no reason for his threatening your life, even if he was still alive,” said Cooper, getting to his feet. “That message must have been a joke. I’m going now, and if I were you I would forget all about it, Molly.”

She just sat staring at him as he went toward the short hallway between the living room and the front door of the apartment. For the first time she noticed that he walked with a decided limp. She heard the door open and then close softly.

“Ten years,” she thought. “I was eighteen then and Barton was twenty-seven. He did resent my becoming more successful than he was and told me so before he went to New England that summer.”

She remembered the note that had been found in Barton Thorne’s coat on the beach. He had evidently plunged into the sea fully dressed save for that coat, and in the pocket had been a suicide note addressed to her. “I’m a failure and you are a success, so this is goodbye.” the note had read.

Mary stood up feeling very old and tired. Here she was the star of one of the most successful plays on Broadway this season, and only twenty-eight, yet nothing seemed to matter much.

She walked over to the large doll with the wide hoop skirt that stood on a table in one corner of the living room. She hesitated and then turned away. She picked up her fur cape and went into her bedroom. The apartment seemed strangely lonely, almost sinister. Her maid went home nights.

In the bedroom Mary undressed, got a nightgown and went into the bath and took a shower with the door closed. When she had finished she put on the nightgown and came out.

The phone rang and Mary went to it and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” she said.

“Mary?…This is Tom Bradford…I don’t know why, but I have been worried about you…. Everything all right?”

Mary glanced at the mirror of her dressing table as she listened to Tom’s voice coming over the wire. Suddenly a hand holding a large pair of scissors appeared from behind a curtain to her left. She screamed as the scissors cut the telephone wire near the base.

She dropped the phone and ran into the living room. She was standing in front of the hoop-skirted doll a few moments later, when Lansing Cooper stepped out of her bedroom, the sharp pointed scissors still in his hand.

“I’m glad you didn’t try to get away,” he said as he moved nearer to her. “That you didn’t rush to the door and scream for help. I wouldn’t have liked that at all. You see I have planned this for a long time.”

“I know, Barton,” Mary said. “You see I really thought you were dead. I didn’t recognize you at first, your face is changed.”

“That’s right.” He nodded. “I was badly injured in a train wreck ten years ago after I faked that drowning in New England. Plastic surgery gave me a new face. I have been in South America for the past ten years. I didn’t want to come back to this country until the war was over.”

“You lied to me about having received a phone message, of course,” Mary said. “Made the whole thing up to frighten me. But why, Barton?”

“Because I want you to suffer as I have,” said Barton Thorne. He glanced at the scissors in his hand. “I wonder if your face was scarred and disfigured if you still would be such a great success, Molly.”

“You always called me Molly instead of Mary,” she said. “That’s why I realized you were Barton Thorne when you left me a little while ago. You forgot and called me Molly then.”

“But I didn’t leave,” said Thorne. “I merely opened and closed the door from the inside and waited there. When I heard the shower running I sneaked into the bedroom and waited for you to come out of the bath.”

The way he glared at her frightened her, but she knew that she had to keep him talking, to prevent him from slashing her face with those sharp scissors he held.

“Why do you hate me so, Barton?” she asked. “It wasn’t my fault that I became a dramatic actress and you decided to keep on as a dancer. There are lots of successful dancers in show business—you could have made good if you really had tried. But you didn’t try—you just blamed me for your failures.”

“That’s enough!” He moved closer to her. “I’m tired of talking. Now I’m going to slash that pretty face of yours to ribbons—”

“No, you’re not!”

It was a husky, dark haired young man who spoke as he stood at the entrance to the hall covering Thorne with a gun.

“Tom!” exclaimed Mary, moving away from Thorne. “Oh, I’m so glad you got here in time.”

“Who in blazes are you?” demanded Thorne, glaring at the other man.

“Tom Bradford, Headquarters Detective Bureau,” said Bradford. “And I’ve got someone listening on the phone and taking down everything that has been said here in short hand.”

“On the phone!” exclaimed Thorne. “But the phone is useless. I cut the wire.”

“You cut the wire on the extension phone,” said Mary, picking up the hoop-skirted doll and revealing a second phone on the table. The handset was off the pedestal. “You see I took this phone off the hook as soon as I came in here. I hoped that Tom might still be connected and he was.”

“You’re under arrest, Thorne,” Bradford said. “There’s a squad car coming. They better get here soon or I’ll be tempted to beat the life out of the man who scared my fiancee the way you did.” He looked at the phone and grinned. “Seems to me you got a wrong number, Thorne.”

MYSTERY OF THE MEXICALI MURDERS, by J. Lane Linklater

Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1941.

CHAPTER I

FIVE-GRAND FADEAWAY

The small plane from the north circled and came down. It had one passenger, an undersized, stocky man in whose volatile fleshy face was explosive energy. His perspiring cheeks glistened in the light from the airport office as he walked toward it. He carried one very battered handbag. Billions of stars glared down at him from the sky over the great Imperial Desert.

The man got in a service automobile. In a voice that rumbled harshly like a freight car he told the driver: “Take me to the Hotel Worth, my boy.”

The driver said: “Sure.”

The man lighted a cigarette. His whiskered fingers protected the flame and threw the light into his restless eyes. Alan Rake, private detective, was a long way from home. A dozen miles south was the Mexican border. Just ahead was the miniature metropolis of Imperial County, El Centro.

It was dusty and very hot. The time was exactly eight thirty-five in the evening, but the temperature was still well over a hundred. They were passing into the outskirts of El Centro, and even the houses seemed to sprawl in sultry discomfort.

Alan Rake said to the driver: “I’ve got work to do and I like to work fast. I’ll probably have to run around the country and I need someone who knows his way around. Someone who don’t scare easy.”

The driver reflected. He grinned. “Slummer Smith is your man. Slummer’s been all around. Knows everybody. He’s got a car and free-lances.”

“Okay.”

At the Hotel Worth Alan Rake got out and stood on the curb. A lot of places were open all down the street and the lights were very bright. The town was alive. Rake gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and said: “I’m going in to register. Tell your pal Slummer to get here right away.”

He went in, registered, and was taken to a room. In the room he felt in his pocket, brought out a telegram. He read it:

WANT YOU FOR CONFIDENTIAL WORK STOP NAME YOUR OWN PRICE STOP MEET ME NINE O’CLOCK TUESDAY NIGHT AT 437 BOXER PLACE EL CENTRO STOP TELL NO ONE.

BRADLEY WARNBECKER

Rake thrust the yellow paper in his pocket and went downstairs. He waited on the sidewalk. Soon a large sedan came alongside. The driver was a small man and very wiry. He might have been thirty-five, or forty-five, or fifty-five. His roundish face wore a fixed lugubrious look, and it was lined and blackened by hot desert winds.

“All right, all right,” said Rake. “We’re going to 437 Boxer Place. Know it?”

“Sure,” said Slummer Smith. “Hell of a place.”

They drove off. Rake said: “You know Bradley Warnbecker?”

“Seen him around. Everybody knows him. Hell of a guy. Lots of dough. Head of a big fruit-shipping outfit. Don’t live here except this time of the year. Rest of the time lives up north.”

Slummer stopped on a deserted road on the south edge of town. There was a group of seven shacks. None of them showed light.

“I think this layout belongs to Warnbecker,” Slummer said. “Nobody lives here now. These places was put up a long time ago to rent to Mexicans. They’re falling to pieces now.”

Rake got out of the car. The shacks were arranged in a court, three on one side, three on the other, and the seventh at the rear. The seventh was Number 437. It was very dark. Rake rapped on the sun-cracked door.

The door opened and the split widened very cautiously. A muffled voice said: “Come in, Mr. Rake.”

Rake went in. A lantern, turned low, stood on an upturned box in the corner. There was no furniture. The windows were boarded up. The man in the room was short. He had a prosperous middle. His face was surprisingly thin, giving the lie to his body bulk. The sharp eyes and the high cheekbones conspired to indicate a certain cunning, and an alert fearfulness.

Rake said: “So you’re Warnbecker! What’s up?”

Warnbecker’s chuckle was like a nervous maiden’s giggle. “Good Lord, but I’m glad you’re here!”

“What’s got you scared?” Rake said.

“A man named Curver is at the bottom of it, I think. He’s pretty sore at me. I think he’s up to something.” Warnbecker thrust a plump hand into his pocket. He said: “Last night my shipping shed checker, a chap named Steve Ongar, found this on Curver’s place. It belonged to a Chinaman—”

The flash was brief but bright. The report was sharp but very loud. The flash and the report came from a crevice in the boards of the window behind Warnbecker. Rake stepped aside quickly. Warnbecker fell on his face, as if he had been pushed.

Beyond the report, there was no noise. Rake stood still for a little while, then swiftly strode across the room. It was easy to see where the shot had come from. He returned to Warnbecker. The man of money was quite still. His back was a mess.

Rake muttered, “Rifle shot,” and went out. Slummer Smith was just coming in. He looked no happier than usual.

“Better get the coppers, boy,” Rake said.

“They’re tough babies, them coppers,” Slummer said sadly. “Good coppers, but tough. They won’t like you. Was it Warnbecker?”

“Yes. Someone got him. Did you see anyone?”

“Nobody out front.”

Rake said: “Of course not. They came around back. Left the same way. No chance to catch ‘em. Get the coppers.”

Slummer wagged his head and drove away. Rake went back into 437. He ran through the dead man’s clothes, especially the coat pocket, the one in which Warnbecker had thrust his hand. There was nothing in the pocket except a piece of cloth, square, about twenty inches each way. It was black silk.

Rake shoved the black silk cloth into his own pocket.

He was standing at the door when the police came. There were two of them, large muscular men in tan shirts, with conspicuous revolvers. Rake told them who he was. He even showed them his papers. And he learned who they were. One of them was only six feet tall and his name was Lagos. The other, named Cline, was taller.

Lagos and Cline took a look at the dead man. And they listened to Rake, rather too silently. Rake said: “Not much I can tell you boys. I came here to meet Warnbecker by appointment. As soon as I came in, someone shot him through that hole in the boards and beat it. Then I sent for you. That’s all.”

Lagos said: “Old Warnbecker getting bumped in a place like this! Say, this is big stuff!”

“You got no idea who done it or why?” Cline asked Rake.

“No more than you have, my boy.”

“You say Warnbecker was hiring you?” Rake showed him Warnbecker’s telegram. “But you don’t know why?”

Rake said: “No more than you do, my boy.”

“Well, you see how it is,” Cline said. “You can go back to the hotel, if you want to. But you better not fool around with this thing. You might get in somebody’s way.”

Alan Rake grinned. There was a sharp gleam in his eye. He said: “I can see how it is.”

“No leaving town now.”

“I can see how it is,” Rake repeated. “I come down here to work for a rich client, expecting a fat fee. Maybe five grand. And now, no client. And no fee. Besides, maybe I did it.”

“Well, you can see—”

“Sure. I might be working for some other lug. And maybe that wire is a fake. Maybe Warnbecker didn’t send it at all. You can’t tell about private dicks. A bad lot. Well, boys, I’ll be around.”

They watched Alan Rake as he went out, told Slummer to drive away. Slummer said gloomily: “It’s a hell of a mess, all right.”

Rake said: “Sure, I’m out a rich client and a fat fee. But it’ll give me a chance to have a good time. Now, there’s Mexicali. Heard it’s a pretty hot place. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Mexicali ain’t what she used to be,” Slummer said.

Rake said: “Where did Warnbecker hang out when he wasn’t at the hotel in town here?”

“Office and shipping shed down at Lebber. Six miles south of here, toward Mexico.”

Alan Rake grinned cheerfully. “So we’ll stop there,” he said, on the way to Mexicali. “Maybe I’ll dig five grand out of this yet.” They were headed south on the highway. Rake said: “So tell me about Warnbecker’s business.”

“Cantaloupes in this section, mostly. We ship thousands of cars of cantaloupes from these parts in a few weeks. They’re much earlier here than anywhere else in the country. If you sit down to a cantaloupe in New York on the first of June, you know it came all the way from down here in the lower corner of California.”

“I don’t sit down to cantaloupes, not any place,” said Rake. “What did Warnbecker do about cantaloupes—grow ‘em?”

“More of a shipper than grower. He worked it like this. He’d got maybe twenty fellers around here with ranches for growing cants. Warnbecker would help finance growing the crop and then handle its shipping and selling. For that he would get a share of the ranch profits, if any, and a percentage on what the stuff sold for. He was pretty foxy, and he kept the books, so the ranch owners would usually get the short end. Nobody liked him.”

“Then maybe one of these ranch owners could’ve got sore. Ever hear of a guy named Curver?”

“Sure. One of Warnbecker’s contract ranchers.”

“Well, Warnbecker mentioned Curver. Also a checker named Steve Ongar. And a Chinaman.”

“Didn’t know Warnbecker had anything to do with Chinamen.” Slummer sluiced the sweat from his brow. “What I can’t figure is why they didn’t plug you, too!”

“The guy didn’t have a chance—and he had to get away. But that isn’t what interests me.”

“So what interests you?”

Rake said: “Why did the guy wait until I got there before plugging Warnbecker? That, my boy, is important.”

Slummer swung off the highway into a road running east, kept on it until he crossed the railroad tracks. He followed the road paralleling the tracks a little while. Lights loomed ahead.

“That’s the Warnbecker headquarters,” said Slummer.

“Stop this side of it,” Rake ordered.

Slummer took the car off the road and stopped. He said: “To the right is the shipping shed, with the railroad slip by it. You can see the freight cars. The building to the east is the office. Beyond that is the cook shed and bunkhouse”

“They’re still busy at the shipping shed,” Rake said.

“Sure. The guys out in the fields start picking ripe cants in the morning. They keep on picking as long as there are ripe ones to pick, way into the night. At the peak of the season, like it is now, it keeps the boys busy until two or three o’clock in the morning. But what the hell has that got to do with who bumped Warnbecker?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Rake, “yet. Has Warnbecker got a family?”

“Wife and kids up north. Only relative I know of down here is his cousin, Pete Torlan.”

“Does Torlan come down here for the shipping season?”

“Torlan lives here. Warnbecker had Torlan in his company. Torlan’s job is running things for him here in Imperial Valley. Warnbecker himself has other business up north and he only stays here a couple of months, during the busy season.”

“Torlan a nice guy?”

“Nobody could work close to Warnbecker and be a nice guy.”

“Drive closer to the shed, my boy.”

CHAPTER II

SATAN’S DOORSTEP

Slummer took the car up to the space between the shed and the office. Rake got out and leaped onto the platform. A huge truck was standing against the shed. Crates of cantaloupes were being unloaded from it and trucked across the shed, into the railroad refrigerator cars.

The men doing the trucking were stripped to the waist. So was the young man with the manifold sheet who was doing the checking. The men were all too busy to more than glance at Alan Rake. Presently the truck was unloaded and labored away. The men sat on boxes, waiting for the next load.

Rake crossed to the young checker. He said: “I’m a stranger. Just nosing around. What’s your name, my boy?”

The checker was red-headed and fair-skinned. He had a straightforward face, but his blue eyes looked strained—something more than the strain of ordinary fatigue.

“Me? I’m Steve Ongar”

“Well, Steve, you keep pretty busy around here, eh?”

“You bet we do. This time of night it begins to let up a little, though,” said Ongar.

“Any new men on the job here?” Rake wanted to know.

“Not for a week.” Steve Ongar fiddled with his pencil. He added good-naturedly: “You must be checking up on something.”

Rake said: “Maybe.” With a quick movement he took out of his pocket the square of black silk cloth he had taken from Warnbecker. He held it where no one but Steve Ongar could see it. “You recognize this?”

Steve Ongar suddenly froze. He blurted: “No.”

Rake chuckled and put the cloth in his pocket. “Okay, boy. Old Warnbecker told me.”

A big touring car swirled swiftly up the road, stopped against the shed. The man who got out was burly. He promptly got on the platform, near Rake. He had a thick solid neck, force in his massive jaw, craftiness in his bright eyes. He looked at Rake warily, but smiled.

“I’m Pete Torlan,” he said.

Rake grinned. “I’m Alan Rake.”

There was a slight momentary change in Torlan’s expression, as if someone had pinged him from behind with a pebble. But he recovered. “I’ve heard of you. You get in the papers, don’t you? Down this way on business, Mr. Rake?”

Rake said: “Maybe. Is Warnbecker around?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. Probably at the hotel in El Centro.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

Torlan shook his head. “Not since he left here early this evening. I went down to Mexicali. I can get the kind of a dinner I like there. It’s only seven miles from here, you know.”

“I want to go there sometime,” Rake said. “Guess you don’t get away from Imperial Valley much, do you?”

“Haven’t been out of the valley for several months. I don’t mind it. You get used to—”

“Mr. Torlan!” Someone was calling across the space from the office. “You’re wanted on the phone! It’s the police department in El Centro, sir!”

Torlan glanced sharply at Rake. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

Alan Rake watched Torlan hurry into the office. Near the end of the platform was a big water barrel. A tin mug hung on the spigot. Rake drew a mug of water. He made a face as he drank and said to the checker: “What’s in this stuff?”

Steve Ongar grinned. “Oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal?”

“Yes, sir. We all drink lots of ice water on account of the heat. But this ice water, when you drink it every few minutes, is tough on the belly. So we throw oatmeal in the water. Makes it easier to digest or something.”

“Where’d you get the ice, my boy?”

“We just rob the refrigerator cars. We take the ice out of the compartment at the end there.”

Rake abruptly strolled away. He spent about five minutes walking about the shipping shed, glancing into refrigerator cars and peering into corners.

When he returned, he said: “What’s the pile of papers for, son?”

Steve Ongar looked puzzled. “What papers?” he said.

“There’s a stack of old newspapers down on the ground by the end of the shed, near the tracks. Nothing queer about a bunch of old papers—if there’s any reason for their being there.”

“Don’t know anything about it. Probably don’t mean a thing.”

“Maybe not.” Glancing across at the office, Rake could see Torlan hanging up the receiver. He handed Steve Ongar a ten-dollar bill. “Have a few on me next time you hit Mexicali. Without oatmeal. When Torlan comes back out tell him Mr. Alan Rake had to get the hell away from here.”

Back in the car, Rake told Slummer: “We better be leaving. Make it fast. Mexicali.” Slummer swerved that car around and in a few minutes they were back on the southbound highway, headed for Mexico.

Rake said suddenly: “Any Chinamen around here?”

“A few in El Centro and Calexico. Lots more across the line in Mexicali.”

“Who’s their top man?”

“You might call Hop Ling that,” Slummer said. “Ling’s been around a long time. Right over in Mexicali for maybe thirty years. He knows all the Chinks—and ‘most everybody else. Runs a cafe.”

“So I want to see Hop Ling.”

Slummer said curiously: “You got a line?”

“Not much,” said Rake. “A little something, maybe. Looks like a crazy setup. Keep your fingers close to your gun from now on.” Rake peered out of the car as Slummer drove into a town. “This is Calexico, eh?”

Slummer said: “Sure. Calexico is on this side of the line, Mexicali on the other. Just the old ditch between ‘em.”

“I’ve heard about it. What’s those cockeyed-looking buildings over there?”

“Cotton gins: They raise quite a bit of cotton, the other side of the line as well as this. It’s hauled over here—”

“Hauled in trucks, eh?”

“In trucks,” conceded Slummer. He said dryly: “Are you working on a murder case or making a farm survey?”

“For all I know, cantaloupes and cotton might be a murderous combination, my boy.”

Slummer swung past the Planters Hotel, then south across the international line. They passed the customs houses, one on each side. Mexicali’s main stem was within a stone’s throw of the line, and it welcomed them with much life and some light.

Slummer parked on the edge of the wide stretch across from the line of joints. Rake left him there, crossed and strolled along the main stem, glancing swiftly into doorways of boisterous resorts. Hop Ling’s was a block farther west. Almost all the people were in the resorts, very few on the rough sidewalk. Most of the light was inside, too, almost none outside. The alley that Rake started to cross just before reaching Hop Ling’s was the darkest spot in the stretch and Rake was halfway across it before he saw the girl.

But he couldn’t miss her then. She moved away from the wall, into his path, as if she were faint.

Alan Rake said: “What’s the matter, sugar?”

“I—I feel ill,” she gasped. Even in the darkness Rake could see she was a sharp-featured beauty with very large dark eyes. “I—don’t know—what’s the matter.”

“Want me to take you somewhere?” Rake offered politely.

“Would you?” she said.

Rake grinned and said: “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

She turned her head up at him quickly, as if she wasn’t sure what he meant. But Rake’s face was inscrutable. He took her arm—a very small and shapely arm which was quite bare.

She said: “Thank you so much. This way, please.”

They walked past Hop Ling’s and turned south. In a few moments they were in the native section, behind the buildings along the main stem. There were no street lights, no lights at all. There weren’t even any streets where she took him, just a number of low tired-looking old hovels.

She stopped at the door of one of them. Her hand held Rake’s arm tightly. The warm air was alive with the rich perfume she carried.

She whispered: “This is it. Won’t you come in?”

“You know I will.”

Inside, she struck a match. On a ledge against the side of the wall was a thick white candle, held in its own grease. The girl touched the match to it. In the wavering yellowish light her face was pale, and her eyes were very black and brilliant. Her flimsy blue dress clung to a perfect figure.

One small table was jammed against the wall. Near the wall opposite was a chair. There was no other furniture. A closet door was open in one corner.

Alan Rake leaned against the table. He glanced at the one window. A blind had been nailed over it. The blind looked too large for the window. The girl sat in the chair and smiled at Rake. She didn’t look faint any more, only alluring.

She said softly: “You’re so kind. And so strong. Won’t you come here?”

Rake’s gaze was bland. He turned toward the closet, looked inside. It was very dusty. On the floor of the closet were an old shoe, a few old sox, some unidentifiable rags and three coat hangers, two of them broken.

He picked up the good coat hanger, draped some of the rags around the arms and put his own hat on top. He held it out then, inspecting it. He carried it at arm’s length to the middle of the room.

“Not bad, eh?” he said.

Quick anxiety flashed on the girl’s face. Rake was holding up the dressed coat hanger, between the candle and the window. The shadow thrown on the blind was an almost perfect reproduction of the top part of a man’s figure.

“No,” the girl said hurriedly, “but won’t you—”

The rifle shot cut her short. The window blind moved a little, as if urged by a breeze.

Alan Rake moved the coat hanger down, slowly, then let it drop. The shadow on the blind looked like a man falling. Silently, Rake moved toward the door. He had an automatic in his hand.

He said quietly to the girl: “Better keep still, sugar.” He stood against the wall, behind the door.

The girl seemed immovable, her eyes fixed on Rake. Her fingers were gripping the chair seat at her sides.

There was a slight rustling sound outside the door.

The girl’s voice suddenly tore loose in a scream: “Don’t come in! He’s ready for you! He—he isn’t shot! Go away!”

The rustling outside stopped and then became a scurrying sound. There was silence again.

Rake grinned genially. “Well, he’s gone, sugar. You scared him off.”

Color slowly crept back into the girl’s face. She said boldly: “I guess I never did have you fooled, did I?”

“Sugar, you should have known better. The stuff you pulled on me was all very old. Anyhow, you didn’t look the part. Your voice, sugar, was the voice of Sally the Farmer’s Daughter, but your face was the face of Jezebel, or maybe Salome—not to mention the figure.”

The girl got up and came toward him, smiling. “I like you,” she said. “But I guess you’ve got no use for me now.”

“Sugar,” said Rake, “I think you’re swell.”

She came closer. “Then maybe we can be friends?”

“At a distance,” Rake said. “In fact, at a considerable distance.” He put his hat on again. “Thanks for putting me on the spot. It taught me something.”

“But surely you’ll stay awhile—”

“Not tonight, sugar.”

Alan Rake stepped out into the night and vanished into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER III

DESERT HIDEOUT

Hop Ling’s cafe didn’t look like much. It was the back end of Riley’s saloon. There was a short counter, a half-dozen tables. The women were mostly dance hall girls. The men were 21-dealers, assorted patrons, a few derelicts, two Mexican soldiers and one Mexican policeman. Two Chinese boys waited on the tables. Hop Ling himself stood at the inner corner of the counter, gazing placidly over his establishment.

But there was that about Hop Ling that suggested that his domain was much greater than could be seen with the eye. He was short and very plump. His face was unwrinkled, bland. His eyes were merry and shrewd. His voice, as he replied to Alan Rake, was soft, and his English precise.

“Yes, I am Ling.”

Rake said abruptly: “Warnbecker is dead.”

It didn’t seem to mean much to Hop Ling. He said: “The big man of business? I knew him a little. Too bad.”

“You know Warnbecker’s man, Torlan?”

“Yes, as I know many others.”

“You saw Torlan this evening?”

“Yes, he came and ate dinner. Then he went away. That is all!”

“Did he speak with anyone here—confidentially?”

“It may be.”

“Who?”

Hop Ling hesitated. “Until I know more, I may not say.”

Rake gazed at Hop Ling speculatively. Then, with a small flourish, he took his hand out of his pocket. Crumpled in it was a square piece of black cloth. Hop Ling looked at the cloth. There was no apparent change in Hop Ling’s expression, yet even his immobility suggested that something had struck deep.

Rake said: “You know this?”

Hop Ling waved his hand gently. “A piece of cloth!” he said. “Why should I know it? Where you get it, Mr. Rake?”

“Warnbecker had it.”

Hop Ling’s plump hands, resting on the counter, were quite motionless. For a little while he was silent. Then he spoke low: “This is poor place for talk, Mr. Rake. I know better one. You go outside. Wait on next corner, west. Boy come and show you way.”

“Okay, Ling.”

Alan Rake walked to the corner a hundred yards west. It was well away from the bright lights. Not far away was the west edge of town. Beyond, the desert lost itself in the distant hills of Baja California.

Presently a young Chinaman, very small, emerged from the shadows and whispered: “Please, this way.”

Rake followed him. They went south again, turned along an alley, some distance to the rear of Hop Ling’s cafe, then into a door and up narrow stairs. A door on a dark landing was opened. Rake walked into a room. There was a heavily shaded lamp on the huge carved table in the middle of the room, but no other light. The walls were in darkness. There were two chairs in the center, one on each side of the table. Rake sat on one of them.

In the far wall a door opened and closed. Hop Ling was in the room. He advanced quietly, sat in the chair opposite Rake. Hop Ling’s eyes were still shrewd, but not merry. Beyond their blankness there seemed to be a deep seriousness.

He said: “Mr. Rake, I am sorry to treat friend like this.”

“The treatment is okay,” said Rake.

Hop Ling moved a forefinger under the table. With an abrupt brilliant the walls of the room lighted. Three young Chinamen were standing motionless against the wall, each at a different spot. Hop Ling’s finger moved again.

The wall lights went out. “They are all armed,” Ling said regretfully.

Alan Rake leaned across the table. “I’m just interested in what you know about a piece of black cloth, Ling. That’s all.”

“Strange,” murmured Hop Ling. “And I want to know what you know about it.”

“I’ve told you all I know. Warnbecker had it.”

“What did he know about it?”

“I don’t know what he knew. Maybe not so much.”

“Where did he get it, Mr. Rake?”

“He said one of his men found it.”

Hop Ling paused in silent contemplation. His gaze seemed fixed on the juncture of the wall with the ceiling. Presently he said, without looking at Rake: “Soo said he would use U. S. mail.”

“Sounds like a Chinese jingle to me. What about Soo?”

But Hop Ling, apparently, had said all he intended. He looked at Rake sadly. “It is too bad. Much better if you talk. You tell me so little—”

“You’re not doing me much good, either. Sorry. I can’t wait around. I’ll be going. By the way, can you raise five grand?”

“For good cause, yes,” said Hop Ling. He got up slowly, smiled at the darkened walls and said: “We will let Mr. Rake go.”

Rake strode toward the door. It opened before he reached it. At the threshold he turned and grinned grimly at Hop Ling. “Thanks,” he said. “Call you later.”

Slummer was waiting for him in the car. He was not alone. The man with him was young, big and bony. His blond hair was long and well oiled. He was well dressed.

“This is Bill Fench,” Slummer told Rake. “Bill’s drinking some and figures I should join him.”

Fench grinned at Rake. He said: “You, too. You’re a pal of Slummer’s. We’re all pals together. We can all go in the Owl and heave a few—”

“Swell,” Rake said promptly.

They got out of the car and Fench led the way to the Owl. They found room at the hundred-foot bar and ordered. Rake turned to Fench.

“You know this country pretty good, eh?”

“Been around here five years. I know all the—”

“Did you know Warnbecker?”

“Warnbecker?” Fench gulped his whisky. “Heard of him, sure. Rich monkey. Didn’t know him very good. I never mixed with the cantaloupes. Been hauling cotton, mostly. From Mexico, across the line into Calexico. What’s about Warnbecker?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead? Ain’t that somep’n? Have another drink.”

Rake said: “Okay. So you haven’t been up beyond Calexico much? Not up around El Centro?”

Fench leered. “Hell, no. Nothing up there for me. I work mostly on this side and have my fun here, too.”

“Working now?”

“Just got off the job a few hours ago. Was down to the ranch, ten miles out from here, for the last coupla days.”

Rake said: “Have another, my boy.” He put money on the bar. “Got to go now. See you sometime.”

Fench was disappointed. “Going? Hell, can’t you—”

“Up to a place called Lebber,” said Rake.

He nodded to Slummer and they left Fench leaning moodily against the bar. In a few moments they were headed back over the international ditch, into Calexico.

“Lucky we ran into Fench,” Rake said.

“Fench? He drives a truck mostly. He’s good company, but—oh, I dunno”

“I feel the same way,” said Rake. “He’s part phony.”

“Phony?”

“Well, for one thing he was faking that drunk act.”

Slummer was suddenly interested. “You mean Fench has something to do with this setup?”

“Maybe working for Hop Ling. The Chinaman could’ve taken me right along from the cafe to that room I went to. But he handled it in a roundabout way—maybe so he could tip Fench off.”

“So old Hop Ling is mixed up in bumping Warnbecker, huh?”

Rake said: “I didn’t say that.”

“I wouldn’t care if he was. Ling is a good guy. Maybe he ain’t always lawful, but he’s free with his dough when a guy needs it. When he has anyone bumped off his reasons are okay.”

Rake peered along the northbound highway. He said; “Is it easy to get out of this valley—without being caught?”

“If you figure on making it outa here to some other part of the country,” Slummer warned, “it’s no cinch. It never is in desert country is like this. You’d have to take the highway, train or plane, and all of ‘em are easy for the law to watch.”

“So I thought.” Rake grinned. “And so I won’t try. Warnbecker said something about a guy named Curver. You said Curver was one of Warnbecker’s ranchers. Where’s his place?”

“Not far. It’s the ranch nearest the shipping shed.”

“We’ll go there first. What kind of a guy is Curver?”

“Swell if you treat him right. Tough if you do him dirt.”

“And Curver thought Warnbecker did him dirt, eh?”

“That’s the talk, anyway.” Slummer swung the car into a dirt road. In a minute he stopped. A hundred yards beyond, a large shed and a couple of smaller ones were ablaze with light, the ends of the sheds wide open. Bare-bodied men were still busy, crate-making, sorting, packing. Slummer said: “Curver’s the guy in the shirt.”

Rake walked rapidly toward the big shed. The man in the shirt saw him. He was a slender sinewy man whose movements were nervous. He had gleaming gray eyes in a lean face, eyes that were alert and suspicious, yet direct and unafraid.

Rake said abruptly: “Mr. Curver, I suppose you know what happened to Warnbecker?”

“Someone phoned out awhile ago,” Curver growled.

“Too bad, eh?” Rake prompted.

“It’s great,” snapped Curver.

“Okay, if you feel that way. You go into El Centro often?”

“Several times a day.”

“Even in the busy season?”

Curver seemed exasperated. “In any old season. My wife is ill in El Centro. She’s ill—bedridden. I go in to see her several times a day, business or no business, Warnbecker or no Warnbecker.”

Rake’s eyes gleamed. He said, not unkindly: “Friend, I’ll bet your alibi is wearing awful short pants.”

“What the devil do I care about an alibi?”

“Just a guess.” Rake suddenly whipped out the square of black silk cloth. “Remember this?”

Curver stared at the cloth. He peered at Rake again. He said: “You look smart enough, but your line of talk is nuts.”

“Good.” Rake thrust the cloth back in his pocket. “If I were you, I’d start building an alibi—”

A car roared in from the road and came to a dusty stop a few yards away from them. Its headlights flooded them with light. Rake recognized the two men who got out; the two officers from El Centro, Cline and Lagos.

Rake said to Curver: “I didn’t want to see ‘em, either.”

The officers scrutinized Rake as intently as they did Curver. And Cline said: “Thought you were going to stay out of this, Mr. Rake?”

“Just looking into farming prospects,” Rake said. “Cotton and cantaloupes.” Rake grinned. “You figure now that maybe I’ve been working with Curver all the time, eh?”

Cline didn’t seem to like that. He turned quickly to Curver. “Well, I guess everybody knows you’ve been sore enough to kill Warnbecker.”

“I certainly have,” exploded Curver. “He robbed me on last year’s crop, and I couldn’t get away from him this year because he had my place tied on contract. He practically made a pauper out of me—and made it impossible for me to give Jean—my wife, the—” Curver seemed suddenly to break down.

Cline said: “Sure. But murder is murder. You got an alibi?”

“Probably not,” Curver said bitterly.

Lagos put in: “Another thing, Curver. Looks like the killing was done with a rifle. Not many rifles around here—almost all small arms. You got a rifle, ain’t you?”

“I have.”

“Let’s see it.”

“This way,” Curver said.

He first went over to a shed and got a box, then led them to a small house. It was over a hundred yards from the nearest shed. It had three rooms, but not a stick of furniture in them. Curver took them into one of the rooms, stood on his box, reached up to a high shelf. He brought his hand down empty, a look of amazement on his face.

Alan Rake said: “It’s gone, eh?”

Curver was speechless. And Cline said: “Sure it’s gone. Curver couldn’t bring it back here after shooting Warnbecker. He’s ditched it somewhere.”

“Nuts,” said Curver.

Lagos moved closer. “You’ll come to El Centro, Curver.”

Curver shrugged.

Lagos said disapprovingly to Rake: “Maybe better if you went back to your hotel and stayed there.”

“Okay, boy. See you later.” Rake started away, turned back, spoke to Curver. “You don’t use this house at all, eh?”

“No,” said Curver. “Moved everything to El Centro when my wife took sick.”

Rake nodded and strode away to the car. He said: “Slummer, the coppers want me back in town. Get going. I want to come back here after they leave.”

They roared down the highway. Then Slummer swerved off into the desert and stopped in a depression. He switched off the lights.

“They won’t see us here,” Slummer said. “It’s a hell of a country, but not bad to hide in. They’re after Curver, huh?”

“They got him.”

“Curver’s a good guy,” argued Slummer. “But somebody bumped Warnbecker.”

“Right, my boy. Well, I reached El Centro just a few hours ago. Since then I’ve met several people—you, Warnbecker, young Steve Ongar, Pete Torlan, Hop Ling, Bill Fench, and now Curver.”

“You mean one of that bunch bumped Warnbecker?”

“Maybe so.”

Slummer said moodily: “Maybe I done it. I’m kinda absent-minded and you never can tell—”

“What do you think of this, boy?” Alan Rake again popped out the square of black silk cloth.

Slummer stared at the cloth. “Looks like a Chinese stickup man’s hide-rag. Something to cover the face.”

Rake chuckled. “It looks like it. But is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. And then again, maybe it could be used to shine your shoes, or put around your neck on a cold night, or you could wrap your lunch in it.”

“You may be coming close,” Rake said. He put the cloth away again. “The coppers should be gone from the Curver place. Take a different road in, if you can.”

CHAPTER IV

THE DUST CLUE

Slummer parked in an almost grassless field. The sky, star-crowded but moonless, made little light for Alan Rake as he plodded toward Curver’s small house. The officers had gone with Curver. The door was not locked and Rake went in. The rays of his flashlight stabbed at thick coats of desert dust clinging to walls and ledges.

Rake went to the shelf on which Curver had searched for his rifle. The shelf was high, close to the ceiling. Curver had left the box below it and Rake stood on it. The shelf was as dust-laden as everything else. Obviously, the dust had been disturbed where the rifle had been removed.

Another depression in the dust interested Rake. It might have been made by an arm. The smaller smudges just beyond could have been made by fingers. But the impression was quite small, not half the size of Rake’s arm.

Rake got off the box and wandered into another room. This had been the kitchen. The plumbing in the walls was exposed. Rake sprayed the floor with his flashlight. Plenty of dust. The dust here, however, had been stirred and streaked about. The streaking had been done some time before, perhaps two to four days, Rake thought. Done by someone milling about. Anxiously, perhaps.

An outside door opened on the rear of the house. Rake quietly opened it, peered out. Some distance beyond was a rough building. Rake judged it to be a cookhouse.

Alan Rake stepped out. He walked slowly toward the cookhouse. Apparently he was unobserved. He made leisurely sweeps of light over the ground with his flash. And he trod deliberately, as if testing the soil. Presently he stopped.

The ground here was slightly yielding. Rake bent and scrutinized it closely. Prodded it with his finger. Then he went on a little further. Without the flashlight he would have stumbled into an open trench. The trench was about four feet deep and five feet long. The bottom was littered with refuse from the cookhouse. Just a garbage pit.

From where he stood, Rake could look through the grayish gauze that made most of the side of the cookhouse. A man was inside, pottering about—no doubt a cook. Rake strode to the cookhouse and went in. Anyone watching from outside could have seen Rake’s barrel-like silhouette, could have observed him talking, the cook answering, could have seen Rake’s hand meeting the cook’s—as if he were handing him money.

Then Rake came out, crossed rapidly to the car.

He said to Slummer: “Back to Warnbecker’s shipping shed, boy. Fast.”

Slummer said: “So you found something, huh?”

“Evidence enough on Curver’s place to hang someone.”

Slummer wagged his head and said: “I kinda liked Curver. He’s had a dirty deal.”

“Like him myself,” Rake said. “Forgot to tell you that I met a lady in Mexicali.”

“There ain’t no ladies in Mexicali,” said Slummer.

Alan Rake smiled. “Anyhow, I like ‘em,” he said comfortably. “They might put me on the spot, but that’s okay. This one looked swell.” He made a detailed description of her while Slummer listened intently, and added: “You know her?”

Slummer said: “I know ‘em all. I couldn’t miss on that one. Her name’s Edna.”

“Edna what?”

“Just Edna. She showed up in these parts three seasons ago. Just taking care of herself in a general way.”

“Did she know any man around?” Rake asked.

“Well, at first she hitched to young Steve Ongar!”

Alan Rake said: “Ah!”

“I guess Edna kinda liked Steve’s looks. But he didn’t have much dough, so the next season she was off him and had another pal.”

“Who?”

“Fench, the truck driver. Fench could always get his hands on extra dough. So it was Fench.”

“So now Fench—”

“Not now,” Slummer cut in. “Anyhow, it don’t look that way. Looks like she graduated. She chums with Pete Torlan now!”

Rake said: “Ah! And now I suppose Pete Torlan is the big boss since Warnbecker’s out. Even little Edna would have a motive for drilling Warnbecker!”

“By gum, that’s right!”

Rake grinned. “I gather that Edna is even more ambitious.”

“You gather right. She’s been playing around with Torlan, but she’s been seen around with old Warnbecker himself a few times!”

“What a gal! And Warnbecker’s a family man!”

“Sure. Wife and about seven kids. The family never come down here, though. They live up around Beverly Hills, I think.”

“So maybe the wife had something to do with it!”

Slummer groaned. “You do the figuring. All I know is what I see and hear. The dame has been pals with Ongar and Fench and Torlan and even Warnbecker. Make what you can of it.”

He stopped the car against the Warnbecker shipping shed. It was well after midnight and there wasn’t much activity. A few truckers were stretched out on the platform, resting. Rake glanced around. The young checker, Steve Ongar, wasn’t in sight. The big man of the outfit, Pete Torlan, was sitting on the edge of the platform, alone.

Rake spoke to Slummer in an undertone. “I’m going to talk to Torlan. Then I’m going into the office to use the phone. While I’m in the office, you keep Torlan busy.”

He walked over to Torlan. Smirking, Torlan said: “Still prodding around, Mr. Rake?”

“Thought I’d like to talk to Steve Ongar again.”

“Steve? Oh, he’s gone. Got in his old Ford and drove away!”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. I came out of the office awhile ago and Steve called to me. He said he was very anxious to get away for a few hours. So I told him I’d handle it myself and he could run along.” Torlan smirked again. “Maybe the boy was spoofing me. Probably just wanted to run down to Mexicali for a few drinks. But he’s a good lad, so I don’t mind.”

“Nice of you,” murmured Rake. “No idea where he went?”

“None.”

Rake merely nodded and started toward the office. As he did so, Slummer got out of the car and engaged Torlan in conversation. Torlan seemed pleasant enough to Slummer, but kept a vigilant eye on Rake. He watched through the distant office window. He could see Rake ask an office worker for permission to use a phone in the corner of the office, out of earshot of the men remaining at their desks. He could see Rake holding the instrument against his chest, talking, talking, talking.

He could see Rake hang up, call another number, talk again.

But Slummer was doing well, too. He was talking to Torlan, and Torlan could do nothing but sit and listen to Slummer—and watch Rake through the office window.

Then Rake was through talking and he came out and made quick strides back to the shipping shed.

Cunning gleamed in Torlan’s sharp eyes. He said: “You got your party, Mr. Rake?”

“I always get my party, Mr. Torlan.”

“Seemed to me you called long distance, Mr. Rake.”

“Mexicali is long distance, Mr. Torlan.”

Rake grinned affably. “I was talking to a Chinaman.”

Torlan said: “Chinamen don’t talk.”

Alan Rake lighted a cigarette. There was an evil cheerfulness in his eye. “Some Chinamen don’t talk,” he corrected.

Slummer seemed to understand that Alan Rake was in a hurry, and he made a dash for the car. He had the engine running as Rake eased in beside him and said: “Calexico. Make it fast, my boy.” The car was ramming through the dust of the road like a fast ship nosing through a stormy sea. Rake went on: “Calexico. The lady Edna has a secret place there. A small house with green shutters. A little west of town. So they tell me.”

“So who tells you?”

“My friend Hop Ling.”

“Didn’t know he was your friend. Didn’t know he’d talk.”

Alan Rake said: “I figured there might be just one thing that would make Ling talk. I had to make sure of something first. I did—and he did.”

“Something about that black cloth, huh?”

“In a way, yes.”

Slummer, his face set in gloomy impassivity, waited for Rake to talk about it. But Rake added nothing. So presently Slummer said: “Edna’s got a place in. Calexico, huh? I didn’t know that. You want to talk to her?”

“I want to talk to Steve Ongar. He’s gone from his post. I don’t need Lydia Lovelorn to tell me what could pull him away from his job. He probably thinks maybe the lady wants him back.”

“Didn’t you make two phone calls?”

“Sure. I called Hop Ling. Also the coppers at El Centro.”

On the outskirts of Calexico, Slummer turned west and circled outlying blocks, looking for a house with green shutters.

“That looks like it just ahead,” he said presently.

“Right. Go beyond and park out of sight.” Houses were rare in this section. Not far beyond the house, on the other side of the road was a neglected barn. Slummer drove into it.

Rake said: “It’s lucky young lads still insist on primping when they go see a lady. Steve’s old Ford isn’t around yet. The lad stopped to make himself pretty for Edna.”

“But he won’t be long.”

“Not long. You stay close here, boy. Don’t do anything unless you see Torlan. If you see Torlan, watch him.”

Alan Rake moved away in the direction of the house. He kept in the shadows, out of sight of wary eyes, and scouted around for two or three minutes. The green shutters covered the front windows. At the back, the window blind was drawn full down. Some forty feet behind the house, in a direct line, was a car shelter, open at both ends. Rake could see the nose of a car—not an old Ford—in the darkness of the shelter.

At the front door, Rake found no bell. He tapped on the glass. The door swished open. Edna was smiling at him.

The smile died and she looked distressed and uncertain. Rake pushed in and noiselessly closed the door. Edna gasped. Rake took her arm and led her into a room off the tiny hall. The room was dark. But beyond was an open doorway into a lighted kitchen, at the rear of the house. Edna, it appeared, was alone in the house.

Edna protested: “You have no right to break in on me.”

“Thought you liked me,” Rake jibed her gently.

“But what do you want?”

Rake sat down and motioned to the girl to do the same. “I’ll just sit here with you, sugar.”

Her face clouded angrily. She was standing in a crouch, as if ready to spring at him. “You get out!”

“That’s no way to talk to me, sugar. You know I like you.”

Edna screwed up her lips savagely. The lips gradually straightened out, then twisted up at the end until they became a smile. Her voice softened.

“You could be right, at that. And you know I like you. It didn’t take me any time at all to fall for you.”

She started toward him. Rake grinned pleasantly and moved his hand. There was a gun in it. He waved the gun and said: “Stay on your side, sugar. And keep your voice down. I won’t be so easy this time.”

CHAPTER V

LADY DOUBLE-CROSS

It was ten minutes before someone tapped on the front door. Edna sprang to her feet. Rake was up fast, too, and by her side. They went out to the hall where the girl hesitated. Rake nudged her with the gun. He stood behind her as she opened the door. In the faint starlight, young Steve Ongar’s face beamed. He was shaved and spruced up, and he was inside before he saw Rake.

“This guy just barged in, darling,” Edna gasped.

Steve flushed. “What’s the idea?” he demanded angrily. “You got no right—”

“Save it, boy,” Rake said. “Just waltz on in.”

Steve saw Rake’s gun and they went back to the living room. Rake had them both sit on one side of the room while he sat on the other, facing them.

Steve blurted: “I don’t like this. What’s your game?”

“Just resting.”

It was still dark in the room, with no more light than edged through the doorway from the kitchen. They sat silent for several minutes. The girl, especially, was getting uneasy.

Presently Edna snapped: “Get me a drink, Steve. I can’t stand this. I want a—”

“Sure,” said Steve. “Where?”

“In the kitchen, of course. There’s stuff in the ice box. Get one for Mr. Rake, too.”

“I wouldn’t go in there, Steve,” Rake said.

“Why the devil shouldn’t I?” Steve raged.

He lunged toward the kitchen. He was going fast and was halfway across the kitchen before Rake, behind him, could catch up. Rake stuck out an arm, grabbed Steve by the pants and yanked.

Steve pitched back and down.

At the same moment a rifle cracked out back. The blind fluttered and there was a hole in it. Plaster in the inside wall showered down. Edna started to scream, but Rake stepped back and clapped a hand over her mouth, pinioned her arms.

Steve started to get up and Rake said sharply to him: “Crawl over this way. Don’t show your shadow on that blind.” He watched while Steve obeyed, and as soon as the young man stood by him he went on: “You didn’t believe sugar would put you on the spot, did you? You thought maybe she wasn’t too good, but she would never do a thing like that. You know now, eh?”

It was obvious that Steve knew now. He wasn’t scared. He was mad, disgusted. He didn’t say anything.

Rake fastened a handkerchief over the girl’s face. He said: “The lad that fired is out back. Chances are he won’t come in unless the girl signals him. I’m going after him. Keep a grip on fair Edna.”

Steve said grimly: “Sure.” He grabbed the girl’s arms.

Rake slipped out of the front door. He sped away from the house, cut across the lot, came out behind the car shelter. Toward the front of the shelter was the outline of a man. The man had a rifle in his hand. He was watching the house, intently.

Swiftly, Rake moved along the side of the car. The man turned abruptly, but Rake was on him. The skulker was bringing the rifle around. With his left, Rake cracked down on the man’s right wrist and the rifle dropped limp into the dust.

The man groaned and tried to sit up. Rake reached down, took him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. He left the rifle where it had fallen. He jolted his automatic in the man’s back and walked him to the back door, told him to get in. The man opened the door. They walked into the kitchen.

Rake said: “Here’s the lad that killed Warnbecker.”

Steve Ongar’s throat rattled a little as he said: “Fench!”

Rake said: “Couldn’t be anyone else. Warnbecker didn’t get plugged until just as he was about to tell me his story. That could mean only that the guy who plugged him had been away and couldn’t get to him any sooner. Everybody else in the case had been right around him all the time.

“Fench had been down at a ranch below the line for a couple of days and had just got back. Someone knew that Warnbecker was contacting me and told Edna. Edna met Fench as he was going through Mexicali and told him. Fench and Edna drove on through, stopped at Curver’s ranch, hooked Curver’s rifle, drove on to El Centro and plugged Warnbecker.”

“Edna went with him?”

“Sure. She helped, too. He couldn’t have reached the rifle on the shelf in Curver’s house. So he lifted her up and she got it. She left the marks of her arm and fingers in the dust.”

“But why?” said Steve. “Why?”

Rake said: “I think you already know a little, boy.”

“Well, maybe a little.”

“Sure. But, on account of you were still wacky about the girl, you didn’t want to admit it—even to yourself. It’s a queer little yarn about a nice old Chinaman named Soo who had plenty of dough. Soo was in Mexico, but he yearned to get into this country. The only way to do that was to get smuggled in.

“Our friend, Hop Ling, knows all about such things. There was a man on this side who Ling was in contact with. Ling worked through the contact man. Mr. Contact Man worked with Fench—through Edna. That kept Mr. Contact Man in the clear.

“The scheme was this. Soo got on Fench’s truck, under the load, below the line. Fench drove him across to Calexico. That was easy. The hard part was to get him out of the desert country, since from there on the federal men are very watchful. So in Calexico, probably near the cotton gin there, Fench unloaded Soo. That is where Steve here picked him up. Right, my boy?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t know what it was all about. All I knew was that I was to pick up a man there and take him along to Curver’s place. Might have been a cantaloupe picker, for all I knew. He was a little guy. He had something over his face, but in getting into my car his face became exposed and I saw he was a Chinaman.”

Rake said: “The idea was to take him to Curver’s ranch and watch a chance to get him aboard a night cantaloupe train. The boys at the shipping shed take lots of ice out of the refrigerator compartments at the end of the cars. Enough ice could be taken out of an end to make room for Soo. For protection, he could put a bunch of newspapers over the ice left in. In a few hours he would be out of the valley. The only trouble was that Soo had plenty of dough on him.” Rake whisked out the square of black silk cloth. “You really did see this, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” said Steve Ongar. “The little old Chinaman was a good sport. He gave me an extra ten-spot when I got him to Curver’s old house. There is where I saw that cloth. He had all his money wrapped up in it!”

“Sure. Soo was a good sport with Fench, too. That was what settled his fate. Fench saw all the money in the cloth and wanted it. So later he went to Curver’s old house, where the Chinaman was waiting, and took his dough. Some Chinamen don’t talk—the dead ones. The others will talk if there’s a good reason. Hop Ling talked to me when I told him where I’d found Soo buried. He was pretty sore about it, in an oriental sort of way. You see, there was something about that cloth that nobody knew.”

Fench was sagging in a chair, still listless. But he jerked his head up to listen. The girl was listening, too. Steve looked over her shoulder and said: “What about that cloth?”

Rake said: “When Soo reached his destination, he was to simply mail the cloth back to Ling as evidence that he had arrived safely. A nice little Chinese touch.”

“Slick,” said Steve. “Well, I got curious about the Chinaman the night after I took him to Curver’s place and ran over there. It was late at night, after work. Nobody was around. I couldn’t see any sign of the Chinaman. Then, just outside the kitchen door, I found that cloth. I recognized it and it worried me. Next morning I spilled the works to Mr. Warnbecker.”

Rake said: “And Warnbecker was worried, too. He figured Curver was trying to get him mixed up with the law. Serious stuff, smuggling Chinamen. He was afraid to call in the law because he had got himself tangled up with darling Edna. So he sent for me.”

“But Fench couldn’t be in it alone,” Steve Ongar said. “There was—”

The window smashed again. It smashed several times. In a few seconds there wasn’t much left of it. The shots from the back of the house sounded like a small war. Alan Rake knocked Steve over against the wall. The girl went with Steve.

The only one hit was Fench. He got up at the first shot, and the second one took him. He was down on the floor now, bleeding generously at the chest.

The shooting stopped suddenly.

Silence. Then commotion somewhere back of the house. There was also a commotion at the front door, which broke open. Officer Cline of El Centro rushed in. Cline looked at Alan Rake and at Fench on the floor and at Edna and Steve.

Rake said: “Someone out back shot Fench.”

Cline nodded. “The shooting started just as we got here. Lagos went around back to see about it.”

“You looked into that place on Curver’s ranch?” asked Rake.

“Yeah. They made a graveyard out of a partly filled garbage pit. The little old Chinaman was in there.”

The back door opened. Lagos came in with Slummer. Between Lagos and Slummer was Pete Torlan. Torlan looked wild-eyed and very dusty, as if someone had been kneading him into the dirt.

Rake said: “Good work, boy.”

Slummer’s grin was reluctant and fleeting. He said: “Well. I seen him show up. I caught up with him just about the time he was popping at the window. Then the copper came.”

Cline was still puzzled and so was Lagos. Cline said: “I don’t get all this yet.”

“You will,” Rake told him. “There was a scheme to smuggle the Chinaman you found. Fench robbed the Chinaman and murdered him. Fench also killed Warnbecker to keep him from starting an investigation. Fench tried to put me on the spot in Mexicali. He was afraid of what Steve might spill—and so was Torlan. So tonight he tried to put Steve on the spot, too. I brought Fench in here and then Torlan showed up. Torlan got a load of what was going on, so he grabbed the rifle and blasted at all of us.”

“So Torlan was in it,” said Cline.

“Pete Torlan was the good old mastermind. He did everything indirectly, though. He kept in touch with Fench—and maybe with others—through Edna. That was what started the talk that Edna was romancing with Torlan. It wasn’t romance. Just business. Edna was still playing with Fench. Right, sugar?”

The girl was weeping. She didn’t like looking at Fench, on the floor. Yet she didn’t seem so very unhappy. She smiled at Rake through the tears and whispered: “Yes.”

“Probably no one but Torlan was close enough to Warnbecker to know he had wired me. And Torlan was the most likely man to know where Curver kept his rifle.”

Cline looked at Lagos. Lagos said, “Well, I guess we can get this all fixed up at headquarters.”

“All right, boys,” Rake said. “I’ve got to make a trip across to Mexicali. See you in El Centro in an hour or so.”

He motioned to Slummer and they started out. As Rake passed the girl she looked up long enough to say in a low voice: “I still like you.”

Rake said: “Behave yourself, sugar. See you later.”

Out in the car, Slummer looked at Rake queerly. “I still don’t see where you’re coming out of this thing.” he said. “Where’s that five grand you were going to make?”

Rake said: “Hop Ling told me that the grieving relatives of old Soo would gladly pay that much to avenge Soo’s murder. So we’re going to Mexicali. Hop Ling will pay in cash. That’s another nice Chinese touch.”

Slummer had turned the car into Second Street. He said: “So you’ll have five grand to take along with you, huh?”

“No,” said Rake. “I’ve got to take that dough back up to El Centro.”

“Good gravy! Why?”

“So that I can go Edna’s bail!”

Slummer swung the car south, toward the little customs houses on the line. He seemed almost startled. He said: “Say, you ain’t gone and fallen for that dame, huh?”

Alan Rake was silent for a moment. He stared somberly across the international ditch at the nearing lights of Mexicali. Then he said: “I wouldn’t say that, boy. As soon as I’ve liberated that beautiful female rascal, I’ll be leaving for the north where Mrs. Alan Rake will receive me with brisk words. She is very different from Edna. She makes me stick to business.”

Slummer looked relieved. “So how about Edna?”

“Edna? Why, some day she’ll get away and marry a guy in a service station and he’ll make her change her ways.” Alan Rake, inclining his head in a gesture of sadness, added: “And I’m not so sure that it’s a good idea.”

TIME TO KILL, by Leo Hoban

Originally published in Crack Detective, Jan. 1945.

There I was, sitting in my office in Manhattan and minding my own business, when the bald-headed guy walked in and tossed five C notes on my battered desk.

If there had been any business save my own to mind, I probably would have been more particular. But five C’s—when you were just contemplating if Shanty Sam around the corner would go on the arm for another couple of hamburgers—definitely was real kush.

So when he put the valise, about four-by-three feet, on my desk alongside the five centuries, Mike Grady wasn’t in any mood to argue.

“Just deliver this to me in the St. Francis in San Francisco,” he said. “There’s nothing hot about it. It’s only a piece of wood, harmless and inanimate.”

Boy, what a soft touch this was, boy, oh boy!

“What’s in it?”

“A dummy,” he mumbled. “Just a dummy. One of those things a ventriloquist uses. You know—a dummy?”

“Sure,” I said. “Dummies. I know them—lots of ‘em.”

‘Well, deliver it safely and I’ll pay you one thousand more—provided it’s safe delivery, of course.”

“Of course,” I nodded, my eyes still being riveted on the five C’s. “But why don’t you take it to ‘Frisco yourself?”

He shifted feet on that one, studied the flyspecks on the ceiling, and said: “People, you know, lose things…on trains…they’re very careless… And there’s a radio program this—er—dummy must sound off on. He’s very important. Let’s say like Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen, He rates. He’s worth about five thousand a week. He must be delivered safely. Fifteen hundred is not much to get it across country.”

Well, that seemed logical enough. What harm would there be in a dummy? Who would want it? Where would be the danger? A dummy cannot hurt anyone.

I gave some thought to that, but the main thought was that Shanty Sam and his hamburgers had been outgamed in the stretch by a miraculous five C’s that represented steaks—big, luscious ones.

“It’s a deal,” I said, holding out my hand. “He’ll be in San Francisco in five days.”

The guy gave me one of those enigmatic grins, bobbed his head, and departed.

Just before the door closed a voice from the valise said: “Sucker. I’m going to knock off a guy!” I grabbed the valise, shook it—and its weight seemed heavy enough to be an actual body.

I began to sweat. The locks on the valise wouldn’t open; I wasn’t sure just what I had in there. The voice had sounded too human to be a dummy’s—yet it was out of this world.

On top of it—although stupid—I’m a conscientious private dick. I’d committed myself to safe delivery of the valise—so the only thing was to follow through.

The five C’s and the thought of steak had a great deal to do with that decision. I picked up the valise, pocketed the dough, and was humming “California Here I Come” as I left the office and headed for the elevator.

I pressed the down buzzer and turned around, still humming. A short and nonchalant—almost demure guy—a vicious scar running down his right cheek—sauntered up to the elevator. I turned from him shifting the valise from right to left hand. To all appearances he wasn’t dangerous.

That shift of hands saved my life; a knife, aimed at my ribs, made a slight ripping sound as it went into the top corner of the valise.

I whirled. The mug—looking disconcerted, shoved his feet out like a runner sliding into second. I went down, clenching the valise against my chest. The mug’s foot lifted once, lashed out catching me flush on the chin. The world spun, I felt him tug at the valise, but hung on. The elevator hissed to a stop and the mug’s feet pattered swiftly down the hallway. I got up, groggily.

The elevator man said: “Service ain’t so bad that tenants gotta go ‘round lying on floors. What’s the idea, Mister?”

I got on the elevator, looked at the valise and also wondered.

Here had been attempted murder. For what? A wooden-headed, wooden-bodied image of nothing in particular, created for nothing more than amusement to the multitudes.

Or was he? The hunch was inborn that the thing in the valise was far more than that. There was something about him—or it—that called for killing.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

It kept going through my mind—dumb Mike Grady, a dick who is always a step or two behind current events. I just seem to get those kind of cases, like a kid gets cereal for breakfast. He protests a little too late, and to no avail.

But five C’s is five hunnert (in Brooklyn) and five hunnert to me, coming from Brooklyn, was five more than the ten more I would get in San Francisco.

So I grabbed a train.

Well, everything was okay—peaceful like—until we rolled into Denver on the Transcontinental.

Boy! Had I met a blonde! She had stumbled into my compartment accidentally.

We had a twenty-minute stopover—and the blonde said she wanted some fresh oranges. The oranges on the train seemed fresh to me, but for a nice dame like the blonde maybe they weren’t fresh enough. A dumb dick like me gets along with those kind any time—especially when he’s got dough in the kick and time to kill.

I walked up 17th Street, bought a dozen oranges, and walked back under the Welcome Arch leading to the station plaza.

It happened when I was going down the ramp to the trains.

I was blissfully unaware of the crowds shoving this-and-that way around. After all, I just was killing time. We were still a good day and a half from San Francisco. I was thinking about the blonde. In a day and a half-anything can happen.

It did.

A tall, skinny guy in a down-pulled beaverskin stepped up to me as I was going down the ramp. I side-stepped, quick-like, pulling up the valise. I bumped right into an old and fat dame. She was puffing up the ramp and had her head down, plunging like a fullback bent on making three yards to goal.

Her shoulder smashed into the orange bag, splitting it, and the oranges went here and there, rolling down the ramp. I bent over, balancing the valise, trying to rescue one for my blonde doll.

That’s when I found out that this time to kill between trains was the McCoy. A slug went “whoof” right past where my head had been, smashed through the valise, and pinged against the wall to my right.

I pivoted, bending low, and got a quick glimpse of the mug in the black beaverskin triggering his silenced revolver—and getting no result. That’s one thing about silencers—half the time they’ll jam after the first shot.

Bent on a tackle, I jumped forward.

I didn’t make it, landing flush on my puss instead, driven there by a wicked rabbit punch. My chin smacked the concrete, and there was a small blackout until I rolled over on my back and looked up at the fat dame who was ready to wallop me again with her umbrella.

A guy grabbed the umbrella and said: “Wotinell, lady? Why conk the guy?”

“The fresh thing!” she shrilled, pulling an orange from her bodice. “The nasty fresh thing! And me a respectable woman! I was only minding my own business.”

She was struggling to bring down the umbrella again, but the guy holding the other end of it had it bent back over her shoulder and was giving me the bad eye.

I turned over on one elbow and reached for the shoulder holster. The mug in the beaverskin was backing away in the crowd. He gave me one frightened glance and swung behind the gaping apes that were ringing me in—and then was gone.

When I did get my gun clear my pal on the other end of the umbrella nonchalantly kicked the automatic out of my mitt. His knee prodded the fat dame on the caboose, shunting her to the sidelines.

“Get up,” he barked, and I found myself looking into the business end of a .38 police positive.

I’m dumb, but I’ve been around long enough to know when a serene-eyed guy can be dangerous and too calm for other people’s good. And I didn’t want any part of this guy. He was too calm.

I got up, very cautiously.

Being sensible, I couldn’t mention that I didn’t know the mug who had missed with the slug, that there was no reason for him to take a crack at me, that I’d never been in Denver before.

“What’s it all about?” he said. “A man takes a punch, eh?”

That was my out. He didn’t know about the silenced bullet, and I wouldn’t tell him. That would have meant an investigation of several hours; the train was due to leave in five minutes.

So I played it smart, pulled out my wallet, and showed credentials as a New York private detective.

“I’ve been looking for a guy—a guy that had a want on him.”

“What guy?”

I thought quick. “We’ve got him as Michael Eagle, a Brooklyn hood. It might be something else, but we got him as Eagle.”

“Never heard of him. What did he do?”

“Liquor hi-jacker,” I croaked. “Maybe there’s some murder mixed up in it.”

He made up his mind suddenly. “Okay, son. Go after him. Your train’s about ready to pull off.”

I went, lugging the valise.

Now I’m not one that worries as a rule, but the small hole in one side of the valise—and a larger hole to starboard—had me worried. After all, instructions had been to deliver it intact—and unharmed.

Already the outer casing had been slashed with a knife; and now a slug had gone entirely through it. And in all my experiences I’ve never known of a slug passing through something that didn’t do some harm. It’s a habit, a vicious habit, like eating tacks and nails.

I was thinking about this—and the other half of my $1000 retainer flying out of the window on a fatalistic strike—when I pushed open the compartment door just as the train jerked and got underway.

I saw the blonde first, watched her eyebrows skate upward and her full mouth flatten out and her eyes open in amazement. It penetrated my dull noggin that this amazement wasn’t all ersatz. There could be only one answer—and it wasn’t the fact that I lacked a bag of oranges.

She hadn’t expected me to come back!

That was it. So it hadn’t been my battered puss—said not to be too unhandsome—that had prompted her to pick me up. She had put me on the spot with that gag about the oranges. She’d expected a few squirts to come my way, and those squirts weren’t supposed to be orange juice.

It didn’t make sense—even to a smart dick, and I wasn’t smart. I admit it. I just slog along in my bemused fashion, knowing that crime eventually stops like an inferior horse running on cocaine. And I’m usually right, given sufficient time and provided I’m lucky enough to be alive when the payoff numbers go up.

I put the riddled valise down, kicked the door shut and started toward the blonde. I didn’t know just what I was going to do save get answers to questions.

“So,” a voice said from the compartment seat partly obscured when the door was open, “they shot Count von Mike?” The words didn’t make sense right away, but they stabbed prodding fingers into my mind and started whispers playing hide-and-seek among practically dormant cells. Count von Mike was an important somebody, but just who he was or why he was important was not at all important right then.

But the bald-headed, nattily-dressed guy sitting there was important—in a lousy sort of way—being no less than my employer.

I cannot say my mind was in turmoil, for it isn’t capable of much more than a lazy spin, which is practically high gear for me.

It shifted into high gear. Gradually it dawned upon me that he had known that possession of the valise called for murder—and had set me up as a stooge in a shooting gallery while he watched safely from the sidelines.

In addition it was apparent that he knew the blonde; they were not just chance acquaintances.

The whole setup was cockeyed. What point was there in hiring a shamus to deliver a valise, then having an accomplice see to it that the valise is not delivered safely?

In my language there’s only one way to find out such riddles.

I reached down, my left hand hooked onto his vest and shirt and he came upward. When he was up far enough my right backhanded him across his jowls four times before I permitted him to drop to the compartment seat.

At the first blow the blonde screamed and jumped forward. I kicked her feet from under her and when the lug dropped I turned to see what else she needed.

She was still on the floor, looking mad. A little automatic in her hand pointed at me, looking very mad—ominously and dangerously so.

It brought me to an abrupt halt.

She got up slowly, the gun holding steady. “Sit down, brains,” she said, “and listen to a fairy tale. Lugs like you have to learn the facts of life sometime.” I sat down abruptly. Nobody could have done anything else and stayed alive. Her eyes were rocks and she knew how to handle a gat.

“Okay, sister,” I said. “I’ve been put on the spot twice—once by the jerk, and once by you; and I want to know why.”

“There’s going to be a murder. You were just supposed to help it along.”

“I—help—murder—”

“A nice clean murder—a piperoo. You wouldn’t have been involved in any manner.”

“Now listen, sister. Murder is murder; you don’t get messed up in those things without getting yourself messed. On top of it, the victim is me. Two tries have proven that.”

“I’m really sorry.” She actually looked sad. “It wasn’t meant to be that way. Why didn’t you just let them have Count von Mike?”

“My job was to see that he was delivered safely. And whoinell, sister, is Count von Mike?”

“Remember any Sing Sing broadcasts?”

I got it then, got it good. Several years back there had been a comedy trio—one a dummy—who dominated two stooges. It was clever stuff—especially clever coming from a pen.

“You mean this guy?” I pointed to the guy out cold on the compartment seat. “And that?” My toe kicked the valise.

“Cut it out, chum,” the valise growled. “This is no fun.”

I took a quick look at the blonde—and, so help me, she laughed. “The Count’s a really rough guy. He’s very touchy, too.”

“And spooky.”

“Not so spooky—just tough,” the guy said, sitting erect on the compartment seat. The backhands seemed to be forgotten, and apparently hadn’t phased him too much.

He was looking at the holes in the valise, and I looked too—and shuddered. I was convinced that there was a human inside the valise. The voice had been as clear as that.

The shudders were not for the ten C’s I wouldn’t get now, but the idea of lugging some midget around in a valise—and having him punctured when practically in my arms was repugnant. Also the cops toss guys in the can—and can them in steel for the duration—until they can explain why a guy should be in a valise in the first place and shot in the second place. And I couldn’t explain.

The boss jerked his thumb at the valise and said, “Give me Count van Mike.”

I couldn’t help it, but my hands were clammy and shaking when I grabbed the handle of the valise. I wasn’t quite sure what I would find inside, but curiosity had me on a merry-go-round.

I noticed the boss’ eyes as I bent over, turning the caboose to the blonde and the gat. His eyes were old and tired and sad. The hentracks around them looked like a barnyard after a rain. It came to me that such sadness was of many years’ duration.

When I placed the valise on the boss’ lap, he sighed and his breath was enough to send all distillery stocks skyrocketing. He was corn-cockeyed, a boozed-bosky, a lush-lalapalooza. And he was crying, the tears squeezing from his eyes, shuttling down the furrows of his cheeks, and making regular transfers from his chin to his flowing Oxford tie.

“Take a good, long look, brother,” the blonde said. “Don’t you know him?”

I took another look—and didn’t know him.

“Maybe if he was wearing a toupee?” the blonde suggested.

Thus picturing him in my mind’s eye—I got him. And holy Moses! It was the famed movie and radio ventriloquist, Harry Jergin. It was stupid that I had not recognized him before.

Now I knew what I had been carrying in the valise. He was known as Count von Mike in Sing Sing—but to the nation’s audiences he was Charles Clunley—a humorous, mild-mannered dummy who was perpetually in trouble.

His trouble was real now; he was involved in attempted murder.

Jergin unlocked the valise and seated the dummy upon his lap. He caressed it and bent his head to its plastic one. There were two holes—one small, one large—in the dummy’s head where the slug had passed through.

He was wearing a morning coat, a high top hat and a monocle. Jergin’s hand fondly went down the back of the coat until it reached the aperture in the dummy’s spine.

The dummy’s mouth opened and its head swiveled and he looked up at Jergin.

“Jergin!” it said accusingly. “You’re a murderer!”

“I’m not,” Jergin whispered. “It’s just your imagination.”

“Imagination, hell! This hole through my head isn’t imagination. Damn it all, man, it’s a fact, an actuality! A bullet did it, a bullet you had shot at me. It’s your own fault. You engineered the whole thing.”

“I did nothing of the sort. I wouldn’t have you knocked off for anything in the world. Who deliberately would have holes punched in a meal ticket?”

“You would!” the Count whispered. And, so help me, that tricky and inanimate face actually was sorrowful and accusing.

Jergin looked down upon it in a shame-faced manner, and tears again started to roll down his cheeks.

“If it wasn’t for this dumb dick,” the dummy said, nodding at me, “I would have been kidnapped.”

Jergin’s hand raised too late to stop the last few words.

This was too much, far too much for a dumb detective. It came to me that Jergin was a slave to the dummy, that Jergin was a repressive, as the docs call it. And the dummy actually was an honest Jergin speaking Jergin’s mind as he himself was afraid to do, yet apparently unable to control himself.

Dual personality stuff is out of my sphere. I have enough trouble understanding just an ordinary sort of mug.

But this was not just one mug—there was two sides to him. And both—according to past performances—looked upon murder as inconsequential.

“What’s this about kidnaping?” I barked. “Who would want to kidnap a dummy?”

“You’d be surprised, Toots,” the blonde said, putting her toy back into the trunk women call a purse.

“You know I won’t let him be kidnaped,” I said. “I was hired to see that he was delivered safely.”

“Do you think he wants to be?”

I looked at the dummy on Jergin’s lap, and the dummy looked at me, and said: “No!”

Jergin said, “The slap-happy bum should be. He’s a killer!”

“I’m not, but you are,” the dummy said, facing Jergin. “It’s a vicious sort of death, too.”

Jergin’s hand again raised to throttle the dummy’s mouth too late.

Then he turned to me and said, “I will take care of the Count. We have a few things to talk over. How about seeing us tomorrow morning?”

Well that was quite a kiss-off, but after all he was the boss. He had hired me to protect the dummy, but now he was taking over the dummy himself. I didn’t feel right about it—but wotinell, I only work on salary.

I had nothing to say, so I walked back to my compartment, thinking of a few little touches of murder, a kidnaping to come, a screwy boss—and the correct way to sue the pants off the boss.

We were hammering across the flats of the Continental Divide next day, the mountains under and below us on both sides, when it happened.

I was back in Jergin’s compartment. The blonde was Jean; she had told me that much. Jergin, himself, seemed bent on staying stiff. He was having a time, although a lot of it seemed double-talk, especially when he had the Count, or Charles Clunley, on his lap. It impressed me particularly that he kept referring and addressing the dummy as the Count—and not Charlie.

Dumb as I am, I smelled something about this that was Sing Sing all over again. The two attempts on my life may have had something to do with such a thought.

I was watching the scenery and I decided to leave Jergin’s compartment to go to the rear for a quick drink.

When I opened the compartment door, I saw the trigger guy in the beaverskin coming toward me. He wasn’t alone. Preceding him was a short, fat and confident lug, swarthy and heavy-joweled with a wide mouth and dinky eyes that were overlapped by bags of fat and dissipation. The scar-faced man who had tried to knife me as I left my office trailed them.

I slammed the door quick and turned to Jergin.

“They’re here again. Only now they’re triple instead of one at a time.” I reached for the shoulder holster.

Jergin’s bleary eyes seemed to clear momentarily. I thought I detected something canny and smug in their sudden glint. But at a time like that you can never be sure of anything.

The knock on the door was loud and imperious—which seemed strange to me, seeing that the hoods must have known they were walking into a private dick’s gun. They don’t usually come for you with such effrontery and confidence.

I couldn’t get it. The gun was flat on the side of my palm, and I bounced it suggestively.

“Put it away! Put it away, quick,” Jergin ordered.

“Now listen—” I started to say.

“It’s part of your job,” he growled. “The rest of your fee will still be waiting in San Francisco.”

I put it away and cursed myself for ever getting mixed up in anything as screwball as this. I’d been in crime before, but this thing was so unusual that I doubted that it all wasn’t a dream up and over anything I had ever encountered before.

It was such a dream that it could only happen to dumb Mike Grady. It was to develop into the only murder (if you can call it that) that I ever heard of or expect to hear of where the killer went scot free. Or maybe he didn’t? Maybe the victim killed himself? You figure it out. It’s beyond the powers of a guy like me.

The knock sounded again on the door. Jergin picked up the Count, seated the little demon on his lap, and fondled it.

That did not make sense, either. Jergin was on the spot and knew it—and apparently did not care. He seemed inclined to play only with the dummy—the one thing that possessed the damnable part of his own most dangerous personality.

The knocking sounded again. Jergin grinned fatuously, and the dummy said: “Going to lose me?”

“I hope so,” Jergin said in a sad voice. “I hope so.”

The blonde said: “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. The Count’s out for murder.”

Well I was quite sure now that Jergin—or all of us—was off the beam. I felt safer facing hoods. They spoke my language—so when Jergin said, “Open the door,” I opened it almost thankfully.

The swarthy and confident man came in first. Trailing him was the dead-panned killer who had tried to knife me. And last of all was the mug who’d shot the Count in the Denver station.

This cluck grinned at me and said: “You were born lucky.”

I looked him over and knew it was true. “You weren’t!”

“Shuddup and shut the door,” the swarthy leader said, never looking at me. He was grinning toothily at Jergin and the dummy, like he had found his long-lost love.

Jergin was looking at me and his eyes were silently saying to play it smart.

I shut the door and pressed my back against it.

The gun said, “You were born lucky,” and reached beneath my coat and took my automatic.

I was boiling, but Jergin still was looking at me and nodding his head.

I don’t like to be pushed around, but if obeying orders calls for pushing around—I’ll push—up to a certain extent.

“This man, Count, was the one who tried to stab you and had you shot,” Jergin said to the dummy. “His name is—”

“His name is Casso,” the dummy mumbled. “Why you know I met him eight years ago. He’s a high-binder from the word go—”

Jergin’s hand raised, and—so help me—he slapped the dummy right across the puss, shutting it up.

The dummy rolled its glass eyes and looked despondently at Jergin.

“Listen,” said Casso. “Don’t ever hit that kid. Give him to me.” He reached out, crooking his right arm.

“I don’t want to go with Casso,” the dummy said in a childish voice. “With him I’m mute, without character, and a killer—”

“What’s he mean—killer?” Casso growled.

“I wouldn’t know,” Jergin said. “He says the damnedest things.” He passed over the Count to Casso. It was only later that, in analyzing the conversation, that I ever knew a man to tell another—before witnesses—that he would be killed. But—through the Count—Jergin did just that.

Jergin looked from the Count to Casso, and his eyes filled with tears again.

“G’bye, Count,” he said.

“Say! What the hell!” The Count did not sound like the Count at all. His modulated voice was gone. It was harsh, rasping and uncertain.

“Cute, aren’t they?” the gun said to me. He was pretty confident about the whole thing. His scar-faced pal had seated himself near the blonde and was devoting his time between ogling her and Casso and the dummy.

“Yeah, Very cute. Clever, too.”

The dummy in Casso’s arms looked up into his face and said: “What’s this, boss?”

“A snatch, kid,—a snatch.”

“Now lookit here,” the dummy said plaintively. “After all, I don’t amount to much.”

“You amount to one quarter of a million bucks!”

“My! My! You don’t say so. Why for?”

“Because without you the great Jergin and his movie and radio rights cannot click. You’re half of the act.”

“So I am. So I am. I never thought of that before. A quarter of a million. My, oh, my! And here I’ve been selling my services to Jergin for a buck and a half a week. You have something there, pal.”

“This will probably be the first time in history that a kidnaping did not concern a human being,” Jergin said, looking out the window. “How did you figure that angle out, Casso?”

“Just figuring it safe, cluck. I don’t want to go back to Sing Sing. They can’t put you in the can for kidnaping a dummy.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“But what will you be without him. Contracts will be cancelled; it’ll wash you up unless you bail him out.”

Jergin took a long while to answer. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Yes, without the Count you’re just a bum—like you were before I met you. This quarter million is just an old debt you owe, chum.”

Casso started for the door, Scarface yawned, and the gun near me repeated, “You were born lucky.”

I took him at his word when the train gave a slight lurch and the gun leaned toward the blonde.

I let fly with a left, clipping him alongside the head. My right hand grabbed his rod.

Casso cursed—and so did the boss. Scarface reached under his belt and came out with a gleaming stiletto. A lucky shot knocked it out of his hand and the hand out of action.

I swung around and had both the gun and Casso in line of fire. Everything was under control.

The mistake I made was turning my back on the blonde. The blow came so suddenly and unexpectedly the whole train seemed to buckle and jump upward as the floor came up and hit me.

Vaguely I saw Casso heave the Count past me and saw him reach for his gun.

Twice I triggered rapidly. Casso stood upright, but Scarface went down folding both hands across his stomach.

The blonde behind me screamed. Jergin made a grab for the Count.

The gun got to him first—and pulled him up under his right arm.

Outside the compartment I could hear passengers screaming. Then Casso’s gun leveled down upon me and spat flame.

I felt nothing. The head just jerked. There was no feeling of pain. Oblivion swooped.

It was later in a Provo, Utah, hospital that I awoke. The bullet had only creased the skull—but now that crease hurt like the Devil incarnate.

There was a forlorn feeling, like you feel when you mess up an important job. There were cops and nurses and doctors there; but they weren’t too inquisitive about me.

They seemed to be interested mostly in Jergin, who was in the next bed. There didn’t seem to be much wrong with him save an egg-sized lump on his head.

“I tell you,” he was telling the police, “it was a robbery—no more—no less—just a robbery.”

He did not mention the Count—and so I kept mum about that even without being asked. I, too, was curious.

The questioning of Jergin went on. Casso and the gun, it developed, had made their getaway. But I’d killed Scarface, and Casso had nearly killed the blonde.

It was hard to control myself until the cops finished their questioning. I wanted to ask Jergin a few myself.

Finally that opportunity came.

Jergin came out with it himself.

“Mike Grady,” he called softly from the next bed. “Are you awake, Mike Grady?”

“Yes.” Doubtfully.

“I’m sorry about you having to risk your life.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s right. I didn’t plan it that way. I just thought they would take the Count away from you.”

“If you wanted him taken away by hoods, why didn’t you just hold onto him yourself?”

“I wanted to make it look important—that I was trying to protect him. That he was of great value to me.”

“Isn’t he?”

“As a dummy—no. As a killer for the next two months—yes.”

Well, if I hadn’t been flat on my back in the first place, that crack would have laid me there. How could a dummy kill?

“Casso just got out of Sing Sing,” Jergin whispered. “I knew he was coming for me—and I knew how he would figure—that he wanted the Count.”

“Yes?”

“You look like an okay guy. If you think I should be turned in—go ahead. But after all—I’m not killing Casso.”

“Casso’s being killed?”

“Yes. Minute-by-minute. While he waits for me to ransom the Count, the dummy he kidnapped is slowly killing him.”

This was a different Jergin than the one on the train. There was something intense, urgent and sincere in his voice. I found myself liking him. There was something plaintive, appealing and honest about him as he discussed murder-in-the-making.

“Call it poetic justice, if you will,” he said softly. “It goes back fifteen years.”

I waited tensely, swearing to myself that Jergin was to land in the brig for what he had done to me. He sounded like a killer.

“I was an intern at a hospital,” he said. “I was in love with a nurse. We had a small tube of radium worth a quarter of a million dollars. And that’s what Casso meant when he set that value on the Count. He came in with his mob and raided the room in which my sweetheart was working. To get the tube he had to kill her.

“I heard the shot and came running, only to be taken as a hostage and shield as Casso made his getaway. The mob fled to Pennsylvania and there had to bury the radium tube.”

“Why bury it?”

“Ever hear of radium poisoning?”

“Sure.”

“It causes osteomyelitis, an infection of the bones. Radium makes them gradually disintegrate. It’s a very painful death.”

“But sure death?”

“Right. It’s impossible to counteract.”

“What happened in the Pennsylvania hideout?”

Jergin shrugged. “I was held captive for weeks. The New York papers—and the police, of course—because of my disappearance—got the idea that I was a member of the gang. The gang finally was captured. I told the truth, but Casso swore I actually was a member of the gang to weaken my testimony against him. When the gang was convicted I, too, was sent away—and for the murder of my own sweetheart. It was heartbreak, Mike; nutty as all get out—but true.”

His voice was husky and just looking into his sad eyes and the hentracks surrounding them, I knew he was speaking the truth.

“I had always been interested in ventriloquism,” he said, “so when in the big house I made Count von Mike. He started me on my career.”

“But where does Casso come into the picture?”

“He’s a fair ventriloquist of sorts—and he loves the Count.”

“You’re out of business when he has him.”

“No—nothing of the sort. I’m going to stay off the air and out of films for a couple of months, making Casso believe I cannot operate without the Count. In any business you take insurance. I wouldn’t take a chance on having just one Count von Mike. Some hoodlum dumber than Casso might have thought of kidnaping him.”

“That’s right, too. But who was the blonde?”

Jergin looked away, then turned his head slowly again. “She was the sister of the girl I was to marry. I guess I’ll marry her now. All she’s been living for was the day when Casso would walk into his own trap—and die.”

“Casso die? How can anyone arrange that?”

“Well, that’s up to you to decide. I certainly am not knocking him off—and neither is the Count. Casso brought it all upon himself when he put on the snatch.”

“Now look,” I said, “that sounds nuts.”

“Okay—it’s nuts; but look at it this way: I’ve been out of the pen for eight years. Casso only got out last week. Only a few of us knew where that tube of radium was buried. I got to it first, and I knew Casso would come looking for me. Either the tube or one-quarter million. Both would have been the same. You were simply stage dressing.

“Well, he got the Count—and the tube that I put inside the Count a few days ago. There wasn’t very much radium in that tube, Mike—only a very little in fact; that was the important thing. You see, the quantity wasn’t large enough to kill a man quickly, the way being in contact with a large amount can do. There isn’t enough to hurt a man who was just in contact for a little while. But Casso’s going to be in contact with it for a long time, Mike—and for long periods at a time. I know him, he loves the Count, loves to sit it on his lap and practice ventriloquism. Get it?”

I got it—and I also got my other $1000, for I never told Jergin’s story.

Casso happily bounced the Count on his knee for a little more than two months, until he was forced to go into a hospital. The Count was found—and the tube of radium returned to its original hospital. Casso died.

The Count is back in the movies and on the air again, but I never hear the act without repressing a shudder. Did either Jergin or the Count kill Casso, or did Casso kill himself? At any rate, as Jergin said—it’s what you’d call poetic justice.

RAINY TUESDAY, by Jack Halliday

I called Waldo at about twelve thirty. I guess I just needed to know that everything was exactly how I’d wanted it to be. After that I cradled the phone and leaned back in my office chair and looked out the window over my left shoulder. The streets were almost completely vacant of cars. The entire neighborhood seemed strangely silent, except for the rain.

I finished my coffee and set the cup in its saucer. I rocked forward in my chair, placed my elbows on the desk blotter, steepled my fingers and rested my chin on them. My eyeballs were dull marbles set in sockets of sand. I let my vision go slightly out of focus until the familiar peace settled over me as my brain waves slowed down to what scientists who study these matters term the “alpha state.” That was the realm were it always seemed almost anything was possible. After all, it was in just that delicious psychological state that I came up with this plan. A perfect plan for the perfect murder. Impossible to solve, improbable to prosecute, incomprehensible to understand or calculate.

I suppose it all started when I first suspected the affair.

You have to understand that I’m not the jealous type; I just don’t have the energy nor the inclination for it. Like anger and fear, jealousy is just too expensive of an emotion for the nervous system. It keeps the subconscious multi-tasking, robbing the conscious mind of needed energy to live, to love and to construct the perfect crime.

So, when I connected the dots and finally, fully realized that Stella and Jim were more than just acquaintances, “doing the dirty,” often and uninhibitedly, I coldly, calculatingly concocted a bitter end for her.

Him? He was just a dupe, a bit player in her sad script of revenge against me for succeeding so splendidly even as her supposed motion picture career careened south, plummeting into the boulevard of broken dreams that is Hollywood’s graveyard for the talentless masses.

I was an award-winning surgeon, board certified in a half dozen specialties, with a client list that included some of the very luminaries in whose company my wandering wife dreamt of living.

Ironic, isn’t it? How one person can strive and connive and still come up short while another individual can succeed in the same arena without so much as a drop of perspiration expended in a search for significance. The universe favors the unconcerned more often than the success gurus can begin to imagine (no pun intended). Perhaps when this is all over I’ll write a bestseller: “How to Succeed Without Trying.”

In any case, Waldo, my insurance agent, had just confirmed to me that our yearly financial checkup had revealed everything was perfectly in order to my precise specifications. Specifications that included the increase in Stella’s insurance I had requested at our previous year’s mini-conference. Though she was now worth next to nothing to me alive, she would be nearly priceless dead.

Although the AMA frowns on a physician tending to the needs of his own family, there’s nothing strictly illegal about a spouse trained in medicine looking after the health of one’s mate. I had no doubts at all that I was the only living person who was aware of Stella’s severe allergy to any medicine even remotely related to penicillin. The smallest amount would push her respiratory system “over the top” bringing her lying life to an abrupt and decidedly deserved end.

It was allergy season again and I was definitely going to misdiagnose her condition as the onset of bronchitis, prescribing a general antibiotic, of course.

How could I possibly be expected to remember all the particulars of family practice concerns when I’d been a specialist in surgery all these many years? It would be tantamount to demanding that the pilot of a 767 possess the ability to dial his aeronautical expertise back several notches in order to flawlessly fly a Cessna.

The plop of the morning mail through the slot in my office door to the floor brought me back to the present. I slid my chair back and ambled across the room, retrieved the handful of flyers, junk mail and other correspondence and returned to my desk, tossing the items on the aged green blotter.

I peered between the slats of the blinds and watched the rain softly, relentlessly falling upon the street below. I could have been in England, the way it looked for all the world like early evening, rather than just after noon. I’d been to London just a few years previously, been there with Stella, taking her to Harrod’s and all of the other tourist spots in that bustling metropolis.

But that was before a two-bit pharmacist had somehow insinuated himself into the position of interloper between an eminently successful physician and his outwardly adoring wife. I can’t count the number of dinner parties where, inevitably, someone or other would insist upon comparing Stella to an older version of Scarlett Johansson. I would smile politely but wince inwardly, knowing that such unsolicited flattery would only serve to lengthen the life of her doomed dream of super-stardom. To be honest, my attitude, if not my actions, probably contributed to her looking outside of our marriage for the acclamation and encouragement she felt she deserved from me but was denied.

But all of this would be behind me in a few short days. I would return from the office early one afternoon, only to find her dead at the hands of her own overly-sensitive body. A fitting end for an incurable narcissist, in my opinion.

With a sigh I resumed my chair and sorted through the mail, tossing most of it into “file thirteen.” I nearly included an envelope, which upon closer inspection, I found to be, not the presumed nuisance of yet another piece of solicitation, but, rather, a letter of correspondence, addressed personally to me.

The return address was my own.

For some reason, I hesitated to even open the envelope. A strange sense of foreboding suddenly overtook me. For no understandable reason I just sat and stared, alone in my office, listening to the rain which was occasionally pelting the office window behind me.

In a sudden burst of adrenaline, I quickly tore open the envelope and slid the perfume-scented stationery out and onto my desk. Grabbing my reading glasses, I switched on my desk lamp and began reading what appeared to be a letter from my wife.

“My Dear Roy,

You may have heard that spouses—like us—who have lived together for many years, know each other so well, they even begin to resemble each other. Does that mean your looks will someday still improve?”

My insides stung as I realized the diatribe I had begun to read.

“In any case, I’m counting on the truthfulness of that dictum, at least as far as your daily routine is concerned. Tuesdays you arrive early at your personal office. You don’t do rounds at the hospital and you don’t stop anywhere for breakfast. You simply arrive, switch on the coffee maker, which you’ve gotten ready the night before, read the morning paper (which you’ve purchased at the same quickmart you’ve always patronized), and then go through the mail.”

“How am I doing so far, lover?”

She was succeeding brilliantly at disgusting me, is how she was doing. I wanted to pitch the piece in the bin and yet I couldn’t manage to take my eyes from the page. Her poor attempt at provocative prose kept me reading, in spite of my emotional revulsion. Her words kept my eyes riveted to the page the way even a hack writer’s crude attempt at storytelling can sometimes compel you to continue on to the inexorably poor excuse for a satisfying conclusion.

“But enough of the ‘whys and wherefores.’ ‘Let’s get the cotton out of the bottle and get right down to the aspirin’ as Leslie Neilson’s character said in that lousy excuse for a comedy you are so enamored of.

“Our facade of a relationship is over, finally. And I’m not speaking of separation or divorce. I mean over in the ‘forever’ dimension of the word.

“You see, Roy, you are not the only ‘doctor in the house.’ James is so much more than a compounding chemist. He is also a physician and he practiced successfully for many years, mostly overseas, primarily in Africa.

“You’d be surprised at what he learned there. There are all kinds of natural remedies that a person skilled, not only in medicine, but also in pharmaceuticals, could experiment with. ‘First do no harm’ does not necessarily resonate with everyone who has the letters M.D. following his name.”

I set the paper down, rocked back in my chair, looked over my shoulder and again watched as the relentless rain continued to provide a numbing background to Stella’s verbose verbiage. The sense of foreboding was becoming full-fledged fear now, an apprehension of the unknown that was taking on a lethal quality. I forced myself to return to the letter.

“James was fascinated by one particular herb, akatharisis-something-or-other. It is completely undetectable in the bloodstream in as little as one hour following its introduction to the human system. Yet it induces something that for all the world passes for an acute and fatal stroke in about that same amount of time. It’s odorless, tasteless and colorless. It’s also emotionless: it cares not whose life it ends. Like an obedient house pet, it simply and effectively does what it’s told.

“By the way, your office seemed fairly tidy last evening.

“Did you enjoy your coffee this morning, Roy?”

The sympathetic portion of my body’s autonomic nervous system took over with lightning-like speed. In a flash, perspiration burst from the pores of my forehead, my breathing and heartbeat raced in unison and a nervous tingling surged through my hands and feet in a full-blown panic attack that any ER physician would have nominated for the medical equivalent of an Oscar.

“If my intuition is trustworthy—and it always has been—you should be feeling a little numb about now. A sensation I endured for more of our mismanaged marriage than I can stomach remembering. You’d think a doctor like you, with all of that knowledge of the human anatomy, would know at least a little of how to sexually satisfy his life partner. But not my dear Roy. You were not only a bore out of the bedroom, but a burden in it. How unbelievably happy I will be to be forever rid of the nuisance you are!”

The stinging I was beginning to feel in my face and the right side of my body paled in comparison to the one lashing my heart.

“I took Waldo’s advice last year when he checked in with me regarding your increasing the death benefit on my insurance policy. I found myself in complete agreement with him that I should do likewise with yours.

“It takes money to launch an acting career, Roy; and connections. As you know, I have the connections—thanks to you—but I’ve lacked the money…at least until now. James is very good with money matters also. He’ll know just how to pursue the production of an independent feature that will finally gain me the entree into the business I’ve longed for during more years than I’m comfortable remembering. But ‘good things come to those who wait,’ don’t they?”

My vision was blurring now and unbidden tears began to slowly course down my cheeks even as the rain continued to carve liquid trails upon the window pane behind me.

With the last of the ebbing strength I could muster, I forced myself to finish reading her letter.

“Goodbye, Roy. And may hell itself welcome you with open arms.

With the greatest of relief,

Stella.”

The stationery slipped from my fingers and I leaned back in the chair, looking over my shoulder, through the window in my office.

I was sinking below the “alpha state” now, to “theta,” on toward “delta” and whatever else might lay beyond, when once the brain finally ceases from its electrical activity.

The streets were almost completely vacant of cars. The entire neighborhood seemed strangely silent, except for the rain.

MURDER THROWS A RINGER, by Carl G. Hodges

Originally published in Thrilling Detective, Dec. 1947.

CHAPTER I

IF AT FIRST

Dwight Berke’s long legs took the stairs three at a time. He reached the third floor and rounded the corner of the corridor of the Berkshire apartments. He heard the noise of a door closing violently behind him. Then he threw up his arms instinctively to ward off a blow he knew was coming. Something steely flashed in the dim light and a metal bulk crashed against his head. Blackness seemed to cloud his brain. He felt a raking pain flash along the line of his jaw, working down from above his ear.

Subconsciously he knew that a clubbed revolver had smacked against his skull. He struggled to draw his own gun from his armpit holster. But his fingers fumbled and it dropped from his hand and he heard it rattle on the metal banister as it tumbled down the steps.

His senses blacked out. His brain was cotton. His body seemed to be floating in space. His tan topcoat ripped from his shoulders as it caught on the stairway, and he bumped down the carpeted steps. A gun blasted. A burning sensation stung his temple. He heard a brittle voice saying, “That’s what you get for butting in, Joe!”

Oblivion closed in on him, but he felt someone bend over him and pick up a gun. His brain blacked out completely.

When he came to, pain caressed his head and his eyes were fuzzy as he tried to orient himself. He reached out his hands to gather his body under him. His fingers brushed something cold and hard and he knew it was a gun. He put it in his armpit holster and struggled to his feet, weakness staggering him. His temple felt warm and sticky and his feeling fingers came away reddened.

“Creased me,” he thought, “probably thinks he made me a gone goose.”

He got his hat off the floor and put it on. His brain was clearing somewhat but he was still confused. He remembered his wife waiting in the Journal’s press coupe and his impulse was to get to her. If anyone wanted to kill him, that desire might also include Gail. He wrote for the Journal; Gail took pictures; a killer’s enmity might embrace them both.

He moved toward the front of the corridor, then remembered the courtyard at the rear of the apartments. He turned and moved down the back stairs, his hand nervously trembling on the banister. He opened the back door and stepped out on to the concrete that led along the tall hedge. He heard a car engine start as he walked along the hedge and he noted that the light from the electroliers along the path behind the hedge, struck high on the wall above his head.

He gained the sidewalk and he peered quickly up the street and across to the other curb where he had left Gail parked in the coupe. He stepped off the curb and started to hurry diagonally across. He was conscious dimly of a whirr of sound behind him and the lights of an approaching automobile bathed the asphalt as he broke into an unsteady and staggering run toward her. He saw her open the car door and step out on the sidewalk. And then he heard her high-pitched scream.

He twisted backward as he ran. Car lights blazed into his eyes and blinded him. He felt unyielding power strike his knees, then thighs and hurl him out of its path. He smashed into the curb and his head struck. For the second time in ten minutes he blacked out….

Something jarred his brain awake and a blurred awareness seeped into his tortured body. His opened eyes hurt with the shock of glaring light. He forced his eyes to focus and he saw the white walls of the room; the white sheet that covered him in the hospital bed; the sun streaming in between the white slats of the venetian blinds. He saw his wife, Gail, sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed, her eyes blinking sleepily.

He tried to be flippant but it was a sorry attempt. His voice cracked with weakness. “Hi, baby.”

She bent over him and buried her dark head on his chest. He felt her trembling against him. “Bazooka!” he said, “Take it easy, sweetheart. I’m still in one piece, I hope, I hope.”

Her fingers touched the white patch of adhesive tape on his temple. “Any pain, honey?”

“I guess I ought to feel like I’ve been slugged by Mr. A. Tom Bomb but I’m just hungry. I could eat a cow.” He smiled at her with a twinkle brightening in his eyes. “I play tag with the Nips for three years and get some shrapnel for a souvenir and then I start working for the Journal and wind up in a hospital bed. What is this, the maternity ward?”

She glanced at the wrist watch he had picked up on Saipan and given to her when she met him at the separation center. “You’re in the prison ward. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, now. You’ve been sleeping like a baby for fifteen hours. Only babies don’t snore like you do.”

“Prison ward?” His tone was incredulous. “What happened?”

She sobbed; she couldn’t mask her emotions any longer. “It’s awful. Inspector Morf says—”

The door opened and a nurse came in and she was followed by round-headed, apple-faced Inspector Fleming Morf of the Homicide Squad. His eyes were frigid and there was a mean glint of triumph in them. “Well, Berke,” he gloated, “murder’s been your hobby for a long time. Now let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this one.”

Di’s head cleared with the shock of Morf s words. “Somebody banged me over the head. What’s this murder talk?”

Morf grinned sourly. “You figured you were pretty slick, bumping off Anton Spivak. You didn’t have me fooled for a minute.”

Di had to fence for time to get his bearings on this new puzzle. “Knocking off Anton Spivak? Why? What would I have against the guy? He’s a square shooter. Just stubborn, that’s all.”

“I ain’t dumb Berke. Everybody that reads the Journal sport pages knows how you been riding Spivak, how you been raising Cain with the race track he runs because they keep all the breakage instead of giving it back to the fans or putting it into a fund for disabled vets. You and him tangled about it last night in his apartment. You plugged him.”

Di grinned and his head ached like he had a migraine. “Okay. Just because Spivak pays a guy that cashes a win ticket on Susie Q, nine dollars and ninety cents instead of nine dollars and ninety-four cents, I shoot Spivak. That don’t make sense, Inspector.”

Morf’s eyes closed to mere slits. “Smart guy, you’ve been in my hair ever since you got out of the Marines and took over the sport desk on the Journal. You stumbled into half a dozen murder cases, and your luck held out and you think that you solved ‘em.

“This one’s different, bub. You’re right smack underneath a rap for murder. You tumbled into murder, all right, but here’s one you won’t talk yourself out of. I’m taking you in. The prison ward doc says you’re O.K. The bullet only creased your temple.”

Di shifted his weight in the bed as the impact of Morf’s words snagged his brain. “You’re nuts! A few pennies of breakage one way or another is no motive for murder.”

Morf’s face relaxed into a chilly grimace. “We got evidence you can’t alibi, scribbler. Jock Harrison saw you running out of the courtyard at the Berkshire with a gun in your hand. He followed you in his car trying to keep you in sight. But you ran into the street and right into his car and you got banged up a little. Then the cops picked you up and brought you here.”

“Evidence? Bah! One man’s word against mine. Heck, this Harrison guy could have killed Spivak himself.”

“This’ll kill you, Berke.” Morf was pleased at his obvious play on words. “The bullet that killed Anton Spivak was fired from your gun. I had the slug checked by ballistics down at headquarters. We’ve got you where the hair’s short, Berke.”

The inspector turned churlishly to the nurse. “When can we lug him out of here?”

The nurse spoke primly. “As soon as he can get dressed. He may be sore and stiff, but the doctor says he’s all right.”

Morf moved toward the door. “Have him ready for us in an hour. We want to get him behind bars!” He closed the door quietly.

CHAPTER II

HE WENT THAT WAY

Berke moved his pillow high against the white metal of the hospital bed and looked forlornly at Gail as he recounted the happenings of the previous night after the nurse left the room on Morf’s heels. “I went in to the Berkshire. I went up the stairs to the third floor. Somebody hit me over the head. I must have fallen over the stair banister and landed on the second floor near the rear stairway. My gun went off and creased me, I guess. At least that’s where I was when I came to.”

Gail watched him with an unspoken fear in her eyes. “Could you have shot Spivak while you were dazed? Could you tell who it was that slugged you?”

“I’m not sure. I was dazed. My jaw was bleeding and my head was buzzing. But I do remember going down the back stairway and out through the courtyard to the sidewalk. Then I started up the sidewalk toward you sitting in the coupe. That’s all I remember.” He passed his trembling hand worriedly over his eyes.

Gail finished for him. “I saw you running—staggering almost—toward the coupe and you cut across the street like you were headed for the driver’s side. Then Harrison’s car hit you and knocked you down. He stopped as quick as he could and then a cop came running up and we brought you here in Harrison’s car.”

“Who’s Harrison?”

“Philip Henry Harrison. He’s the owner of the Happy Hour Stables. He owns Pirate Boy; the three year old that won the Bulwark Stakes at the track day before yesterday. Harrison won about fifty thousand dollars.” Her eyes warmed. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. He was worried sick about hitting you with his car until the doctors assured him you’d be all right.”

“How’d Morf find out Spivak had been shot with my gun?”

“This morning the maid at the Berkshire found Spivak’s body and they sweated the information out of Harrison that he’d seen you running out of the courtyard at the Berkshire with a gun in your hand. They just put two and two together and checked your gun. There was only one cartridge fired and it was in Spivak’s body.”

Di shook his head woefully, and a crinkle of worry creased across the bridge of his nose. “That’s tough evidence to fight, Toots. I’m positive I didn’t kill Spivak. I don’t even remember going to his room—but if he was killed with a bullet from my gun—”

“Would you know who it was that slugged you?”

“No. I rounded the corner of the corridor when he slugged me from behind. I heard his voice, that’s all. I didn’t really ever see him.” Gail’s eyes brooded in her quiet face. “We’ve got to prove that you didn’t do it, Di.”

“How? I can’t do it in a jail cell.” Di looked sharply at his wife. “If I ever let Morf turn a key on me in a jail cell, I’ll fry.” His jaw jutted out sternly. “I’ve got to find the real killer. I’ve got to get out of here!” He threw back the sheet and swung his legs weakly to the floor.

Gail got up, alarmed. “You’re not strong enough.”

Di laughed, but there was no humor in him. “The electric chair fries just the same, medium or rare.” He looked at her, with sudden hope in his eyes. “Take a look around out in the hallway. Locate the fire escapes—the stairways—the elevators. We’ll have to figure some way to get out of here. I’ll have my clothes on by the time you get back.”

Several minutes later Gail ran into the room and there was a raw excitement in her voice. “Morf and Chuck Ryan got back ahead of time. Morf’s using the phone downstairs. They’ll be up here in a moment.”

Di jumped to his feet. He was weak, but he forced himself to stand erect until the dizziness passed. “Where’s the fire escape on this floor?”

“At the end of the hall.” Her eyes were clouded. “But you can’t take a chance that way. It’s in full sight of the street. And Morf could shoot you from any window.”

“He’d do it, too.” Di’s eyes had a furtive look. “I’ll sit on my fanny in a cell till they put me in the big chair.”

She grinned, unsure of herself. “I think I’ve found a way to get you free, darling. If you’ll do as I say.”

“Okay, Toots.”

“When Morf and Ryan get here, go with them quietly. I’ll tag along with you. When we pass the freight elevator on this side of the hall, we’ll come to another door. It’s marked ‘Linen Supply’. It will have a key in the lock. Get away from Morf somehow and get through that door. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Are you nuts? What good will it do me to lock myself in a linen closet?”

Before she could answer, the door opened and the nurse came in. Fleming Morf and his oafish aide, Chuck Ryan, barged into the room behind her. Morf brushed the nurse aside and glowered at Di. “All right, Berke. Let’s get going. We got a nice comfortable cell fixed up for you.”

Di moved toward the door and Ryan walked out into the hall ahead of him. Morf walked behind Di. Gail tagged along. She said, brightly, “Inspector, can’t he have supper before he goes to jail? He hasn’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah,” grunted the huge Ryan, looking back, “how about some lobster a la Newburg?”

“He’s hungry for barbecued ribs,” Gail said.

“It won’t be long till his ribs’ll be barbecued in the hot seat.” Morf smiled coldly at his own humor. He moved on doggedly, and they passed the heavy doors of the freight elevator. “He’ll eat beef stew and like it.”

“I’ll eat it but I won’t like it.”

They had reached the door marked ‘Linen Supply’. Di whirled and drove his right hand smack into Morf’s stomach. The inspector howled in misery and doubled up in pain. Breath whistled out of him. In that one brief second, Di dove for the door, his fingers clutching for the knob. He jerked it open viciously. Leaped through, and slammed it after him.

Gail leaped around the inspector and twisted the key in the lock. Chuck Ryan had whirled and leaped back. He reached out a ham-like paw and barked, “Gimme the key, sister, or I’ll blast through that door with my rod!”

Gail swung her hand and tossed the key down the hall. The metal flashed as it skidded over the asphalt tile and stopped against the baseboard at the end of the hall.

Morf was holding his stomach with both hands, and his round face was mottled with pain and rage. “Beat it downstairs, Ryan! This may be a trick. I’ll get the key.”

Ryan ran for the door across the hall, marked ‘Stairway’. He jerked the door open and leaped through. He staggered back in howling pain as he ran into a tier of shelves. He bounced backward into the hall, with bed sheets, pillow cases, and blankets cascading down around him.

Morf cursed, and glared at Gail. “You’re a slick chick, sister, changing the name plates on them doors. Your hubby’s outside by now, but we’ll catch up with him. It’ll be pretty hard for him to hide that bandaged dome and that taped jaw. We’ll drag him in within an hour.”

Di felt like a fool with the woolen scarf draped over his bandaged head and tied under his stubbled chin. He hadn’t shaved for many hours and the reddish beard had sprouted well. The long black woman’s coat that covered his lean frame was a little tight for him and unbearably warm. But it was the best he could find in a hurry at Jim Watson’s second-hand store.

No one paid any attention to him, however, as he walked into Joe’s Diner, which was made from an old streetcar. He moved down the line of wobbly stools in front of the counter and slipped onto the stool next to Gail, propping his umbrella against his leg.She looked aside—and almost choked on a doughnut. She had to struggle to hold back her humor. “Lady,” she said, “you’ve got an awful red beard.”

He squeezed her leg under cover of the umbrella. “You’re tops, Toots. I’d never gotten from under Morf’s clutches without your help. And you arranged this meeting place right under Morf’s nose by mentioning barbecued ribs. Joe’s was the only place I could remember where we’d ever eaten them.”

Gail smiled brightly. “You missed the best part, when Ryan ran into the ‘Stairway’ and smacked into the shelves of the linen closet. He bounced out of there like a rubber ball, with bedclothes draped all over him.”

“How’d you work that? Switch the name plates?”

“Yes.”

Di squeezed her leg. She said; “Grandma, what cold hands you’ve got.”

Di got serious. “I’m going over to the Berkshire Arms. In this get-up I ought to be able to fool anybody that Morf might have left there to watch the place. I can slip in the back way or else go up the fire escape.”

“You’d better shave first, darling. No scrubwoman would have a two-day beard like yours.”

“I can’t go home. Morf’s got that place picketed, I’ll bet.”

“What can I do?” Gail said.

“Plenty. Go back to the Journal and dig everything out of the morgue about Anton Spivak that you can find. Meet me back here at eight o’clock tonight. And bring all the newspapers with you. For a guy that’s supposed to have bumped off Spivak I don’t know much about it.”

She got up. Peered closely at her husband. “I’m worried, Di. After the man slugged you in the Berkshire you fell down the stairs, your gun went off and creased your head—isn’t it queer that nobody heard you? That there was no alarm?”

“Broadloom carpeting all over the joint, Toots. And the rooms are all soundproof.” He patted her hands. “Don’t worry, baby. It’ll work out all right.”

The waiter came along the counter then, and peered suspiciously at Di. Gail hastily said, “Goodbye, grandma,” to Di, and walked out of the diner. Di waited a long moment and left, and moved slowly along the sidewalk, trying to mimic the walk of an elderly woman in her old-fashioned clothes, supporting her faltering steps with an umbrella. In less than fifteen minutes he was nearing the Berkshire Arms.

Di circled the front of the building cautiously, his eyes peering under the scarf, searching for evidence of plainclothes men that might have been planted nearby by Inspector Morf. After a long survey, he moved into the courtyard at the rear of the apartment building, keeping close to the tall hedge along the walk so that the rays of the ornamental electroliers did not reach him.

He used the crooked handle of the umbrella to leap up and hook the end of the weighted fire escape and pull it down. He clambered upward silently to the level platform at the third floor, his black coat and scarf happily blending into the darkness of the building’s surface.

He raised a window gently and felt the movement of warm air against his face. He stepped quickly inside into Anton Spivak’s darkened living room, and hastily lowered the window shade behind him. He moved quietly to the other window and jerked the shade down silently. He walked across the polished floor and the soft throw rugs to the door and pressed the light switch.

He looked around the sumptuously furnished living room and his eyes crinkled in the bright light that gleamed off polished antique furniture and sleek. Oriental rugs. It did not look like a place in which a man had met violent death. The room was in perfect order; everything was in its place. Over the fireplace was a tremendous life-size painting of Seabiscuit. The plastered walls were dotted with tasteful etchings and line drawings of famous horse races of the past. The wall between the window and the bedroom door was lined with shelf after shelf of brightly-jacketed and evidently seldom-read books.

A table held an empty vase, a tobacco humidor, and a copy of Racing Form. He picked it up and noted suddenly that the date was November 1941. He wondered why Anton Spivak would have a copy of a six-year-old Racing Form on his living room table. He turned the pages carelessly and then stopped, as he noted that a page had been torn out. Page 22. He spread the paper open on the table, and his eyes caught the faint indentation on Page 20—a faint circle, as if someone had previously circled an item on Page 22 with a pencil.

He folded the paper thoughtfully and began to tuck it in the capacious folds of his old woman’s coat and then threw his body violently sideways as he caught a faint movement by the bedroom door.

CHAPTER III

WIN, PLACE AND SHOW

There was a flash of flame. Flying lead smacked into the table and he felt the wood tremble under the tearing impact. Then he was running toward the bedroom door. He leaped through the opening into the dark, his flesh cringing with dread expectation of another bullet. Instead, he saw a brief flash of light from the hall door and the click of a spring lock.

He raced to the door. Paused crazily while he dragged his handkerchief from his pocket to cover the shining knob as he fumbled with the spring lock. He jerked the door open and leaped into the hall. The hall was empty and silent but the curtain at the end of the hall was waving gently in the breeze from the open window on the fire escape.

He hurried to the window and peered down. Far below him he saw a dim figure scampering down the fire escape. He could hear the muffled scrape of shoes on the iron rungs. And then he saw his would-be assassin drop from the end of the fire escape and vanish in the shadows of the hedge along the courtyard walk.

Di lowered the window gently, careful not to touch the glass. He moved to the rear stairway. He was silent on the thick broadloom and he went like a shadow down the stairs. He reached the second floor and stopped. He tried to remember the events of the preceding night.

He remembered the sickening blow on the head, the raking pain along his jaw; the brittle voice saying ‘Joe’, and the queer rattle his gun had made as it tumbled from his hand and rattled on the metal spokes of the banister. He remembered the explosion of the gun—and far up in the plastered wall his searching eyes caught the tiny round circle where the bullet from his gun had plowed in. He stood on his toes and tried to reach the hole but it was just beyond his fingertips.

He tucked the copy of Racing Form more firmly under his coat and descended the stairway to the ground floor and moved out past the courtyard hedge to the street. He walked as rapidly as possible to reach Joe’s diner and his rendezvous with Gail.

He circled the block across from Joe’s diner twice and watched the place with his keen eyes. He remembered the odd way in which the waiter had glared at him and he didn’t want to walk into a trap.

He suddenly faded back into the shadows of the building across the street from Joe’s as he saw the bulky, oafish Chuck Ryan step out of the dark at the end of the diner and walk to the door and sit on a stool.

Di muttered under his breath. “Joe isn’t as dumb as I thought. He must have wondered about grandma and her two-day whiskers and phoned the cops.”

His eyes caught the headlights of a coupe moving slowly down the street. He sensed that it was Gail in the Journal’s press car. He prayed that she wouldn’t park in front of the diner and walk into Ryan’s trap.

He held his breath as she turned into the curb. And then, suddenly the engine raced, and she pulled away, and came down the street toward him. He pulled up the skirt of his long coat and sprinted across the street in front of the moving car.

She braked the car so quickly that the tires squealed. He jerked open the door and leaped inside and sat down on the thick pile of newspapers on the seat. “Beat it, Toots! Ryan’s keeping watch in Joe’s diner!”

She put her foot on the gas and whirled the coupe around a corner. “I know. I saw him.” She devoted the next few minutes to putting as much distance as possible between them and the diner. Then she said, “Find anything helpful?”

Di looked up from the papers he had been scanning hurriedly under the dim light from the instrument panel. “Enough. The cops say that there was one bullet fired from my gun, and it matched the slug they took out of Spivak. But during the fight last night at the Berkshire my gun went off and creased my temple—and the bullet buried itself in the wall. It’s still there.”

Gail’s eyes warmed. “Then, if only one shot was fired from your gun—and that bullet’s still in the wall—then you couldn’t have shot Spivak.”

“Right.” He folded a copy of the Journal savagely. “They don’t say a word about the caliber of the bullet they took out of Spivak’s body. I wish I knew.” He peered at her. “What did you find out about Spivak in the morgue?”

“He came originally from New York State. Son of an architect who was chased out of Europe years ago. He had dough to start with and everything he touched turned into gold. He’s worth a million or two and has investments ranging from a half interest in a carnival to a controlling interest in the race track here. His hobby was serving as chairman of campaigns to raise money for anyone in need. He was a general all-around good guy.”

She saw the Racing Form as Di pulled it out from under his coat. “This is no time to try to pick a long shot, darling. You’re in trouble.”

Di grinned. “I’d have a tough time picking a winner out of this rag. It’s six years old.” He told her briefly about his adventure in Spivak’s apartment. “This Racing Form was on Spivak’s table. I had just found out that page twenty-two had been ripped out when somebody took a pot shot at me from the bedroom.”

“Maybe Morf had a man hiding there?”

“A cop wouldn’t run away. This guy did. He beat it down the fire escape. I didn’t see his face. I can’t say whether he was short or tall. About all I can say is that he wasn’t fat.”

“What do we do now?”

“Hunt up a copy of the Racing Form for November 1941. Drive out to the track. Maybe we can find the night watchman. But you do the talking. I can’t risk being seen yet.”

They drove out to the track and Di sat in the car, reading all of the accounts of Spivak’s murder in the papers. He tried to make sense out of the puzzle but the crazy pieces wouldn’t fit together. And then Gail came back.

“The watchman was impressed with my press card. He showed me into the library in the clubhouse. They’ve got bound copies of the Racing Form from way back. And every copy is there—except this issue from November, Nineteen Forty-one.”

Di’s breath eased out of him. “Then the copy I found in Spivak’s room was taken from the track library. Why? What interest could he have in a six-year-old Racing Form?”

“Where to now?” asked Gail.

“A telephone. I’ll call the boss. He’ll have to contact every bookie in town till we find a copy of that Racing Form. We’ve got to find out what there was on page twenty-two that Spivak was so interested in that he circled it with a pencil.”

Gail smiled. “We could try Mr. Harrison. He owns race horses. And he’s a nice guy. Maybe he could help us out.”

“Okay, Toots. I’ll call the boss. You see what you can get out of Harrison.”

Back in town, Gail parked in front of a drug store and Di shut himself in a telephone booth. He dialed the Journal and asked for the city desk. Tuffli’s voice came to him, brittle and hard.

Di said, “Tuff, this is Berke.”

Tuffli roared. “Where in the blazes are you? Come on out of hiding. I know damn well you didn’t plug Spivak and if you did you had a good reason. I’ll fight that bone-headed Morf till his teeth rattle. They’ll bust him back to a beat in the sticks.”

“Keep your shirt on, Tuff,” Di said. “I’m okay. I can do a better job of hunting the killer from outside of a cell. You can help, though. Try to dig up a copy of the Racing Form from November 8, 1941. Give it to Gail. She’ll see that I get it.”

Tuffli said, “Give up this detective stuff. Let Morf do the dirty work. After all, if they find you, they might shoot first and ask questions afterward. You’re the only suspect they’ve got. You’re flirting with the cemetery!”

“I know, Tuff, but I’ve got to do it my way. What was the caliber of the slug they took out of Spivak? None of the stories in any of the newspapers mentioned it.”

“That’s what happens when cubs write up a killing. I’ll find out and let Gail know.”

“Thanks, Tuff.”

“For Pete’s sake, Di, take care of yourself.”

The next morning, about nine, Gail picked Di up in a cab at the corner of Eighth and Grand. In the cab, Di shed the heavy dark, women’s clothes and took the bandages off his head and ripped the strip of adhesive tape off his jaw. He then put on a pair of dark glasses he had purchased in a drug store.

“Remind me never to sleep in the park again,” Di said. Then he asked, “What caliber was the slug they took out of Spivak?”

“Tuffli said it was a .45,” Gail said.

Di grinned, as the heavy burden of doubt was lifted off his shoulders for the first time. “That puts me in the clear. My gun was a snub-nosed .38 on a .45 frame. It was a Jap gun I picked up on the beach at Saipan. If Morf had any brains he’d have checked my permit to carry a gun. He’d have found out that Spivak wasn’t killed with the gun I had a permit for.” He queried Gail, “How about the Racing Form? Did Harrison have one?”

“No. He looked all over his apartment but he couldn’t find any from that far back. He was most cooperative. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Then he smiled as Gail pulled a Racing Form out of her long purse. “Tuffli must have located one at some bookie joint. Let’s take a look at page twenty-two.”

He turned the pages hastily and glanced at the inside column on page 22. He compared it with the page he had taken from the Racing Form found in Spivak’s apartment—the page marked with the faint indented circle of a pencil mark. “Hmm,” he said, “Spivak circled the eighth race at Oaklawn way back in November, Nineteen hundred forty-one. A horse called Shame; a six-year old mare by Shameless out of Careless. Owner Frederick Sloan. Trainer Joseph Patola. Bazooka!”

“What’s up?”

“The trainer’s name was Joe. That’s the name the guy called me before he slugged me at the Berkshire apartments.” Impulsively, his voice rose in its excitement. He called to the cab driver. “Pull into the service station on the corner. I want to use the phone.”

He dropped the nickel in the slot of the service station telephone and called the race track. “I’m trying to locate a trainer or exercise boy that I knew several years ago at Oaklawn. His first name was ‘Joe’ but I don’t remember his last name. A friend told me he’s been there at the track for about ten days.”

A voice said, “I think I know who you mean, pal. Joe Francisco. He’s been working for the Allendale stables. Been here just about a week, and he’s leaving for Gulfstream. They open down there next week.”

“Where’s he live here in town? What hotel?” Di tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“No hotel. He’s staying at a rooming house at three-twelve Mason.”

Di hung up the phone and his voice held a note of triumph as he grinned at Gail. “Toots, I think we’re getting warm. I think this Joe Francisco who’s getting ready to fly the coop is the same Joe Patola that we learned about in the Racing Form. He’s been operating here. If we nab him, we’ll find Spivak’s killer.”

“How can we nab him when we don’t know what he looks like?”

“That’ll be easy. He looks like me. A guy that probably wears a tan topcoat like mine.”

Gail caught on quickly. “Then you think that whoever slugged you the other night thought you were Joe Patola?”

“You got it, Toots.” Di’s actions were quick and his voice was eager. “From here we go to three-twelve Mason to call on Joe Patola. But first I’m going to phone Morf.”

“Are you crazy? He’ll trace the call. Radio cars’ll be thicker than fleas around here before you hang up.”

“I hope he does trace it.” Di dialed police headquarters and asked for Homicide. When Morf’s rasping voice reached his ears, Di said, “Don’t have a stroke, Inspector. This is Berke.”

Morf waited a minute at the other end of the wire. Di laughed, “Either you fainted dead away, or you’re having one of your stooges try to trace this call. Don’t bother. I’m calling from a service station at the corner of West and Central. After I leave here I’m going to three-twelve Mason Street.”

Morf’s voice blustered. “You asinine fool! I’ll have you behind bars in ten minutes. You can’t make a fool out of the police department.”

“I won’t even try. You’re taking care of that.”

Morf spluttered. Di broke in. “Watch your high blood pressure or you’ll bust. Listen, jug-head, if you’ll check the permit the police department gave me to carry a gun you’ll find it was a snub-nosed .38 on a .45 frame. It was a Jap gun I picked up on Saipan. The slug you took out of Spivak was a .45.”

The inspector’s voice was raw. “Why in the devil didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“You didn’t let me talk—and I didn’t find out till a few minutes ago that it was a .45 slug that killed Spivak. You’ve been chasing the wrong rabbit, Inspector. If you cool down, I’ll give you a hot tip that might let you save your face.”

Morf paused. “Listen, Berke, anybody can make a mistake. What’s the tip?”

Di grinned to himself. “Go to the Berkshire Arms. By the rear stairway on the second floor you’ll find a bullet buried in the wall. You’ll find one just like it buried in the table in Spivak’s apartment. I fired the one in the hall. Spivak’s killer fired the other one—at me. Both bullets came from my gun.”

Morf gasped. “Then Spivak’s killer was using your gun?”

“Not when he killed Spivak. Since then, yes.”

Di laughed. “And be careful of the fingerprints on the inside doorknob of Spivak’s bedroom. You’ll find other fingerprints on the window opening on the fire escape at the rear of the third floor hall. Spivak’s killer made them.”

Morf’s voice choked. “Berke—”

CHAPTER IV

PHOTO FINISH

But Di had hung up. He rejoined Gail and they climbed back in the cab. “Let’s go to three-twelve Mason. We’ve got work to do.”

“They’ll trace that call,” Gail said. “They’ll be on our necks in two minutes.”

Di whistled softly. “They might come in handy.” He peered at her. “Got any film in that camera of yours?”

Gail lifted her four by five off the seat by its shiny strap. “All loaded for bear.” She patted the pocket of her trench coat. “Pocketful of flash bulbs, too.”

They found 312 Mason and its three-storied brownstone shabbiness. The frowsy landlady wiped her hands on her filthy apron and her cracked voice followed them up the worn stairway. “Francisco’s in the third floor back.”

Gail followed Di up the steps and the thin haze of dust from the carpet lifted under their feet. “This Francisco must be a blockhead—living in a dump like this.”

“Lack of money might not be his reason, Toots.”

They reached the third floor and moved down its shadowy length in silence. They reached the end of the hall, where a dim bulb burned in the ceiling in front of a bedroom recessed in a corner alcove. In front of the door, surprised by their coming, stood a slender, distinguished-looking man in a dark blue topcoat with a velvet collar.

Gail showed her shock, “Why, Mr. Harrison! Imagine meeting you here.” She smiled at Di. “This is Mr. Harrison, Di. He was awfully nice the night you were hurt. Mr. Harrison, this is my husband.”

Harrison took off his Homburg hat and his crisp gray hair glinted in the light of the dim bulb. His lips parted in a merry smile. “Sorry, Berke, that I didn’t recognize you. You look so different standing up. Last time I saw you, you were draped over my car bumper.”

Di wasted no time with pleasantness. “Harrison, how long have you known Joe Francisco?”

Harrison didn’t answer immediately and Di got the impression that he was hunting for the right words. “Only a short time. Francisco has been working briefly for the Allendale stables out at the track. I heard he was leaving for Gulfstream. My own trainer is ill and I thought I might persuade Francisco to pinch hit for him for a few weeks.”

Di put his knuckles up and rapped sharply on the scarred panel of Francisco’s door. Almost instantly a thin, cracked voice answered and the door opened. Di peered in at the slender, rangy, hatchet-faced man with a bald spot as big as a dollar on top of his black head. His eyes were shifty blue and they moved quickly over Di and Gail and Harrison. His voice was anxious, hurried. He pointed to a scuffed suitcase, its top open, resting on the table.

“My bag is packed. I’m ready to leave. Whaddya want?”

Di shouldered his way into the meagerly furnished room. He saw the cheap table, the rumpled bed. “Maybe you’ll change your mind. Harrison wants to give you a job.”

Francisco’s eyes flickered. “That ain’t what Harri—” He suddenly swallowed his words and his eyes filmed. “Whaddya want?”

Di grinned, and watched the man’s eyes, as he used the name. “Joe Patola, I’m interested in ‘ringers’.”

The man retreated behind his shifty eyes but he couldn’t disguise the fact that Di had hit his real name. “You’re talking in riddles, mister.”

Di walked up to the table and peered into the suitcase. He grinned as he picked up a book out of the half dozen lying on top of Patola’s packed clothing. “You’re a book-lover, too, Patola?” He read two or three titles. “Camouflage”, by Henri Pierce; “Color Harmonies, Pigment Blends”, by John Williamson.

He turned a book upside down and fanned the pages. Five one thousand dollar bills fluttered out and drifted to the floor.

“Five grand is a lot of dough for one week’s work, Joe,” Di said. “For a guy who lives in a dive like this.”

Di glanced sharply at Patola. “Patola, did you ever hear of a nag called Shame, by Shameless out of Careless?”

“That’s my business, wise guy. I’ve heard of every nag that ever ate oats. I’m a trainer, ain’t I?”

“Funny thing about this Shame horse, Patola. He was a rank selling plater. But back in Nineteen hundred forty-one they entered him in a feature race at Oaklawn and he came home in front at seventy-five to one.”

“That ain’t unusual. Favorites seldom win the Kentucky Derby, even.”

“Shame didn’t win that race at Oaklawn, either. It was a nag that you fixed up to look like Shame. A stake horse called Redoubtable. Shame had a white spot on his forehead. With your dyes and your color crookedness, you put a white spot on Redoubtable’s forehead. Shame was an eight-year old nag. So you fixed up Redoubtable’s three-year-old teeth with acids. So it wasn’t Shame that won that race at seventy-five to one, but Redoubtable.” Di’s voice was edged with raw humor. “That’s what a ‘ringer’ is, Patola. And you’re a guy that ‘rings’ in a good horse for a glue factory nag.”

Patola’s haggard face burned red at the cheek bones. His shifty eyes moved around the faces that edged him in. And Di’s stern eyes stared back at him. “You came here to pull another ‘ringer’. Now your job is done, and you’re ready to move on to another track. But Anton Spivak got suspicious. He remembered you from Oaklawn and he looked back through all the old Racing Forms at the track library until he found the dope he wanted about the ‘Shame’ race back in Nineteen hundred forty-one. Then he discovered you were working at the track here at the Allendale stables. So he sent for you.”

Patola’s eyes were glazed with a gnawing fear. “I didn’t kill Spivak. So help me God, I didn’t kill him.” Damp sweat dewed his forehead. “I went to his apartment that night, but nobody answered. I didn’t know Spivak was dead till I seen the newspapers. I never killed nobody.”

Di smiled, but there was no humor in his voice. “I know you didn’t.”

Harrison was standing still, nonplused at the sudden turn of events. “If Patola didn’t kill Spivak, who did?”

“You did, Harrison!” Di said.

Harrison’s mouth sagged open under the utter shock of Di’s calm accusation. Then his lips parted stiffly and his voice was little above a tense whisper. “Why should I kill Spivak? He was my friend.”

“Yeah, I know. But Spivak found out that Patola had worked in a ‘ringer’ for Pirate Boy the other day and won you fifty grand.”

Harrison blurted out, “Patola worked for Allendale, not for me.”

“Sure. That was just a slick trick on your part. Patola worked for Allendale during the day as a cover up for working in your stable at night doctoring up a ‘ringer’ to look like Pirate Boy.”

“This is pure poppycock,” stormed Harrison. “I refuse to listen to any more of it.”

“Poppycock, nothing, it’s murder,” Di murmured. “Anton Spivak got in touch with both of you the minute he found out about Pirate Boy. He had the dope on Patola out of the old Racing Form. You reached his apartment first—he showed you the Racing Form and told you you’d be exposed as a crook. To save the fifty grand you’d won on Pirate Boy’s ‘ringer’, you killed Spivak.

“You left Spivak’s apartment and slammed the door. That’s what I heard coming up the stairway. You saw me—and my tan topcoat—and you thought it was Joe Patola going to see Spivak. You said something about ‘Joe’ and banged me over the head with your gun. I dropped my gun and it rattled down the steps. I was almost unconscious—I fell down the steps—you shot at me but the shot only creased my temple.

“You saw blood on my head and thought I was dead so you picked up your gun and scrammed. But you picked up my gun in your hurry instead of your own.”

Harrison’s lips curled and his hand dropped to his pocket. “Interesting,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Di. “It was interesting when you told the cops you saw me running out of the courtyard with a gun in my hand. Nobody could recognize a man running in the shadow of that hedge. Then you told them you followed me in your car just to keep me in sight.” His voice trembled. “You only tried to run me down and kill me but Gail and the cop showed up too quickly.

“But you weren’t worried. The cops had me—and the bullet in Spivak’s body matched the bullets in the gun I carried. All you had to do was to reclaim the evidence out of Spivak’s Racing Form. You did that last night—but I interrupted—and you buried a bullet in Spivak’s table. You escaped…but you left your fingerprints on Spivak’s doorknob and on the window by the fire escape. So you see, Harrison, we’ve got you sure as Sunday.”

Harrison’s lips twitched and his eyes rolled wildly. “Why did I come here to hire Patola, then? Explain that.”

“You decided to come here after Gail asked you about the Racing Form. You knew that if we found that, we’d eventually get around to Patola. You came here to kill Patola, Harrison!”

Patola sprang across the room, his haggard face drawn in hate. His hands clutched at Harrison. “You dirty dog! I fix a ringer for you to clean up on and then you plan to bump me off!”

Harrison slammed the little man backward. Harrison sprang aside and a gun swept out of his pocket. A snub-nosed .38 on a .45 frame. “Keep your voices down, friends! This is your gun, Berke. I’ll kill you all and leave the gun in your hand. The cops think you bumped off Spivak. They’ll think something went wrong and you took the easy way out.”

Patola whispered whiningly. “That’s cold-blooded murder!”

Harrison snorted. “The first murder is hard—the rest come easy.” His hand raised and the gun blazed.

Di leaped aside. A faint breeze stirred his sleeve as the slug whistled by and buried itself in the wall. He jumped across the room and his hands gripped the table edge and heaved upward. Another bullet crashed into the table and the soft wood spewed on the floor. The suitcase and its contents tumbled at Harrison’s feet. Patola was trying desperately to dodge the bullets, offering Di no assistance in the battle.

Di dropped to the floor. His hands clutched frantically at Harrison. Flame blasted downward from Harrison’s hand. But Di had rolled aside and the bullet tore into the floor. Di leaped to his feet. Harrison cursed. Di laughed between his clenched teeth. “We’re even now, Harrison! The gun’s empty!”

Harrison pulled the trigger. A sharp click echoed. Harrison threw the gun savagely at Di’s head as the latter bored in, both hands swinging for Harrison’s jaw. A roundhouse connected with Harrison’s chin and Gail screamed at the sound of breaking bone. The killer staggered back against the door, blood oozing from his pulverized mouth.

Suddenly the door blasted open behind Harrison and flung him across the room. He stumbled over the table and Di was in on him in an instant. He smashed Harrison across the back of his neck with the edge of his hand. Harrison subsided in a heap. Gail’s flash bulbs were popping and then the room was suddenly crowded, as Inspector Morf and Chuck Ryan barged in.

Morf said grudgingly to Di, “Nice going, Berke. We heard the whole thing from the hall outside the door. We got enough to put Harrison in the hot seat.” He snapped cuffs on Harrison and jerked him roughly to his feet. “Maybe you can fix up a ringer to take your place in the chair, Harrison.”

“The State Racing Commission will take care of Patola,” Di said. “His five grand won’t do him much good. But you hold up your report for an hour till I phone the story into the Journal or I’ll tell the whole story.” Chuck Ryan had picked up the gun Harrison had discarded. He looked at Di with wonder in his eyes. “You sure took a chance when you said that gun was empty.”

“No, I didn’t. It’s my gun. One shot was fired at the Berkshire. Harrison fired one shot at me in Spivak’s apartment. He fired three here. That makes five.”

“Yeah, but this is a six-shooter,” Ryan argued.

Di laughed, and took the gun from him. “I never carried a cartridge in the first cylinder.”

“What if Harrison had reloaded the gun?” Ryan demanded.

“He couldn’t. He didn’t have any of the special cartridges it requires. That’s a Jap gun that I picked up on Saipan. There’s a difference between a Jap .38 shell and the .38 slugs you get here.”

“Whadda yuh know!” said Ryan scratching his head. “See, I learn somethin’ new every day.”

LOVE KILLS, by Gary Lovisi

Originally published in Suspense Magazine, Feb. 2011.

Today the group was listening to another heart-wrenching story of violence perpetuated against women by men.

Janet and her ten female companions had formed this support group to aid battered women and their mission was to outsource positive emotions and healing through group therapy discussions to victims of violence from boyfriends and husbands.

The anger in the room just then, even hatred, was growing second by second with each word the young woman standing up front spoke. Outrage becoming a palpable creature in their midst. This latest victim was named Sandy, a petite blonde housewife from Scarsdale. Nice home. Not so nice husband. Not her fault, really. In fact, none of this was her fault—she’d just picked the wrong guy like so many women have.

His name was Roger.

He was a bad one.

“The hitting didn’t start until a month after we were married,” Sandy said bravely holding back her tears. She nervously dredged up the horrible memories, seeing it all and reliving it all in her mind, her terror mirrored in the angry faces of the ten young women who were listening to her so earnestly.

“We got through the honeymoon without any incident. Roger gave me that saving grace, at least.” Sandy suddenly broke down in tears.

Janet, the leader of the group came over and tried to comfort her.

Women in the audience grew angrier, curses flew, “Bastard! Men are all bastards!”

“The first time,” Sandy continued bravely, regaining her composure, “he only broke my nose. There was a lot of blood, so much blood. I was terrified. He never gave me a reason, or told me what I did wrong. Another time he broke my arm and leg. None of that was as bad as when he threw me down the stairs. Roger told me it was because I had become a ‘fucking fat bitch’ by getting myself pregnant with his child. I lost the baby…”

Sandy broke down as a growl of outrage grew from the throats of the women, followed by a moan of deep sympathy, for many of these women had also gone through the same horrors.

“I really wanted that baby, oh God…” Sandy stammered, fighting bravely to regain control.

“Do you want to stop? Take a break?” Janet asked softly.

Sandy took a deep breath, steeled herself, “No, I want to get through it, finish it.”

“You’re a brave woman,” Janet said.

The other women applauded Sandy for confronting her horror.

“The beatings had been going on for months, any day, any time, for no apparent reason. I know he blamed me for losing the baby. Roger wouldn’t let me go out, nor meet with my friends or family.”

“Typical male control freak!” one of the women shouted.

Sandy continued, “He wouldn’t allow me to leave him either. He said he’d kill me, that he’d rather see me dead than with someone else. When the police questioned Roger about my ‘accident’ falling down the steps—the hospital reported older broken bones on my x-rays consistent with physical abuse—then he blew a fuse. That night he came home and beat me so badly I had to be rushed to the hospital emergency room.”

There were sighs and cries of rage from the women, Janet motioned them to be silent so the speaker could continue her story uninterrupted.

“Finally,” Sandy signed, “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I did not go back home. I’m in a shelter now…”

Some women nodded knowingly, others cheered her, shouting words of encouragement and empowerment. Sandy smiled awkwardly.

“…but now Roger is after me, stalking me. He told me he would kill me.” Sandy blurted, full of terror and allowing it to show now. “I have an order of protection against him but…”

“We all know how that goes!” someone from the group responded. Shouts of agreement accompanied her words.

Sandy nodded sadly, she stood in front of the group like a deer caught in the headlights, like someone who knew she was doomed and was just waiting for the executioner’s ax to fall.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room once the young woman had finished telling her tale.

They took Sandy back to her safe house, then they got down to business.

“Well, ladies, are we going to help Sandy with her problem?” Janet asked, for now a private meeting of L.O.V.E.—Ladies Overcoming Violent Exploiters—was in session…

“I think Sandy needs to know that she is not alone in this,” a heavyset woman named Amanda said forcefully. She wore an eye-patch, covering the eye her husband had poked out with a screwdriver. He was in prison now, where he belonged. Amanda hated men and hated husbands in particular.

“Alright ladies, so let me see a show of hands,” Janet asked carefully.

Ten hands flew into the air.

“Then it’s unanimous.”

Three nights later a friend of Roger’s let it drop where his runaway wife Sandy could be found. She was living alone in a house at 124 Mercer Street.

Roger made his way to the front door. This abuser certainly seemed bold, so cocksure self-confident like all men when confronting a lone and helpless female. He walked right up to the front door of 124 Mercer and calmly rang the bell.

“Sandy? Sandy, I know you’re in there. Open up! I just want to talk to you.”

The door slowly opened, inside was dark and no one seemed to be there.

No sooner had Roger walked inside when he was stunned by a sudden blow to the head. The door was slammed shut behind him and a dozen pairs of grasping hands pummeled him with baseball bats and fists. Blows reigned down on Roger mercilessly as he cried out in pain, pleading for them to let him go, to stop hitting him. His face was scratched bloody by long nails while hard blows beat him into submission and then unconsciousness.

Roger awoke in a bed in Mercy Hospital—but by the looks of him his attackers had shown no mercy at all. He was in what amounted to an almost full body cast with multiple broken bones, fractures, sprains and contusions. His nose was broken, an eye was covered in gauze and oozed green pus, a feeding tube ran in his nose and down his throat while the ventilator was all that was enabling him to breath. That wasn’t the worst of it by a long shot. The doctors said the extent of blunt force trauma indicated serious internal injuries and he would be going back into surgery soon to stem more bleeding.

Sandy sat close by, looking down at Roger. Whether he knew she was there or not was unknown, so bad was the extent of his injuries. Sandy smiled for she could see that Roger was not long for this world. Once he kicked off, all his money would be hers exclusively. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. This had turned out so much better than the mere 50/50 split of the bitter divorce she had planned. Better yet, she now would be able to cut out all those annoying and expensive lawyer fees, $200 per hour bills for expert witnesses on abuse and victimization. Who needed that? Sandy didn’t know who had attacked Roger but she was thankful. Roger moaned painfully, Sandy whispered, “Don’t worry, honey, it will all be over soon.”

The next day Janet and the sisters of L.O.V.E. received a visit from Roger’s sisters, Gloria and Cathy.

“We heard that Roger’s wife, Sandy, came to talk to your support group,” Gloria said with obvious distress and Janet didn’t deny the fact. “We wanted to tell you our side of the story. Roger is a good man, he was a wonderful husband, and Sandy made up all those vile accusations so when she divorced him she could play the victim and win a big part of his estate in the settlement. Now, it seems, it will all be hers.”

“You people should really be more careful who you believe and what’s told to you.” Cathy, the younger sister said in anger. “Do you verify anything? Do you just accept any wild, unsubstantiated story some woman having marital troubles or involved in a child custody dispute tells you? Women lie too and Sandy is a liar.”

Janet flushed angry then grew thoughtful. Had they made a mistake? She looked carefully at the two young women confronting her now. They appeared sincere, truthful…sane. “We did see the police reports, and Sandy had an order of protection against your brother. I can assure you Sandy’s fear was real enough, all of us here have gone through similar victimization from men and can relate to what she went through.”

Cathy laughed derisively, “Sandy faked the fall, she never wanted that baby. Roger was the happy one when Sandy got pregnant, he doted over her so, he wanted that baby more than anything in the world.”

Gloria said, “Sandy told me she hated what the baby was doing to her figure. I know she murdered that baby!”

“Now hold on!” Janet said trying to get control of the situation.

“Sandy’s ‘fall’”, Cathy blurted, “and other injuries were all made up. She got that broken arm and leg from a skiing accident shortly before she met Roger.”

Gloria added, “And you know any woman can go to any judge to have an order of protection granted. The mere fact one is granted means nothing. It’s only later during the trial that the man even has a chance to defend himself and demand the woman substantiate her accusations.”

Janet nodded to the truth of that but said nothing more, allowing the man’s sisters to talk through their anger and feelings. Of course they were bitter, she thought…but…

“And as for Sandy being so scared of Roger and fearful for her life—Roger, who by the way, wouldn’t hurt a fly—that was her usual excellent acting job. She is using you, just like she used Roger, and he didn’t want to believe it either.”

“Roger didn’t deserve that evil Sandy, or that beating. He will probably die from it. Sandy probably hired them, she’s just the type to do that sort of thing.” The other sister said. “If my sister and I ever find out who did that to Roger we’ll see to it they’re in prison for the rest of their lives.”

Janet didn’t say much when the sisters left but they had given her a lot to think about. Had her valiant band of over-zealous sisters been duped? Was Sandy the aggressor and the abuser, while Roger was the true victim? It seemed impossible to Janet but the thought nagged at her inner and most basic instincts. Had they made a terrible mistake? Janet resolved to find out.

Janet met Sandy alone a few nights later at the empty L.O.V.E. offices where she hoped to get some answers.

“It’s just the two of us here, we’re alone,” Janet said, offering the younger woman a seat at the conference table. Sandy stood, nervous, anxious.

“You said you had something important to tell me?” she asked.

“Yes,” Janet said, taking a deep breath, for she knew once she began this, who knew where it might lead. Perhaps prison for her and the girls and the end of L.O.V.E. itself? “I spoke to Roger’s sisters the other day and they…”

“Those witches!”

“They told me quite a different story of the relationship between you and Roger.”

“I’ll bet! It’s all lies,” Sandy said carefully. “Why are you asking me these questions anyway? You’re supposed to be my support group, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“We are on your side, Sandy. More than you could ever know.”

Sandy looked at Janet deeply, curious, “Well then, why don’t you act like it!”

Janet said it short and simple, “It was my ladies—L.O.V.E.—that put Roger in the hospital.”

Sandy looked back at Janet with genuine shock and then began to laugh wildly at the admission. “And here I thought it was just a mugger, or some guy Roger owned money to for gambling! So it was you and the L.O.V.E. girls? That’s precious!”

“So you see, Sandy, we really are on your side.”

Sandy smiled, this was just too good to be true and better yet, Janet’s admission placed her and all of her girls under Sandy’s thumb now. “This is priceless!”

“Yes, I thought you’d be happy to hear the truth about how Roger caught his beating.”

“Well, good, I’m damn glad to hear it. I just hope you made the little wimp squirm. Did he cry out? Was he in pain?”

“Yes,” Janet said softly, “he cried out and he was in terrible pain.”

Sandy’s cold and bloodthirsty laugh was terrible to hear. “Did he ask for… mercy?”

“Yes he did,” Janet replied soaking in the younger woman’s words and demeanor and not liking any of it one bit. But Janet still had to get to the bottom of this, she needed to hear it all from Sandy’s own lips.

“Good,” Sandy said confident now. “That’s the only kind of support group that’s really effective. The revenge type. So now that I know what you and the girls did…”

“It’s truth time, Sandy. Now I want to know if any of what you told me and the girls about Roger was true?”

Sandy laughed boldly confident. She shrugged unconcerned, “Sure, I guess I can tell you now. It was all made up; none of it was true. I planned to get a large chunk of Roger’s wealth all along, but now, after your attack, he’s not expected to live much longer. Now I’ll get it all. But don’t think I’m not appreciative, and I’ll keep your little secret, if you keep mine. I’ll even give L.O.V.E. a sizeable donation once I get my money.”

Janet smiled, “Well, then, that’s all I really wanted to know, Sandy, because you know it’s important that the good work we do here at L.O.V.E. continues. I hope you agree.”

“Absolutely,” Sandy replied. Then the two women shook hands and went their separate ways.

Sandy proved as good as her word. A month after Roger passed away, Janet received an impressive five-figure check made out to the Ladies Overcoming Violent Exploiters non-profit organization.

That night as Sandy took the private elevator in her new apartment building down to the garage where her new Mercedes was parked, she was surprised to see a woman she recognized standing beside her car.

“Janet? What are you doing here?”

“Unfinished business, my darling,” then Janet withdrew a stun gun that shot a massive bolt of electricity into Sandy that quite painfully incapacitated her. Sandy collapsed, helpless, unable to speak.

“Alright ladies,” Janet called.

From out of the shadows, from behind parked cars, came Roger’s sisters, Gloria and Cathy. Both of whom were holding baseball bats, as they closed in on Sandy.