Too Many Crooks

A Shell Scott Mystery

Richard S. Prather

Chapter One

I awoke in darkness, dull pain throbbing in my head, my side aching with each breath, and I lay quietly for a minute trying to remember where I was. A faint, slightly sickening odor of ether and disinfectants recalled the white-uniformed nurse, the too cheerful doctor. Now I remembered: Manning Memorial Hospital in Seacliff. Room 48. Patient, me, Shell Scott, private detective, somewhat disabled.

The anger that had been growing when I went to sleep was still with me, even bigger and hotter than it had been then. I thought for a moment of the grinning face of the hoodlum who had been the last guy I'd seen before he and his chums worked me over, and I wondered if I'd wind up killing little Jim Norris, who had sicced them onto me. Then I reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on, and rang impatiently for the nurse.

Instead of a nurse I got the doctor, a laughing, black-haired sadist named Greeley. We had already met, Greeley and I, some time after I regained consciousness here, and he had poked me. And poked and poked. There is a bit less than six feet, two inches of me, and a bit more than two hundred pounds, but this guy couldn't locate a single pound or inch without a bruise. That seemed to please him.

Now he came in through the door, a big anticipatory smile on his face. "Well, well, how are we this evening, Mr. Scott?"

"I haven't the faintest idea how we are, but I'm terrible."

He laughed, the way some doctors laugh. "Heh, heh. Well, you're luckier than I first suspected. Just a simple concussion and one fractured rib." He chortled again. "We don't—heh, heh—count the bruises."

I said, "Well, don't go to pieces. Where are my clothes?"

He pursed his lips. "You won't need your clothes for another three or four days, Mr. Scott. You need rest."

"I need a lot of other things more. I'm getting out of here."

He was frowning. "I still don't quite understand the accident."

"I told you it wasn't an accident. Some hoodlums gave me a going over. They hit me with things, including a car."

"We don't have hoodlums in Seacliff."

"You'd be surprised how many you've got. As a matter of fact, you'll soon have a few in your hospital. Business is going to start booming. Incidentally, how long have I been in here? I'm hazy about the time."

"You were found unconscious in your car, right outside the hospital here, late Monday evening. This is Wednesday evening." He glanced at his watch. "7 p.m. Your car is in the hospital parking area now."

Two days. A lot could have happened while I'd been here. There might even have been another murder.

"I'd like my clothes, Doctor."

He rubbed his chin. "I can't force you to stay, Mr. Scott, but it is my professional duty to tell you that it would be exceedingly unwise for you to leave now. I've taped your chest, of course, but any severe blow on that rib might cause it to break and puncture your lung. You know what that would mean. For that matter, a blow on your skull, at the point where you suffered the concussion, could very easily kill you. We don't want that to happen, do we?"

"No, we certainly don't. I'd like my clothes, Doctor."

He shrugged. "Well—heh, heh—it's your funeral."

A few minutes later, I was dressed in my gray gabardine suit, with cordovans on my feet and a new white bandage, almost the same color as my light-blond hair, on my head, but I wasn't quite ready to go.

"Dr. Greeley," I said, "I seem to have everything, clothes, car keys, wallet, and so forth. But no gun."

"What?"

"A thirty-eight Colt Special. And a holster."

"Ah . . . yes. I had forgotten. We can pick up the firearm on your way past the cashier."

That was what we did. When I paid the bill, a young nurse brought me the box containing my gun and harness. I strapped the shoulder holster on, then checked the gun. Five cartridges still in it and an empty chamber under the hammer. There hadn't been time for me to use my gun on the thugs, but I figured we'd be meeting again. As a matter of fact, I knew we would.

I went through the hospital's front door and paused at the top of wide cement steps and looked out at Walnut Street for a while. Street lamps were on, and I could see a man leaning against one of the light posts halfway down the block. He wasn't reading a paper or anything, just leaning. A blue Chrysler was parked at the curb straight ahead of me, at the end of the cement path leading to the sidewalk. There was somebody inside it but I couldn't tell from here if it was a man or woman.

Probably he was only a guy waiting for somebody visiting a sick patient. Probably. But I loosened the .38 in my holster, then lit a cigarette and stood at the side of the hospital's door for a few minutes, looking around and thinking. I thought about the one very busy day I'd spent here in this seashore town; of the hard-faced men and women I'd met; of the soft face of Betty and the soft body of Lilith. I thought of Emmett Dane and Clyde Baron, and of how it had started . . .

Chapter Two

The card from Emmett Dane came in the mail that morning and, naturally, I grabbed it before I looked at anything else. I was in my office on the Hamilton Building's second floor in Los Angeles, sober, alert, clearheaded, and clientless, when the mail arrived. After I read the postcard I still wasn't sure that I had a client, but I knew I was going to Seacliff, and I was looking forward not only to seeing that lovely beach city again, but to seeing and talking to Emmett Dane.

Dane is unique among all the people I know, a kind of misfit, a freak in a world of average men. Somewhere between fifty and sixty years old, with a monumental curiosity about everything, he has more energy than I do at thirty, and more sheer zest for and enjoyment of living than a teenager. I'd met him in '47, when he'd been my client in one of my first murder investigations. A man had been murdered and robbed on Seacliff Drive near Dane's home. Dane and half a dozen other people had been questioned, though the idea of Dane's killing and robbing anybody was idiotic. But he'd hired me to help clean the case up and I'd been lucky. With the help of the local cops I got the guy, a hoodlum named William Yorty with a past record of muggings. He'd fallen for life, but he'd been lucky not to get the gas chamber.

The case itself wasn't important except that because of it I met Dane, got to know him and like him. Dane is a real-estate broker in Seacliff, and worth upward of a half million, but you'd never know it to look at him. Half the time he knocks around town in jeans and T-shirt, and the rest of the time he sits on the beach.

The guy had, so far as I know, never written a letter in his life, but hardly a week went by that I didn't get a postcard from him. Maybe just "Hello. You dead?" when I hadn't dropped him a line for a month or so.

I read this morning's card again. "There's beer in the refrigerator, bourbon in the ice trays, and a blonde for defrosting. Come on down and have a highball. There's crooks all over the landscape. Uglier than you are. Red Cross needs blood, and we've got a drive on, so bring your gat."

I stuck the card in my coat pocket, swept the rest of the mail, still sealed, into a desk drawer, then opened the bottom drawer and took out my "gat" and harness and strapped them on. Dane's card was like a fresh breeze from the sea, and I was anxious to get away. Outside and one floor below on Broadway, streetcars clanged, cars honked; a million people were rushing around frantically, hurrying to appointments, bolting down quick lunches, doing a million unimportant things. I could almost feel tension unwind inside me as I thought of Seacliff, nestled in the arc of a natural bay with the blue stretching out beyond it to the horizon, and of Dane, who right now was probably sitting on his sun porch drinking a cold beer.

I got up and headed for the door. The phone rang. Automatically I started back, then stopped. "Nuts to you, you mechanical monster," I said, and went out, locking the door behind me.

At the end of the hall outside my office, a cute little gal named Hazel sits at the PBX switchboard, handling incoming and outgoing calls. Now she waved at me and said, "Shell, you've got a call."

I stopped. "Ain't no detectives here, sweetie. All gone to the beach for beer and sunshine."

"But this is from the beach, from Seacliff."

"Seacliff? I'll take it here."

I said hello and a man said, "Shell? This is Emmett. Can you get down here right away?"

"Sure, Em. I'd already started. You almost missed me."

"Can you get here by two this afternoon?"

I looked at my watch. "Sure. What's up? Your card didn't make things sound like hell was popping."

"Wasn't when I wrote it. But it is now, I think. Shell, remember what we talked about last time you were down? Mobsters investing big money in legitimate operations? Well, I think that's happening here. And something else just came up. You remember Ed Whist?"

"I met him at your place, didn't I? Dinner?"

"Yes. He drowned a couple days ago, but I just now found out about it. I don't think he drowned accidentally. That's the main reason I'm calling. I'll explain everything when you get here. Bring your popgun."

"I've got it on. And I'm practically there." I said so long, told Hazel to expect me when I got back, and left.

Driving toward the beach in my convertible Cad with the top down, I thought about what Dane had said. He wasn't the excitable type, usually took things easy, but there hadn't even been any of our usual banter on the phone. Something pretty big had to be going on from the way he'd talked and sounded.

The last time I'd seen him was six months ago, and the conversation he'd mentioned had been about the syndicate, that not so loosely knit organization of criminals and murderers the existence of which is so vigorously denied—by the syndicate. Dane had been around enough so that I didn't have to argue with him, as I'd had to argue futilely with others who couldn't believe such a criminal network could exist in the U.S.A., but even he didn't realize the extent of gangster infiltration into political and union circles, public and private life, and legitimate industry the way I did.

Just before 2 p.m. I turned off Highway 101 and in a few more minutes got my first glimpse of Seacliff below me, white and neat at the edge of the ocean. Dane lived in a big white house on Seacliff Drive, the wide road that follows the natural curve of the bay. Most of the houses there have their backs to the street and living rooms facing the ocean, but Dane had switched his around so that the living room was next to the street, and his bedroom and den were on the far side, built right out over the stretch of smooth sand that came up under the sun porch. He liked to sleep with the breakers pounding practically in his ear.

I parked in the driveway and walked alongside the house to its front, the breeze from the sea cool on my face. I figured Dane would be sitting on the sun porch with a beer in his hand. He was.

When he saw me his sun-browned face lit up and he said, "Hide your wives, the marines have landed."

"The ex-marines. How are you, Em?"

He leaned over the porch railing to shake my hand, a big man, gray-haired, his hawklike face deeply lined, but still a fine, powerful figure of a man. "Good to see you, Shell. What'll it be, beer or bourbon?"

"You mentioned something about a blonde?" I climbed over the rail, to show him I was as spry as he was, and sat down in a wicker chair alongside the table in front of him.

"That was just a come-on," he said. "I drove her mad and sent her away to be psychoanalyzed."

He took a can of beer from an ice-filled pail beside him, opened it, handed it to me, then said, "Shell, listen to me for a minute and I'll tell you what I was talking about on the phone, what I think is happening." He glanced at his watch. "We've got about half an hour."

"For what?"

"We're going to have an unpleasant visitor." His face sobered and he said, "You remember what you said last time you were here about how crooks operate when they move in—move in on anything?"

Dane referred to a point I'd made that hoodlums, when they look around for a legitimate place to put their illegally earned dough, still know only the hoodlums' methods: threats and extortion, beatings and pressure and muscle, even murder when it became necessary. I nodded and Dane went on.

"I think we've got something like that here. They've been so damned clever about it that I can't be positive even now. But a group called Seaco—short for Seacliff Development Company—has bought a lot of property here. The way it looks, these guys started out easy—everything perfectly legal, nothing to get a man suspicious. First they bought all the properties along the coast that were listed for sale. Then they took the next step, looked up owners, bought more, even paying more than some places were worth. They got a pile of it. Hell, there was no reason they shouldn't have. These were just ordinary, everyday business deals."

"Still sounds OK to me."

"Seemed all right to me, too, until just a few days ago. Up till then everything was normal, except that Seaco was investing an awful lot of money here. The men doing the actual negotiating were likable, seemed decent. I met a couple of them and they could have been the local doctor and banker, settled businessmen. But finally they got all they could that way. They reached a point where the only places left were owned either by people who damn well didn't intend to sell for any price—small, individual owners—or else by the three of us in town who own big amounts of property."

"And you're one of the three."

"Yes. Other two are Clyde Baron and Lilith Manning. You'll meet both of them later today. The three of us are about all that's left to fight this Seaco bunch. Plus you. Anyway, Seaco representatives talked to Baron and me and didn't get anywhere. Miss Manning wasn't in Seacliff then. After that, a new man came around alone, talked with Baron, and spent several hours out here with me. He was the most persuasive one of the whole bunch. Clean-looking, pleasant, personable sort of guy named Zimmerman, and if I'd even half felt like selling, he would probably have talked me into it. Even offered me a hundred thousand more than I think the property's worth."

"How come you didn't sell?"

Dane shrugged, swallowed some beer. "I'm comfortable, happy. I've got good property and a good income from it. If I sold, taxes would take a lot of the profit. Besides, if I ever kick off I'd like to leave my holdings here to Eleanor and Janie. The important thing is that I finally gave this guy a flat no the last time I saw him. He was a young, good-looking man, but he got a little ugly-looking after that. I remember the last thing he said to me. He said, 'All right, Dane. You asked for it.' The way he looked and sounded gave me the creeps."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Zimmerman. And right after that the Seaco Company changed its methods. Few days ago, a helluva big, tough-acting man came to see me and made me a flat offer for all my real estate. All of it. I've got maybe six hundred thousand dollars' worth of property here and he offered a quarter million. I laughed at him and he got belligerent. Said it wasn't anything to laugh at, and I'd laugh out of the other side of my mouth if I didn't wise up. That's about the way he put it. And he mentioned that he wasn't as easygoing a guy as Zimmerman."

"He didn't actually get rough, did he?"

"Not physically. Just talked rough. Well, so did I. Told him to get out or I'd kick him into the ocean." Em grinned. "Don't think I could, though. Actually, that's what got me riled up. I'd started wondering what was going on, after that last talk with Zimmerman, but then I did a lot of checking on my own." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, sharply lined face serious. "Shell, up till then I didn't have the faintest idea what was going on, didn't know about even a tenth of these other sales—and I'll bet nobody else in town did either. But it's plain now." He got up and went into the house.

He came back with a yard-square map, which he spread out on the table before us. "That's what I got," he said. "Take a look."

It was a map of Seacliff. A number of squares and rectangles mostly along the coast but including several inland and outside of the business district, were filled in with red pencil.

Dane said, "Those red spots are the real estate sold to Seaco in the last two months. That's just about how long they've been operating. Reporter on the Star here, girl named Betty, helped a lot with it. She thinks the same way I do. She did most of the work, looking up records and so on for me." He stopped and sipped his beer, then said, "She might be some help to you, Shell. Damned fine newspaper gal. See her today if you can, but don't let her scare you. Little mixed up, maybe, but she's a fine woman. Like a daughter to me."

I knew from what he'd said that the girl must be worth knowing, and that Dane thought a lot of her. Dane had been married once, and divorced several years back. His wife, Eleanor, got custody of their small daughter, Janie, who was probably around twenty now. Dane seldom mentioned them, but there must have been times when he thought about them, missed them both.

He was quiet for a few seconds, looking out at the ocean; then he pointed to the map again. "Well, I said they changed their methods, started using muscle. One of those spots belonged to Tom Fellows. He's among those who damn well weren't going to sell, but I saw him on the street with his arm in a sling. He had sold, but he wouldn't tell me a damn thing except that it seemed like a good time to sell out. Another friend of mine, Hale Prentice, sold when a couple of men dropped in to see him and started asking about his wife and kids. He's got two kids, a boy and a girl. He got the impression something might happen to them if he didn't sell. He sold." Dane paused, frowning. "Well, what does it look like to you?"

"Looks like muscle, all right, Em. But if these guys are using muscle, I don't see how they'd expect to get away with it—at least, not for long. It would be so damned obvious."

He broke in. "That's the whole point; it's not obvious. Not yet—except to you and me now. You can see how they started out slow and easy, then built up to this. There wasn't any rough stuff until the last few days. I happened to check, see how all these sales fit together in a pattern, but probably these people who've sold out don't know anything about all the other sales; they just know about their own individual transaction. There's a pattern to it, though. Shell, it looks to me like this bunch is after half the damn town."

"You'd think the sand was uranium. Unless, of course, you're nuts."

Dane fished a red pencil from his pocket and drew a line around another rectangle on the map. "Most of the spots sold so far were empty lots, but this one is a house and lot worth about eighty thousand dollars. Seaco's been after it, but the owner wouldn't sell. That was Ed Whist's place, Shell. His widow owns it now. Or did until a few hours ago. This guy who talked to me about selling saw Mary Whist this morning, bought the place for fifty thousand."

"This morning? I thought Whist just died."

"True. Couple days ago. That should give you an idea of the type of men we're up against. I talked to Mary Whist on the phone just half an hour before I called you." He was quiet for a moment, then he said, "Shell, they tell me Ed drowned surf-fishing down at Gray's Rocks. They say a wave must have swept him off the rocks and pulled him under because of his clothes and boots. Only Ed and I fished there a lot, and we always cast from the sand. He'd never have gone out on those rocks for a million dollars. He said a man could drown."

"Aren't you jumping to a conclusion, Em? I can't see anybody killing a man simply to get a chunk of beach with a house on it."

"Sometimes the only way you reach a conclusion is to jump at it." He shrugged. "Maybe Ed was too good a friend of mine for me to think clearly about it. You look into it, anyway, Shell. And check this Seaco bunch."

"OK. Who's in the thing? And who's the boss?"

"Nobody seems to know for sure. They've formed a corporation, and the law requires only that three of the directors be named. I never heard of the first two, but the third one is Jim Norris. I think he's your boss. Besides being one of the Seaco organizers, he's manager and part owner of the Beachcomber's Lodge. You know the place?"

"Uh-huh." The Beachcomber's Cocktail Lounge was my favorite drinking spot in town, but I'd never met Norris. I'd heard the name, though; he was supposed to be a pretty big man in this neck of the woods.

Dane said, "Somebody buying a lot of property, that all by itself isn't so funny, but I think I know what's behind the whole operation. And it's big—millions-of-dollars big." He pointed to the map. "Almost all the property I've marked is on the coast. Some of it's downtown in Seacliff, but most of it is right outside the business district. Of the beachfront property, one strip is a public beach, property of the city of Seacliff. All the rest is privately owned, and as of today Seaco already holds about half of it, while Baron, Miss Manning, and I own most of the other half. Miss Manning owns the most, then me, and the rest is held by Baron, mostly in his Baronial Estates. We're what you'd call the big owners—and if somebody is bound and determined to get all that beachfront property, we're naturally the biggest and most important targets." He paused. "Lilith was back east when this started. After this tough bruiser talked to me, I got in touch with Baron, told him what I thought was happening. Later he phoned Lilith and she flew in from New York and we all got together, talked it over. Just in time, too, because right after that they tell me Zimmerman saw her, and turned on his charm. But we'd wised her up and she wouldn't sell. So the tough one called on both Baron and Miss Manning. They said he acted just as nasty with them as with me. Incidentally, I phoned Baron after I called you and arranged for us all to meet at Miss Manning's home later today. We'll go out there after we see this tough guy." He glanced at his watch. "Few minutes now."

I checked the time. Two-twenty-seven.

Dane said, "He came to see me a second time two days ago. Said he'd give me till today at two-thirty, and I'd better be ready to close the deal. They wouldn't wait any longer." He broke off, looking past the side of the house. "Might be the guy's car now."

I walked to the edge of the porch and glanced out toward the street. A big black Packard was pulling into the curb. Two or three men were inside it. I went back to Dane. "Stopping here."

A car door slammed out front, footsteps came along the walk.

Dane was frowning. He jerked a thumb toward the door and said, "OK, Shell. You wait in the house. Stand behind the bedroom window there and you can see out, but he won't be able to see you through the curtains. I'll talk to him as long as I can. You give a listen and let me know what you think."

I nodded and went inside. The bed was on my right against wide windows. Movement on my left as I entered startled me until I noticed it was the reflection of my own image in the mirror over a dresser against the wall. I walked toward it and stopped in front of the window before which Dane and I had been seated. I was just in time to see a big guy walk around front and up onto the porch. He said pleasantly, "Afternoon, Mr. Dane. Say, that looks good. You got an extra beer there?"

The man's voice was pleasant, but he didn't look pleasant at all. He was about five-ten and looked as broad as that Packard out front. His face was a side of beef with eyes and teeth in it, red and rare from the sun. If somebody were using muscle to convince owners they should sell their property, they'd chosen the right kind of representative. This guy was all muscle.

Dane was saying, "Got half a dozen cans there," but he didn't make a move toward the beer or opener.

The guy hesitated for a moment, then stooped and picked up a can. I thought for a minute he was going to poke his thumb through the top, but he opened it normally, had a swallow, and said, "Well, Mr. Dane! Offer's still good. Hasn't gone down a penny. You give it some thought, like I told you?"

"I've thought about it. Can't remember your name, now."

"Smith. Ben Smith."

"Sure. Don't know how I forgot. Well, Mr. Smith, I don't know. But I don't think I'll sell. My property's worth a lot more than a quarter million."

"You don't get it." Smith pulled a chair over and sat down in front of Dane. "We've looked all the property over, and it's worth a quarter million to us. Don't make no difference what it's worth to you. Man's health can't be figured in dollars. You'd rather have your health than your money, wouldn't you, Dane?"

"I wouldn't sell to you bastards for ten million."

Dane had already reached the end of his rope. Muscles bunched at the side of Smith's jaw and the corners of his mouth pulled down. He said, "Listen, Pop. Don't leak at the mouth no more. And you'll sell. All your friends are selling, ain't they?" He grinned then. "Shouldn't talk to me like this, Pop. We're neighbors. Bought a spot this morning just a couple hundred feet away." He jerked his thumb.

It was Ed Whist's home he was talking about, and that was all Dane could take. He yelled something and started out of his chair, swinging a balled fist at Smith's chin. Smith didn't even get to his feet, just swung his beefy hand and slapped Dane hard across the cheek with the back of it. It turned Dane around and he fell, but he fell roaring and started up again as soon as he hit the porch floor.

The big guy got to his feet. His hand flashed under his coat and came out filled with a gun that he raised over his head, ready to smash it down on Dane's skull. The whole thing had taken only a couple of seconds out there, and I couldn't have got to the porch in time if I'd jumped through the window. I snapped my .38 out of its holster, aimed for a fraction of a second, and shot the big ape in his right shoulder.

He was standing with his back to the porch railing, and though there's not a great deal of impact from a .38 slug, there was enough. It threw him off balance and his legs hit the rail behind as he staggered, then he went over backward and down four feet and his head made a disgusting sound on the cement walk.

Chapter Three

I jumped to the door and got out onto the porch barely in time to keep Dane from leaping over the railing on top of the unconscious man down there. I grabbed him. "Hey, wait a minute, Em. He's out of commission for a while."

"That sonofabitch," Dane said. He repeated it about eight times, as if no other words had yet been invented.

Feet slapped on the walk as somebody ran toward us from the front of the house. "Here come his pals," I said. "Cool off, Em."

I leaned back against the side of the house, the gun pointed at the spot where the man or men would appear. A man came rushing around the side of the house and skidded to a stop as he spotted Smith's unconscious form. He was a tall skinny guy with a bald spot in the middle of his head and a gun in the middle of his right hand. Another guy, shorter, came running up right behind him, also lugging a gun. They both must have heard the report of my .38 and maybe figured the war was on. Well, it was.

I pointed the Colt at the tall guy and said, "Hey!"

He spun around with his right hand coming up, and then he saw the gun in my fist aimed at his nose, and he stared at the gun as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. I didn't have to say anything else. His fingers opened, and a big .45 automatic clanked on the walk. The other guy was standing with his left side toward me, his head twisted around. He looked at my gun and blinked, still gripping his own automatic solidly, as if he were debating his next move.

I said pleasantly, "I think I'll shoot you," and he stopped debating. His gun joined Skinny's.

"Hey," Skinny said. "He's kilt Renner."

"I don't think so," I said. "Haven't killed any of you, yet. Now, you two boys pick him up and all of you come up here in the corner of the porch, nice and quiet."

They grabbed Smith, or Renner, and grunted as they carried him up. Dane went around gathering guns, then came back and said, "I'm going to phone Betty. She'll want to know about this."

"Call the cops while you're at it."

He went inside. Looking at Skinny, I said, "You be spokesman, since Renner isn't talking. Who are you guys working for, and what the hell's your angle?"

Skinny shook his head. "We just drove Renner out here. I don't know what he wanted. You shot him."

"Uh-huh. I asked him a question and he went dumb on me." I pointed the .38 at his nose again, and it still fascinated him, but he didn't say any more. Neither did the smaller guy, and all my other questions got blank stares. Dane came back onto the porch just as Renner moaned and stirred slightly. In another few minutes, I heard tires screech out front, and farther away the sound of a siren. A brown Ford coupé pulled up behind my Cad and somebody got out. High heels clicked rapidly on the walk and a girl came trotting around the corner and up onto the porch.

Now, some gals can trot up four steps onto a porch and vibrate nowhere; this gal was not one of those. She was about five-three or -four and dressed in a gray suit so severely cut that it made any accurate appraisal of her figure impossible but even so, it was apparent that she vibrated in the proper wave length. And no matter what was under the suit, the face was definitely worth looking at. It was an odd face, arresting, darkly tanned and smooth, softly framed by dark hair with a healthy sheen and highlights burned into it by the sun. Behind black-rimmed glasses, slightly harlequin, her eyes were an extremely light brown, almost beige. High cheekbones, one eyebrow arched higher than the other, and slightly protruding lips gave her features a piquant, kind of roguish appearance.

She said, "What's going on?"

Dane said, "That big son— fellow knocked me down and Shell plugged him neater than a whistle. You should have seen him, Betty. Knocked the guy right over the rail there."

Betty glanced at me, lips pressed together. She didn't say anything, but she wasn't smiling. Somehow I'd expected her to give me a wide grin. I was grinning at her widely enough.

Dane briefed her on what had happened and she made rapid notes on a small pad. The siren drew closer, then stopped moaning in front of the house. In a moment, two police officers joined the party. Both were uniformed, one a heavy sergeant in his early or middle thirties, the other a slim, lean-faced patrolman about twenty-five.

They both came up onto the porch and the sergeant said, "What the hell's going on? Dane, you phone in?"

He was a large-framed man, but it looked like mostly fat instead of muscle on his body. His face was flabby and there were dark circles under his eyes. He sounded as if he were used to asking questions from behind a bright light. The other officer, though younger and slimmer, looked as if he'd spent a bad night too. He leaned indolently against the porch railing, staring blankly, his police revolver held loosely in his hand. If I could have chosen any two cops, I'd have chosen two others.

Dane nodded, and I told the sergeant what had happened. They introduced themselves as Detective Sergeant Carver and Patrolman Blake. The younger guy, Blake, put handcuffs on the two uninjured men while Carver examined Renner's shoulder. I finished telling Sergeant Carver the whole story, including what seemed to be behind the deal, and he stood up.

"You say this guy was about to slug Dane?"

"That's right. All I know about it is what I told you. Can't be much doubt that it was the start of a little muscle, though, to make Dane buckle under on the sale."

He shrugged. "Just tell me what happened, will you, chum? I'll figure it out." Then he leaned over Renner, who was sitting up now with his left hand pressed to his right shoulder, blood staining his fingers. "All right," Carver said. "What was the idea, chum?"

Renner glared into the cop's face, then at me, looking as if he were going to spit, but he said nothing. Carver repeated his question, and when he got no answer, he slapped Renner hard across the face, back and forth. He did it suddenly, brutally, casually. He said, "I asked you a question, chum."

Renner only glared some more, and Carver said, "We'll find out at headquarters," then jerked him around, twisted his arms behind him, and put handcuffs on his wrists. Blood seeped from the shoulder wound.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Betty spoke from beside me. "Want this in my story, Carver? Sergeant Carver, in a typical display—"

He stood up and faced her. "Just what the hell are you doing here, anyway?" He looked at Dane. "You call her before you called us?"

"I called her right afterward," Dane said. "Any law against it?"

Carver shrugged. He and the other officer gathered up all the loose guns and herded the three men out to the police car, then Carver came back and walked up to me. He flipped open a small black notebook and poised a stubby pencil over it. "You're a detective, huh?"

"That's right." I showed him my credentials.

He said, "What you doing here?"

I frowned. "What's that got to do with this?"

He grinned slightly. "I wouldn't know till I asked, would I? Don't get hard with me, chum."

Dane said, "I asked him down, Carver, as my guest. He was here when those guys showed up. Good thing he was."

Carver said to me, "OK, so the guy was about to club Dane. You had to shoot him? No other way you could stop him?"

This character was beginning to get under my skin. I matched his unpleasant tone. "No other way. There wasn't time."

"Let's see your gun."

I'd stuck the .38 back in its holster, but I took it out and handed it to him. He broke it open, looked at it, then gave it back to me. "You want to be careful with that, chum. Don't get too handy with it. Here in Seacliff we don't like people going around shooting people."

"That so? I could have let the ape bust Dane's skull open, instead."

"You know what I mean, chum."

"I'm not sure I do. And the name's Scott."

He grinned, then looked at Dane. "You gonna sign a complaint?"

"I will," I said. "Incidentally, it wouldn't surprise me if at least one of those guys has done heavy time. Maybe all of them are ex-cons. And they were all carrying guns, so—"

"So that's a felony. You wouldn't be telling me my job, would you?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sergeant!" I stopped. A few more minutes of this and I'd be ready to belt him, cop or no cop. I said, "You want that complaint signed now?"

"Any time. Any time today. Just be sure one of you comes down."

He seemed to have all the information he wanted, and he walked off the porch and around the corner, saying over his shoulder. "Take it easy with that Special. Like I said, we don't like tough men in Seacliff."

I turned and blinked at Dane and the girl, who was leaning against the door now. "What's eating him?"

Dane said, "He's like that all the time. You know, the world's against him. Other one, too, except he's quieter. Around here they're called the Brothers. Not related, though, just together all the time."

Betty said, "Mr. Scott, now that the police are gone, tell me. Was it absolutely necessary that you shoot that man?" She stared at me from behind the harlequin glasses, a kind of congealed expression on her otherwise lovely face.

I said, "Well, for— How many times do I have to—"

Dane interrupted. "Relax, both of you. If Shell hadn't moved fast, Betty, I might have got my head busted open."

She smiled at him, and she was really very attractive when her face lost some of its efficient, lady-executive look. She said to me, "I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. It's just that I see nothing admirable in gunplay."

"A misnomer, honey. We weren't playing. But neither do I see anything admirable in it." I grinned at her. "So let's be friends, huh?"

The smile faded slowly, but she kept looking at me. "Yes, of course. I . . ." she stopped.

There was a kind of strained aura about her, as if she were nervous or embarrassed. But then, I thought it isn't every day a young gal sees guys bleeding on porches and guns cluttering up the view.

She said, "I'd better get back to the office." She darted a quick look at Dane, then walked rapidly down the steps and out of sight. I heard the car drive away.

"I meant to tell you more about Betty, Shell." Dane was frowning. "Didn't have time. She was engaged to a soldier who was killed in Korea. That was a year and a half ago, but she took it hard. Hasn't had much, if anything, to do with men since then. And she's got what amounts to a phobia against guns, any kind of violence. Not healthy, but you can't talk her out of it. Not with words, anyway. She'll just have to get over it herself. Hell of a note, though."

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well, what do you think of my wild guesses now?"

"Not quite so wild."

He glanced at his watch. "I want you to meet Baron and Miss Manning. We're late."

I'd heard of Lilith Manning, or at least of the Mannings. The name was a kind of local Rockefeller or Morgan, the ultimate in Seacliff society. The elder Mannings, now dead, had been immensely wealthy, and had left much of their property to the city: the Manning Memorial Hospital, the public beach Dane had mentioned, an auditorium, even a museum building.

Besides the property bequeathed to Seacliff, a lot of other land and buildings had been left in the control of the Lilith Manning Foundation, a Delaware corporation that the elder Mannings had set up before their deaths. It was a charitable organization, and Dane, I knew was one of its directors.

"Lilith's funny, Shell," Dane said as we drove along. "Educated in private schools back east, never liked Seacliff for some reason. She's spent most of her time around New York or abroad. But, as I told you, she's here now. I met her for the first time a few days ago, when Baron and I had lunch at her place to talk this mess over. Took something like this to get her back here, I guess."

"You said they've both been approached about selling, just as you were. What's to keep them from doing it? You say this Manning gal doesn't like Seacliff."

He said, "In the first place, they've been offered only about half what their property's worth. But I've been worried about that angle myself, Shell. I'm not so much afraid of Baron's selling out. This is his home here, and he's an important man locally, active in civic organizations, member of the bar association, also on the board of directors of the Manning Foundation with me. Besides, he's a fine man with a lot of backbone, and he's just as anxious to keep mobsters out as I am. Miss Manning, at least so far, says she wouldn't think of selling out to this Seaco group. I don't know what she'd do, though, if they upped their price. Easier to put pressure on a woman, too." He was quiet for a moment, then he said slowly, "You know, if they should both sell to Seaco, I'd be almost the only one left with any sizable amount of property. Those crooks would have practically all of it. How does that sound, Shell? A city owned by mobsters?"

"I guess it's the next logical step for the hoods, Em."

He said soberly, "If it could happen in Seacliff, it could happen anyplace else. Anyplace."

The Manning home—or rather estate—was three or four miles out of town and about half a mile from the sea. The huge house sat by itself on the side of a hill, just off Vincent Street, a white monstrosity like a scar against the green, tree-covered hillside. We drove into the curving driveway fronting the house. There was a lot of green lawn in front, shaggy, not tended recently, and the house could have used a coat of paint.

I said, "Place looks a bit decayed, Em."

"Nobody lives here, really. Lilith's only been back a few days. Caretaker comes around every week or so, but it looks like he's a little behind. Oh, there's Baron."

I had parked in an extension of the drive alongside the house and cut the motor. Now I saw a tall man walking toward us from the rear of the house. He waved, then came up alongside the car and said to Dane, "Hello, Emmett. We'd almost given you up."

I got out of the car and walked around it as Dane said, "We had a little delay. Tell you about it in a minute. Clyde, this is Shell Scott."

Baron turned, extending his hand as I came up. "How do you do, Mr. Scott? Glad to have you join us."

He was about forty-five, with neatly combed hair starting to gray, a good-looking man with regular, somewhat fleshy features and blue eyes. He was broad-shouldered, but a little thick through the middle.

Dane asked, "Lilith in the house?"

"She's out back," Baron said. "She's set up a table with sandwiches by the pool." He grinned at me. "They're not very good. Lilith never learned how to cook, and apparently she's not much good even at making sandwiches. But there's beer out there, too."

We walked along the drive toward the rear of the house and Baron said to me, "We can relax at the pool. Lilith, despite all her money, is not at all formal."

And then I saw Lilith. "Em," I said, "why the hell didn't you warn me?"

Chapter Four

For no good reason that I could think of now, I'd formed a mental image, a preconceived idea of Miss Manning. I knew she was rich as hell, educated in private schools, and had spent almost no time in Seacliff. I'd assumed she was "too good" for the place, and somehow I'd imagined she was about forty years old with a face like a hatchet.

That was wrong. She had a good fifteen years to go before forty, and her face was not like a hatchet. The main thing I noticed was the way her black one-piece bathing suit clung to her, and the way it bulged at the top. She was a tall blonde, maybe five-eight, with enough pretty flesh on her bones so that she seemed to have no bones, and that impressed me as an excellent way to be.

She climbed out of the pool and waited for us as we walked toward her, standing relaxed with her hands on her hips.

We stopped in front of her and she said, "Hello, Emmett." Then she looked at me from clear blue eyes. "You must be Shell Scott."

I said, "'Lo. Yes. How do you do?"

"I knew Emmett was bringing a detective," she said pleasantly, "but I'm afraid I did you mental injustice. Somehow I had you pictured as a little man sprinkling fingerprint powder around and skulking after people with your hat pulled down—you know, sort of a cut-rate Sherlock Holmes." She smiled. "I certainly never expected anyone so big."

"To be perfectly frank, Miss Manning, I never expected anyone so bi— ah, so— I mean, you're different from what I expected, too."

"Would you like a sandwich?" she asked.

"Lilith," Baron said, "those sandwiches are lousy."

"I'd love a sandwich," I said.

She laughed, and Baron chuckled. "Remember I warned you," he said, and we all followed her to the little table by the pool, and had sandwiches, and they were awful. I ate four.

While we forced them down and drank beer, Dane told them what had happened.

Baron said, "I'll be completely honest. This frightens me. I don't like dealing with men who— well, who carry guns." He turned to me. "Naturally I don't mean you, Mr. Scott. I'm very glad you're on our side. I mean these others. That chap who talked to me was quite belligerent, but I had no idea . . ." He paused for a moment. "It's fantastic. I don't understand how such a thing can happen."

Dane said, "It's like I told Shell, Clyde. The town hasn't caught on to what's happening yet. It's been a series of isolated cases up till now. Hardly anybody has even heard of this Seacliff Development Company except the individuals approached. And they don't know of the other deals, or what's behind it."

Baron said, "I'm afraid I don't understand what's behind it, either."

Dane had brought his map along from the house. Now he unfolded it and placed it where Baron and Lilith could see it. He said, "I've marked the places sold lately—the ones I know about. They're almost all on the coast near the business district, but only a few are actually downtown. That beachfront property on both sides of town is worth about two million dollars or more right now—of which you and Lilith and I own over half. Now, do you remember a couple of years ago when several of us tried to get some of that property rezoned as a commercial district? And were turned down?"

I thought Baron was going to drop his teeth, he looked so startled, and Lilith gasped. I said, "What's all the fuss?"

Dane looked at me. "Didn't have time to explain this to you earlier, Shell. The point is—as Baron and Lilith understand—that if the beachfront property were rezoned as a business district, it would immediately increase in value anywhere from a hundred to four hundred percent."

"You mean from two million it could go to maybe eight million?" I asked him.

"It could. So you can see the Seaco bunch would have plenty of reasons for wanting that property."

"Yeah," I said. "Millions of them."

Baron had recovered his composure by now and he said, "The rezoning idea seems plausible, Emmett, I have to grant you that." He smiled wryly. "If it were rezoned, you have to admit that, from a purely selfish point of view, whoever holds the land would benefit immensely. That's a good reason for retaining our holdings."

"Of course," Dane said. "But that's not the important part. We can't let hoodlums come in here and take our possessions by force. Even if we did benefit personally, it would be a short-lived benefit. You know we wouldn't have any chance against a criminal combination. Not if we let them get entrenched, get strong. We have to stop them now, while they're weak, if we can."

Baron nodded. Dane went on, "You're in a better position to check this rezoning idea, Clyde. You know the mayor well, and the police chief, and you have more influence than I. Certainly you and Lilith together could stir up a lot of investigation."

"Yes," Baron said. "I'll find out what I can today." He looked at Lilith. "You know where some of the bodies are buried, Lilith. Want to help me dig some up?"

"Love to." She didn't seem particularly carried away with the idea of exerting herself. After all, what's a million dollars? She looked at me, smiling slightly. "Well, Mr. Scott, you're awfully quiet. Anything to add?"

"Most of this is a little out of my line. But I do think like a detective." I looked at Baron. "So what's with the cops in this town? And how's the mayor? For any bunch to come in here and throw a lot of weight around, they'd have to have local help, protection from somewhere."

Baron stroked his chin. "I'm not too much help there. I know Chief Thurmond well, and I can vouch for him absolutely. He may not be all one would want in a police chief, but at least he's completely honest. If he knew of any dishonesty or corruption, he'd root it out. I don't know many of the other officers."

"Well," I said, "I'll nose around. And I'll see this Jim Norris. Either of you know anything about him?"

Lilith shook her head, but Baron said, "Just that he's been associated with some unsavory persons. Possibly persons of the, ah, underworld. I've heard that some of his partners in the Beachcomber's Lodge might have criminal records."

We talked for another fifteen minutes, and wound up all practically twirling with enthusiasm and great expectations. Actually, with what we now knew, it seemed that we'd have little difficulty in stopping whatever was going on. It seemed so patently crooked, and so easy to throw the crooks in the clink. So I can be wrong.

Finally we all got up and started walking back toward my Cad. Lilith and I were in the rear, and she put a hand on my arm. Baron and Dane walked on to the car.

Lilith said, "I'm sorry we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances, Mr. Scott. But I'm glad we did meet. Perhaps the circumstances will be less . . . depressing next time."

"I hope so. I'll keep in touch."

"That's an odd phrase. Keep in touch, I mean. We say so many things we don't mean literally, don't we? Like drop up, and shirt off my back. And keep in touch."

"Ah, yes. Well, I've got to run. Uh, I'll drop— I'll keep— Hell. I shall return."

She laughed. "Well, I'll finish my swim. Anyway, I'm glad you'll be helping us. You do seem quite capable."

I grinned. "Of what?"

She made a face at me. "Almost anything, I imagine. Good-by, Mr. Scott."

"Good-by, Miss Manning."

"Lilith."

"'By, Lilith."

She turned and walked away, and I watched her intently as she reached the pool and either dived in or just leaned forward and let gravity take over. I shut my mouth with a click and went to the Cad.

Chapter Five

When i dropped Dane off at his house, he said, "What time you think you'll be back?"

It was three-thirty. "Six, maybe seven," I said. "I'll see the cops, then talk to those guys you mentioned, including Norris. Look over the town."

"I think you'll notice a change in Seacliff, Shell. We'll have dinner here, huh?"

"Sure, Em. See you later."

"Wait here a minute." He went into the house, then came back with an envelope, which he tossed in the window at me. "We haven't talked money yet, Shell, but this'll hold you a while."

"For God's sake, Em, don't worry about—"

"Beat it," he said. "I need the money? Buy yourself a beer." He walked away.

As I drove toward town, I opened the envelope. Inside was a check for five thousand dollars. Buy a beer, indeed.

The police station was a squat cement building on Third and Elm. The police chief, Wallace Thurmond, was in his office smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper.

When he told me to sit down, I thought there was something vaguely familiar about him. He was of medium height and heavy. His face was pale, and fog-gray eyes under sparse eyebrows and almost nonexistent brownish hair gave his features a drained appearance. He looked to me like a genial, bumbling small-town cop. I told him who I was and showed him my credentials, and he leaned back in his swivel chair.

"Scott! Weren't you here on that Dane mess back in—what was it, forty-eight?"

"Forty-seven." Now I remembered him. He'd been Lieutenant Thurmond then, and I'd met him during the job I'd done for Dane. "Hi," I said. "Didn't recognize you at first."

He grinned and reached over the desk to shake my hand. "Put on a little weight." He patted his middle. "What brings you down here, Scott?"

"Little checking. You've got a good memory, Chief."

"Thanks. Part of my job. You working for Dane again?"

I thought about Baron and Lilith. "Partly," I said. "Well, I'll sign a complaint against those guys you've got here. Incidentally, any chance I can talk to them?"

"Why, they're not here, Scott. We booked them, but had to let them out on bail. Lawyer was here—"

"You what?"

He squinted at me and repeated calmly, "Lawyer was here almost as soon as they were. You know we couldn't hold them."

"Do I? Hell, they couldn't have been here more than an hour or—"

This time he interrupted me. "Just a minute, Scott. Wanted to talk to you about this mess. Sergeant Carver told me what happened. I got Mr. Renner's story, but I didn't get yours. I'd like it now."

I was about ready to squirt fire through my nose, but I forced myself to calm down and gave him the story of what had happened that afternoon. I put everything into it: the Seacliff Development Company, the rezoning angle, Renner about to sap Dane, the works.

When I finished, Chief Thurmond closed his pale eyes, then slowly opened them. "You see how it goes," he said. "Story Renner gave me was that Dane attacked him when he was calmly talking to him, and he merely defended himself. And then all of a sudden somebody shot him. He didn't know who, or where the shot even came from, just that he got shot. Now, Sergeant Carver told me what you said happened."

I didn't like his tone and I stood up. But he said, still in the same slow drawl, "And your story agrees exactly with what Carver told me. However, it's still just one story against another. Sit down. And we got laws, a man's got rights. I said sit down."

I was so close to sitting on his head that it was a struggle for a few seconds, but finally I sank back into the chair. "What about the rest of it?" I asked.

He frowned. "I don't know. You haven't shown me any kind of proof yet. Sounds mighty farfetched. Far as I know, this development company is just some local businessmen. Haven't broken the law so far as I can tell."

"Had any complaints from anybody who sold out?"

"Not a one. Well, it's quite a story. You bring me some proof, even show me any kind of evidence of conspiracy, and we'll fill up the jail here. I can't do a thing till then. You know that."

"You check those guys for records?"

"No records around here. Haven't heard from the FBI yet."

"You'll probably hear plenty. Something else. Was there anything fishy about Ed Whist's death? Any chance is wasn't an accident?"

"You serious?"

"Uh-huh. Was an autopsy performed?"

"Autopsy? What for? Why the hell would anybody want to knock off old Whist? What got you on this, Scott?" the man seemed bewildered.

"His widow sold their home today to the Seacliff Development Company—that group that hasn't broken any laws yet. It made we wonder."

He sat there looking at me, maybe chewing his cud. I said, "Have you had any reports on known criminals showing up in town? Any out-of-town hoods dropping in?"

He chuckled. "In Seacliff? You're used to Los Angeles, Scott. We got a nice, clean, quiet town here. No trouble except a few flies in summer."

I got up. "I guess that does it. I suppose you know those three bums you let go bear no love in their hearts for me. It's six, two, and even they'll shoot me between the eyes if they get the chance."

He shook his head. "You private detectives, you're all alike. Dramatize things, make a big thing out of nothing."

I leaned forward onto his desk. "Sure," I said. "What do you imagine they use those guns for? Those guns they carry so handy? Picking their teeth?"

For a while he didn't answer. Then he said, "Good to see you again, Scott."

"Yeah." I turned around and walked to the door, then remembered something. It seemed like a waste of time, but I turned and asked, "Just one thing more. I heard Jim Norris is important in the Seacliff Company. You know if that's true?"

"Might be. I think I heard his name mentioned."

"He ever been in trouble with the law?"

"Not around here. No place, so far as I know."

"Hello, chum. See you made it after all." That came from behind me and I knew who it was after the second word.

I turned. "Well, Sergeant Carver," I said. "You've been a big help. If Renner shoots me in the head, you be sure and question him, will you?"

Carver scowled at me, the fleshy face drooping slightly and the dark-rimed eyes squinting a little. "You wouldn't be telling me my job again, would you, chum?"

"No. But I will tell you one thing. You call me chum again and I'll see just how tough the cops grow in this town."

He chuckled deep in his chest. "Get lost, Scott." He brushed by me and walked toward the chief.

I hesitated, but only for one second. Then I got out of there. If I'd waited two seconds, I'd probably have attacked the entire Seacliff police force. As I left, the thought occurred to me that I would get very little help from that pillar of honesty, Chief Thurmond.

I spent an hour downtown, but it didn't take me that long to notice that the town had changed. It didn't seem like the place in which I'd vacationed only six months ago. Then it had been clean, quiet, peaceful. Everybody was friendly, ready with a smile or a cheerful word. You could still see some of the same faces, the same smiles; the buildings and streets, all the physical details, were the same; but Seacliff was different.

The bars were filling up with belching men and scratching women; young toughs hung around on street corners cracking wise and making vulgar noises at the girls. And there were a few older men who didn't seem to fit; guys with hard faces, bored big-city airs.

In half an hour I had little trouble placing bets in two different cigar stores and finding a few slot machines. I even recognized some Los Angeles hoodlums; an L.A. dope pusher, a con man, a jewelry thief named Sammy. With all these guys around, I didn't want to be carrying a check for five grand, so I scribbled the address of my L.A. bank on the envelope and mailed the check in for deposit.

In the Gorgon Room, where I stopped for a beer and a look around, I saw a guy I'd run into several times in L.A., a safe burglar named James "Petey" Peterson. Every time I'd seen him, he'd been hungry for one of his two major interests in life: women or money. Or both. There was a chance he might have some information I could use. We knew each other's names and businesses, but we'd never had trouble, so I didn't think he'd give me the chill if I tried to talk to him. I bought him a drink and said, "You're a long way from home, Petey."

He shrugged, took the drink, and said, "Home's where my hat is." His ugly face was expressionless.

I said, "Lots of L.A. guys around. Just saw Blip French and Sammy the Iceman. Big attraction here?"

"I heard it was a good spot for a vacation," he said.

"You're vacationing?"

"Yeah. It was warm in L.A., and I heard they had a sea breeze here." He squinted at me. "Heard a rumble you were in town. What you after?"

"Know anything about Jim Norris?"

"Nothing you'd want."

"For money?"

He sighed. "I do believe I could use a few bills. But I don't know nothing. Just the man's name."

"He's a pretty big wheel in town, isn't he?"

"That's what I hear."

"The biggest?"

He shrugged. "I doubt it."

There was nothing else he could tell me except that he spent most of his time here or at the Beachcomber's, but from what he had said it seemed that Seacliff was a reasonably safe place to hide out. The "heat" Petey had mentioned was from a safe job he was wanted for in L.A. He thanked me for the drink and I left.

I spent another half hour finding and talking to the two men whom Dane had mentioned: Tom Fellows and Hale Prentice. Fellows was a small, frightened man about forty-five with rimless glasses and a black sling still cradling his broken arm. He wouldn't tell me a thing except that he'd sold his place, and that he'd fallen and broken his arm accidentally. Prentice was more cooperative, saying he'd thought his place was worth $25,000 but he'd taken $20,000 for it when three men—the three from Dane's porch, according to his description—had "kind of intimated something might happen to my family."

Prentice and his wife and two kids were moving out of town. Neither Prentice nor Fellows had gone to the police, and despite my contention that even one or two complaints would help, it didn't seem likely that either of them would complain about anything. At a quarter to five, I found myself outside the two-story Star building, and on the chance that Betty might still be there I went inside.

The Star was a small daily, with the presses and linotype machines upstairs. The main room, at street level, held half a dozen desks. Three doors in the far wall led into private offices. I found Betty just preparing to leave.

She was standing behind a desk with her harlequin glasses in one hand, rubbing her eyes with the fingers of the other, and she didn't see me at first. Her heavy gray jacket hung from a hook on a clothes tree behind her.

"Hello," I said, and she looked up at me.

When I had seen Betty at Dane's, I had thought she was attractive, with an odd, soft kind of beauty. But it surprised me that simply removing the black-rimmed glasses could bring about such an improvement in her face. And I noted, too, that the removal of her gray jacket brought about a startling improvement in the rest of her. What I was really curious to know, though, was if there had been any improvement in her attitude. Up till now she hadn't impressed me as a wildly hilarious tomato.

She stared at me for a moment from those extremely light brown eyes, a half-smile on her darkly tanned face, "Oh, hello, Mr. Scott." Then she put on her glasses, quickly slipped into the gray jacket, and plopped down in her chair.

I said, "Dane told me you might give me some help on the activity around here. And I wondered if you knew where I could find Mrs. Whist. I haven't been able to locate her."

She seemed glad to have something to talk about. "Mrs. Whist is working with the Red Cross people, helping with the drive they have on now. Gives her something to do, and I guess it helps. She's probably down on Main Street, at the speakers' stand there. And Emmett phoned me—said you'd most likely come in. I've checked quite a bit on his rezoning idea. You know about that, don't you?"

I nodded and perched on the edge of her desk. "Wanted to ask you about that. Suppose some hoods moved into town, grabbed property, and planned to have it rezoned for a fat profit. They wouldn't make the first move unless they were pretty sure their application would be approved. So who would they have to fix, bribe, put pressure on? Who would they need to have in their pocket?"

She answered right away. "Well, they'd have to file their application for rezoning with the city planning commission, which would act on it and send it with their recommendation to the city council. The application might be sent by the council to the city engineer for his recommendation, but that wouldn't have to be done. The most important man on the planning commission is the chairman; on the council, it's the mayor. So you can figure they'd probably have to bribe or control the planning commission chairman and maybe some of the commission members, and possibly the mayor—at least some of the councilmen. But it could be done."

"Looks to me like it has been. Thanks. That gives me several places to look, anyway." I slid off the desk. "Mrs. Whist's at the Red Cross stand? I saw the platform a while ago. Emmett sent me a card mentioning a blood drive, but I thought he was kidding. This something new?"

"Sort of a trial. A few of the local citizens thought it might be in bad taste—you know, appealing publicly for blood, loud-speakers and speeches and everything. But it was decided to try it out here in Seacliff as a test."

"Besides, nobody knew exactly what the definition of bad taste was, huh?"

She smiled. "I suppose."

Smiling like that, she looked relaxed and lovely, and I told her so. "Betty, you're really a beauty when you smile. That's the first real smile—" The smile went away. "I mean it was," I amended.

"Please," she said.

She got to her feet. I said, "You through for the day?"

"Yes."

"Can I give you a lift home?"

She bit her lip and looked at me. "I don't have far to go."

I told her, "Look, Betty, you act like I'm Jack the Ripper. I'm not going to bite you." I grinned at her. "Not without permission, anyway. Besides, I don't know Mrs. Whist. It would probably help if you'd—"

"All right," she said suddenly. "Let's go."

I held the door of the Cad for her and as she climbed in she said, "You're a gentleman, after all, aren't you?"

"Don't jump to conclusions. I do this only because of habit and fear of public censure. If I had the nerve I'd make you climb through the window."

I thought for a moment she was going to congeal again, but then she shook her head and said, "Well, really," in a kind of half-shocked tone.

I drove the four blocks to Main, where the Red Cross had erected a twenty-foot-square wooden platform between Fourth and Fifth Streets; the platform raised about six feet from street level and extending back over the sidewalk. Cloth covered the framework at its sides. Loudspeakers at both ends of the platform were turned out toward the street, but they were silent.

As I parked near the stand, Betty said, "The drive doesn't start till day after tomorrow. Four days, Wednesday through Saturday. The Red Cross has never done anything quite like this before, but I think it's a good idea. I wrote a series of articles about it for the Star. If it's a success here, there'll probably be similar drives in larger cities."

We got out of the car and walked to the front of the stand.

Betty said, "Mrs. Whist should be in back, helping get things ready."

At the rear of the stand was a plywood-enclosed room covering the entire back third of the platform. We went inside and found one man and three women sorting cords and moving bottles and equipment, lining them up along one wall on shelves there. Betty pointed out Mrs. Whist, seated before a table. She was a slight, white-haired lady, busily putting printed forms into equal stacks. I stopped beside her.

Betty introduced us and told her I was an investigator working for Emmett Dane. I said, "I'd like to talk to you a little about your husband. If you'd prefer not to, it's all right."

She sighed. "No, I don't mind, Mr. Scott."

"Emmett told me you've sold to the Seacliff Development Company."

"Yes. I didn't want to keep the place . . . afterward. And the men were right there, with the money. It was— well, it was all over before I knew it."

"The Seaco representative had approached you and Mr. Whist before this morning, hadn't he?"

"Yes, Mr. Scott. Twice. They talked to Ed, but he refused to sell. He was quite upset about it. They threatened him, as Mr. Dane must have told you."

"Do you— that is, do you think there was anything strange about . . ."

"About Ed's death? I think there might have been. He might have drowned, but not from Gray's Rocks, like they said."

"I don't suppose you said anything to the police."

"I did, though. I told them I thought Ed's death might not have been an accident. And that the Seacliff Development Company had been trying to force us to sell our home. They said they'd look into it."

That stopped me for a minute. I'd assumed she hadn't gone to the cops. And the chief had told me there'd been no complaints about Seaco.

I said, "Did you talk to Chief Thurmond?"

"No. I spoke to a sergeant there. A man named Carver."

It was quiet for a few moments after that. We talked another minute but there was little Mrs. Whist could add except that she'd identified her husband's body. His face had been cut and bruised. That could have happened on the rocks. It could also, I figured, have been done by somebody's fist. I thanked Mrs. Whist, Betty spoke to her for a moment, and then she and I left.

In my car again, Betty said to me, "Do you think he was killed?"

"I don't know. I just can't swallow the idea that anybody would kill him for a chunk of land. Maybe there's too much I don't know. Incidentally, Em said he thought a guy named Jim Norris was the brains behind the Seaco bunch. How about that?"

"He's in it, I know that much. But I can't imagine him as the brains behind anything."

"He's manager of the Beachcomber's Lodge, isn't he? He'd have to be somewhere above the level of idiot if he can run a spot like that one."

"Actually, he's just manager in name only, I'd say. He's part owner of the place, but he seems too stupid and uncouth for actually running the lodge, meeting guests and so on. I think he just likes the title of manager. Likes to feel important."

She directed me toward her apartment house and I turned onto Eighth Street. "You've dug quite a ways into this Seaco bunch," I said. "How come you're so interested?"

"Well, naturally I'm on Emmett's side. He's a wonderful guy. And nobody wants criminals and ex-convicts moving into her town. And that's what this would amount to eventually. Besides, there's a real story in this—if I can ever get it printed. I've written two articles on it already, but Mr. Josephson, the publisher, killed them both. He seems terribly afraid we'll offend somebody." She sounded angry.

I said, "Like Norris, maybe?"

"Maybe."

I pulled in to the curb in front of her apartment house. As soon as the car stopped, she had the door open and started climbing out.

I said, "Where you going in such a rush?"

"Why, inside. Where did you think?" She shut the car door from the outside.

"I'm not sure. The way you took off, I thought maybe you planned to sprint around the block." I spoke pleasantly, just making conversation, but her face tightened again.

"Oh. Well, there wasn't anything else to say."

"How do you know? We could think of something. Shall we try?"

"No, no. No."

"One no would be enough, Betty." I grinned at her. "Since it has slowly become apparent to me that you are not going to invite me inside for wild bacchanals, I shall say good night. Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Scott."

"Why don't you call me Shell?"

She didn't say anything. "OK," I said. "See you in church. That noise you'll hear at midnight will be wild-eyed Shell Scott baying at the moon."

"Oh. Well, really." Finally, she smiled slightly. "Bay away, then. I sleep like a log. Good night, Shell."

Shell, she'd said. I was making real progress. In eight or ten years, no telling what might happen. I scooted back under the wheel and drove off, headed south of town. It was dusk now, and there was no point in waiting any longer. It was time I paid a call on Jim Norris.

Chapter Six

I parked in the drive inside the grounds of the Beachcomber's Lodge and got out, and an attendant drove my car down to the lot. I'd been here several times before, because the lodge is one of the most enjoyable spots along the coast. It's on the ocean side of Seacliff Drive, a quarter mile out of town, and swank. The actual hotel building is small, but it overlooks the sea. Individual cabins are scattered around the grounds, most of them also with a sea view worth twenty dollars a day. A tennis court, a swimming pool, and the Beachcomber's Lounge and the dining room complete the lodge. I went into the lounge.

A tuxedoed waiter inclined his head slightly as I entered.

"Evening," I said. "I'd like to see Mr. Norris."

"Your name, please?"

"Shell Scott."

This guy hadn't been here when I'd last visited the lodge, and he'd probably never seen me. But it seemed likely somebody had mentioned my name to him. He bent to write on a pad, but suddenly he snapped his head up for a good look at me, then caught himself. He scribbled a moment longer, looked back at me, and said, "I shall see if Mr. Norris is available."

He walked away and returned in a couple of minutes. "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Norris is not here at the moment."

"When will he be here?"

"I couldn't say."

"Well, I'll wait in the bar."

He frowned slightly. "Do you have a reservation, Mr. Scott?"

"Since when do I need a reservation for a bar stool?"

"There . . . has been a change in policy, sir."

I walked past him. He didn't stop me. The dining room was on my right, the dimly lighted bar through an arched entrance on my left. I turned left, found a stool at the far end of the U-shaped bar, and climbed onto it. Soft music played continually from hidden speakers, and there was a muted murmur of conversation. Twenty or thirty people were at the bar and tables, most of them seated before windows overlooking the sea, watching the red sun disappearing below the watery horizon. I spotted Wes, the bartender who had served me a good many bourbons in the past, but he didn't recognize me until I ordered a highball. Then he grinned.

"Well, Scott, you old cat. Where you been, man?"

"L.A., as usual."

"On vacation now?"

"Nope, Wes. Business. Same old private eyewash. I heard Seacliff was going to the dogs, so I got myself appointed dogcatcher."

Nobody near me paid any attention, but straight across from me, on the far side of the bar, a man was raising a glass of beer to his lips. He stopped the glass halfway up, froze for a moment, then drank and put the glass on the bar top.

I said to Wes, "Town's changed, hasn't it? What's happened to the place?"

He glanced toward the beer drinker, then back at me. "Nothing," he said. "Same as always." He seemed nervous.

"Come on, Wes. That's probably because you've been here all the time. I've been out of town for six months. Lots of ugly new faces around. You'd think the Capone gang was here for a sunburn."

He grinned halfheartedly, then walked to the far end of the bar. The man across from me got off his stool, walked over to me, and took the stool on my left. He said, "Your name Scott?"

"Uh-huh. What's yours?"

"What you doing here?"

"I'm thirsty."

"Don't get hot. I cast you a civil question. You the guy what pooped Renner?"

"News gets around."

"Bad news travels fast, mister."

"What's bad about it?"

"You are. You're bad news, mister. What you doing out here?"

I turned and wiggled a finger at Wes. "How about a refill?"

He walked over and looked at me and the other guy. "Sure. Bourbon and water, and one beer?"

"Just the bourbon, Wes."

The guy slid off the stool and walked away. I asked Wes, "Who was the curious character?"

"That's Joe Frye."

"Work here?"

"No. He lives here. In the bar a lot."

"He a friend of Norris?"

"Seems to be. I've seen them together quite a bit."

I had a swallow of my bourbon, then Frye was back. He tapped me on the arm. "Come on."

"Where?"

"You wanted to see Norris, didn't you?"

I followed him as he walked into the dining room. This early, only a few tables were occupied. It would be another three hours before the place filled. But at one table, just inside the door, two men sat picking at broiled lobster. One was skinny, with a bald spot in the middle of his head, and the second was the other guy I'd met so briefly on Dane's porch. Everybody was here except Renner.

Frye walked past them and headed for a table against the wall. Three men sat there. One, with his back to the wall, was staring at me. The chair on this side of the table was empty. On my left, Skinny and his friend looked up and grinned happily at me as I walked by. I didn't stop, and I didn't grin happily at them.

When I reached the table, the man on the other side of it said, "You're looking for me?"

"If you're Jim Norris."

"That's me. Sit down."

I pulled out the chair and sat. Meeting a man on his own ground is like betting against a man's own trick; the percentage is all against you. Norris was seated with his back to the wall, and I sat with my back to Skinny and his pal. On my left and right were a couple more of Norris's buddies.

Seated, Norris didn't seem tall, but he was stocky. A well-cut blue sheen-gabardine coat rested smoothly on his wide shoulders and he wore a pink tie with a huge Windsor knot. His features were even, but knobby cheekbones and a sharp thin nose, plus an almost pointed chin, gave his face an angular look. His eyes were blue, but the lids were pinkish, inflamed, and small granules rested on them like dandruff. It looked as though he'd strained his eyes, but his appearance made it improbable that he'd strained them from too much reading. I was guessing, but my first impression was that Norris's reading was probably confined to the Racing Form.

He said, "OK, OK. What's with you? You see me. Make some words."

"You're in a hell of a hurry for a man who wasn't even supposed to be here."

"I was here, but that don't mean I got to see every slob who asks for me. I don't like to be disturbed till I've et."

"I understand you're the Seacliff Development Company," I said.

"I'm it? Hell, no. I got interest in it, just like these gentlemen."

He pointed at the men sitting with us. The one on my left looked like a horse, a mean, starved horse, with a bulbous nose, thick blubbery lips, and enough shaggy black hair on his neck to do for a mane till something better grew there; the other was big, dark, and grinning, and from the beat-up appearance of his chops, I figured that every time he shot a guy he filed another notch in his teeth. Both mugs were staring at me.

Norris continued, "OK. So what?"

"So a lot of people don't like your methods."

"That's too bad. Nothing illegal about it. People want to sell a place, we're glad to buy it. All legal. Happens every day."

"Sure," I said. I looked around the room, then back at Norris. "Suppose I came in here with a hundred grand or so, dropped it in front of you, had you sign some papers, and bought the place. Nice and legal."

"That's just the way it is."

"I wasn't finished. And suppose, if you didn't feel like selling, I broke your arm, knocked you down, and kicked all your teeth down your throat. And I played with you like that till you decided you wanted to sell. You'd still call that legal, wouldn't you?"

His face was flushed by the time I got through. "Listen here, Scott," he said slowly. "It's time I told you something. Your presence here is—" He searched around in the great emptiness of his skull for the right word, found it, and smiled. "It's obnoxious to me. If you got a lick of sense, you'll go through the door and get clear out of Seacliff. You don't, no telling what might happen to you."

"Like what happened to Whist, maybe?"

He jammed his teeth together and stared at me for several seconds. Finally, he said, "Not like that at all. Whist died accidental. If you should die sudden, I got a feeling it won't be no accident. Now, you said all you wanted to say?"

"Not quite. I came out here to tell you it's no good. I don't care if you want the beachfront property for rezoning or for building sand castles." When I said "rezoning" his eyes went wide, then narrowed again. "You may have muscled three or four people, but you can't muscle the whole town. Not even if you've got a few people here in your pocket. Even cops."

"Got no cops," he said levelly. "I got . . . friends." He looked at the grinning mug and the horse, then past my shoulder to the boys eating lobster.

I went on. "As long as nobody tumbled to what you were up to, you could make a little progress. But too many people know about it now, and a hell of a lot more are going to. So think about it. And one last thing. Dane's place is off limits for you and all your boys."

"Sure. You'll shoot 'em all like Renner. You got machine guns in your ears. Since we're talking frank, Scott, I'll be frank. You must be dumber than you look. How many men you got with you? An army? Gander around."

I looked around the dining room. Still the same tables filled. Skinny and friend at one; two men at another; four sharply dressed guys at a third. That was all besides our table. The only thing was, they were all men.

"Yeah," said Norris. "Not a customer in the joint. Just—well, friends of mine."

"All that proves is you've got a lot of ugly friends. But you can't think that you can go on muscling people. Not now that the story's spreading. Unless you're out of your mind."

"Show him out, boys."

"Yeah, Boss." Two men speaking as one. They stood up as Norris said to me, "Or would you rather leave quietly?"

"I'll leave quietly."

He laughed. That pleased him, because he figured he had me buffaloed. But there was no reason to stick around, and I wouldn't accomplish anything by getting my head bashed in, except getting my head bashed in. I stood up.

Norris said, "Just one thing, Scott. I meant it when I told you to leave town. You leave tonight, you'll be OK. Keep your nose in, you'll get it—you know?" He got up and walked around the table and stopped beside me. I was surprised at how small he was. When he was sitting down, he hadn't looked big, but now I saw he couldn't be more than five-three or five-four. He put a hand on my arm and said pleasantly, "I got no hard feelings with you, Scott. That's straight. Live and let live, I say. You don't give me no more trouble, we can get along fine."

I should have kept my mouth shut, but now that I was reasonably sure Norris himself had sent Renner around to bat Dane on the head, it was as if my mouth popped open all by itself. "Nuts. You know we can't get along, Norris. I just don't like guys who beat up old men and muscle old ladies. So take your paw off me." I glanced around. "And keep your apes out of my hair."

Norris reacted with surprising restraint. He stepped back. "OK, Scott," he said softly. "That's the way it is."

I turned to go and the other men at the table started to walk with me but Norris snapped, "Let him alone, you jerks."

I walked out of the dining room and stopped by the tuxedoed dandy. "Cadillac?" he said.

"Yeah. Black convertible." While he unhooked the wall phone and spoke into it, I looked back into the dining room. The men were still at their tables. I hadn't really expected any of them to follow me, but it made me feel better to see them all still there.

The waiter tapped me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "We've been having trouble with the phone to the parking lot. I'm afraid you'll have to pick up your car."

"OK. Thanks."

I walked outside and headed down the drive to the lot, a hundred feet away. It was on the other side of the brightly lighted tennis courts, and a couple was playing a set, batting the ball back and forth with insane energy.

The lot was lighted up like a football field, and I had no trouble spotting my car among the dozen or so parked there. I glanced over my shoulder, but I didn't see anybody near me, just another car being driven down from the lounge to the lot. A uniformed attendant leaned against a light standard.

He said, "Sorry about the phone, sir. We'll have it fixed in half an hour or so."

"No trouble. You ought to set up a wigwag system or run up flags."

The thought hit me then that in a swank spot like this it was strange no bellhop was handy to run down for the cars. The warning tingled along my nervous system, but it hadn't penetrated all the way yet. I just knew there was something screwy. I glanced over my shoulder again. The other car was turning to come down the lane where I was walking, and its lights were out.

And before I even realized what that meant, all the lights went out. Everything, every light in the entire lodge, over the tennis court, in the bar—and here in the parking lot.

I could hear the car motor now as the driver accelerated, obviously trying to run me down. In the sudden blackness, I couldn't see a thing, but I could hear the car near me and I jumped to the side, spread out in the air, straining to get out of the way before it hit me. I felt the fender slam into my leg and it wrenched my body around and sent me sprawling to the asphalt as car brakes squealed shrilly alongside me.

Pain ripped through my leg and my left shoulder as I hit the ground and rolled. Footsteps slapped the asphalt nearby as I tried to get my feet under me, my brain spinning. I was face down on the ground, and as I tried to push myself up my left arm buckled. There was a scraping sound near me, light flashed momentarily, and something slammed against my head. Pain exploded in my skull, but I was still conscious enough to hear other men running. Then a hand grabbed my coat, jerked me over. There was faint light from the moon and stars, enough so that now I could dimly see the features of the big guy who'd been sitting with Norris, and I tried to move toward him, drive my right fist toward his mouth, but I saw his hand swinging toward me like a shadow in the darkness, and then there was sudden blackness, deeper, more intense than before, and then nothing at all . . .

Chapter Seven

Standing at the top of the steps before the Manning Memorial Hospital, I finished my cigarette and flipped it away. The blue Chrysler was still parked at the curb; the other guy still leaned against his lamppost. I slipped my .38 from its holster and dropped it into my coat pocket. I kept my hand on it as I walked down the steps. Just before I reached the sidewalk the door on this side of the Chrysler opened and a man stepped out.

"Scott," he said. "Just a minute, huh?"

He was about my age and size, maybe a little slimmer, and much better looking. He was a helluva pleasant-looking man, not at all like the punks I'd met so far. But then, a lot of punks don't look like punks. I stopped and said, "I don't want any conversation, mister."

"This won't take long," he said. "It's for your own good."

"Everybody's damned interested in my welfare, one way or another." I looked into the car behind him. It was empty.

He leaned back against the closed door. I said, "OK, speak your piece. But don't come any closer."

He looked me over and said, "Take your hand out of your pocket, for God's sake, and stop acting like a Junior G-Man." He grinned pleasantly, held out his arms, and turned around. He was in shirtsleeves and slacks. "No gun, no nothing," he said. "Never carried a gun in my life."

"How did you know I was coming out? You couldn't have intended to wait here all night."

"Norris was anxious about you, Scott. Wanted to be sure you were all right, you know. So he asked Dr. Greeley to let him know when you were well enough to leave. Naturally, Greeley was willing to keep your good friend informed."

"Naturally. OK, spill it. And who the hell are you?"

"My name's Zimmerman. I work for Norris."

Zimmerman. I remembered what Dane had told me about the smooth, persuasive bastard who had talked to him about selling out.

"Norris asked me to tell you the facts of life, Scott. You could as easily have been killed as worked over a little. You're still alive only because there'd be a pretty big stink if you were knocked off. Not only from the cops here, but in L.A." He paused. "I'm from L.A. and I know you're thick with the cops there, so it'd just be trouble. But whether or not it's too much trouble depends on how much trouble you give us. So don't give us any. See how simple it is?"

"Sure. All anybody has to do is agree with everything the mobsters say, and all's well. For you guys. Norris must know he can't keep on the way he's been going. I told him as much."

"And what did it get you?" He grinned. "I know what you told him, and you're wrong there, too. Not one person out of a thousand in town has any idea what's going on. Sure, there's a little operation here. Maybe you know some of it, maybe you don't, but there's nothing you can do about it. After what already happened, you ought to have sense enough to blow. You can't be so stupid—"

I hadn't been conscious of pressing my teeth together, but now I could feel the muscles wiggling at the sides of my jaws. I reached out and grabbed the front of Zimmerman's shirt and bunched it up in my left hand with a little skin as I yanked him closer to me. He pulled his head back but didn't move his arms as I said, "I'll tell you this, friend. I'm not real bright sometimes. Some ways I am stupid. So Norris tried the absolute wrong way to get me to blow, and he knocked the last bit of sense out of my head. Maybe some other way he could have convinced me, but not by having me slapped around. I just don't take kindly to getting sapped." I shoved him back toward the car, let go of him, and said, "Go back and tell your boss to find a hole."

For a few seconds I thought Zimmerman was going to jump me. His face didn't change much, except that his lips thinned a little, while his eyes went wide and froze on my face. But that little change in his expression made him look like a different man.

What impressed me most, though, was what he did with his right hand. He'd brought it up from his side and held it just an inch out from his belly, the hand steady, curled slightly with the thumb tucked down brushing his shirt and all four fingers loosely extended. It was an odd gesture for a man who never carried a gun in his life. I was looking at his face, but I saw the hand slowly clench into a fist, then drop to his side and relax.

He sighed shakily, got himself calmed down, and said evenly, "Scott, there's no use getting yourself pushed. Be smart. Suppose I hadn't come here to talk. Suppose I was here to push you." He grinned and stuck his index finger at me and wiggled his thumb. "Pop, pop," he said. "And I just drive away. Scott, you ever see me before?"

I didn't say anything, but he kept talking.

"For all you know, I could be a shoe salesman. Next guy you meet might be a shoe salesman. Or he might not. How you going to tell? We all know what you look like, though. Might be half a dozen of us, might be half a hundred. How you going to know?"

I said, "Maybe I won't know. But everybody gets a fat look from here on in. And I won't forget your face, friend. I already know what Norris looks like."

"Oh, yeah, naturally you'll stay away from him. You wouldn't get within a hundred yards of the lodge now."

Somebody was walking down the sidewalk toward us and I glanced to my right at another man a few feet away, then moved over toward the rear of the car where I could see both guys. Nobody stood against the lamppost. The man nodded and Zimmerman said to him, "Hi, Slim. What's new?" The man stopped, chatted a moment about the weather, then walked on.

Zimmerman opened the car door and said, "You never saw him before, either, did you, Scott?" He climbed into the car. "So beat it," he said. "Now. Tonight. You've got no chance at all." He started the car and left.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment looking after him, then glanced behind me. Nobody was in sight. I walked half a block to the hospital parking lot and found my car. Before I climbed in, I unlocked the trunk and checked the stuff inside it. I carry about three thousand dollars' worth of equipment along with me in the Cad, gadgets I sometimes need on a job, from infrared and electronics equipment to a miniature camera and extra cartridges for my .38. Probably the boys hadn't looked in the trunk. Everything seemed undisturbed.

I got into the car and drove two blocks to a service station. While the car was being gassed, I used the phone inside to call Emmett Dane.

He was surprised to know I was out of the hospital. "You all right, Shell?"

"Fair enough. A few aches and pains, but navigating. What's been going on, Em? Any trouble?"

"Nothing serious. New guy took Renner's place and came out here. Asked me if I'd changed my mind about selling. I told him he was trespassing on private property and to get the hell off. Then he told me you were in the hospital."

He asked what had happened to me and I told him the story. He said, "Shell, you know I'm sorry. You want to pull out, it's OK by me. Wouldn't blame you."

"What are you going to do, Em?"

He didn't answer for a minute, then he said, "Well, yesterday I bought me a gun. Been shooting at sea gulls. Haven't done more than scare them so far."

That was about what I would have expected him to do, and that was my answer. I said, "Better confine your shooting to sea gulls, Em. Incidentally, what about Baron and Lilith? They had any trouble?"

"I don't know, Shell." His voice was worried. "They're both in a sweat. What happened to you, after Whist getting killed, and that mess here with Renner, has sort of put them in a panic."

"You talk to the cops?"

"Yes. Lilith told me both she and Baron went down, too, and had a long talk with the chief. I guess Baron finally goosed him into moving a little. He's checking all these guys, and every sale so far, but the hell of it is, he tells us he hasn't got enough yet to put anybody in jail."

"I'll give him some more—a signed complaint against Norris, for one thing. Which will mean Norris will have to go to the immense trouble of posting bail. Look, Em, I'll come over later, but I think now I'll talk a bit with Baron and Lilith. Where would I find Baron?"

"He's probably still in his office on Main. Usually there till around eight."

I told Dane I'd see him later, looked up Baron's phone number, and called his office in the Diamond Building. He answered, and after the expressions of surprise and sympathy were out of the way I said I'd like to see him. He told me to come right up.

The Diamond Building was seven stories on Main Street, a little more than two blocks past the Red Cross stand, which was the scene of much activity now. I remembered that this was the first day of the Red Cross drive, and I hoped they got a lot of blood. Maybe I could help them there; I knew a lot of hoods who, from my point of view, would be better off with no blood at all.

I went inside the Diamond Building, took the elevator to the seventh floor and Baron's office, the three rooms of Suite 712 overlooking Main Street. He stood up behind his desk with an uncertain smile on his fleshy, good-looking face when I came in.

"Mr. Scott," he said soberly, "what actually happened to you?"

"Some of Norris's men worked me over. Kind of an unsubtle way of telling me to leave town. Also the wrong way."

He winced, closed his eyes. "I assumed it was Norris." He looked at me for a long time, his brown eyes worried. "Maybe you should leave, Mr. Scott. Perhaps it would be better for all—"

"Hey," I said. "Wait a shake. A few minutes ago one of the punks told me to blow. Now you. I thought you were on the same side I am, Baron."

He licked his lips. "I am, of course, but . . . things are worse since you came, not better. I'll tell you the truth. I'm unnerved by all that's happened. I'm frightened."

"So am I, Baron. But I'm more frightened to see guys like you and Fellows and Prentice and the rest throwing in the towel in the first round."

He looked unhappy. "I'm not throwing in the towel. But look what happened to you. I don't want anything like that happening to me. I'm more interested in my life than in money. And there seems nothing we can do. Even the police haven't been able to do anything."

"And that smells mighty strange to me. There ought to be plenty—"

He interrupted. "It isn't so strange, Mr. Scott. Don't forget, I'm a lawyer. Chief Thurmond's something of a fool at times, but he's doing his best. All he has to act on so far is complaints from Mrs. Whist, you and Dane, and Lilith and myself. The chief told me that all Mrs. Whist had was a vague suspicion. Actually that's all Lilith and I have, nothing concrete. I imagine the same is true of Emmett—I mean as far as anything concrete is concerned, any actual evidence."

"What about Prentice and Fellows?"

"Emmett told me about them. But Mr. Prentice has left town. Mr. Fellows claims there was no coercion used against him. As for other evidence—well, I'd rather hoped you'd come up with something."

"You might say I have, in a roundabout way."

"I hope so. These men have been clever enough so far."

"I've seen few people less clever than Norris. Actually, he doesn't impress me as being smart enough to run this whole play here."

"Perhaps so. But he must be associated with some more intelligent men."

"I met one of them tonight, but he's no better than the rest. They're all punks after a fast buck and they don't care how they get it. Well, Baron, what are you going to do? You can't wish these guys away. You and Lilith and Dane and me together, plus a few others—together, not singly—could stop these guys in no time. Hell, Baron, you're well known here, respected, influential, and with Lilith Manning's name and what the family name means to this town, the two of you could get the whole town behind you." I got up and paced around for a couple of minutes. Finally, I sat down again. "I didn't mean to blow your ear off, Baron, or make a speech. But it's so damned simple. A little unity, a little pressure, a couple of articles in the Star, and no more trouble."

He nodded. "I suppose you're right, Scott. Of course you're right."

"By the way," I said, "what about Lilith? How does she feel?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her today. She was quite unhappy about everything yesterday, though. She was thinking about leaving town again, just ignoring this mess. After all, she's never been fond of Seacliff."

True, I thought. She could take off and say the hell with everything. If the mobs got the beachfront property rezoned, without owning her property, her holdings would go way up in value automatically. I wondered if she'd seriously considered that angle—and perhaps didn't mind the thought a bit. For a moment, I wondered if maybe Baron had toyed with the same idea; I remembered he'd mentioned it the day I'd met him.

"I'll talk to her," I said.

"Tonight?"

I glanced at my watch. It wasn't nine o'clock yet. "Yeah, I suppose she'll be up."

Baron pursed his lips, thinking. Then apparently he came to a decision and he grinned at me. "Give her the same speech you gave me," he said. He pulled the phone across his desk, dialed, and said, "You have an almost contagious exuberance, Mr. Scott."

In a moment he said into the phone, "Lilith? Clyde. I've just been talking with Mr. Scott. . . . Yes, he's out of the hospital, in my office now. Well, he's about convinced me we've been acting like ostriches." Baron showed me his large, even teeth again. "I think we should all get together, Lilith, make some positive plans. Perhaps, as Mr. Scott mentioned, some articles in the Star, things along that line. Can you come in?" He listened a moment. "Your place? All right, just a moment."

He held the phone toward me. "She wants to talk to you."

I grabbed the phone and said, "Hi."

Lilith said, "Hello, Mr. Scott. I was awfully sorry to hear you were hurt. I . . . thought you were going to"—she laughed—"keep in touch."

"Ah . . . yes. I was unavoidably detained. Unfortunately."

"Are you coming out?"

"Sure, if it's all right."

"Of course it's all right. I've been dying to see you. Perhaps we can finish our last conversation."

"Well, I really want to discuss—"

"Oh, fiddlesticks," she said pleasantly. "I don't care what you want to discuss. Just come out and see me. We'll think of something to talk about. You know where to find me, don't you?"

"Sure. Vincent Street."

"No. I mean you'll find me in the pool, you goose. Come out and join me."

I blinked, wondering what the hell she figured we were going to talk about.

"Fine," I said. "Yes, I'll be right out."

"'Bye. Hurry out."

I hung up and stood up. "Well, guess I better run," I said. "See how Lilith feels . . . er, how she feels about all this."

A slight smile appeared on Baron's face, then it went away and he pursed his lips. He said thoughtfully, "I think your best suggestion to me tonight was articles in the Star. Even if it accomplished nothing else, it would awaken people to what's going on. We'd have to be careful about libel, of course. And perhaps a few paid advertisements in the papers—if they didn't carry all we needed in the stories."

"Yes. Fine idea." This was the kind of talk I wanted to hear from Baron, but I'd have preferred hearing it earlier. Right now I had an urgent appointment and I was raring to keep it. But it was five minutes before I got away. Now that Baron was steamed up, he was a regular fire-eater, spilling over with suggestions.

Finally, he ran down. "Yes, indeed," he said. "I feel better, thanks to you, Mr. Scott. Actually, I've been undecided up till now. I feel ready for anything."

So did I, and I told him good night and took off, wondering if I could possibly get Lilith as steamed up as Baron.

Chapter Eight

The house was dark when I parked in the driveway, got out, and walked to its rear, but I thought I saw movement at the swimming pool, a flash of white cutting the air above the water. Then I heard a splash. The movement had been Lilith, who, I remembered, had so many interesting movements it was impossible to keep track of them all. Bright moonlight silvered the pool's surface and rippled where Lilith had dived in from the springboard at the pool's far end.

The canopied garden swing was on the grass near the pool's edge and I walked to it and sat down as Lilith's head broke water and she swam back toward the diving board. I opened my mouth to call to her as she climbed out, then I stopped. I squinted at her. She was a good ten yards away, but the moonlight was bright, and she certainly did look delightful. I thought: I wonder if . . . but then I shook my head. She'd certainly be wearing some kind of swimsuit. She wouldn't be in there with nothing at all on. No, of course not. But I squinted a bit more energetically.

She climbed up onto the board, stepped forward, bounced, and performed a perfect swan dive. I put my hands on the seat beneath me, shifted my position slightly, and felt something under my hand. I picked it up. A white blouse. I felt along the seat and found a skirt, nylon stockings, shoes, slip. My throat got a little dry.

I looked toward the pool, feeling as though I should splash some of that cool water over me, just as Lilith's head appeared six feet from me at the pool's edge.

"Hi," she said. "You're a sly one. Quiet as a mouse—but I saw you." She laughed. "That swan dive was for you. Like it?"

"Hello. Yes. Excellent, uh, form. Hello, Lilith."

"Come on in."

"No. Can't. I'm all taped up. Bandages and things, you know. Broken rib. Can't. I'd . . . drown."

"Oh, Shell!" She sounded disappointed. "Oh, what a shame." She leaned forward with her arms on the cement walk, then patted the walk with her hand. "Well, at least sit down here and talk. You did want to talk to me, you said."

I walked over and sat down gingerly a foot from her.

"That's better," she said. "Now what do you want to talk about?"

If the truth be known, I didn't want to talk about anything, but I said, "Same thing I saw Baron about. Getting a little action against these guys trying to gobble up all the property around here. Baron said you were thinking of leaving town."

"Well, I was. Not very seriously." Her hands rested on the cement between us, but she had leaned away from the pool wall a foot or so, her shoulders out of the water. "Do you think I should stay?" she asked.

"It's up to you, Lilith. I'll admit these guys aren't pleasant. They're rough ones."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"You'd be a big help. Frankly, your name would pull more weight than both Dane's and Baron's."

"All right. I wasn't really serious about leaving, anyway. I'm even getting to like Seacliff."

There was some more talk about plans to be made, articles in the Star, and so forth, but it was all somewhat hazy because Lilith occasionally shoved herself a little away from me, then would pull herself back, as if absorbed in the conversation and unconscious of her movements, but I was highly conscious of her movements and practically stone deaf to the conversation.

From where I sat, it appeared that she was halfway up on the walk by now. And it wouldn't be much longer till I slid into the pool and disappeared among my own bubbles. Finally, she said something that I absolutely did not hear at all. Then, as if from far, far away, I heard her voice. "Shell? Are you listening? Shell?"

I cleared my throat. "Ah, yes. Look, Lilith, I guess that's about it. Just wanted to know if you were still with us, ready for some action tomorrow."

"No action tonight?"

"Well, it's pretty late, everybody's gone home. Time I hit the road myself. Still some things to do."

"Shell, you can't really be that obtuse. Let's not talk about all the trouble. Let's talk about you and me." She paused. "Let's not talk at all. Wouldn't you like to kiss me?"

By now she was leaning toward me, her elbows resting on the cement walk and only the lower half of her body in the water, and I was bent so far forward that my fractured rib was going to snap if I moved another inch. I had been completely oblivious of the pain till now, but I suddenly became aware of it like lead boiling in my side. I had somehow got myself worked into an agonized contortion from which I doubted that I could ever move either backward or forward. I hung there thinking, with a great sorrow, that this rib was giving me more trouble than Adam's had, and that even if Lilith wasn't in for a big disappointment, I sure as hell was.

But Lilith had no idea what was going on in my mind, apparently, because she more than met me halfway, pulling herself up from the water and sliding onto the walk, one arm snaking around my neck and then the other, and her lips found mine with no trouble at all because I didn't give her any trouble. I'm no troublemaker. In fifteen seconds she was dripping all over me, her mouth like an electric vibrator, and my head was throbbing like a warped tom-tom, and it was eight to five that rib was shot.

She nibbled on my lip for a moment, then moved away from me and blinked. Lilith looked sad. I believe she was disappointed in me.

After a few seconds she said dully, "How many broken ribs have you got?"

I felt almost ashamed of myself when I said, "One."

She stared at me for a moment, then stood up, and you have no idea how that impressed me, sitting there on the damp cement, but she walked away from me to the canopied swing and picked up a large orange towel. She wrapped it around her body, came back, and sat down beside me.

"How fast do you heal?" she asked.

"Not nearly as fast as I'd like." I groaned to my feet.

"Sit down," she said. "Talk to me."

"Uh-uh, baby. If I get down there again, I'll crack up. I've got to get back to town anyway. There's a dozen things I should be doing."

"Forget the other eleven."

I laughed entirely without humor. "Wish I could. Well, so long."

She walked along with me when I went to the Cad. Before I climbed in, she stepped in front of me and said, "All right, then. Kiss me good night just to show me there aren't any hard feelings."

"If I—" I didn't finish it. I kissed her instead. Then she stepped back from me and picked up the towel. I got in the car and drove away. There'd been several reasons to dislike Jim Norris before this, but I hated him now.

I headed toward town and Dane's home, driving slowly through the fog that was drifting in from the sea. By the time I reached Seacliff Drive, I had to use the windshield wipers to keep the glass clear. The lights were on inside Dane's house, the blinds drawn over the bedroom window, and as I turned into the driveway, I saw a dark sedan parked in front. My lights fell full on it, and I noticed something peculiar about it but for the first few seconds I couldn't figure out what it was. I parked and got out of the Cad, wondering who would be visiting Emmett at this hour. For a moment, I stood in the semidarkness and I could hear the car motor out front purring softly. There had been one man in the car, behind the wheel. Then I remembered what had looked strange about it. The car doors on the side next to the house had been open.

Cold suddenly brushed my spine and alarm jerked through the nerves of my body as I sprinted toward the front of the house, digging for the gun under my coat.

With the Colt gripped in my right fist I jumped up the steps and over the porch and noticed the door was partly open as I crashed into it. I burst into the house, stumbling slightly, and though a blurred shadow moved near me, I couldn't react for a moment, couldn't turn toward it. Because I saw Dane.

He was sprawled on the bedroom floor, with his head toward me, but the top of his skull was a gaping, red mass, a raw, ugly splotch of color that matched the ugly red staining the carpet.

I pulled my eyes away from him, spinning to my left toward the shadowy movement I had sensed more than seen in the fraction of a second before I saw Dane's body. But no one was there. The movement had been reflected in the dresser mirror, and in it now I saw the figure of a man, his gun-weighted fist swinging. In the moment before the blow fell, I recognized his face, and then the gun butt crashed against the side of my head. I staggered forward, my hand brushing against the smooth surface of the wall, uselessly trying to grip it as my knees buckled and gave way beneath me. I sprawled on my hands and knees, the Colt sliding from my fingers, and I tried to swing my body aside to avoid another blow, but I couldn't move. No other blow fell. I heard the thud of running feet, then the sound as they went over the wooden porch and slapped against the walk.

I strained to move, to get up, but every muscle seemed paralyzed. The gun was a foot from my hand, but I couldn't move to pick it up.

In another second the paralysis ended. I grabbed the gun and got to my feet, sick and shaking, stumbled past Dane's body to the front of the house, and went through the front door as a motor roared and the car's doors slammed. As the car pulled away from the curb, I jumped to the grass behind the house, raising the Colt, and firing three or four quick shots. The car accelerated rapidly and became a blur in the fog. I ran to the Cad, started it, and backed out of the drive fast.

Barely visible on my left was the faint red glow of the car's taillight, then it swung left and disappeared. I yanked the steering wheel and skidded around the corner where they had turned, almost crashing into the curb as the Cad's tires slid on the fog-dampened asphalt. But the red glow of their taillight was still faintly visible more than a block ahead of me.

I could feel the steady pressure of the car seat against my back as the Cad's powerful motor pulled the car forward with the speed increasing every second. The light ahead swung right, but I was gaining on them in my faster car, and when I slid around the corner and straightened out, tires screeching, their car was barely a block ahead.

I'd stuck the gun back in the holster. Now I pulled it out and drove with it resting against the steering wheel. A siren screamed and I flicked my eyes to the rearview mirror and then back to the road ahead. Headlights blazed close behind me and a red spotlight atop the car blinked, its glow flickering over the inside of my car. I kept going, pressing even harder on the accelerator. Ahead of me the taillight swung right and again disappeared. I slammed on the brakes, then let up slightly as the car skidded, pressed them again, and started to turn as a bright white glare flooded the inside of my car from the police car's spotlight behind me. It flicked off, but my eyes were momentarily blinded.

I felt the car slue sideways on the pavement and I eased off on the brakes, straining my eyes into the gray blur ahead of me, the siren shrieking almost in my ears. I straightened the Cad as the spotlight blinked on and off again and the black police car pulled alongside, edging me into the curb. I had to stop or crash into them.

I stopped and leaned out the window as a man in uniform got out of the car and walked toward me. I yelled at him, "Guys in the car ahead just killed a man. For God's sake, get after them. Quick!"

A flashlight beam fell on my face and a voice from behind it spoke as if I hadn't said anything at all. "Where in hell did you think you were going? You trying to kill yourself in this fog?"

I forced myself to speak quietly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. "I was chasing a car with two, maybe three men in it. They just murdered Emmett Dane." A door on the police car slammed and footsteps came toward us. "They're half a mile away by now, but if you put out a call on your radio, maybe you can catch them. They'll ditch the car soon."

"That's quite a story. You drunk, chum?"

I recognized his voice then, and I slammed my hand out through the open window and grabbed his flashlight, tilted it up toward his face. He didn't try to stop me. The light fell on the heavy, flabby features, the pouched eyes. Carver.

"I might have known," I said.

The other cop stood by Carver now and I could see that it was Brother Blake. He said to Sergeant Carver, "What's up?"

"It's that character, Scott," Carver said. He sounded weary and disgusted. "Wouldn't you know?"

Blake said, "What you think?"

"Hell, I don't know."

I couldn't figure what they were talking about, but then Carver flicked his light on my face again and said, "Scott, you give me any bull I'll mash this light in your teeth. Now, was that a straight story?"

I felt like busting him one, but I said, "It was straight. A hell of a lot of good it—"

He broke in, speaking to Blake. "Call in," he said briskly. "We better cover it." Then, "Scott, what kind of car? You got the license?"

I squeezed my eyes together, tried to think. My headlights had fallen on the back of the car and on the license. I'd seen the numbers clearly and knew they had registered, but I couldn't remember them now. Maybe I would later. I said, "It was a dark sedan, four-door, maybe a Chevy. A '50 model, I'd say. California plates, but I can't remember the number."

Blake trotted to the prowl car, finally moving fast. I heard him grab the phone and start sending the information in. Then I remembered something else. I'd recognized one man there in Dane's house. It had been the same guy who'd stopped me outside the hospital, the nice-looking, clean-cut man who "never carried a gun." I told Carver about him, described him as best I could. "Said his name was Zimmerman. Not much chance it really is, though. This Zimmerman is the guy who talked several hours with Dane, trying to get Dane to sell all his property to Seaco. And he told me tonight that he works for Jim Norris."

Blake came back and said, "Got it. There's a call out now. Not much to go on."

Carver said to me, "Out of the car, Scott."

I climbed out with the gun still tight in my hand, as if my fingers were frozen around it. Carver reached for the gun, took it from me.

"Wait a minute," I said. "I'd just as soon keep the Colt, Sergeant."

"I'd just as soon you didn't."

I noticed that Blake had a revolver in his right hand. "What the hell is this?" I said.

"Take it easy." Carver slid behind the Cad's wheel, drove over to the curb, and parked. Then he got out, locking the door. He dropped the keys into his pocket with my gun and walked back.

"Come on," he said.

"Just a minute. How come you boys were after me so fast? How come you were so handy?"

There was enough light so I could see Carver squeeze his lips together. He said, "Not that it's any of your goddamn business, chum, but we got a call somebody heard a gunshot on Seacliff Drive. We were heading for Dane's when you took off from there like a greased pig. Any more questions?"

"One. Why Dane's? A lot of other people live on Seacliff."

"In the first place, the guy phoned from the eighteen-hundred block. In the second place, Dane got himself a gun yesterday." He paused. "Amateurs that start lugging guns around sooner or later usually shoot somebody. Or get shot. Now you tell me something, Scott. You damn sure that was another car?"

"Why, you stupid, goddamned—"

He slammed his hand against my chest, bunched my coat. I grunted as the pain knifed through my side, then I started to reach for his arm. But suddenly he let go of me. "Sorry," he said. "Forgot you were banged up. Just don't pop off any more, Scott. Now get in the car."

We all climbed in, Blake in back with me, and Carver behind the wheel. Carver sighed and said, "Well, we might as well go take a look at him."

And not until that moment did it penetrate all the way, really get inside me where it hurt. Emmett was dead. It was like losing an arm. I think I'd rather have lost an arm.

Chapter Nine

His body lay on the carpet, before an overstuffed chair, one arm underneath him and the other outstretched. Carver had me go through all my motions in detail, and I showed him how I'd entered and where I'd fallen, then led the way through the house to the door by which I'd left. When we got back to the bedroom, Blake was just getting up from beside Dane's body.

I stopped and looked down at Emmett, at what was left of him, and there was anger inside me, but it was a kind of faint and impotent anger now, drowned and smothered by the awful sickness that I felt. I knew with a quiet and irrevocable certainty that I wouldn't ever leave till I found the men who had brutally murdered Dane.

Carver touched my arm. He had my gun in his hand, the cylinder swung out. "Only one slug left," he said. "How come?"

"I forgot. When they took off, I fired at them three, four times. Probably hit the car. Don't know about anybody in it."

He pressed the cylinder back in and returned the revolver to his pocket. He glanced at Dane and then looked at Blake. "What kind of gun did that?"

Blake shrugged. "God knows."

I didn't hear any siren, but a car stopped in front of the house and soon other police officers came inside. Two were in plain clothes. Carver said to me, "OK. We'll go downtown, Scott." The photographer's flash bulb flared behind us as we left.

Chief Thurmond was reading his newspaper again when we went in. He was either remarkably well informed on current affairs, or else he knew every move Dick Tracy made. Blake and I sat down while Carver stood by the chief's desk and gave him a quick sketch of what had happened.

The chief looked at me. Under the sparse brows, his eyes were like pools of fog in his milky face. "Well?" he said.

"That's about it. And despite what you said in our last talk, you've got some pro hoods in town now."

"That so?"

"If I ever heard of a pro kill, this was it. One or two guys inside—I think I heard two of them running—getaway car outside with the motor idling, doors open, man behind the wheel ready to take off. Probably a stolen car and stolen plates. If you're lucky, maybe you can catch them."

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. By now the killers would undoubtedly have ditched the car and taken off, probably in another buggy previously parked in readiness. I shut my eyes again, remembering that moment when my lights had fallen on the back of the dark sedan. The strangeness of its being there had made me notice the license number, but until now there'd been too much action for me to think clearly about it. Finally, I remembered it: 1R61245.

I gave it to Thurmond. He nodded to Blake, who got up and went out of the room. Then Thurmond said to Carver, "That the way it looked?"

Carver shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Checks as far as we know. All we've got so far is Scott's story. We got there, like I said, just as he was taking off."

"After the Chevy," I said pointedly.

Carver stared at me. "Scott," he said levelly, "the only car we saw was yours leaving like a bat out of hell. I'm not saying there wasn't a Chevy, I'm just saying we didn't see anybody else. Most likely your story's straight, chum, but so far there's nothing to back it up."

I started to get hot, but then I relaxed in my seat, thinking about it. It had been difficult enough for me to see the Chevy's taillight in the fog; probably Blake and Carver couldn't have seen it ahead of me, and they'd have been concentrating on my Cad, anyway. Actually, he was right. Except for what I'd told them, they wouldn't have a thing to go on.

I gave Thurmond the whole story: leaving the hospital, talking to Zimmerman outside, then calling Dane and seeing Baron and Lilith Manning. "From her place," I said, "I went straight to Dane's. Saw the car in front. You know the rest. Incidentally, Zimmerman told me he worked for Jim Norris. And Zimmerman is the bastard who killed Dane—one of them, at least. Norris is the pleasant character who put me in the hospital. And it's time you get that squared away."

The chief was quiet for a moment, then he said, "You got some proof of this?"

"A bent rib, a bashed skull, and my word. Isn't that enough? You should be able to fill up your jail with what I've given you."

"Yeah," the chief said. "Trouble is that you're the only one who's told this to us. We'll get Norris down here again, though."

"Again? You mean you actually went to the trouble of talking to him?"

Chief Thurmond's pale face flushed angrily. "I've had about enough of your popping off, Scott. Yes, we talked to him. Four hours down here. I don't like Norris personally, but there's no evidence he's committed any crime. Just about everything you say we've got came out of your loud mouth."

"Didn't Clyde Baron and Miss Manning give you the same story I have?"

He nodded. "They both came down. All they've got is some suspicions—mostly what you've told them they ought to be suspicious of."

There was a lot more talk, and I sat with the chief and Carver and Blake for another hour. They took my statement and I signed it, and by the time the hour was ended, I knew men had been dispatched to find Norris and a few of his goons whom I'd described. Zimmerman was included in the search, too, but I doubted that he would be anywhere around now. No word had yet come in on the Chevy.

Finally, Chief Thurmond said to me, "Well, we're going to let you go, Scott. Where you staying in town?"

I hadn't even thought about it till now. "I don't know. Dane's, I guess. At least, I was going to. I don't know."

"We got to know where you are, Scott. Might want you down here again."

"Make it Dane's."

During the last hour Carver had left the room and come back to put my .38 on the chief's desk. I said, "How about my gun?"

He chewed on his lip, but he poked the gun across the desk and I picked it up. Before I stuck it away, I broke it open and looked at the cylinder. Four empty cartridges were in it, but that was all. I usually keep one chamber empty under the hammer; now two chambers were empty. I looked at Carver.

"Test bullet," he said casually. "You didn't think we'd miss that, did you?"

I shrugged, stuck the empty gun in its holster, and walked out of the room. Carver went with me to the main entrance on Third Street.

At the door, he handed me my car keys. I said, "I don't suppose you'd have any loose thirty-eight shells. Empty gun's not much good."

"I don't suppose we would," he said. "I'd just as soon you never got any. The chief expects you to hang around, but I don't think he'd bust out bawling if you went back to L.A. You ask me, the best place for you is clear the hell out of this town."

"I'm not asking you, because I don't agree with you, Carver. Maybe I've got little use for what the cops say in this town."

His pouched eyes narrowed and muscle wiggled at the sides of his jaws. He reached out and grabbed my coat, bunched it together. "I'm goddamn tired of your loose mouth."

"Let go, Carver." I brought my right hand up from my side.

He grinned tightly. "You know what happens if you try swinging at me?"

"Yeah, you lose some teeth. And you let go."

He released my coat, glancing to his right. I followed his gaze and saw Blake near us, leaning against the wall. Carver said, "OK, beat it. But I'm awful sick of you. You better just keep on going. You give me any trouble again, it'll be a sad day for you, Scott."

I didn't say anything. Finally he walked over toward Blake and I left.

I flagged a taxi and had the driver take me to my Cad, and I asked him to wait while I unlocked the trunk and opened it. I wanted somebody around, and a little light, while I stood on the street. Pawing through all the equipment in the trunk, I finally found the box of .38 shells, loaded the gun, and dropped some extra rounds into my coat pocket. Then I locked the trunk, paid off the cab driver, and got behind the Cad's wheel.

I timed two red lights so that I barely slipped through, and later parked for two or three minutes at a stop sign. Then, reasonably sure nobody was on my tail, I drove fast back to where Carver had originally parked my Cad. Here was where I'd lost the Chevy, and I kept driving straight ahead for several blocks, then took a right and headed back, looking on both sides of the street.

Unless I was clear off the beam, it was almost sure that the Chevy would have been ditched. I wanted to be certain. Fifteen minutes later, I was. On Walnut Street, less than half a mile from where Carver and Blake had stopped me, I found the Chevy. A police car was parked behind it and several curious citizens were standing nearby. I parked around the corner and walked back.

It was the same car. Nineteen-fifty Chevrolet four-door sedan, license 1R61245, one bullet hole in the right rear fender. My aim was lousy. The policemen present weren't putting out any information, but I managed to get a look at the car's registration slip. It was in the name of Manuel H. Mendoza at an address in Santa Ana.

There wasn't much point in checking further to find out what I already knew—that another car would have been parked here and that the men would have driven away in it two hours ago. I went back to the Cad and drove clear out of town, then pulled into a service station and used the phone. I called a friend at the Motor Vehicle Department in Los Angeles, asked him to check the license number for me, then hung up and waited till he called back. The license plates had been issued to one Arthur Seaburn, of Coast Boulevard in Laguna Beach. That settled that.

Back in the Cad, I kept driving on up the coast till I found a motel. I got a room, parked my Cad in the adjoining garage, went inside, and climbed into bed. I lay awake a long time. I was going back to Seacliff, but I had a lot of thinking to do first, and I was going back in broad daylight. It seemed I was still on the edge of this mess, and I didn't want to get shot in the back while I worked in toward the middle. I drove into Seacliff the next morning at eleven. I felt safe enough on a busy street, but not so safe that I could completely relax, let my guard down. On Main, I waited for a red light to change, looking around automatically for any face I might recognize. I saw the newspaper stand on the corner. I looked right at the big black headlines on the local Star and away before the words registered. Then they penetrated. The light changed and a car honked behind me, but I turned my head again to stare at the newspaper, uncomprehending, as I read the blaring headlines: "Emmett Dane Suicide."

I had the attendant bring me a paper, paid him while cars honked loudly behind me, then pulled around the corner and parked while I read the story. It was bylined E. C. Lane and occupied the most prominent spot, two columns at the right edge of the front page. I glanced over it rapidly. The story didn't quite carry out the declaration of the headlines, saying, "While the possibility of foul play has not been discounted, a preliminary investigation indicates that Dane committed suicide last night in his home at 1844 Seacliff Drive. Dane, long active in community affairs . . ."

I glanced over the rest of the story, put the car into gear, and drove to the Star building. I went inside with the paper half crumpled in my hand. Betty was seated at her desk. I walked to it, spread the paper before her.

"Who the hell wrote this stupid story?"

She glanced up. "Oh, Shell," she said. Her soft face looked drawn and tired. "I wrote it. E. C. Lane—Elizabeth Lane."

"Don't you know Dane wasn't the kind of man to kill himself?"

She bit her lip. "I know. I didn't enjoy writing the story. That's the information I was given by the police. I only know he's dead, Shell, not how he died. I . . . wasn't there."

"Well, I was."

Her light brown eyes widened slightly behind the harlequin glasses, then she stood up and led me to one of the offices at the rear of the room and inside it. She shut the door and we were alone. "What do you mean?" she said.

"You got this story from the cops?"

"Yes. I saw them this morning, right after I heard."

"You mean they didn't say anything about me? I found his body. I got to Dane's home right after he was killed."

She shook her head, frowning. "The police didn't mention your name. Shell, what happened? Do you know he was killed?"

"He was murdered." I started at the beginning and gave her the story, all of it, including my session with the cops later.

When I finished, Betty had taken off the dark-rimmed glasses and was tapping them gently against her cheek. She said, "It's . . . it's odd."

"You bet it's odd. This is the first you've heard about what I just told you?"

She nodded. "Yes. I talked to Chief Thurmond. He couldn't tell me much, but he said he might have much more for me later, and that they were still investigating."

"They'll be investigating in the year two thousand if I know the cops in this town. I could stick the local Boy Scout chapter in the station and get more done. I wonder why the hell they gave out this bunch of guff."

"They must have a reason."

"Yeah. And I'm going to find out what it is." I thought a minute. "Betty, I think Emmett wrote out a will several years ago. Do you know who inherits his property now?"

She frowned. "Funny, I hadn't even thought about that yet. I imagine his ex-wife and daughter get it. They're living in Illinois now. I don't know for sure, but I'll check on it." She paused a moment. "Ferris Gordon is—was Emmett's lawyer. He should be able to tell me."

"Good. Thurmond said he might have a lot more for you later. He say what he meant?"

"No. Just that he'd keep the Star informed of any developments."

I turned and started for the door.

"Shell," she said.

I had my hand on the doorknob. She walked up to me and said, "Are you all right? I haven't seen you since that night you drove me home. I stopped by the hospital, but they wouldn't let me in."

I smiled at her. "Thanks for dropping by. Guess I haven't even said hello, have I? Hello."

She smiled. "Hello. I understand, though."

"I guess I was more . . . relaxed last time we talked."

"More crazy, too. You know, you got me so flustered I let you drive me home—and I had my own car here at the office."

I'd forgotten about the car she'd driven to Dane's that first day. "That brown Ford?"

"Uh-huh. Isn't that silly? I left it parked out in front all night." She'd been smiling, but her face sobered as she asked, "Were you badly hurt?"

"They hurt more than my feelings, but I feel pretty good now." As a matter of fact, I did feel well enough physically. My side was somewhat tender and I had a dull headache most of the time, but I was in the best shape I'd been in since I left the hospital. I said, "I'm in much better shape than Norris will be if I get my hands on him."

"Norris? All I heard was that you'd been hit by a car."

"I was. By a car and some punks belonging to Jim Norris."

I gave her the story, briefly, and she looked angry when I finished. "Do you know what I'm going to do, Shell? I'm going to write the story, all of it, everything you've told me, and I'll get it printed if I have to mimeograph it."

"Somebody ought to print it. Maybe I'll have some more for you when I get back."

"You going to see Chief Thurmond?"

"Yeah. And a couple of pinheads named Carver and Blake."

I told her good-by and drove to the police station. I just barged down there and walked inside, and it never occurred to me that I couldn't have done anything more completely stupid.

I got a glimpse of Patrolman Blake talking to the desk sergeant as I went in, but I kept on going to the chief's office. The door was partly open so I barged inside. The chief was behind his desk and Sergeant Carver sat in one of the chairs before it. That suited me; I wanted to talk to both of them.

I thought the chief looked startled when he saw me, but I walked to him and spread my crumpled copy of the Star before him. "Thurmond," I said, "didn't you hear a word I told you last night? What kind of stupid play is this?"

The door clicked shut behind me and I glanced over my shoulder to see Blake inside the room, his back against the door. He wasn't looking at me, but at Carver, an odd expression on his lean face.

Chief Thurmond said quietly, "Sit down, Mr. Scott. You seem upset."

"You're damned right I'm upset. What about this idiotic story? And have you even talked to Norris yet? What about that Zimmerman guy? The car—"

He interrupted. "Sit down. One thing at a time, Mr. Scott."

I sat down, but I was so hot I almost popped right back out of the chair. "All right, then. One thing. Why doesn't the paper say Dane was murdered."

"Listen, Scott, we know it wasn't suicide—at least from what you told us. But this way, the killers—if there are any, will figure they're clear. Give us more chance to get something definite on them."

"What the hell do you mean, if there are any?"

There was something funny in the air here in the room, a kind of tension or suppressed excitement that I could almost feel. The chief looked at Blake, then at Carver, and finally fixed his gray eyes on my face. "Frankly, we haven't got a thing. No proof, that is, except what you told us."

"What about that license number?" I snapped. "That stolen car? I told you it was a pro job. What more do you need? Car stolen from Santa Ana, plates lifted from Laguna, man waiting at the wheel, car ditched on the getaway route. For God's sake, there was every part of a professional kill except a crash car!"

I stopped so suddenly that I knew they'd all be looking at me. I'd had it now; oh, brother, I'd had it. In almost every well-planned professional murder the getaway car is followed by another automobile, the "crash car," which has only one purpose: to block off or delay pursuit, stop any civilian or police car that might give chase, thus letting the killers get away. And all along, clear up till here and now, I'd assumed there hadn't been that element of the pro job, simply because the killers had utilized the crash car of the century, a crash car to end all crash cars. It had been, naturally, a police radio car. With Sergeant Carver and Patrolman Blake in it.

In one instant a dozen related ideas flashed into my mind, but the biggest one was that I had opened my mouth and put both feet into it. I had dug my grave with my mouth.

The genial chief wasn't genial any more. He didn't even look soft and flabby now. All of a sudden he looked cold, hard, dangerous.

Chapter Ten

I let out my breath. A lot of things were clear now. Blake and Carver, and undoubtedly Chief Thurmond, too, were in with Norris and the hoods. The crooked cops explained why the few legitimate complaints about Seaco had been suppressed or ignored, and also how Norris could operate so boldly. And I was up that well-known creek, in leaking water wings, unless I could keep them thinking I was still as stupid and unsuspecting as I'd been until now.

Only a second or two had elapsed, and now Chief Thurmond leaned toward me.

"What's the matter, Scott?"

I pasted on a grin and said quickly, "It just occurred to me, Chief, that I guess I didn't mention Mendoza and Seaburn before now. Maybe you're wondering how come I knew about them."

His face relaxed a bit. "What about that?" he said.

"Well, you remember I said last night that the killers probably used a stolen car and plates. The way you talked, frankly, I wasn't sure you believed me." I couldn't cool off too quickly—not if I was going to make these guys think I was still being conned by them. So I glanced at Carver, who was seated on my left, and said, "I doubted that the good sergeant could think that straight with that hole in his head, so I took a look for the getaway car myself."

Carver got halfway out of his chair and said, "Hey, I'm not gonna—" but the chief cut him off with a word and told me to go on.

I said, "I spotted the car on Walnut, and I checked the registration and license. Found out from the Motor Vehicle Department who the plates had been issued to, and that settled it."

"Why didn't you report this, Scott?"

"Radio car was there at the Chevy before I looked it over. I figured you had the dope, or would have in a few minutes." I paused. "There's proof enough that Dane's murder was planned, and quite a while in advance, too. You still haven't given me any good reasons for this suicide story."

"I explained that," the chief said. "As a matter of fact, there's still no proof you didn't kill Dane yourself. A real smart fellow like you, Scott, could have swiped the car and plates himself, and planted them on Walnut there just in case something went wrong. Then you could swear you were chasing a Chevy with half a dozen guys in it—and what do you know, the police find a Chevy. So naturally you couldn't have made the story up."

"That takes the cake," I said. "That's the silliest—"

The chief went on, "I'm not saying it was anything like that, but it could have happened that way."

"OK. I killed him. I confess. I used a bazooka chambered for dry ice. My motive—well, I just didn't have any."

Carver broke into the conversation. "Not funny," he said. "I don't doubt we could find a motive if we looked a while. Maybe you think I'm kidding?" He scowled at me. "There's plenty to hold you on, Scott." He glanced at Thurmond. So did I.

They didn't need anything to hold me on. All they needed was a dark cell to hold me in. It all depended on the chief. If he felt like it, if he thought the smart play would be to lock me up, there'd be no phone in my cell so I could call the marines.

I stood up, not knowing whether they'd let me go now or not. And I didn't like the look on Thurmond's face.

"Sit down," he said. "Carver's right, there's plenty to book you on. You haven't got a client, now Dane's dead, but you been causing nothing but trouble here."

It sounded as if the chief were wondering if I'd cause him more trouble in jail than out. I added my bit to the double talk, not believing a word of it, just trying to act my part. "You can't be serious. You book me and I'd be out on bail in an hour, then slap you with a fat false-arrest suit. Besides, I've got a client. Two of them, as a matter of fact. Lilith Manning and Clyde Baron. I, uh, think." I would have said Father Divine was my client if I'd thought it would help.

That phrase slowed the chief down, though, and I wondered why I hadn't mentioned Lilith and Baron before. No matter how crooked the chief and these two cops were, it seemed to me they'd be damned careful about antagonizing two people who pulled as much weight as Baron and Lilith—unless they figured I was onto their play.

"Oh?" he said. "Since when is this? And what do you mean, you think?"

"Well, I'm working for them, but I haven't seen them much lately. Too many things happening."

The chief started to say something, then stopped and glanced at Carver and Blake. He pursed his lips, frowning for half a minute, then said, "We'll see, Scott," and pulled his desk phone over to him and dialed.

In a moment he spoke, his voice unctuous, his tone respectful. "Clyde? Wallace Thurmond. We have this Shell Scott down here. Says he's working for you. What about that?"

He listened a few seconds, then said, "We were . . . questioning him in connection with Emmett Dane's death . . . What? . . . Well, we thought we might hold him a while . . . I see. All right, Clyde. Thanks." He hung up, fingers drumming on top of the phone while he looked at me.

"Mr. Baron is coming down," he said.

I swallowed. "Naturally."

It took Baron fifteen minutes to get to the police station, and in the meantime I asked the chief if they'd got anything out of Norris, or found the guy who called himself Zimmerman. Naturally the answer was that they had not, and that they'd even been unable to get in touch with Norris, who hadn't been seen around town for a few days, according to Thurmond. I didn't expect any other answer, I was just making conversation. Finally Baron arrived and barged into the chief's office. He shook Thurmond's hand, talking rapidly and loudly. When the chief asked if he was my client, Baron looked at me for a couple of seconds and said, "That's right." And when Baron and I started to leave, Thurmond made no objection. We went out of the room and I shut the chief's door behind us, breathing unevenly.

At the main entrance to the building Baron stopped me for a moment and said, "I'm afraid I didn't understand all that, Mr. Scott. Why were they holding you?"

Nobody else was nearby, but I wasn't going to say very much until I was clear out of the police station. "They thought they had reasons," I said. "I'll tell you about it. First, let's get out of here."

He nodded, but he didn't move. "What's this about Dane's suicide? Why were they questioning you?"

"I found his body. And it wasn't suicide. Norris sent some of his thugs to kill Dane."

He grimaced. "I was afraid of that. I'm worried. Are you sure?"

"Damn right I'm sure."

He shook his head, frowning deeply. "If they'd kill Dane, what about me? And Lilith? Have you seen her?"

"Not since last night."

"She was trying to reach you. Phoned me this morning, wanted to know where you were. I didn't know, of course."

I wondered what she wanted, and if it were any different from what she'd wanted the last time. It could be that she'd been approached again by one of Norris's hoodlums.

I asked Baron, "She seemed anxious, huh?"

"Yes. Told me it was important. I think you should see her."

"Well, I'll go out and find out what's eating her. Maybe later—" I stopped. We were still standing inside the front entrance, and I heard shoe leather scrape behind me. I turned around to see Chief Thurmond a few feet away, walking toward the desk sergeant. He'd been close enough to hear me, but he didn't seem to be paying any attention to us. I took Baron's arm and we went outside onto the sidewalk. His car was parked at the curb, in a no-parking strip, and he got inside it.

I leaned on the window and said, "You had any more trouble with the Seaco boys?"

He shook his head. "No. But frankly, I'm not going to stick my neck out much longer. I'd sell everything I own, even the clothes on my back, before I'd take the chance of winding up like Emmett."

"Well, all hell's going to break loose in this town before long. Your honest chief, as well as Carver and Blake and maybe more, are just as crooked as Norris."

His mouth dropped open and he looked at me as if I had turned blue. "You must be out of your mind."

"The hell I am." I told him what had happened last night when I chased the hoods from Dane's, told him about the crash car.

He was still frowning. "But that doesn't mean they're in league with Norris."

"It does to me. Maybe it isn't proof, but the proof is somewhere, and I'll find it if I can." If I live, I was thinking. "You think about it. I'll check with Lilith now. Thanks for helping me out."

"I owed you at least that much for your help, Mr. Scott. Although things aren't really much better, are they?"

He gave me a bleak look and told me to get in touch with him after I saw Lilith, and I walked the few steps to my Cad.

I started the car and pulled away from the curb, keeping a sharp eye peeled for company. A mile from the city limits my rearview mirror showed the road empty behind me, so at least I hadn't been followed. In a moment I spotted the white blob of the Manning home on my right. Turning off Vincent Street into the driveway, I saw Lilith on the porch. She stood up as I parked alongside the house.

This was the first time I'd seen her with any clothes on—that is, in anything but a swimsuit—and, though she still looked delicious, it almost seemed a shame that she ever dressed. I walked up onto the porch and she held both hands toward me, took mine, and said, "Hello, Shell. I've been trying to locate you."

"Hi. I saw Baron and he told me you wanted to see me. What's the matter?"

"I don't know. A dozen things, I guess." She pulled me toward her, slid her arms around my neck, and kissed me, squeezing me tight with her arms. Then she stepped away from me.

"Hey," I said with little gallantry. "I hope that's not the only reason you wanted to see me."

She smiled slightly. "Oh? Then I don't look as kissable as I did last night? You didn't mind then." She sat down on the couch again.

It was impossible, of course, for her to look as delightful now as she had last night, but there was nothing wrong with her appearance at the moment. She wore a light green nylon blouse with a dark green skirt, both of which she filled to perfection.

"You look wonderful, Lilith. But I'll be brutally frank. I don't care how wonderful you look. There's too much happening today, or about to happen, for me to sit here admiring you, pleasant as that might be. If that's all, then I've got to leave. I thought—"

"But it isn't all," she said. "I made up my mind after I read today's Star. About Emmett Dane. I don't think he killed himself."

"He didn't." I had to go through it all again, as I had for Baron. When I'd brought her up to date, she nodded.

"It doesn't really surprise me, not any of it, Shell. But it doesn't make any difference to me. I'm leaving."

I couldn't blame her a bit; in her place, I'd probably have taken off long ago. "I'm sorry," I said. "No more Seacliff, huh?"

"Never again, Shell. Will you miss me a little?"

"Sure. Where you going?"

"I don't know. Maybe Hawaii, maybe Europe again. I've got lots of money, more than I'll ever need. I can go anyplace I want, do anything I want to do. I'm single. Unattached. And I like company."

"Guess everybody likes company."

"Shell, why don't you go with me? We could have lots of fun." She smiled. "I might rent a house with a pool."

I didn't answer for a moment. Then I said, "It's a very attractive suggestion, Lilith. But there are a lot of reasons why it's no good. In the first place, I can't leave Seacliff. Not for a while."

"Why? Shell, we could just leave. Right now, this minute. Jump in the car and go—anywhere."

I shook my head. "I've got too many— well, too many debts to pay."

"Forget that, Shell. What good will it do in the long run? We can have fun. We will."

"No soap, honey."

Her attitude changed then. Her face flushed slightly and she said with her lips curling, "The hell with you. You should have driven up on a white horse, armor clanking. What do you think you are, a crusader?" She kept it going for a while, then stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"I didn't mean all that. Woman scorned, I guess. It's not much fun." She was silent for several seconds, then patted the cushioned couch at her side. "Sit down. And kiss me." She smiled. "That's the least you can do."

I sat down. I kissed her. As a matter of fact, I even did a bit more than the least. Finally, I looked around.

"Nobody can see us," she said huskily.

Lilith's arms were around my neck and she was pulling me to her, moist lips parted and curved slightly in a smile that spoke volumes, and the volumes were the kind people ban, but I pulled away from her. This wasn't doing me any good. That is, it was doing me a great deal of good, but no matter how I improved my position with Lilith, I wasn't improving my position in Seacliff. Both positions were quite desperate at the moment, and I knew if I stayed here, both positions would gradually get worse. I stood up.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked. Then she smiled. "That rib still bothering you?"

"That's not what's bothering me. I've got to go."

"I will not let you go," she said. Two of the buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned, and she was breathing slowly but rhythmically, and she had lots of rhythm.

I said inanely, "I will see you in Honolulu. I will keep in touch, and drop up, and give you the shirt off my back, but right now I've got to go. I absolutely have got to go."

I turned and started off the porch, but she grabbed my arm. "What's the matter with you?" she asked. "Be sensible."

"I'm not going to be sensible. It just wouldn't be . . . sensible. Here the town is swarming with hoods and crooked cops, most of them out for my blood, and I'm not doing a thing to solidify my position . . . ah, protect myself, you know, finish the job I started."

"I'm beginning to think you never finish anything you start."

"Yes, I do, I always— Look, this is silly."

While I talked, I had moved away from her till I stood on the graveled driveway beneath the porch. She stood above me with her hands on her hips, looking unhappy.

"Good-by," I said.

"The hell with you."

I blew her a kiss, got into the Cad, and started the motor before I weakened. I drove in low to the edge of the driveway at Vincent Street. There I eased on the brakes, looking left and right, started to pull into the road, and then slammed the brakes on hard when I saw a black car two blocks away coming like a bat out of hell, at least seventy miles an hour.

It was coming from the direction of town, and speeding so fast that I took no chance of tangling with it even though it was still a good block from me. I left the car in gear, the clutch in and motor idling. It seemed that the driver must have thought I was pulling into the street, because I heard the tires shriek as he slammed on the brakes and the car swerved in the road and then straightened out. But instead of speeding up again, the car kept slowing, and when it was ten yards from me its speed must have dropped to near thirty.

There was barely time for alarm to jump through my nerves. Then I saw the man staring at me through the open window on the passenger's side, saw sunlight glance off the gun his hand held toward me. I jumped, letting everything go, hands leaving the wheel and foot slipping off the clutch pedal as I dived sideways toward the right-hand door, and as my fingers slipped over the door handle I heard the gun crack, and then crack again. At the same moment, the car jumped forward as the gears engaged, and that plus my sudden movement probably saved me. I heard the slugs crash into the rear of the car, and then I shoved the door open and sprawled through it.

My Cad had leaped forward into the street before it stalled. I got a flashing glimpse of the other car swerving to the far side of the road, probably forced there by the sudden lunge of my Cad. I rolled over and felt my knees crack against the street as I got them under me, my right hand closing over the butt of my .38.

I flipped the gun toward the other car as its wheels hit the dirt off the paving. It swerved as a gun cracked again and I heard the slug hit near me and ricochet away. I snapped a shot at the car, aimed at the man visible in its window. His gun fired again, then I squeezed my trigger, pulled the Colt's barrel back, and squeezed.

The other car swerved and stopped in loose dirt off the road and I whirled around, sprinted toward my Cad as another gun boomed. I wasn't hit, but I heard the tinkle of glass breaking somewhere nearby. Hidden behind the Cadillac, I bent over and moved to the hood, fumbling in my coat pocket for the cartridges I'd dropped into it last night. I found them, pulled out a handful, and rested my right arm on the Cad's hood as I peered over its top.

Standing at the side of the other car, only thirty or forty feet away now, was the bulky figure of a man, a gun in his hand. For a brief moment, he wasn't looking at me, but at the house behind me. Then he jerked his head toward me, flipping up his gun and firing. I slammed the last shots in my .38 at him and missed as he dropped to the ground, then I ducked down out of sight. It took only a few seconds to reload my gun, but when I looked over the hood again I saw the bulky, vaguely familiar form of the man sprinting, hunched over, away from his car toward the protection of the trees nearby.

I snapped a shot at him as he reached the trees' cover, but I must have missed, because I could hear him still running. With the gun ready in front of me, I sprinted the few yards to the car, heart pounding in my chest and my throat dry. There were no more shots. I reached the car but couldn't see anybody inside. I grabbed the door handle and twisted, jerked the door open.

I almost fired as I saw movement, but I held my finger off the trigger as a man's body moved toward me. He had been slumped against the door and now he swayed slowly, then fell through the open door to the dirt, turning onto his back with one arm flopping across his chest as if he were still alive.

Much of his chin was missing and there was a jagged red hole in his throat from which blood still oozed onto his white shirt. But even with part of his lean face gone I recognized Blake. Now I knew why that other bulky form had been familiar; it had been his buddy, Carver.

So I hadn't fooled them; there in the chief's office they'd merely let me think I had. That was why they'd let me go—so I could be killed out here far from town. And Thurmond had heard me and Baron.

I was still keyed up and shocked, not thinking clearly enough. As I stared inside the car and saw the blood on the seat, I also saw the radiophone off its hook and dangling at the end of its cord. At first I didn't get it, couldn't understand why two murderous cops would put out a call when they'd actually been trying to kill me.

And then I understood for I heard sirens. The shrill, high whine was faint still, but cars were on their way. I was the only man who knew Blake and Carver had fired first, were attempting to kill me in cold blood. My word alone would never prove I'd fired in self-defense. The important thing was that I was now fair game for any police officer, for any policeman in the world, for any man with a gun.

I had killed a cop.

Chapter Eleven

Even with the whine of approaching sirens in my ears, that was the only thing I could think of for seconds: I was that lowest of criminals, a cop-killer. And there wasn't the slightest question now about what I had to do. I had to run.

I turned and sprinted to the Cad. When I got the car straightened on the highway I stepped on the gas. I don't know why I looked toward the big white house; I'd completely forgotten about Lilith. Suddenly I realized that she was what Carver must have been staring at in that moment when I'd first seen him beside the car. Lilith was still standing on the porch, both hands at her throat. For a moment, I kept going, then I slammed on the brakes, backed up, and ripped into the curving drive and skidded to a stop before her. I couldn't leave her here. She'd seen what had happened; she was the only person in the world who could testify that I'd killed in self-defense. And I knew if any of the crooks lined up against me got to her, she wouldn't live five seconds. She was in it as deeply now as I was. There wasn't a chance that Carver hadn't seen her.

Gravel from the driveway spun from under the wheels and hit her legs as I stopped, but she didn't move. An expression of shock and horror was on her blood-drained face. Behind her and a few yards to her right, one of the windows was broken, undoubtedly smashed by a slug fired at me—or perhaps it had even been fired at Lilith herself.

"Get in," I yelled. "We've got to get out of here."

She seemed to snap out of it suddenly. "But the sirens—the police. They'll be here in a minute."

"For God's sake, those guys shooting at me were policemen. Get in."

She shook her head dazedly. Those sirens were louder now; they couldn't be much more than half a minute away.

"Get in!"

"I'm afraid."

It took me no more than two seconds to make up my mind. If Lilith got in the car, she might get hit if the cops started shooting, as she obviously realized. And they'd sure as hell be shooting. In about twenty seconds now, I figured.

"Then run," I said. "Run like hell. Carver must know you saw what happened. He'll kill you, baby."

"Stables," she said. "The horses. They can't follow me if I ride." She looked as if she were going to faint. Then she shook her head and said, "Shell, I know they tried to kill you, I saw what happened. I'll stay in town. If you need me."

I wasn't going to argue. "Where. Where can you go?"

She bit deeply into her lip. Suddenly she spoke in a rush. "Craig—Dorothy Craig. She'll help me. I'll be there if you need me."

She ran toward the back of the house as I jerked the gears into low and the car leaped forward on the curving drive. The sirens' scream was almost upon me. They couldn't be more than a block away and I knew if I turned to my right and tried to outrun them they'd be on me in seconds. The only chance I had was to turn left, straight at them, and hope I made it past, got far enough away to outrun them before they could turn around to give chase.

Trees blocked my view of the road on my left where their cars would be, rushing toward me, but I had to chance it, pray that they wouldn't be dead ahead in the street when I swung into it. I shoved the gearshift into second as I hit the end of the drive, twisted the wheel hard to the left, and felt the tires skid as I saw the car on my left roaring down upon me. I jerked the steering wheel to swing the Cad away, my foot jamming the gas pedal hard against the floor.

I saw the police car lurch as the driver instinctively jerked the wheel, then my Cad shuddered as the rear fender of their swerving car glanced against the Cad's fender, the Cad lurching and the jar traveling up into my clenched hands. But the Cad stayed on the road and I straightened it out, kept the gas pedal down.

A block away another black police car was speeding toward me. They couldn't have missed seeing what had happened, and the car's front dipped suddenly as the officer driving slammed on the brakes. As the distance between us lessened, the other car slued left and stopped crosswise in the road ahead of me.

I held my breath and squeezed the steering wheel, eyes staring at the police car as it skidded a little too far, completely blocking my half of the road but leaving space behind it. Enough. Maybe it was enough. I pulled on the wheel, trying to miss the back of that car without hitting the soft dirt on the road's edge, and the car was a blur on my right as I flashed past it. At the same moment, I heard a gun crack and felt splinters of glass sting my face.

The left wheels hit dirt off the road and the Cad fishtailed crazily. I fought the wheel, letting up on the gas until I felt the tires bite solid asphalt again, then I jammed the accelerator down once more. The speedometer needle swung up to eighty, hung, then hit eighty-five, ninety. Reflections in the rearview mirror were too blurred and distorted from this high speed on a rough road for me to recognize anything but I knew the two police cars must be a good mile behind.

I was heading for a road just this side of Seacliff, a two-lane highway that stretched inland toward the hills there, and the thickly brush-covered country. Half a dozen or more roads branched off the highway, and though I didn't know which one I'd take if I reached them, I was going down one of them. At the highway I slowed barely enough to make the turn, glancing behind me as I pulled left. There was a glimpse of one car, far down the road, then I concentrated on the highway ahead. With any luck, I'd get away, but it would be only a momentary respite. Police radios would be busy now, putting out the word on Shell Scott. A dangerous character, Scott, armed, approach with caution—to be interpreted in my case as "Shoot on sight." I could imagine the cops standing over Blake's body and swearing to get me.

The first turnoff was half a mile from the intersection behind me, the second was half a mile farther on. I kept going to the second one, looked as I slowed and turned. The road was still clear. The boys behind me would have at least two roads to check; with luck they'd take the wrong one.

Thirty minutes later and approximately forty miles from Seacliff, I was driving twenty miles an hour on a narrow road, looking for a spot where I could turn off. No other cars were in sight and the sun was halfway down the western sky. Some trees and scrubby growth lined both sides of the road, and finally I found a spot that suited me. Fifty yards on my right was a small grove of trees, thick enough to hide my car and me. I pulled off the road and drove over the hard-baked ground pitted with holes and small gullies, staring intently ahead to keep the car wheels from dropping into the bigger holes. I made it, parked out of sight from the road in the trees' shade, and turned off the motor. I lit a cigarette and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes. I'd had it now: I'd had it good. By this time there'd be all-points bulletins out on me, the teletypes would be clicking all up and down the West Coast.

I couldn't run any farther, either. Because as more time passed without their getting me, the word would spread along the wires till it covered the whole country. If I ran, it would just get worse, bigger, uglier. And running wouldn't help me, anyway. I had to stay here and prove, somehow, that even though I'd killed a cop, it hadn't been murder but justifiable homicide. And I didn't have any idea how I was going to do it.

With just Norris and his gang against me, it had been bad enough. Then it had turned out that Carver and Blake and the chief himself were on the other side, out for my blood. And now all the other cops, not only in Seacliff but all over the state, would be looking for me. All the good cops, the 999 out of 1,000, good ones, brave ones, decent and honest ones, would be after me, not knowing they were on the same side as the crooks and thugs and murderers.

Yeah, I'd had it. I'd had it good.

It was dark when I awakened. I sat up in the front seat, stretched the kinks out of my bones, then turned the dash lights on while I checked my wrist watch. Nine-thirty p.m.

My stomach rumbled emptily and I remembered I hadn't eaten since an early breakfast. Before napping I'd gone back and rubbed out any traces of tire marks where I'd driven off the road, and with a supply of food I could probably stay here indefinitely; the cops couldn't search every clump of trees in Southern California. But sitting here wouldn't help me out of the hole I was in, and the hole was probably getting deeper.

I smoked my last cigarette and turned on the radio. At ten o'clock I dialed KNX and listened to the news. I'd made the news broadcast. There wasn't much, just "A well-known Los Angeles private investigator, Sheldon Scott, is being sought in connection with the slaying of a Seacliff police officer. The policeman, Franklin Blake, was shot and killed by Scott during a gun battle this afternoon in Seacliff. Scott escaped driving a Cadillac convertible." The rest was more description of me and the Cad.

I turned the radio off. There'd been nothing about Carver, nor why there'd been a gun battle, naturally. No mention of Lilith Manning, either. I hoped she'd got away. Without her testimony—if there ever came a time when I could use testimony—I was sunk.

I sat for a few more minutes, then got out of the car and drained some water from the radiator, mixed it with dirt, and smeared the thin mud over my license plates. No headlights were in sight on the highway, so I drove to it and turned left, headed back the way I'd come. Four miles from my hideout there was a small one-pump gas station combined with a kind of country store and living quarters for the owner, which I'd noticed this afternoon. It was my main reason for stopping where I had. There was a phone booth outside the small building, too. The lights were still on when I reached the gas station, but before I pulled into it I opened the glove compartment and took out a beat-up hat I keep there, smoothed it out, and stuck it on my head. Then I turned in and parked alongside the pump.

In a moment, an elderly man came out and I told him to fill the tank. "Check everything, will you? Battery, tires, the works."

He nodded, and I slid out on the far side and walked to the weather-beaten phone booth. I got the Seacliff operator and had her ring Dorothy Craig's number. The phone buzzed a dozen times and finally the operator said, "Your party does not answer."

I swallowed. "Miss, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me Miss Craig's address. I'm coming into town and it's quite important that I see her. I'm afraid something may be . . . wrong."

In a moment she gave me the address, 4872 Carwell Street. I knew the general area, and at least it was on the outskirts of town. That was a help—if Lilith could get there. Or had been there. And if she was still alive, and this Dorothy Craig was really a friend of hers.

"Operator," I said, "if you have a phone listed there for Elizabeth Lane, will you ring it, please?"

She rang, the phone was answered, and I stuck two quarters into the slot. Then I recognized Betty's voice saying, "Hello."

"Hello, Betty." I stopped for a moment. If the police knew I'd become fairly well acquainted with Betty, there might be a tap on her phone. It wasn't very likely, but I couldn't take the chance that this conversation would be overheard by them. So I said, "Sorry I couldn't make it. I meant to bay at the moon outside your window, but I—"

I heard her gasp. "Shell!" she said. "Oh, Shell, Shell—"

Well, that tied it, if anybody was listening. Of course, I could be any of thousands of other Shells.

I said sadly, "Yeah. This is, uh, Shelley Winters."

"Shell, are you all right? Where—"

"Listen, baby. This is all real cute if your phone's tapped. Get out of there fast, go to a pay phone, and call me back." I gave her my number.

She understood quickly enough, and hung up.

While I waited for the phone to ring, I stuck my head out of the booth and called to the man gassing the car, "Got anything to eat here?"

It was too dark here for him to see me, but he glanced in my direction. "Too late for the grill. Got some factory-packed sandwiches."

I had him throw a dozen into the front seat with some Cokes, and then the phone rang. It was Betty.

"Shell, are you all right? Did you really—"

"If you mean did I shoot Blake, I really did. But not till he took a few shots at me. Blake and Sergeant Carver and Chief Thurmond are all in with Norris and his gang. They're the biggest crooks in town. I tumbled, so the chief sent his two boys to kill me. And I mean murder me. They tried, and they missed. I didn't. That's the whole story—and who'll believe me?"

There was no answer for several seconds, then she said softly, "I will, Shell. What are you going to do?"

"Baby, you've got me. I called hoping you might have found out something new, something that might help."

"I'm sorry. Nothing else since I saw you. I wish there were." She paused a moment. "I just knew you were all right, Shell. But how did it all happen?"

I told her. I told her every bit of it, including what I knew but couldn't yet prove. "That's it, but you can't print it. If you did, they'd know where you got your info, and that would be all, baby."

She was quiet a moment, then said, "Yes, it sounds fantastic. But it does explain a lot."

"Yeah. Including the reason for ten thousand cops itching to grab me. Listen, there wasn't much time to chat with Lilith Manning, but like I told you, she said she was going to this Dorothy Craig's. If she could get there. Apparently she was willing to stick around in case I need her as an eyewitness later. But I don't know where she is. I called Craig's but there was no answer. You ever hear of the gal?"

"I've met her, but I don't know much about her. Rather striking brunette, no visible means of support. Girl about town, you know. But I can check with her. Do you think something's happened to Miss Manning?"

"I don't know. Something will, if Carver or Thurmond spots her. If you do check, do it from ten miles away. Don't get personally involved, because these guys are nasty playmates."

"Besides wanting to help you, Shell, there's a big story in this for me if it works out."

"And a big hole in your pretty head if it doesn't. Honey, you're the only person in town besides Lilith that I know I can trust, and I couldn't contact Lilith."

"You wouldn't have phoned if you could have reached Miss Manning?"

"That's not what I meant. I'm going into town later—not tonight—and I'll need to know what the status quo is. But if I don't phone you again, at least you'll know the story."

She started to say something, stopped, then went on. "When you get in, come to my place. You've got to have someplace to— to hide. You can't just walk the streets."

"No, ma'am. Good way to get you killed, too. Maybe somebody's already staked out at your place."

"Then meet me somewhere."

We had a two-minute argument about it, but finally I told her I'd meet her at a restaurant called Lanny's. Another two minutes of argument and conversation and she asked if there was anything she could get for me. Half kidding, I told her.

She chuckled and said, "I can get the razor and the hair dye. All of it except Aladdin's lamp and the tank."

"Skip those, then. Skip them all if you want to."

"You're not coming in now?"

"No. Tomorrow night. About nine, say. The town will probably be almost as hot for me as it is now, but maybe the cops' eyes will be tired by then. Anyway, I've got to come back sometime. So, if I get in at all, I'll see you at Lanny's about 9 p.m.

"Shell . . ."

"What?"

"I— Nothing. Just . . . be careful."

"Sure." I hung up. I tried the Craig number again, without any luck, paid the gas-station attendant, made myself wait for the change, then went back to my trees and to sleep.

I eased on the brakes and swore softly, turned around in the street, and headed back. Another roadblock ahead, the second one I'd hit so far. I'd switched off the headlights when I first saw the glow ahead, and I doubted that I could be seen turning around. It was almost 8 p.m., and I was still five miles out of Seacliff.

Nothing had happened during last night or the long day just past, except that I got sick of baloney sandwiches and got enough sleep so that I was reasonably well rested. But if I stumbled into one of the roadblocks, plenty would happen. I drove half a mile and parked, trying to remember the countryside. I'd driven all around here as a kid in school, and I'd spent some time in this area during the last few years, and I knew there ought to be at least one road without cops blocking it.

There was. I remembered a dirt road that would take me almost to the city limits of Seacliff, and I found it. I drove to the city limits and into town without being stopped, but it was 10 p.m. before I was on the familiar streets again. And I'd told Betty I'd be in by nine. If I got in.

On Pepper Street, five blocks from Lanny's Restaurant, I took the Cad's registration slip off the wheel and shoved it under the seat, then pulled into a well-lighted parking lot on the corner just as if my name were Bill Brown, instead of mud, accepted the pasteboard check from an attendant and told him I might be gone an hour, and it might be a day or two. Then I walked out of the lights like a man with boils on his feet. I was sweating, literally and profusely, by the time I reached Lanny's.

Standing outside, I peered in through the window at the restaurant's dimly lighted interior. Candles burned on half a dozen tables and at least one couple was having dinner. Four booths lined the right wall, but I couldn't see if any of them were occupied.

I wasn't at all happy about walking in there. If Betty were waiting, all would be well, but in case anything had gone wrong, in case some friends of Carver or Norris were planted, I simply wouldn't last through the soup. I'd be in it. The hat was on my head, the .38 was in my coat pocket, and my hand was on the gun. I swallowed some air and walked in.

Chapter Twelve

I stood inside the door for a while but nothing happened. Nobody shot me, nobody hit me on the head. Then I walked past the tables and along the row of booths looking for Betty. She wasn't here.

I stopped by the last booth and looked toward the front of Lanny's as the door opened and somebody came in, walked toward me. It was Betty. She peered at my face in the dimness as she got closer, then she walked to me, put her arms around me, and hugged me for a moment. She dropped her arms and stepped back, as if suddenly embarrassed.

"Where have you been?" she asked me breathlessly. "I was so worried I was almost sick." She took my hand and pulled me to one of the booths, sat down opposite me. "I couldn't stand it, just sitting here," she said. "I kept going outside, looking around. When you came in, I wasn't even sure it was you."

I grinned at her. "It's me. Betty, you're wonderful. Thanks. Any trouble?"

"No. How about you? Why are you so late? I thought maybe they'd caught you."

"They slowed me down, that's all. You know, don't you, that you're sticking your neck out a mile?"

"No farther than yours, and it's my neck. I've got quite a bit to tell you, Shell." She put a hand to her lips, glancing around, then she asked softly, "What shall I call you?"

"Just call me stupid."

"Be serious."

"You think I'm kidding? Look, I'm agog with curiosity, but gagged from baloney sandwiches. Let's order a hearty something and you can tell me the score while we eat."

We both ordered rare steaks and before they arrived Betty peered at me and said, "You look—well, you actually look like a hunted man."

"That's me." I knew what she meant, though. I hadn't thought much about it till now, but I definitely needed a shave, I'd slept in my clothes, and I must have looked pretty dismal.

She reached to the seat alongside her and held up a large paper-wrapped package. "I got the things you wanted," she said.

"Thanks, honey. Well, what new lies have the cops dreamed up?"

She hesitated, then handed me a newspaper. "Here's a copy of today's Star," she said. "I went as easy on you as I could without getting myself fired, or tipping Thurmond and the rest off about what you told me." She frowned and added, "The first story I wrote wound up in the wastebasket, anyway, and another article I did yesterday about Seaco was killed too."

"Josephson again?"

"Uh-huh. I was wondering why he pays so much attention to anything written about Seaco or Norris—or you, for that matter. Harry, the editor, told me he has to clear anything like that through Josephson."

"Josephson's the Star's publisher, isn't he?" She nodded and I said, "Maybe he could stand a little looking over."

I read the headlines on today's Star, then began the story. The head above the article stated: "Private Detective Sought in Slaying of Police Officer," and I skimmed over the story until I was stopped roughly by one line of print. "Detective Carver, who stated that he and Blake were attempting to place Scott under arrest for the murder of prominent local realtor Emmett Dane, accosted the suspect on Vincent Street."

As the words sank in, I looked up at Betty. "What?" I said. "Murder of Dane?"

Betty nodded slowly. "That's the chief's story. I got it straight from him."

I swore. "How in hell can they pull this after giving out that suicide line?"

"It's in there. The chief claims that you were under suspicion then, and the 'hint of suicide,' as he called it, was given the press so you wouldn't become alarmed while they continued the investigation."

I stared at her. I said slowly, "But there's no motive. They can't possibly dream up any motive for my killing Dane."

"Finish reading it all."

I did. And, as I read, I remembered Carver's saying they could undoubtedly find a motive if they dug deep enough. Possibly, he'd been digging even before then. It went clear back to that first case I'd handled for Dane, the one in which I'd cleared Dane of any suspicion of murder—I thought—and helped put the killer in San Quentin. The guy, William Yorty, confessed, then repudiated his confession in court and pulled life—and that was what the cops had jumped on. Their story, mostly in hints and innuendoes rather than outright statements of fact, was that Dane and I together had helped railroad Yorty to prison in order to clear Dane. The implication was that Dane himself had been guilty. Thus Dane's knowledge of my part in the frame and possible jury-bribing—which was being investigated—might well have been part of my motive for murdering him. Only part, though, because the chief stated that other incriminating evidence was in his hands.

The steaks arrived then, and although I'd lost much of my appetite, the thought of baloney brought most of it back. We started in on the steaks as I finished the newspaper story.

I was quiet, thinking about what I'd read, when Betty said, "I was a busy girl today, checking things. And I came up with an idea. Maybe it isn't much, but it might be important."

"Give."

"The Lilith Manning Foundation. I looked up a copy of Miss Manning's mother's will today. She left a lot of property to the city."

"I know. Park, public beach . . ."

"Uh-huh. She left the property to the city, but on condition that it be used solely as she directed in her will. If the property wasn't used by the city the way she declared it must be used, title to that property would pass from the city to the Lilith Manning Foundation."

"What conditions?"

"No concessions could be built on the beach. No hotdog stands, bars, amusement places. It was supposed to be just a pleasant public beach, place for swimming. And a few months ago the park commission granted permits for two sandwich-and-soft-drink stands to be built there. One of them is finished already, in business now."

"Doesn't sound like much. But it might be enough to switch title from the city to the foundation, huh?"

"It would be. I talked to a lawyer, and it's perfectly legal. He'd forgotten there was anything like that in the will. It's been several years since anything's been said or printed about the Manning bequests, and she made the will over a year before she died. Probably almost everybody's forgotten them."

I shook my head. There was too much to think about all at once. I glanced at the Star again, then said, "Not good. But right now it's this damn story that worries me. The chief and his chums have me tied up pretty tight. Except for one thing—my motive. That's pretty weak."

"There's more." She bit her lip, then said, "I finally found out about Emmett's will—at least part of it. Most of it, I believe. Chief Thurmond knows about it, too."

I said, "There was a will, then. Well, that should help."

"It doesn't."

"He must have left his holdings to his ex-wife and kid."

She shook her head. "No. Just small bequests to both of them. And one other specific legacy, a house and lot on the south side of town, worth maybe twenty-five thousand, were left to . . ." She stopped. She was looking at me, biting her lip.

My mouth sagged slowly and I said, "Wait a minute. You don't— you can't mean—"

"Yes. To you. I imagine that's part of the other 'evidence' Chief Thurmond claims he has. The motive." She paused for a moment and went on, "All the rest of his property, including all the beachfront land, was left to Dorothy Craig."

I stared at her. "What? What kind of damn fool talk is this?"

"I talked to Chief Thurmond, to Dane's lawyer, and to Miss Craig. I didn't actually see the will, but they all agree that's what was in it."

I was quiet for a full minute, thinking, then I said, "The will's fake, of course. I'll give a hundred to one that Dane never even heard of this Craig wench. And this means that she's obviously in with Norris." I stopped and almost jumped out of the booth. "Good Lord. What about Lilith? If Craig is pals with Norris, that has to mean she's in with Carver, too. Did you mention Lilith to her?"

She nodded. "I asked her if she knew Lilith Manning, and she looked startled, then admitted she did. But she told me she hadn't seen her for a long time."

My heartbeat had speeded up. If Lilith had managed to reach Dorothy Craig's, and walked in hoping for a place to hide, she might have found it—face down in the dirt somewhere. I climbed out of the booth and went to the rear of Lanny's, where there was a pay phone, looked up Dorothy Craig's number, and dialed. In a moment, a woman's voice answered.

"Miss Craig?" I said.

There wasn't any answer, though I could hear her breathing into the mouthpiece. "She— she isn't here," she said finally. "Who is this?"

I wondered what the hell was wrong, then silently swore at myself. If Lilith were there and still all right, she certainly wouldn't give her name to anybody who happened to call. I made up my mind fast and said, "This is Shell Scott."

She let out her breath. "Oh, Shell. This is Lilith. You scared me."

"Listen, is that Dorothy Craig there?"

"Not right now. She should be back soon."

"How long have you been there? I called last night, but couldn't get anybody."

"Just about an hour. I slept all night on the beach. Then I had to wait till dark to come here. It was awful."

"You saw Craig and then she left? About an hour ago?"

"Yes. Where are you, Shell? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Lilith, you better get the hell out of there. I may be nuts, but I think this Craig babe is thick with Norris and Carver. You know they'll be looking for you, and she might be tipping them right now. If I'm right, you're dead unless you get out of there fast. She say where she was going?"

"Just— just to the store."

"An hour ago?"

"What'll I do? Where'll I go? Shell, where are you? I'll come to you."

"Lanny's, on Ninth. You know where it is?" She said she did and I told her, "OK, then, fly down here. Be careful, but make it fast."

She said she'd run and we hung up. I went back to the table. "Just phoned Lilith," I told Betty. "She's coming down here. If she's lucky." I was so keyed up I could hardly sit still. Lilith's safety was almost as important to me as it was to her. I said, "The Craig dame must have flown right after she reached the place. Probably in another five minutes . . ." I let it trail off.

I tried to eat my steak while we talked, but so many things seemed to be happening all at once that I could hardly taste what I was eating. Betty finished her steak and excused herself, slipped out of the booth, and went to the restroom. I shoved my plate away from me.

I was worried about Lilith, about Betty, too, and damned worried about me. I kept looking at my watch. Lilith should be here by now, if she hadn't run into trouble. If she'd got out of the house in time. Then the front door opened and she was walking toward me.

I jumped out of the seat and we met halfway between the door and the booth. "Oh, Shell," she said shakily. Her hands were cold when she took mine and she looked as if she were going to come apart.

"Take it easy, Lilith," I said. "Relax. You made it, thank God. We'll—"

"Come outside with me, Shell. I think maybe I was followed. I don't know. Come outside, please, I want to show you."

She was pulling on my hands, her face twisted. I said, "Outside? What's—" I stopped, looking at Lilith's face. Her eyes were wide, staring at something behind me. Then she let go of my hands and backed toward the door. I looked over my shoulder. Betty was a few feet from me, an odd look on her face.

She stopped alongside me and I looked back to see Lilith just going out the door. I said to Betty, "What the hell got into Lilith?"

"Who?"

"Lilith. Lilith Manning. You just saw her."

"Don't be silly," Betty said. "That wasn't Lilith. That was Dorothy Craig."

Chapter Thirteen

I stared at betty, uncomprehending for a moment. "Who?" I said. "No, you're wrong. That—"

She interrupted briskly, her voice tightening. "I tell you, that was Dorothy Craig. I talked to her today about the will. I noticed she wasn't a brunette any more, and she doesn't look at all like Miss Manning. I've interviewed Lilith Manning two or three times in the past."

I was still shocked, unable to understand completely what Betty was saying. "She wanted me outside," I said. "Why would—" I stopped as it hit me. "She wanted me out there so I'd be easier shot in the head by some of her pals. Some of Norris's men, probably." I yanked out my .38 and at the same moment gave Betty a shove toward the rear of the restaurant. "Run for it!" I said.

Betty ahead of me, we ran toward the back and, on the way, she grabbed the package from our table, then darted toward the restroom. I followed her, and I almost stumbled as I realized suddenly the most important thing about what I'd just learned: It wasn't Norris I was after, not really. Norris hadn't, after all, been the cause of my troubles and the spot Betty and I were in. It was obvious now that the top man, the guy who'd ordered Dane killed and was trying to murder me, was Clyde Baron.

I didn't have time to figure the whole thing out. As Betty and I reached the restroom door and she opened it, I looked over my shoulder to see two bulky forms come in. I shoved Betty inside and followed her, slamming the door shut.

"Out the window," I said. I pointed to the wall. "Not much chance anybody's there. Move!"

She whirled and unlocked the frosted-glass window and slid it up. There wasn't any screen, and she shoved the package through, then stuck her head and shoulders out. I stood by the door. I knew that if the boys who'd come in were after me, they'd seen us come inside here. And they'd be after Betty, too, now.

"Help me," Betty said.

I glanced at her, and she was really a most engaging sight. She was half out the window, trying to get her knee on the frame, and she did not look at all subdued and proper at the moment. This, however, was no time to be eyeballing Betty's anatomy. I stepped to her side, reached for her foot with my left hand, gun in my right hand pointed at the door. The door burst open.

The guy had a gun in his hand and he had a face like a horse. I'd met him with Norris, but I'd never said hello to him. And I was never going to get the chance, either, because almost simultaneously with my first glimpse of him, he flipped his gun toward me and I was pulling the trigger of my Colt. He was so close that I could hear the ugly smack of .38 slugs as they slammed into his flesh, even though the sound of shots was almost deafening here in the small room. He slumped against the doorframe with two bullets in his body and one hole in his forehead.

I saw a blur of movement behind him as somebody leaped sideways out of the doorway and a woman in the restaurant screamed shrilly. A man shouted. Betty was still struggling through the window, but her struggles soon ended because I spun around, planted both hands and the .38 against her fanny, and shoved hard. She yelped and then she was no longer in the window. I literally dived out after her, using my left hand to help me through, and landed sprawling on hard-packed dirt. Betty was already getting to her feet.

I said, "Run."

I was coming after her, but not right now. Lilith—or Dorothy Craig—wouldn't have known Betty was with me, and she'd thus have expected to get me outside, and killed, with no trouble. So there probably were only the two men, one of whom was still alive to chase us. Well, I wanted to be damned sure he didn't catch us.

I stood by the window. This had all taken so little time that I saw the last movement of Horseface as he hit the floor. And then the other man came through the door. It was Zimmerman.

Zimmerman, the guy Baron apparently called for when there was somebody to be killed—somebody like Emmett Dane, or like me. It made me feel good, in a way, to see that handsome face, because I'd been afraid I wouldn't ever see him again, and it also made me feel good to see that he had a gun in his hand. It made what I was going to do that much easier.

As Zimmerman jumped into the room and started to turn toward me, I stuck my right fist through the window, the .38 cocked and aimed. He saw the revolver in my fist, and then his eyes rose to my face as he brought up his gun. And that was the last thing he saw in his life.

I turned around and ran, my ears still ringing from the blast of my .38.

The window opened into an alley and I ran down it to the street. Betty was standing there and I grabbed her hand and pulled her across the street. We ran together down the alley for another block. There we turned left and walked a few feet to a parked car.

"Just a minute," I said. When I turned the door handle the door swung open and I scooted under the wheel. "Get in," I said, and she slid in beside me.

"What are you going to do?"

"Steal a car, if I'm lucky." I was fumbling under the dash. I found the ignition wires, ripped them loose, and spliced them. In a few more seconds, I started the motor and drove a mile or so, then parked across the street from a dumpy rundown motel. In front of it was a flickering neon sign, about on its last flicker: plaza motel—vacancy.

Sirens wailed in the distance as I got out cigarettes, gave one to Betty, and lit hers and mine. "Honey, we're in trouble. I'll spell it out later, but the idea is that the blonde Dorothy Craig set me up for a kill. I know too much. So do you now. Anyway, she saw you with me, and she knows by this time what just happened to her playmates. So, to put it simply, you're not long for this world."

I wondered for a moment how they'd worked it, what had made them think they could get away with passing off Dorothy Craig as Lilith Manning. After I'd thought about it for a minute, the mechanics were ridiculously simple. Only two factors were necessary: that Emmett Dane had never met Lilith Manning—and he'd told me he had met her for the first time only a few days before I'd arrived here in Seacliff—and that Lilith Manning be out of town. Probably, I thought, she was in Europe or Hawaii, or maybe back east. At least far enough away so she'd never get wind of what was going on.

And the con had obviously been, at first, designed only to fool Dane. When Baron introduced Dorothy as Lilith, Dane would have had no reason to suspect Baron of lying—no more reason than I'd had. When I showed up, the con became a bit more complicated, but all would still have been well if Baron or the cops or Norris and his hoods had convinced me I should leave town. They'd tried hard enough, and now I knew why.

I thought of other things: that we had never gone inside Lilith Manning's home. On each of the three occasions when I'd been there, we'd stayed outside; the first two times at the pool and the last time on the porch. And now I knew that all along I'd been thinking the cops had slipped up when they tried to knock me off right in front of Lilith Manning. They hadn't been worried about a witness; the witness was in the murder mess just as deeply as they were. The only thing I could say for Dorothy Craig was that just before the kill attempt she had, at least, tried to get me to "run away" with her, the thought of murder right in front of her eyes momentarily revolting her, perhaps. But it had been only a momentary weakness, because my sweet, passionate Dorothy must have known, even while her lips were hot on mine, that her cop friends were on their way to kill me. It was easy to understand now why she'd refused to take off in the Cad with me. I understood something about Blake's death, too. There wasn't even one witness to that on my side now.

When Thurmond called Baron from jail, Baron must have thought pretty fast. He would want me killed, naturally—especially since I'd recognized Zimmerman at Dane's the night before—and he must have figured it would be far less money to have me murdered at the deserted Manning estate than in or near the police station. He must also have been sure in his own mind that I'd go out to see "Lilith" if he told me she was dying to see me. He would have phoned Dorothy before he even started for the jail and told her to get out to the house fast to greet me, hold me there any way she could. Then, when I drove off, all Baron had to do was go back inside the station and tell his crooked cops I was on my way to the Manning home. It must have looked perfect.

Betty was saying, "I'm so confused I don't know what I'm doing. Why did you say that was Lilith?"

"I thought it was. I'd never seen the real Lilith, or Dorothy Craig, either. Baron introduced Dorothy to me as Lilith. When I got out of the hospital Wednesday night, I went first to see Baron. He knew I was going from his office to see Lilith, so he made sure she was there. As a matter of fact, I remember he picked up the phone and called her, and then kept me in his office for five minutes or so. I took it for granted he was calling the Manning place, but he must have called Dorothy at her home here in town. Funny, if I'd ever gone out to the Manning home without giving Baron a chance to announce me, nobody would have been there. Looking back on it, I can see—"

I stopped, my mind shocked. The muscles in my stomach tightened spasmodically and I could feel sickness rising in my throat. That night at the pool, Dorothy must have reached the Manning estate shortly before me, stripped off her clothes—I'd found them all on the canopied swing—and then slipped into the water to wait for me. And while she had tried to make love to me, keep my mind filled with thoughts of her and not of anything else, Baron must have been sending out the word to murder Dane. His plans were getting shaky then; I was out of the hospital ahead of schedule and he knew I didn't intend to leave town. I'd told him as much. My staying too long with Dorothy had given him time to have Dane killed. If I had left even five minutes sooner, I might have stopped the killers; Dane might still be alive.

A deep, hot anger was growing in me, even drowning the sickness I felt. I had been angry for a long time, but my emotion had been almost without focus, really. Now finally I had a man to focus my anger on. The right man—Clyde Baron. I was sure that was the way it had to be. Baron had been the guy calling the plays, setting up the beatings and corruption and murder. I went back over my thoughts, over what I'd told Betty just now, and at every point, the man responsible for the ugly things that had happened was Baron.

I forced my mind away from the past, from the things I couldn't change, and made myself think about here and now, about what I still could do.

I said to Betty, "Have you got any idea how serious this is? Not just for me, but for you now?"

"I think so."

"You'd better know so. You'll have to have nine kinds of luck just to get out of town alive."

"I'm not getting out of town."

"Look, don't give me any arguments like you did last night."

"I'm not going to talk about it. I've made up my mind."

This Betty, I was thinking, had less sense and more guts than I did. But I said, "We'll talk about it later. Right now we've got to get off the street. There'll still be roadblocks around town. There's one road I came in on, but this explosion tonight has made headquarters by now. They'll figure out how I got in, probably. Maybe you could get out alone, but you certainly couldn't with me along."

"I'm not—"

"Listen to me! By now the chief or Carver will have sent the word out to grab you too. And if you still don't know how serious this mess is, I killed two men back there at Lanny's."

She swallowed. "Are you sure they're—"

"Yes, I'm sure." I looked over at the motel. It was the kind of setup you see a lot of along the coast, a series of small, run-down cabins. I said, "Hop out and go across the street. Get a cabin. If you see anybody you recognize, or who might know you—anybody—turn around and come back. If not, get it in the name of Mary Owens. For you and your brother. No, the clerk might have a nasty mind. Make it you and your husband."

Betty had been looking at me intently, strangely, her lips parted. Now she ran her tongue over her lower lip, swallowed again, and said softly, "All right, Shell."

"Incidentally, I'm not going to stay there all night." I tried on a grin. It didn't fit. "But we've got some talking to do. More about Dane's will, for one thing. If you get the cabin, go right in. I'll join you later."

"Can't you go in with me?"

"I don't want you seen with me around here. And I've got to ditch this car. If it's found here, after it was stolen a block from Lanny's, we'll have cops in our ears within an hour."

I pulled out my gun and broke it open. Only two cartridges in it. In my coat pocket I found one more. I inserted it in the place of an empty case, then put the gun back in its holster. Three slugs were about one hundred less than I'd have liked, but three would have to do. I didn't expect to be rummaging in the trunk of my Cad for a spell.

Betty was still looking at me. "Well, go on," I said.

"Do you have to talk so rough? To me?"

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm all up in the air. I remembered a lot of things that have happened."

"I understand." She was quiet for a moment, then smiled softly. "I suppose you call everybody honey, don't you?"

I grinned. "Not men."

"I like it. Keep calling me . . ." The words trailed off, but she kept looking at me with that odd, tense expression on her face. "Shell," she said finally, "please be careful, please come back. I—" and all of a sudden her arms were around me and her lips found mine, and they were soft, trembling. Her arms pulled convulsively at my neck. She kissed me almost savagely, and then pulled her face from mine, looking straight into my eyes, her mouth partly open and her breathing irregular.

Then she was gone. She opened the car door and slammed it behind her as she ran across the street. I watched her as she walked to one of the cabins. She went inside, coming out in a few minutes with a heavy-set woman. They walked down the row of cabins to the fourth one on my right. Betty went inside and the heavy-set woman waddled back to the office. I started the car and drove down the street.

Chapter Fourteen

I knocked. Inside the cabin Betty said softly, "Yes?"

"It's me, Shell."

I heard her unlock the door, then it opened and I slipped through. I'd brought the package with me from the car and I dropped it on the floor as I locked the door again. Betty looked at me uncertainly, and I tried to play it light.

"Mrs. Mary Owens? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm your husband."

She smiled a little, those soft, warm lips curving and the full lower lip protruding slightly. She said, "I've been wondering where you went that day in forty-one. You'll have to go. I've remarried several times."

"Polygamist. I was winning the war. And I demand my rights." I frowned at her. "Tell you what, wife. I want my veteran's benefits."

She shook her head. "How can you talk like this when . . . everything's happening?"

"You were doing OK yourself. Can't be serious all the time, honey. We'd crack up. But I guess you're right. Well, sit down."

She sat on the edge of the bed and I pulled a chair over near her, straddled it, and leaned on the back. "Give a listen," I said. For the next few minutes I filled her in on what she didn't already know, including the parts I'd figured out. Finally, I said, "The main thing behind the whole mess is nothing more than money. But a lot of it, millions of dollars. That and the power that would go with it. The way it looks, the original idea was probably Baron's. Get all the beachfront property here, plus any other land they could, then have it rezoned. With the power and influence Baron already has, plus that of his chums, I imagine there'd be no hitch in the rezoning angle. And now there's this Manning Foundation gimmick you mentioned. Could be this is even bigger than I thought it was."

As I talked, Betty had gradually relaxed, until now she was lying back on the bed with two pillows under her head, and she looked very nearly as good as when she'd been climbing out the window. I sighed and said, "As of now there are legal grounds for transferring title to Seacliff's public beach over to the foundation. Right?"

"That's right. And whoever controls the foundation—there are seven directors—would control the property."

"Undoubtedly Baron's well aware of that. He's one of the foundation directors. Dane was one of them, too. There's an empty space now, and what do you bet one of Baron's chums fills it?" I stopped a moment, then said, "Anything else you can add about Emmett's will? Where it is, or who's got it? Did you see it?"

"No, but Ferries Gordon has it in his office, I think. There's one thing. Dorothy Craig was in Gordon's office when I went up, and I talked to them both there. They wouldn't say much, except what I've already told you. But I think they might have been discussing Emmett's will. Anyway, Gordon gathered up some papers and put them into his safe when I came in. He acted secretive."

"Could be. What kind of safe?"

She said, "Just one of those big green safes in the corner of the room. Why?"

"Where's his office?"

"Braeden Building. Room Four-twenty. It's on Sycamore, just a block from Main. What do you want to know all this for?"

"I may go up there. All the beachfront property went to Craig?"

She nodded and I said, "We know the will must be a fake. That means, too, that Dane's lawyer is part of— of the opposition. Dane wouldn't sell to Seaco, was going to fight them—even brought me in to help—so the solution was to kill him and inherit his property." I thought a moment, then went on, talking to Betty but also getting it clearer in my own mind. "At first I thought the Seacliff Development Company was trying to grab all the land, and putting pressure on the three big landholders: Dane, Baron, and Lilith Manning. But from the beginning it must have been Baron in back of it all, with his big chunk of property, his Baronial Estates, already in the pot. His next and biggest single grab was set up with the con and kill of Dane and the fake will, and for that he used Dorothy. That leaves only the real Lilith Manning, who, not liking Seacliff anyway, would probably sell to Baron. By that time, if all should go well, Baron could afford to pay even a stiff price for her holdings because he and his associates would own damn near everything else by then. If they could somehow get control of even part of the foundation property, they'd almost literally own the whole damned city." I turned to Betty. "What did this Craig dish have to say when you interviewed her?"

"She wasn't too happy about talking to me, but she did say she and Dane had been seeing a lot of each other. He was in love with her; they were going to be married." I opened my mouth, but Betty held up a hand. "That's what she said."

"Uh-huh. I suppose if they can fake a will, they can also fake a marriage license or whatever they'd need."

Betty said, "I can tell you some more about Dorothy Craig, Shell. There wasn't time till now. I know a little about her, because not long after she arrived in Seacliff, a few years back, there was some scandal about her. There was supposed to be more than friendship between her and Josephson."

I interrupted her. "The same—"

"The same. Publisher of the Star. He's married and has, believe it or not, seven kids, none over fourteen years old. The story went that Josephson and Dorothy were seeing each other, meeting in secret. Of course, nothing came of it—no real open scandal, I mean. After that, Dorothy was seen with a number of fairly well known local men." She paused. "The most interesting point is that the last man she's supposed to have become friendly with is Clyde Baron."

"Indeed. Interesting. Perfect, too. Pretty obvious what might have happened. Dorothy Craig, an incandescent tomato more than a little chummy with publisher Josephson, might have enough on the guy to make him jump through the hoop when she says jump. And we know she's just as interested as Baron in seeing that none of the truth about their racket hits the papers. That might explain why Josephson's so concerned, and kills all your stories. Funny, Dane didn't know her, especially if, as you say, everybody knew about it. When was the Josephson affair?"

"It was, if I remember right, about forty-nine."

"Forty-nine. Maybe that's it. Dane was roaming around the world that year. Started out in Australia and kept on going."

She nodded. "I remember. Since then she's been less brazen. But I've seen her around town a lot."

I thought a minute. "You know, except for Baron and maybe the rest of the crooks, you and I are the only people alive who know that Dorothy Craig passed herself off to Dane as Lilith Manning. We're the only people opposed to them who know what they're up to. With us out of the way they'd be in." I got up and started pacing the floor while I talked. "And there's not a chance we could just walk in cold and talk to the mayor of the city council or anybody else. We don't know for sure who Baron's got in his pocket, and nobody would believe us anyway."

I paused for a moment. "What it boils down to is that it's my word against Baron's and Craig's and the cops' and Norris's and God knows how many others. If they can kill me, they can stop worrying. And they know it. They won't have any more worries, they can go right ahead on schedule, just as soon as I'm dead. And my word's not worth a damn at the moment."

Betty said, "Uh-huh. I imagine you would have a hard time making anybody believe you now."

I sat down again. "Now that you mention it, how come you believe me?"

And there was that soft smile again. "I honestly don't know, Shell. But I do. Maybe I've got faith in you."

I grinned at her. "Thanks. I like having you on my side, honey."

She was quiet for a while, looking up at me. Then she said, "What are you going to do?"

"Well, we've got so little actual ammunition to shoot at these guys that we'll need every single thing we can get. So I'm starting with Em's will, I guess. Go up and take a look at it."

She seemed startled. "You mean steal it?"

"Huh-uh. There'd be more hell to pay if it turned up missing. And that wouldn't stop Baron and the rest. Assuming the will is in the lawyer's safe."

"What good will it do you to look at it?"

"Well, if it's there, and I can get to it, I'll take along a camera and flashbulbs and get some photos of it. Then I'll have the will signature compared with Dane's real signature by an honest handwriting expert, and try to get that info sprung in probate court. Baron probably plans on some perjured testimony to make the will stand up. Incidentally, when should the will be admitted to probate?"

"It was offered for probate today. They must be pushing it through as fast as they can. They might get it actually admitted to probate in another ten days."

"Unless we stop them somehow."

"How would you get to Gordon's office, Shell? And into the safe, if you got there alive?"

"When I first hit town I saw an ex-con I know, a safecracker named James Peterson. He might help out—for money. I've got a miniature camera and flash setup in the back of my Cad, so I'm all set. All I need is eight angels to light my way."

I wasn't exactly kidding. Assuming I could find Petey, I didn't relish the idea of flitting around town, and certainly not in that well-lighted parking lot where my buggy was. I had no way of knowing whether or not the cops had already spotted the Cad.

The paper-wrapped package was inside the door where I'd dropped it. I picked it up and dropped it on the bed. "What all have you got in there, honey? False beard and a raccoon coat?"

"It's kind of bulky because I brought some other clothes for you. Some of those blue jeans everybody wears down here. I thought they might make you less conspicuous. Not that anything would make you inconspicuous. At least you'll look beautiful when you get shot."

I grinned at her. "Betty, I enjoy you like this. We should get gunmen after us more often. You're more relaxed, looser—more fun. We who are about to die salute you."

For just a moment, she had tensed up again, while her face got that congealed look. But then she relaxed and smiled oddly. "Shell, do you know that this is the first time I've been alone in a room with a man for years? And you're the first man I've"—she stopped for a moment, her face flushing, then went on—"I've kissed in almost two years." She bit her lower lip gently, looking up at me. "And the funny thing is, I am relaxed." She swallowed and the smile went away. She said slowly, "Maybe because there's a chance I'll die, I want to live."

For quite a while I couldn't think of anything to say, and she was silent. Finally I said, "Well, let's see what the well-dressed corpse will wear."

In the package were jeans and jacket, plus a very silly blue-billed cap that went with them, a dark blue T-shirt, black hair dye, a safety razor, and some blades.

"Betty," I said, "this is perfect." I gathered everything up. "When I come back you won't know me." I headed for the bathroom door.

She said, "I hope not. You don't look like anyone I'd care to know. You look awful."

I shut the bathroom door and took a squint in the mirror. I looked awful. My eyes were somewhat red-rimmed, but the worst was my face. It has always been a bit of a mess, but now I had several days' growth of beard, and my beard is peculiar. It grows rapidly, but it isn't white, like my hair, and it isn't black. It's sort of spotted, like a molting leopard. I shuddered and shaved. Just in time, I decided to leave on the mustache.

A half hour later, after a sloppy hair-dye and a shower, dressed in my blue jeans and jockey cap, I emerged.

"Why, Shell," she said. "You look darling. But what happened to your lip?"

"My lip? Oh, I sort of dyed my mustache. To match my hair. And, uh, to match my lip, which I believe I also dyed. How do I look?"

"Well . . . sinister."

"Hell, I thought I looked sexy."

She shook her head, pressing her lips together and smiling at the same time. Suddenly she started laughing, threw her head back, and closed her eyes. I went to the bathroom mirror and took another look. It wasn't that funny.

In the room again, I walked to the phone alongside the bed and flipped open the book as Betty's laughter subsided to gurgles. I found the number of the Beachcomber's Lodge and dialed it.

"Who are you calling?" Betty asked.

"Norris's club. Beachcomber's. Just plunge blindly ahead, that's me." I stopped. "Maybe not so blindly. Do me a favor?"

"Sure. What?"

"Take the phone. Ask for Petey. If they want to know Petey who, say James Peterson." She nodded and I handed her the phone.

She said into the phone, "Is Petey there?" then put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Looking for him," she said. "What now?"

"If you get Petey, say you once met him in L.A. at— at the Sunrise Bar and Grill. He used to hang out there. You just heard he was in town and want to see him. Tell him to stay there at the club, you'll meet him."

"Will he believe me?"

"Sure. If a woman says she'll meet him, he'll wait."

She listened to the phone a moment, said, "Thank you," and hung up. "Not there."

I looked up the Gorgon Room and gave her the number, and she dialed. "Same deal," I said. "If he isn't there, I don't know where he'll be. If I were to talk to him, he might blow, or even spill the beans to someone else. We'll try it this way."

She went through the same routine, and this time she got him. Betty not only got him, she hooked him. She was marvelous, and there was a new note in her voice, a husky whispering softness I'd never heard before. She wound it up with "All righty, Petey. I'm ashamed of you for not remembering me. You will, though, I'll bet, when you see me." Then she laughed. I frowned. What the hell was he saying? I knew Petey. She said, "What? Oh, I'll be wearing a red dress with a lunging neckline . . . What? . . . Yes, plunging, too. Oh! You wouldn't! . . . You would? 'By, Petey. Wait for me." She hung up.

Looking at me mischievously, one dark eyebrow arched and a very roguish look on her tanned face, she said, "Maybe I should meet him."

"Oh, no, you don't. I'll meet him, and by God—"

"What are you so excited about?"

"Why, I— I'm not excited. I— I dunno."

She was smiling at me. And this time it was a woman's smile; the sly and attractive grin of a woman possessed of all her faculties and facilities, and well aware of that possession. Probably not for years, if ever, had she talked to a man the way she'd talked to Peterson. She seemed to have enjoyed it. It was as though the events of the last few days, and especially of tonight, had worn away at the dam of restraint she'd built inside her, until that dam, even if it hadn't actually burst, was weakening.

"Shell," she said, "are you leaving right away?"

"Practically this minute."

She shrugged. "Well, I might as well go to bed."

"Might as well."

I brought my clothes out of the bathroom and she went inside it and shut the door. I heard the shower running as I emptied the pockets of my suit and transferred everything to my jeans. When I put on my watch, I noticed it was midnight on the nose. There were a couple of things more I wanted to tell Betty, so I sat on the chair and waited for her. While I waited, I looked at the postcard I'd found in the pocket of my suit coat. I'd forgotten putting it in my pocket when I'd left Los Angeles. I was still looking at the card and Emmett's scrawled signature, thinking back over the good, good times we'd had, when Betty called, "Shell?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm coming out."

"Well, come on."

"I just took a shower. I don't have anything on."

"Well, come on."

"Close your eyes. Don't look."

"One eye is closed." I waited. Nothing. "OK," I said. "Both eyes are closed. Firmly. Sort of."

They were, and I kept them closed. I heard the door open, heard her feet pad on the carpet, the faint whisper of her passage, then the rustle of sheets as she pulled the covers down. The bedsprings creaked and I knew the next whisper that I heard was Betty sliding down into bed, under the covers, her skin brushing against the cool sheets. I thought: I am going to retire from the detective business. No sense getting involved in situations like this. This will kill a man just as quickly as a hole in the head.

"All right. You can open your eyes."

I opened them. Betty lay in bed, the pillows still under her and both arms behind her head, dark hair fanned out over them. The covers were pulled up under her chin. She was smiling. "I feel so alive," she said.

"That's great. I feel half dead already. Listen, Betty—or what did you tell Peterson your name was? Coochie Williams? Listen, Coochie, I wanted to fill you in on my schedule. Just in case."

Her face sobered. "I understand."

"OK. From here I'm going to a parking lot on Twelfth and Pepper, where my Cad is. I'll get the camera out of the back, then pick up Petey. We'll bust into Gordon's office, beat the safe, and if the will's there, I'll take some shots of it. You sit tight here, because I won't be back for a while. I'll phone, but I won't come here again till I'm finished."

"Just pictures of the will won't be much help, will they?"

"No, but it's a good start. Honey, the way these guys are lined up against us, we'll need a lot of little things. I'm hoping I can get the big things from Baron himself. He may be the only man who knows all there is to know about this Seacliff operation. Maybe we can convict him out of his own mouth."

She frowned. "I don't see—"

"I've got a couple of ideas. You're a smart cookie, Coochie, so lend an ear. Tell me what you think."

When I called her Coochie again, she chuckled, and naturally that caused some commotion under the covers.

I talked for two or three minutes, explaining my plan in detail, and every once in a while she would take a deep breath. The covers, which had been so firmly beneath her chin, were drooping a little. I, too, was drooping a little.

Finally, I said, "So there it is. It's the only thing I can think of. Considering how deeply we're in this."

Her face was furrowed in thought. Obviously, she was concentrating on what I'd said, and she rolled a little to one side and put an elbow under her, leaning on it. The covers started to slip and automatically she grabbed for them with her other hand, but apparently she was concentrating so completely that she didn't realize she'd grabbed only the sheet. She still was completely covered, but there is one whale of a difference between being covered with a sheet, a blanket, and a bedspread and being covered with only a sheet.

"I'll be darned," she said. "Will it work?"

She held the sheet at her throat and it lay smoothly against her, following the curves. I cleared my throat. "Should. Assuming, of course, that I manage this tonight, get to the Cad, find Petey, miss all the cops and crooks, then manage to reach Baron and make him talk."

She was quiet for a moment. "You'll need help with Baron, won't you?"

Now I frowned. "I suppose. But I'll manage that."

"Just a minute, Shell." She sounded slightly angry. "You know as well as I do that—in your own words—I'm in this now as deeply as you. I can't even show up for work until this is over. I'm just as interested in seeing Baron and the rest caught as you are. So I'll help you. Why don't you stop treating me as if I were a child? I'm not, you know."

"Yes, um, I know. Well, maybe you're right. I'll call you later today, anyway. Let's worry about it when the time comes."

All the time I'd been sitting here, I'd been holding Dane's postcard in my hand. She glanced at it and said, "What's that?"

I handed it to her. "The last card I got from Em. Typical of him. That's what started me on this."

She read the card. "Golly."

A thought struck me. "I almost forgot something important. The cops know by now that you and I took off from Lanny's together. If I should wind up with Carver, say, in the clink, and I don't have a bullet in me, he'll . . . he might start asking me where you are." I swallowed. "I don't think I'd tell him, but maybe I would. So if I don't get in touch with you by daylight, you blow. Get the hell out fast. Understand?"

She frowned. "If I do leave, and you're all right, how will I find you? How will I know where you are?"

"Well, if everything's OK, I should get back here before sunup. But if not, we could meet somewhere—the Red Cross stand, say. We can't gad about much, but I'll check there every four hours starting at 8 a.m. if I can. Eight, twelve, four, and so on. OK?"

She nodded.

I grinned. "So the Red Cross stand is our base of operations. Who knows, I might even be hiding under the damn thing waiting for you. Anyway, no matter what, you blow when the sun comes up. That settled?"

She moistened her lips. "Yes."

"Well, so long, honey," I said. "I've got to see Petey before the bars close." I turned toward the door.

"Shell." It was just a whisper. I barely heard her speak.

I turned and she said, "Shell, kiss me good-by. Just once. Really kiss me, just once."

She rested on her elbow, left hand holding the sheet loosely at her breast. Her head was lowered slightly and she wasn't smiling.

I saw her moisten her lips as I walked toward her. I eased my weight gently to the side of the bed alongside her and slid my hands beneath her shoulders. Both of her arms went around my neck as I leaned toward her, and I saw her eyes close a moment before my own eyes closed and her lips pressed against mine.

A shudder passed through her, then her arms tightened around me, tightened even more. The skin of her shoulders and back was warm and soft against my fingers.

I kissed her, just as she'd said, really kissed her just once, but I should have known that I wouldn't stop with one kiss. Maybe I should have known that she wouldn't.

I stood up, turned off the light, and walked back to the bed. After all, I was thinking, the bars don't close till two o'clock.

Chapter Fifteen

I barely made it to the Gorgon Room.

Getting the camera equipment from my Cad had been easier than I'd expected; I'd just walked in, got the keys, and opened the trunk, then left. It was certain that the cops hadn't located my buggy yet, or I wouldn't now be at the Gorgon Room.

It was a few minutes after two, but that was all to the good because the bar had cleared out except for Petey and one young couple, who soon left. Not Petey, though. It appeared that Petey, by God, was never going to leave.

I stood outside the bar looking in through the front window, and I could see good old die-hard Petey looking sadly around him at all that emptiness.

Finally, Petey got up and walked toward the door. As he came outside I said, "Petey. Hey, Petey."

He whirled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I asked Coochie to call you. I had to get in touch with you."

"Where is she? Where is she?"

"She isn't coming, Petey. I'm sorry. I wanted to have you meet me, but I didn't want to phone, myself, or give my name. There's a little heat on me in this town."

He just stared at me for half a minute. At last he spoke. "Why, you sonofabitch, you."

We dwelt upon my ancestry, pro and con, for a couple of minutes then I was able to explain the general idea of what I wanted, and finally he came back to normal. "What's the caper?" he asked. He squinted at me. "What the hell you do to your ugly chops? And what kind of outfit is that thing?"

I came right out with it. "I'm disguised."

"Yeah, sure." He flapped his arms and yakked loudly.

"Here's the play, Petey. You can take it or leave it. All the cash I've got on me is four hundred and twenty dollars. The four hundred's yours to take a keister for me. Any cash you find in the box is yours."

"Four hundred, huh? Don't seem like much. Think there'd be anything in the keister?"

"I don't have any idea."

He frowned. "Where is this? You case it?"

"Haven't cased the spot. I don't even know what kind of box it is. I know where it is, that's all. Absolutely all."

His expression told me plainly that this was no way for a man to go about his business. In a few minutes, though, he said, "Well, maybe. If I wasn't havin' the shorts, horrible, I wouldn't even listen."

I said, "One thing. You in with Norris?"

"I ain't workin' for nobody. I told you before, I'm on a vacation. I ain't going near Norris, if that's—"

"No, the safe's in a lawyer's office. It's hot, too, you might as well know that. If we get caught, they'll scrape us off the sidewalk in the morning. I won't give you a bum steer, Petey, but if there's no color in the can, I'll throw in a couple Cs extra. Assuming, of course, that we make it all the way."

He thought about it. "OK. Gimme the four yards. But I don't guarantee nothing."

I gave him the money and he said, "Where's the spot?"

"Four, five blocks from here."

"Meet me here in a half hour. I'll bring my own crate." He walked away.

After half an hour Petey showed up in a new Ford. I got in and he drove to Sycamore and parked smack in front of the Braeden Building, Petey explaining that he didn't want to be carrying a ton of equipment blithely down the street. It took him fifteen seconds to open the front door, and I helped him carry some tools up four flights to Room 420, lawyer Ferris Gordon's office. Petey practically breathed the door open and we went inside. Petey was a one-man mob.

Petey started prowling around the room while I used my own pocket flashlight briefly to look the place over. There were chairs on my left, the desk straight ahead with a swivel chair behind it. The safe was a bulky green job in the corner on my left. A few feet this side of the safe were the only windows in the office. This was an outside room and the windows overlooked a side street that ran into Main. The windows were big, but covered with venetian blinds. I walked over and looked out. A few feet on my left was the fire escape running up and down the building's side, its platform near me opposite a closed door just past the wall, at the end of the corridor outside the office here. I shut the window, made sure the blinds were closed, then stood beside Petey.

He finished examining the safe in the light from his flash and said, "Hell, this is candy. I could chew through this thing. We'll rip it."

"Think there might be an alarm of some kind?"

"Yeah, a toy. I already slapped a jumper on the bug." He got busy, using a drill on the safe. It didn't make much noise and in a few minutes he said, "Gimme the can opener."

I'd carried up the section of a heavy, curved bar, pointed at one end. I handed it to him and he said, "This'll be like opening a can of beans."

The way he talked, I figured we'd be gone in another ten minutes, but it was over an hour before the whole job was finished. After sticking a hunk of pipe over the end of his can opener and using it to rip off the metal plating, he banged away with a hammer and chisel at the fire brick and clay inside, making what seemed to me like one hell of a lot of noise. Finally, though, he got up, wiped his forehead, and said, "There she be."

I took over. Kneeling before the wrecked safe, I sprayed the light from my flash around inside. There were a lot of legal-size papers and documents that I pawed through without finding anything of interest to me. Then, in a metal drawer, which Petey had already opened, I found Emmett Dane's will. Or at least a will signed "Emmett Dane."

It was four heavy, crinkly sheets of paper, with double-spaced lines of typing covering them. The last sheet was signed "Emmett Dane" and also bore the signatures of the two witnesses who had attested the will; neither of the two names was familiar to me. A paper clip held something attached to the back of the will. I slid the clip off and looked at what I held in my hand. Besides the will, there were half a dozen other legal-sized papers, apparently from Dane's effects, all bearing his signature. But there was something else: five glossy four-by-five photographs. Five photographs of Dane—and Dorothy Craig.

Each of them had been taken with Em and Dorothy seated together, three shots of them at a table and two in a booth. In three of the shots, highballs were before them, and in two, the remains of a dinner were still in evidence. In the highball shots, Dorothy wore a low-cut black dress; the other pictures showed her in a different outfit, a print dress with a square neck. Dorothy had managed in each of the shots to adopt a pose suggestive of intimacy: leaning toward Dane and smiling into his face; a hand on his arm.

The total effect was that of an elderly man enjoying a few stolen moments with a young and desirable woman. Undoubtedly when Baron and Dorothy had arranged for these shots to be taken, that was the impression they'd wanted the pictures to make. I knew, of course, that these were simply photos of Emmett Dane discussing the mess here in Seacliff with "Lilith Manning." To anybody else, though, it would appear that Dane was dining and drinking with his "fiancée," Dorothy Craig, to whom he had left so much in his will.

Slowly the realization grew in me that they must have planned this well before that night when Dorothy had splashed about in the pool for me, must have intended all along to kill Dane once the props were ready. At least, I thought, my presence here in Seacliff wasn't responsible for his death; perhaps Baron had set his plans ahead a little because of me, but they'd have killed Dane anyway. Men have planned murder for fifty bucks or less; this was for a million dollars or more.

So far, there'd been very little light in the office, but now I had to use the flashbulbs I'd brought along. I didn't like it, but it couldn't be helped. While I shot the photos, the half-dozen other signed documents, and pages of the will, Petey worked inside the safe. I heard him grumbling, "Looks like you're gonna owe me two Cs, Shell." I kept working. In addition to the four pages of the will, there was one other typed sheet, a codicil, leaving a described area of property to Sheldon Scott. That must have been whipped up in a hurry after Baron decided definitely that I had to be killed. More of my motive.

"Hey, I got a funny feeling," Petey said.

I glanced up. "What's the matter?"

He sprayed his flash briefly over the venetian blinds. "Them's closed, but there's some space at the top. That goddamn lightning you been setting off must have gone through there."

I swore. We'd missed that in our first examination of the office. "I'm almost through."

"Shake a leg. I don't like this."

"You can blow. Find anything?"

"Lousy paper. Maybe a hundred fish. I'm blowing."

He went out the door and closed it behind him. I made my last shot, picked up the papers, and put them back in the safe. I had just gathered up the used flash bulbs and put them and the camera into the case and looped the strap around my neck when I heard noise in the hallway outside, somebody running.

I shoved the flashlight into my pocket as the rapid footsteps came up to the door—and went by fast. I heard more feet slapping in the hallway outside, then a loud shout. Almost immediately after the shout there was the sudden, explosive bark of guns—a lot of them. There must have been a dozen rapid shots as I jumped to the window and pulled back the blinds. Then a high, agonized scream, more shots, and silence.

Running feet slapped again outside and men shouted. I worked at the window, forced it up, and leaned through, stretching my left hand for the fire-escape rail. It was a yard past my reach and I started to sweat, hearing noise right outside the office door. I glanced down four stories to the street, only emptiness between the pavement and me, then put my right foot on the window sill and stood up on it, getting both feet solidly beneath me on the sill, my right hand still clutching the window's side, helping to balance me.

Then I let go and thrust both hands before me as I leaped out and to my left, my eyes staring at the platform's rail as I fell toward it. Those three feet seemed a mile, and I forced my mind away from the emptiness around me, stretching my body forward and reaching with curled fingers until I felt them slap against the cold metal. I grabbed the rail and pulled myself forward, and then I was over the rail and onto the platform.

Four stories below, a flashlight's beam played over the sidewalk, then was aimed up toward me. I could see the shapes of men on the sidewalk as the beam of light moved downward again. Behind me I heard the sound of men at the office, heard the door pushed open as I started up the fire escape toward the roof. One flight higher I glanced down and saw light from inside Gordon's office glowing through the venetian blinds.

I stumbled as fast as I could up the iron steps, my heart thudding, hands starting to get moist with perspiration. It was cops for sure. Those shots had undoubtedly been from police revolvers, and that high, agonized cry had been Petey's, I knew. I knew, too, that by now he was dead. Somebody must have seen the flashing light from the bulbs I'd used and called the cops. Carver would have been especially interested in light from Gordon's office; he'd be around.

The sixth flight, the seventh. Only a few feet more to the top. Then light sprayed up over me and I stumbled in the sudden glare after darkness. A gun cracked and the slug caromed from metal near me, sang viciously through the air. I leaped up the last steps, pulling at the railing with my hands, and reached the top as more shots roared and clanged against the fire escape. Something plucked at my coat as I rolled over the cement wall edging the roof and dropped three feet to the rooftop. Feet pounded up the iron stairs behind me.

I yanked the small flashlight from my pocket, snapped it on, and pointed it ahead of me as I ran across the roof in the direction of the alley at the building's rear. There had to be a fire escape in back, there had to be. I reached the edge. This side of the building was bare.

Across the narrow alley was another building a few feet lower than this one, the metal webbing of a fire escape forming a pattern along its side. The topmost platform was ten feet below me, and too far across the width of the alley for me to jump and reach it.

The footsteps behind me, at the other side of the roof, clanged on the steps. I jerked out my .38, turned, and fired once at the cement wall. The slug crashed into the wall and the footsteps stopped. For a moment, there was complete silence after the blast of my gun.

I stood motionless. Then, with my throat dry and my pulse drumming in my temples, I placed my still burning flashlight on the wall directly opposite the enclosed fire escape platform across the alley, the flashlight's beam pointing away from it, back toward the spot where the police would appear. Then I ran across the roof toward the policeman who was, I knew, just below the level of the roof there. As I ran I fired at the wall again, to keep the man from raising his head, fired the last shot in my gun as I stopped and turned. Then I ran back toward the glow of my light atop the wall, ran as fast as I could, not thinking, straining my muscles and with my eyes staring at the spot of light.

I had to jump. That way there was at least a chance; here there was none. I ran straight at the light, leaped upward to the top of the cement wall as I reached it, my right foot slamming against it six inches from the flash, and then I shoved with my foot against the wall as my body hurtled past it, shoved with every atom of strength in my body to force myself forward and up, up away from that thick blackness beneath me, and the hard alley surface seven stories below.

I saw the mass of the building looming before me and, as I dropped, it seemed to slide upward and nearer in a blur of eerie and frightening motion, as if the building and not I were moving, as if it were rushing toward me and rising above me. My arms were thrust before me, blocking much of my vision, but I saw the crazy whirl of movement almost upon me. And then I hit the building's wall.

I hit with a shuddering, bone-cracking jar that forced my arms back against me, drove the breath from my body, and sent blackness flickering inside my brain. But I could still feel, feel the pain leap through my flesh, feel the scrape of rough brick against me, then another jarring impact. My head cracked against something solid and then there was no sensation at all.

My unconsciousness must have lasted no more than a few seconds, and when I became aware of pain again, I realized I lay on my side, the hard metal ribs of the platform beneath me. My face burned and I could feel the warm blood upon it where the skin had been scraped. The muscles in my left shoulder felt torn, and there was pain in my chest, fire around my ribs, but at least there was pain and the knowledge of it.

I got my feet beneath me on the platform, and took one step toward the door ahead of me at the edge of the fire escape. The door was locked, but a frosted-glass window filled its upper half. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around my fist, and drove it through the window. Then, resting my weight on the jacket, I pulled my body through. For a second I sprawled on the floor inside; then I got up and ran.

I ran in a daze, unthinking, and it seemed that I ran through miles of corridors and down endless stairs. I ran through semidarkness, my hands empty, and after what seemed hours, I realized I had lost my gun and that my coat was not on my back or in my hands. The camera in its case still flapped against my side. I could feel blood seeping from the torn skin of my forehead and into my eye. I brushed at it as I ran. Far away, I could hear sirens.

I stopped on what I thought must be the ground floor, gulping mouthfuls of air into my lungs, heart racing wildly and dizziness clouding my brain. I walked quietly along a hallway and reached a door beyond which I could see the glow of light from the street. The door stood wide open and I stopped a few feet from it, wondering why it wasn't closed and locked. Somewhere behind me in the building, I could hear movement, soft voices.

I went to the door and pressed my body flat against its side as I looked out onto the street. Some cars were parked at the curb, but I saw no figures in or near them. There was nothing in sight that looked like a police car. I stepped onto the sidewalk, turned right, and walked ahead.

The air was cool and, after a few steps, my brain had cleared enough so that I knew where I was. This was Chestnut Street; I was walking toward Main. I started to turn, looking back over my shoulder, and saw a car come around the corner almost a block away. I kept going ahead, quickening my step. The car's lights brushed over me as I reached the corner, turned right. Half a block ahead on Main, jutting into the street, was the Red Cross stand, rising six feet above the sidewalk's level. Beneath it, I knew, hidden by the covering cloth, were crisscrossed boards—and emptiness. If I could reach it, crawl under the cloth that bordered its base. I might get a breathing spell, at least. I ran toward it, the camera banging against my side, then slipped the camera case from around my neck and held it in my hand as I sprinted toward the platform.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the car's headlights swinging right into the street I was on. I forced myself to walk, looking straight ahead. It didn't have to be a prowl car; it might be just a guy driving home. I heard sirens, near me but not from that car behind. Maybe I'd make it, maybe. And then a spotlight fell full upon me.

I ran. I knew what would happen if I were caught, and even though I knew I couldn't get away now, I ran. The platform was ten yards ahead and I sprinted toward it, started to race past it as tires squealed behind me and the car's siren started to growl. For a brief moment, I was out of the spotlight, and just before it hit me again, I thrust my arm forward and threw the camera and case at the cloth-covered side of the platform. The cloth tore, and the camera rolled out of sight beyond it as I heard the car motor almost upon me. Tires skidded as the car slid to a stop, the spotlight blinded me with its brilliance, and a shot rang out.

Another shot followed rapidly after the first and I heard the slug bury itself in the platform's wooden front. The next bullet, or the one after it, wouldn't miss me, not if I kept running—but stopping would mean almost the same thing. There wasn't any choice now, though.

I stopped and turned, thrusting my hands over my head, staring blindly into the glaring light spilling over me. I held my breath, wondering when the next shot would come.

Chapter Sixteen

I stepped backward involuntarily until my shoulders hit the platform behind me, squinting my eyes against the brilliance of the police spotlight. I saw a man move in the headlight's glow, a gun in his hand raising toward me. I couldn't recognize his face, but the bulky, broad outline seemed familiar.

Then I noticed for the first time another car almost upon us. It had come from the opposite direction on Main, and now was stopping on this side of the street, not more than two yards from the first prowl car. The cop with a gun in his hand was centered in the headlights from both cars now and I dimly saw movement as he lowered his gun, then turned toward the second car.

Three men walked toward me, and in the lead was Sergeant Carver. The three cops walked up to me and a car door slammed; a fourth man approached us. All three officers before me held guns in their hands.

Carver stopped in front of me, the other two standing slightly behind him. I expected him to swear at me, foul-mouthed and angry, but he didn't. He said softly, "Hello, chum." There was a tight grin on his face and the hand that held his gun was tight around the grip, his finger pressing against the trigger. The barrel was aimed at my middle and automatically I sucked in my stomach muscles.

Carver said to the others, but looking straight at me, "Let me handle this one. I'll take him in."

I looked at the other two cops. Their faces were cold, fixed in expressions of distaste and anger. Looking at them, I said as steadily as I could, "He won't take me in. He'll shoot me in the back. He and Blake tried to kill me, murder me, because I knew they were on the take, in with Clyde Baron and—"

Carver said, "The lying killer," and I tried to duck as he swung his right arm in a swift arc. I rolled as his gun barrel caught me on the cheek and ear, but the blow knocked me down. I was still on my hands and knees when Carver's big foot slammed against my shoulder and kicked me against the boards behind me.

The two other cops looked down at me as I raised my head. Even filled as I was with hate for Carver, I couldn't blame them much. To them I was a murderer, a copkiller. Or it might be worse than that. They might be of the same stripe as Carver. If they were, I was finished already; if they weren't, I might reach the jail alive.

One of the men spoke. "Come on, Carver. Let's take him in. This is Main Street, so knock it off."

I got to my feet, bringing my hands up to my sides. If Carver swung at me again, I was at least going to have the satisfaction of splitting his lip. But he didn't slug me. He frisked me for a gun, then he snarled, "OK, chum."

A siren slurred down the scale and muttered softly as a third police car pulled up and stopped, motor idling. Carver handcuffed my wrists behind me and the men herded me to his car. As I got into the back seat, an ambulance flashed by and turned the corner behind us, heading for the entrance of the Braeden Building. That, I guessed, was for Petey.

The thought of Petey made me think of Betty. At least the sun would be coming up in less than an hour. She had told me she'd leave the cabin at sunup.

Carver drove, and his partner sat in back with me. He headed down Main and one of the other cars fell in behind. Nobody said anything.

At the station, after I'd been booked at the desk, Sergeant Carver took me to the "Blue Room," the police examination room. It was a small, brightly lighted room with one heavy chair just past the room's center, and two other straight-backed wooden chairs inside the door. There weren't any windows. There never are windows in these places. Carver and the other officer spoke softly, then Carver made me sit in the heavy chair while he unlocked the handcuffs, then fastened them again around my wrists, which were thrust past two thick slats of the chair's back.

The other officer had been standing aside, covering me with his gun while Carver got me fixed to his satisfaction. Now he left. Carver chuckled every once in a while, evidently enjoying his work.

Then he started swearing at me, filthily, expertly. He talked for a little while about how he'd felt about Blake, how he felt about me, and what he was going to do to me, and he swore at me some more. I should have let the words bounce off, not let them affect me, but I couldn't keep the anger from growing inside me.

Finally, he said, "You know where you are, Scott? This is Coney Island, chum." He chuckled again.

"I'd guessed. I wouldn't have expected anything else from you, Carver. Even though I'm not used to slimy cops like you."

It didn't make any difference whether I was polite or not. No matter what I said, it wouldn't make my treatment any worse or better; they'd still take me on all the Coney Island rides.

The door opened and the sergeant who had left a minute earlier came back in; Chief Thurmond was with him. He pulled one of the straight-backed chairs over and sat down a yard from me, his bloodless, heavy face sober, his fog-gray eyes hostile. And there was nothing friendly in the cold, contemptuous tone of his voice when he said, "Guess you wonder why we brought you here, huh?"

I said, "A little. There's nothing you need from me. Unless Carver just hasn't had his kicks for a few days."

Thurmond pursed his lips. "Wrong. We know you killed Dane, but you haven't actually confessed yet. So all you got to do is sign a confession we got all ready for you. Save yourself lots of trouble. Save Carver lots of work."

"Sure, I believe you, Thurmond. I shot Lincoln, too."

He went right on. "Then you also got to tell us what you been doing the last couple days. Who you maybe talked to and where this Lane girl is. And right now you can start with what you were doing in Gordon's office. Peterson—well, he can't tell us. Now, you cooperate. It'll make it a lot easier for you in court."

"You really expect me to believe I'll get to court?"

"Look, Scott. You can make this real easy, or you can do it the hard way. Either way, it'll all come out the same. So why don't you do it easy?"

I didn't say anything. They didn't really need my signed confession, or even the information the chief had asked for. Without it, they'd still get rid of me with a bullet, either here in the jail or someplace else. A confession and the rest would just make their frame and my murder tighter, more convincing. I didn't feel like helping them.

"Well," said Carver pleasantly, "looks like I got to turn the hose on you."

The hose he meant to turn on me was a foot-and-a-half length of thick rubber tubing. He stepped toward me and brought his hand up hard from his side, the hose bending back and then snapping forward like a whip just before it thudded against the side of my face. Probably the blow made only a dull thudding sound in the room, but to me it was a cannon going off.

Pain mushroomed along my face and inside my skull, the impact whipping my head around. And Carver was ready with the hose again, slashing it backhand at me. I saw it coming and tried to duck, the rubber striking my forehead and scraping down over my nose. I felt blood gush from my nostril and slide thick and warm over my lips as I jerked away, tried to lean back. The searing ache spread from my neck up behind my ear and gripped my skull, the knotting muscles resisting movement.

"Hold it," Thurmond said. "Get that blood. And watch it."

Carver jerked a dirty handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped it over my nose and mouth, mopping up the blood. They didn't want me found with blood all over my shirt, the evidence of a brutal beating.

It was hard to focus my eyes and there was a roaring sound in my head, rising and falling like the beating of faraway surf. I heard Carver say, "Scott. Hey, Scott, you wouldn't think I could work you over for an hour and nobody could tell it by looking at you, would you? Fact, though. Amazing, huh? Don't mark you up at all, hardly. Great invention. You about ready to cooperate?"

I could taste the blood on my lips as I told him, in the time-honored words of soldiers and sailors and ex-marines, what he could do to himself. He dropped the hose to the cement floor and stepped toward me with his fists balled, right hand swinging. I felt the first blow, I really felt that one, but the second one seemed like a wad of rags pushed against my face, and if there was a third, I didn't feel it at all.

The first sensation as consciousness returned was in my wrists. The handcuffs were biting into them as I slumped in the chair, my head hanging forward, chin pressed against my chest.

There was no way of knowing how long I'd been out, but I still had enough sense left to hold myself motionless, keep my eyes closed, and try to keep my breathing regular and slow. There was the rumble of a voice, then I heard Carver speaking, apparently answering the chief.

"Ah, stow it," he said. "You want me to tap him with a pillow? You forget what he did to Blake?"

"I don't want him marked up when we bring him in. No worse than he already is. Damn, you split his cheek."

"So what? We can say he put up a fight first. Why don't we get it over with? You still want that goddamn paper signed?"

"I want it. You shut up and let me handle this."

The only thing that wasn't clear to me was where they meant to kill me. That "when we bring him in" made it sound as if they were going to take care of me away from the jail. Guys shot to death in jail are bound to cause talk.

A third voice said, "Maybe he's fakin'. Maybe he's listenin'."

"So what?" Carver said. "Who's he gonna talk to?" I heard his feet scrape on the cement floor as he said, "I'll find out," and I tried to make myself stay limp. The hose whistled slightly as it whipped through the air, then it jarred against the side of my face. I bit the inside of my lip to keep from yelling, let my chin flop back against my chest.

His feet scraped as he moved away again. "Well, the hell with it," he said. "We're gonna be at this a while. Come on, Chief, Mac. Let's go get coffee."

Just like that. Time for the coffee break. I heard the door open and close but I played it clever and held still for another few minutes. When I looked up they all grinned at me. Boy, I was clever.

Carver thought this was very humorous. He laughed for quite a while. Then the chief said something to the guy called Mac, and Mac went out. He came back with some typed sheets of paper. Chief Thurmond brought them over and said, "You ready to sign this?"

When I spoke, I could feel the crust of dried blood on my lip. "I don't get it. Why don't you forge it, like you did Emmett Dane's signature. Why go to all this trouble?"

"You don't have to get it. You just sign it. You ready?"

"Sure. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

The chief wasn't sure if that meant yes or no. My brain had been addled just enough so that I figured maybe I could do something once my hands were free.

Mac went around behind me and unlocked the handcuffs. I thought: This is it. Then I thought: Oh, boy; funny. They say that while there's life there's hope, but there was a lot more life than hope in me, and very little life, at that. Carver had nothing in his hand except that goddamned hose, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the revolver in Mac's hand. When I'd pulled my hands out from between the slats of the chair and wiggled them a little, the chief handed me the papers, clipped to a board, then gave me a fountain pen. Now I was armed; I could squirt ink at them.

I held the "confession" in my left hand and then looked at the chief. "I believe you've made a few small mistakes. It says here that the confession was given voluntarily and without duress, and it says I killed—" I hadn't seen Carver move toward me, but I saw the hose swinging from his fist, and I ducked just in time to let it whip over my head. The force of Carver's swing bent him over right in front of me, his beefy face close enough so I could reach it, and the hate and pain boiled up in me all at once, and I crossed my right arm in front of my chest, the pen flying out of my hand and across the floor.

I snapped my arm sideways and upward from my chest, hand stretched open and its edge driving for the middle of his face, but he swung around fast and my hand caught his shoulder. I started to come out of the chair after him, get him right the next time, but it was really little more than an idea, and I couldn't have got more than an inch out of the chair. Exactly what happened, I don't know, but something solid hit the back of my head and everything blurred like 3D without glasses, and then there was a noise like a tire blowing out, and when everything stopped spinning around I deduced that Carver had walloped me with his favorite hose again.

I said, "You sonofabitch," and he laughed, and I noticed that I had dropped the confession. The chief picked it up and handed it to me, and I signed it "Clyde Baron," and the chief hit me and Carver walloped me and even Mac got in a few licks, and I passed out. Later, what must have been a long time later, they asked me questions and I was quite happy to answer them. By this time, my wrists were behind me again, with the handcuffs tight around them. Most of the questions I answered straight, but a few times I gave them phony replies. Eventually, maybe they'd figure out the phony answers, but that didn't worry me.

Thurmond said, "Now, where's the Lane girl?"

It was a little painful to talk because my lip was split. The men had decided it didn't make a great deal of difference if I were marked up. "We ducked out of Lanny's and went to the Canyon Motel on Westerley Drive. I left her there, but she'll be gone by now. I told her what would happen if you caught up with her. You won't find her."

"We'll find her."

I looked at the chief. "It won't work, Thurmond. There can't be many more guys in town as crooked as you."

"Shut your mouth, Scott, if you want to keep it."

I said, "Are all the Seacliff cops in this as deep as you three?"

Carver said, "Just us three, Scott. Ain't that enough for you?"

The chief said, "Scott. Listen good. Where's the camera?"

"What camera?"

He pressed his lips together. "Don't play dumb." He turned to Carver and said, "He cracks wise again, I'll leave you in here alone with him for a half hour. OK?"

That was OK with Carver. Thurmond said to me, "While you were out, a guy called up from the Star. Wanted to know what stuff you had on you when we brought you in, and if you had a camera. Now, why the hell would he ask that?"

That was a question I wished I could answer. Betty was the only person who knew I was going to use the Leica. Thurmond had said a guy called; but he might have said that to cross me up.

"You've got me," I said. "I had a camera, all right, but I thought I was the only person who knew about it."

"What was it for? And what were you doing in Gordon's office?"

"I took a Leica up there and made copies of that fake will you guys and Baron dreamed up. Also copied the shots of the Craig dame."

"Where's the camera?"

"When Carver was shooting everything in sight except me, I tossed it under the Red Cross stand. Right there on Main where I was picked up."

The chief wiggled a finger at Mac. Mac went out. When Thurmond leaned toward me again, I happened to get a look at his wristwatch. It was nearly one o'clock. I had been aware, in a vague way, that a lot of time had passed, but I hadn't realized it was after noon. If they took me from the clink, whatever they did now they'd have to do in broad daylight. Unless they waited till night. I hoped they waited.

Twenty minutes and a dozen question later things calmed down momentarily and I tried a question of my own. "You've been having a lot of fun," I said, "and since you're in such a jolly mood, how about telling me something? The only way the whole mess here makes sense is that Baron is top man. But was the whole idea his? Did he dream it up alone, or did he have help?"

Carver squatted in front of me, glanced at the chief, then grinned at me. "You know what it means if I tell you, don't you?"

I knew, all right. He meant that whatever he might tell me would never be repeated by me, because you know what they say about dead men. Carver was enjoying this moment, getting a kick out of watching my face, looking for some sign of sickness or fear at the thought of sudden death.

I said, "Yeah, I know. But it's no sudden shock, Carver. Well?"

"Sure," he said, grinning, "Baron's the whole cheese, chum. The whole idea was his from the beginning." He paused and the grin widened. "Well, chum, you heard me say it. Guess that marks your grave, huh?"

"Yeah. You just now decided. Only one thing still puzzles me. Ed Whist. What good did killing him do?"

He frowned at me. "Whist? Hell, I'd forgot about the old guy. He wasn't supposed to be killed in the first place, chum. Zimmerman worked him over a little to sort of persuade him, but he got carried away. Whist wasn't as strong as he looked." Carver stood up and grinned down at me. "Sure funny what a few good licks alongside a man's head can do to him. You as strong as you look?"

I didn't answer him, and he was still telling me how a guy could get killed by being slugged a little too hard when the door opened and Mac came in again.

He looked at Thurmond and shook his head. "Nothing under there but the street."

Thurmond turned to me, his face red. "I'm goddamn tired, Scott—"

"Wait a minute. I told you I tossed the camera under there. I did. Maybe somebody picked it up. The Red Cross is using that stand; must be a lot of people near there."

Mac said, "Lunch hour. Must have been a couple hundred people around there. All in front, though. Nobody'd have any business climbing under there. I think he's lying."

I wondered if the camera might have landed where people could later have seen it. But I remembered that it had gone past the cloth, probably halfway under the stand.

"I gave you a straight story, Thurmond." I thought a minute. "When I tossed the thing, it tore the cloth around the stand as it went through."

Mac said, "Yeah, the cloth was tore. Maybe somebody looked through there. It's tore in plain sight there."

The next hour or two was, oddly enough, almost pleasant. They left me pretty much alone for that length of time, during which they apparently were checking on what I'd told them about the camera and Betty. I hoped she was safe. I thought quite a bit about my own chances, which seemed nil. After the beating I'd absorbed, I wasn't in what might be called excellent physical condition, but neither was I helpless.

Most of the work on me had been handled by Carver swinging his hose, and so far I had a lot of aches and bruises, and it hurt to breathe, but no bones were broken. I was still capable of standing up and moving around, even running a little if necessary. Not very fast and not very far, but at least I wasn't flat on my back. If I gave them much more of a bad time, though, I might easily wind up with a broken arm or leg or skull, and I would run nowhere except down. So I decided to cooperate. Up to a point.

Finally all three of them came back inside. This time Carver, instead of Thurmond, did the talking. "The Lane girl wasn't at the Canyon Motel. And there's no Leica anyplace. And I'm awful tired of you, Scott. You start talking straight, or we'll kill you right here in"—he grinned—"Coney Island."

I had figured that Carver, a man of little patience to begin with, was about out of patience. This belief was bolstered by the fact that he'd traded his hose for a leather-wrapped sap that he held now in his right hand.

"I'm convinced," I said.

"Let's start with your confession, Scott."

"I'll sign it."

He seemed surprised. Also a little disappointed. But he got the typed pages from Mac and walked over to me again. I said, "Look, Carver, just among us buddies, we all know I didn't kill Dane, so there's no point in being cute about it. How do you expect to make this frame stick, even with a confession? My gun wasn't used on Dane, and—"

He interrupted. "Wrong, chum. We even got slugs we— well, dug out of Dane. Match your gun, too. Hadn't you guessed? You had all sorts of motives. Besides, we caught you running away right after you plugged him, remember?"

I remembered. And it wouldn't have been much trouble for them to fire bullets from my gun into a box of cotton—or even into Dane's dead body, for that matter—and later testify that ballistics tests proved my gun had been used for the kill. They had me for shooting Blake, but if they could clear up Dane's murder at the same time, all their worries would be over.

"You find my thirty-eight?" I asked.

"Yep. On the fire escape. Too bad you didn't fall off into the alley. Save us a lot of trouble. That way we could concentrate on your sweetie."

"Why don't you quit worrying about her? She can't hurt you."

"She's not as important as you are—or were—to us, but I'm afraid we got to worry about her. We'll find her."

He freed my wrists, handed me the confession and a pen. I signed the last page. I signed it "Sheldon Scott," with no tricks and no hesitation. I had already figured out that my signed confession was important to the cops—but it was no good to them, really, until I was dead. As long as I was alive, that signature on a fake confession could easily backfire, so my signing wasn't too important; on the other hand, once I was dead, I wouldn't give much of a damn about anything. So I signed with a flourish and handed pen and paper back to Carver.

"Get on your feet," he said.

I stood up. Carver slipped the bracelets on my wrists again, but I noticed he was manacling my hands in front of me. That made it easier for me to move them, even swing at somebody, and I wondered if he'd made a mistake. Just in case, I started talking to keep his mind occupied.

"This about does it, right, Carver? You're practically in the chips. Especially if you count in the foundation property. You boys got that under control yet?"

He frowned and blinked at me. "How the hell did you fall into that?"

"Something Baron let slip started me thinking," I lied. "Then it tied in with all the rest of the mess here."

He shook his head, then said, "Well, we got voting control, chum. Will have in a few days, anyway."

"Uh-huh, when somebody takes over Dane's membership. I guess you figure that strip of beach is practically yours, huh?"

He grinned. "Not exactly, chum, not like the stuff we bought ourselves, but we'll have control of it—legally. City may get it back eventually, but we'll make some bucks on the deal."

He stepped back from me and moved my hands forward and up a little, only they didn't move very far. He'd slipped the handcuffs under my belt. He said, "Nope, it can't miss. We got no worries at all now. Come on, Scott."

"Where we going?"

He grinned again. "Let's say we're taking you to the county seat. Feeling's running high against you here, chum. Gonna transfer you."

"Sure. So the howling mob doesn't break in and lynch me."

We went out of the room, Mac and the chief ahead of me, and Carver right behind. The main entrance to the jail was on our left, but we turned right and walked down the hall. There was a door at the hall's end, which opened on the side street, Elm.

Mac went out first and walked ahead of us to the black police sedan parked at the curb, opened both side doors, and stood by them like a chauffeur as we walked briskly down the sidewalk toward the car. For a moment I considered trying to run for it, but I pushed that thought out of my mind even before Carver said softly behind me, "Now, you just take off, Scott. Run a little way down the street so it looks good. Lots better if we got witnesses."

I swallowed. That would make it nice. The innocent bystanders could testify that I'd been brought down by Dead-eye Carver when I was attempting to escape. There were a few men and women in sight, walking on the sidewalks. Half a dozen cars were parked nearby. There was something strange about one brown coupé parked across the street, but just as I started to take a good look at it we reached the police sedan and Carver pushed me inside and across to the far edge of the back seat. Mac crawled in behind me, and Carver slammed the door.

I glanced at the brown coupé again. Hanging out the door on the driver's side was an object that was not standard equipment on brown Fords. It was a leather camera case, the straps held in a white hand. I wasn't able to see the driver's face, but there couldn't be much doubt, under the circumstances, that the case was the one that had been around my Leica. And I was suddenly sure that the car was Betty's brown Ford, and that her hand held the case's straps. As I looked, the leather case was pulled inside the car. I made myself face the front of the police car, kept my head turned away from the Ford. Carver slid inside the sedan up in front and Chief Thurmond walked around toward the driver's seat.

Carver was looking back at me, and I was afraid he might look past me, see the car across the street. He might even recognize it as Betty's car. I tried to keep him looking at my face, kept talking to him. I said the first thing that popped into my mind, just to be saying words. "Carver, you know I'm onto the whole deal, or I wouldn't be taking this ride. I just want to know one thing more. Who killed Dane? I know Baron ordered it, but I mean who pulled the trigger?"

He chuckled. "A dead man, Scott. He's dead now."

"Zimmerman?"

"Zimmerman. You'll get to meet him later today." He grinned at me. "Too bad we don't have your girlfriend along to keep you company."

I had to swallow in the middle of my answer, but I got it out. "She's probably in Frisco by now."

I heard the starter of the Ford across the street grinding, then the motor caught. Chief Thurmond started the police car and we pulled out from the curb. Three blocks ahead, he turned left. Up till that moment I had forced myself to keep my eyes front, but I glanced quickly back down the street as we turned. The brown Ford was back there, about half a block behind us.

That settled it. I knew for sure that it was Betty. I got a kind of panicky feeling and my heart kicked up inside my chest. There wasn't a thing she could do except get herself killed. Why the hell had she stuck around? Why hadn't she run while she had a chance?

I let my manacled hands rest against my stomach, over my belt. I could feel the small metal buckle against my index finger. Mac leaned against the side of the car on my right, his gun pointed at my chest.

Hairs wiggled at the back of my neck. I had assumed they'd planned to stop in some deserted spot, take me out of the car and put a bullet or two into my skull. But looking at Mac's gun, and at his face, I wondered now why I'd thought it would have to be like that.

There wasn't really any reason for them to wait till I was out of the car.

Chapter Seventeen

Suddenly chief Thurmond spoke. "Looks pretty good along here, huh?"

We were a couple of miles from Seacliff, on a two-lane highway bordered by trees and grass. It was pretty country, and it looked cool in among the trees.

Carver was partly twisted around in the front seat, and now he looked out the rear window. "Good enough," he said. "Road's clear, too, except for one car. Let him pass."

I looked behind us as if in natural response to Carver's words. Mac, on my right, glanced out the window too, then fixed his eyes on me again. The brown Ford was still about half a block behind, but even as I watched, it seemed to draw closer.

There wasn't a trace of saliva in my mouth or throat. In the hope that I could keep attention centered on me, and not on the Ford, I said, "Carver, it looks like the party's almost over. It would be a little satisfaction, at least, to know I was right all the way. Where does Norris fit in? Just muscle?"

Carver laughed, as if my question were silly. "Your party's over, all right, chum." He pursed his lips. "Yeah, you figured it all pretty good. But you had to be lucky to figure out the boss was Baron. Hell of a lot of good it's gonna do you. You're curious about Norris, huh? Well, chum, that's what you're supposed to be, see? Norris works for Baron, and if anybody tumbles to part of the play, then naturally they think Norris is responsible for everything, Norris and his pro boys, some syndicate men. Of course, Norris put up plenty of the dough for the operation, and he'll get a lot of the profits. But Baron? It costs him a little money, but he's clean as a hound's tooth. Smart, huh?"

"Yeah, smart." I was dying to look again at the road behind us but I kept my eyes on Carver's face. I wondered what the hell Betty was planning to do, if anything. If she just kept tagging along behind, these guys would tumble.

I turned to Mac and said, "Do you have to point that thing at me?"

That almost broke him up, it was so funny, but it gave me an excuse to turn my head just a little farther to my right. I glanced out the back window. The Ford was only about thirty yards away now, going much faster than we were. My pulse quickened and I pressed my hand against my belt, feeling for the buckle again, hoping Mac's finger wasn't too tight on that trigger. Because she wasn't swinging out to pass us, not an inch; and I suddenly knew what she must be going to do. She was going to ram us.

I spoke to Carver, but at the same time I tried to count off the seconds, estimate the moment of impact.

"Carver," I said, "I know Dorothy Craig got hot with the Star's publisher, then later with Baron. And Josephson never lets anything be printed that might foul up Baron's operation here. Is that Miss Craig's contribution?"

I had mentally counted off five seconds. I pulled my feet back against the seat, tensed the muscles in my legs, and looped a finger through my belt buckle.

Carver said, "She had some letters from the old guy. Real hot stuff, chum. Baron's got them now."

I saw the chief looking into the rearview mirror. He shouted something and his hands tightened on the wheel. I dug for the buckle on my belt, felt it slide free. My hands jerked up in front of me as Mac yelled, "Hey!" and snapped his gun toward my face.

I jerked my head aside, eyes fixed on the bore of Mac's revolver, but I could still see his lips pulled apart and his teeth pressed together behind them as he started to squeeze the trigger. From the corner of my eye I saw the brown blur of the Ford right upon us—and then it hit.

Mac's gun went off almost in my face, heat from the explosion searing my skin and fiery flecks of powder digging into my cheek. But the impact as Betty's Ford slammed into the sedan shoved us all against the seats and Mac's bullet zipped past my head and crashed through the side window.

The car swerved in the road. All of us were off balance, but the others more than I, because I'd been prepared for the impact. And before Mac could straighten up, bring his gun around to bear on me again, I swung both manacled wrists toward his face, driving them toward him with all my strength, and he slumped when the heavy steel bands struck his forehead. The gun dropped from his hands and fell to the floor.

Somebody shouted in the front of the car but I didn't even look up. I slid forward, letting my knees drop to the floor, and grabbed with both hands for the gun. I got one hand around it and thrust a finger through the trigger guard.

I didn't wait. I didn't give a damn if Carver had a gun in his hand. Even before I looked up, as soon as the gun was in my fist, I angled it toward the back of the seat before me and started pulling the trigger. I fired three times through the seat, letting the natural kick of the gun bring its barrel higher each time, and only when I fired the fourth shot did I see Carver's face, see the gun in his hand.

His gun was centered on my head, but even before I fired that fourth shot, Carver's finger was too weak to pull the trigger. There was a red stain against his chest and his hand was relaxing around the gun butt. Then my fourth shot hit him right at the hairline and he fell backward, slumped on the floorboards in front, jackknifed between the seat and the dashboard.

The chief's head was jerked around toward me, one hand just coming up from his hip, where he carried his gun, and the sedan was slowed almost to a stop, brakes squealing.

I stuck my revolver alongside the chief's nose and said, "Lift that heater and I'll lift your skull off."

He made a squeaking noise in his throat, brought his hand up empty.

"Grab the wheel," I said, "and watch the road. Park this crate."

I just got the last word out when there was another enormous crashing sound and the sedan jumped forward five feet. I flew backward and wound up on the seat again. But I still held the gun in both hands, my right index finger curled around the trigger.

Thurmond managed to get the car parked at the side of the road before we got clobbered by the Ford again, and I leaned forward, poked him alongside his ear with the gun, and said, "Look straight ahead and shove up the rearview mirror."

He did. I grabbed the gun in both hands. I wanted the mirror up so he wouldn't see me when I swatted him in the middle of the skull. He didn't. Chief Thurmond slumped over on Carver. I got out of the car and looked behind it. Nothing. Then I saw the Ford a block away, turned half around in the street. Betty had as much cold nerve as a regiment of marines, but she wasn't completely out of her mind. She was ready to light out for the wilderness. I waved both arms over my head and yelled and yelled and not a sound came out. I was all right, I was dandy. Finally, I swallowed and gulped some air and yelled and managed to make a little noise. The Ford swung around and came up alongside me and Betty looked out the window at me with a white face.

She said shakily, "Is . . . is . . . are you—"

"It's all right," I said. She got out of the car as I said, "What on earth made you think of that? Where did you come from? How did you know—"

She stopped me. "Oh, your poor face! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just banged up a little. I'm not shot. But if it hadn't been for you, I'd be leaking from many holes. Just scared, I guess." Reaction was setting in now; my hands were shaking like leaves.

I said, "How come you were outside the jail?"

She spoke in a rush. "I was outside the longest time, just waiting. I knew you must be in there, but I didn't even know if you were alive—and I couldn't go in and ask them. When you all came out, I put the camera case outside the window hoping you'd see it and know I was there. I followed you, even though I didn't know what I was going to do. On the way out of town I decided if they stopped to . . . do anything to you, I'd honk and yell so they'd know there was a witness and would maybe be afraid to go ahead. I was so scared I wasn't sure of anything. Then right at the end I decided to hit the car. I thought maybe you could do something."

"Wait a minute. You've lost me. You forget I was in the clink all day." I stopped. She was still as white as a sheet. I said, "Are you OK, honey?" and she nodded, said, "Yes, I'm—" and fainted.

I didn't do a very good job of catching her, but I at least managed to ease her to the pavement. I left her there while I walked around to the other side of the police car, opened the door, and dug through pockets till I found the key to my handcuffs. In another minute, I had them off and had manacled Chief Thurmond to Mac. Then I picked Betty up and put her inside the Ford.

Her eyes fluttered and, for a moment, her face was frightened, then she sighed and threw her arms around my neck. She pulled me close and, for a minute or two, we had a most enjoyable time of it. During that period I told her she'd kept me from being a dead man, and she could have my left arm if she wanted it—in fact, all my arms and legs and anything else she cared for—and she said, "Kiss me," and I kissed her, and she said, "Your mustache tickles," and I tickled her some more.

Finally I disengaged myself and said, "Honey, there's still some unfinished business. First, though, how did you find the camera? How come you even knew where I was?"

"Well, when you didn't come back this morning I knew something was wrong. I listened to the radio and heard what had happened. About six-thirty, I left the motel, got my car, and drove to Main Street. All the broadcast had said was that you'd been caught at the Red Cross stand—and you'd told me to meet you there if anything went wrong, that it was our base of operations. I thought maybe you'd been there for a while before they caught you, and I looked all around in case you'd left something there or dropped anything. I looked for the camera, too, but not very hard, because I supposed the police caught you with it. I even looked for blood."

"They missed me."

"I saw the bullet holes. Anyway, then I left and checked by phone with the paper. I talked to Martin, one of the reporters. He told me all he could, more than I'd heard on the radio. I'd already wondered if the police knew you'd broken into the lawyer's office, and if they really had caught you with the Leica. Martin checked for me and found out what personal belongings you'd had on you. There wasn't any camera. I had Martin ask that specifically, and he said the policeman seemed surprised. Well, I knew then that you'd got rid of it. I couldn't know where, but the logical place was the Red Cross stand. I went back and searched all around and in that little back room. Then I noticed the torn place in the cloth around the stand. I crawled through and looked around until I found the Leica."

"Honey," I said dazedly, "how would you like to go into the detective business? We'll call the office Betty and Assistant."

She smiled. "It wasn't much of a deduction, really. But I did get clever after that, I thought. I knew what you wanted the pictures for, so I phoned Martin again, then drove by the Star office and tossed the roll of film into his car; it was parked in front. Then I drove to the police station and waited there so I'd know if they took you out—you'd told me that they probably would. Martin took care of everything from then on. I mean, he had the films developed and then took them to a handwriting expert."

I digested that and finally said, "I'll be damned. When can we check with him?"

"I already have. Oh, I wrapped the film cartridge in that postcard from Emmett—the one you showed me last night. I still had it when I left the motel and it had Emmett's real signature, so I had Martin take it along." She frowned. "I talked to Mr. Bridges, the handwriting man, on the phone, and he said he could give me only a tentative answer, but he said it was almost positive that the only forged signature was the one on the postcard."

Chapter Eighteen

For a moment her words stunned me. That really hit me where I lived. I even wondered if Emmett could have left his property to Dorothy Craig, if the will was actually on the level and not a fake.

I didn't see how it was possible I could have been wrong. Not when everything that had happened was considered. I said, "Betty, this expert didn't say the card signature was forged, did he? It was just different from that on the will, right?"

"Well, he told me on the phone that it was difficult to be absolutely sure when he was working from photographs, but he had pictures of the will and half a dozen other signed documents. And he had the postcard. All the signatures were the same except the one on the postcard. It was only a little bit different, he said, but obviously a forgery."

"Not quite. Just the opposite. Every signature except the one on Em's card was faked. That's the way it has to be. They planned this deal from way back, and all those papers in the safe were faked. Every damned one. If it was ever checked in court, the will signature would agree with Dane's normal signature on his papers. Naturally; they were all forged by the same guy. They drew this one up tight."

And, I was thinking, it was still tight. The fact remained that I'd killed two police officers and swatted the chief himself on the head. True, I'd shot Blake and Carver instants before they would cheerfully and callously have murdered me. But I wondered how I'd convince a jury of that.

Betty said, "What are we going to do, Shell?"

"That's what I was wondering. I guess the only thing left is what we talked about last night. I can try to reach Baron and talk to him. I've got two live cops in the car, but it's still my word against theirs; we need something better. A lot better."

"You'll have to let me help now." She frowned. "Shell, how are you going to reach Baron?"

"He's pretty sure to be in his office. I'll just walk in."

She really frowned at that one. It did sound silly. "There are police all over town," she said. "And they all know what you look like, you know that."

"I do. But the town is swarming with cops, so maybe they won't notice one more. Uh, don't peek."

She sat in the Ford while I walked to the far side of the police car and got busy. When I finished, Carver's body was on the floor in back, and the chief and Mac were on top of him, gagged, handcuffed, and trussed together. Mac wore only his shorts. And I was a cop.

Mac's uniform was too tight, but his gun fitted perfectly against my hip. I adjusted my cap and walked to the Ford.

I said, "How do I look?"

"Somehow you still don't look like a policeman. But maybe it will help."

"Sure it will. It's got to. One cop looks pretty much like another. Usually you see the uniform, not the face. I . . . hope."

"I hope so too, Shell. Well, are we ready?"

"Ready enough. Let's go."

Betty left her Ford parked alongside the road and sat in front of the police car with me as I drove back toward town. Our three cops were in back, fairly well covered with my clothes and with seat covers from Betty's Ford. The police radio was turned on, but nothing to worry us was being broadcast. I went over what we were going to pull, and as we hit the outskirts of town, I asked her, "Got it all straight?"

"Of course. Mine's the easy part."

"Baby, it won't be easy. And it's got to work or we're dead. There may be some more on the force like Thurmond and Carver, maybe not. But we don't know for sure. And I imagine Norris and his boys will be looking for you by now. Any of them see you, they won't just tip their hats and stroll by." I'd stuck the extra guns into the glove compartment, and I opened it, took out a police revolver, and put it in her lap. "Might as well hang onto that, honey. And if you have to use it on a man, aim for his head. There's a myth fostered by movies that if you shoot a guy he falls down dead. But it ain't so here in Seacliff."

She tried to smile, but I could tell that she didn't feel up to it. Neither did I. We drove to the parking lot on Pepper and parked at the curb.

I said to Betty, "Just tap on the horn once if anything comes up. Anything at all." She nodded and I squared my shoulders and walked into the parking lot. I remembered the attendant's face from last night; if he remembered me, he was going to be more than mildly puzzled by my uniform. I walked straight up to him and said sharply, "Hey, buddy."

He looked at me, and as far as I could tell, all he saw was a cop. I went right on, "Looking for a black Caddy convertible somebody spotted here."

He broke in, eager to help. "Sure, Officer. Bet I know the one. Only one here. What is it, stolen?"

I gave him a baleful look for his curiosity. "Where is it?"

He trotted away and came back with my keys, handed them to me, and watched while I opened the trunk. When he saw all the junk inside he said, "What's all that?"

I gave him my baleful look again and he subsided while I pawed through the equipment, hunting for what I wanted. I found the two small boxes and pushed some of the other stuff out of the way so I could remove them and the attendant said, "This the car?"

"Yeah. This is it." I stared stonily at him. "Thanks. That's all."

He left, firmly convinced, I'm sure, that I was an honest-to-God cop. I picked up the two boxes, closed the trunk, and walked back to the police car with a spot between my shoulder blades twitching.

In the prowl car again, I drove toward Main, that spot in my back still twitching. On Main we passed another black police radio car going in the opposite direction, but nothing happened. The block between Fourth and Fifth was still blocked off for the Red Cross drive, a crowd of people bunched in front of the stand. I circled the block and came back into Main again at Fifth, swung right, and parked. "You set?" I asked Betty when she got out of the car.

"Ye-es." She was holding one of the small boxes by a strap at its top. I said, "Don't mess with that; just do what I told you. We'll start in at five-fifteen sharp. Don't fool with it at all."

"I'm scared. I don't mean too scared. I'll do everything all right. But I'm just . . . scared."

"You can't be any more scared than I am. We'll manage this OK, honey."

"Yes. Of course." She turned and walked back across Fifth.

I started the car and drove two and a half blocks ahead and parked in a red zone right in front of the Diamond Building. Seven floors up, Suite 712, Baron should be in his office. He might even now be looking out his window able to see the police car. It was just after five o'clock and some of the office workers had started pouring out onto the street. Now was as good a time as any, while a lot of people were milling around.

I got out of the car, slammed the door, and, with my mouth as dry as a blotter, walked across the wide sidewalk, straight for the entrance to the Diamond Building.

Office workers brushed against me as I went inside and stopped in front of the elevator. There was a tired feeling in my jaws and I realized I had my teeth clenched hard together. When the elevator stopped and discharged the passengers, the girl looked at me, glanced at the box under my arm, and said in a tired voice, "Going up."

I stepped inside, trying to relax. "Seven," I said.

Another man came in behind me, said, "Four," and leaned against the wall. I'd never seen him before and he paid no attention to me. He got out at the fourth floor, then we went up to seven. I looked around the hall and waited till the elevator started down again, then walked to the door numbered 712.

For a moment I was undecided whether to ease the door open and hope the surreptitious movement wouldn't be noticed, or merely swing it wide suddenly. Then I grabbed the knob, turned it, and shoved. There was nobody inside the room. The door banged with a small noise against the wall. I stepped inside and looked round rapidly, but the office was empty. A door in the wall on my left was closed.

I felt frustrated, angry. My whole play depended on Baron's being here. I was so keyed up, so much depended on this, that I thought only that he must have stepped out for a moment, maybe gone to the restroom or out for coffee. I didn't even consider the chance that he might be in one of the two other rooms of his suite. I headed for his desk, then my eyes fell on the big wastebasket beside it. I took the box from under my arm, checked its dials, and placed it in the wastebasket, partially covering it with some crumpled papers.

I was bent over when I heard footsteps in the hallway. My nerves jumped and I jerked out my gun. I stepped to the wall alongside the door and waited as the footsteps came up to the door. I aimed my gun at it, waited for Baron to come inside, hoping it was Baron. The walking feet went past, stopped. Then everything was quiet; I couldn't hear a sound. When I did hear a sound, it wasn't at all what I wanted to hear. It was Baron's voice—and it came from behind me near one of the connecting doors.

"All right," he said. "Turn around. Slowly."

I jerked my head around, starting to swing the gun up, but then I moved slowly as he'd suggested. The revolver in Baron's hand was a small one, probably .32, but it was big enough. And it was pointed squarely at my chest.

Baron was halfway across the room from me, and when I thought of all he had done, I wanted to jump for him, get my hands on him, smash them into his face. But I knew I couldn't take more than one step toward him before he fired. Anyway, he was no good to me dead.

He said, "Drop that gun. Kick it over here."

I hesitated for another long second, then dropped the gun, nudged it over the carpet with my foot. This wasn't the way I'd planned our meeting at all. Baron was supposed to be squirming under my gun.

He stooped and picked up the revolver and dropped it into his coat pocket, his eyes never leaving my face. Then his large even teeth flashed in an uncertain smile. "I don't understand this, Mr. Scott. Put up your hands."

I stretched my arms over my head, thinking it must be close to five-fifteen now. I said, "You're surprised I'm not dead, I suppose."

"Mainly that you're here. Why here, Mr. Scott?"

"You can guess. You've framed me so tight there's no chance for me to get out. I came here to . . . pay you back, let's say."

He was frowning. "I see. You came here to kill me."

I didn't speak. He went on, "I suppose you know all of it."

"All the important bits. Enough to have stopped you, I think. If you hadn't had me on the run all the time."

Baron pulled back the hammer of his little gun. "You know, of course, that you'll never live to tell anybody."

"You can't kill me here. How are you going to manage it, Baron? And if you walk me out of the building, I'll run for it."

He said coldly, "Why can't I kill you here, Mr. Scott? You're in a police uniform, you came here to kill me, you forced your way into my office." He stopped for a moment, frowning. "I've never killed a man before, believe it or not."

"You murdered Emmett Dane."

When he spoke, it seemed as if he were talking more to himself than to me, as though he might still be trying to convince himself that he wasn't actually guilty of murder.

He said, "No. That's not true. I've never killed a man. It was Zimmerman. He and Gibbons—"

"Nuts, Baron. You don't have to pull the trigger to kill a man. Not when you can hire professional hoods like Zimmerman. And Norris. Maybe they pulled the triggers for you, but you're even more guilty than they are."

He suddenly took a step toward me, his eyes widening. "I thought you were in jail. Or"—he glanced at his watch, the gun never wavering from me—"dead. I don't understand."

"There's a lot you don't know, Baron. A lot you should know—besides what happened to your crooked police chief and his pals."

I thought his finger tightened on the trigger and I said rapidly, "I can't tell you if I'm dead. You'll never figure it out by yourself. Your operation's falling apart, Baron."

He swallowed and I saw muscles working under the fat at the sides of his jaws. I went on, "Some of it goes clear back to the day I met you and Dorothy Craig at the Manning home. Before I guessed you were passing Dorothy off to Dane and me as Lilith Manning."

He bit his lip, frowning at me, and I kept it going. I talked steadily for a full minute while he stared at me, and I tried to cover, fast, all the high spots of his operation here, the muscle and the con and the murder: the Craig-Manning deception, the rezoning angle, the foundation gimmick, the murder of Dane and the forged will; everything clear up to the moment when Chief Thurmond had started to stop the car this afternoon. I finished it up: "They meant to murder me, Baron, just as Carver and Blake tried once before, and I suppose you could have breathed easier then. But even with me out of the way, there's too much for you to cover, too many guys you've had to bribe or blackmail. It's not worth the lousy million bucks, Baron. It won't work, no matter what you do."

"It will." He spoke softly, earnestly, and again it was as though he spoke more to himself than to me. "And it isn't just a million. It's millions, literally millions upon millions. A city . . . an entire city, Mr. Scott."

"You'll never—"

"That's enough," he interrupted. He had talked with me, and let me talk, seeming hardly to hear my words or be aware of his own, apparently trying to screw his courage up to the point where he could pull the trigger of the gun in his hand. He looked now as if he had made up his mind, as though he'd got the needed courage from somewhere. His face was pale and beaded with perspiration, jaws clamped tightly together.

I had been straining my ears, listening with part of my mind for some sound, any sound from outside, from the street seven stories below us. Now I heard the ready wail of a siren. It didn't have to mean anything—but there was a chance it did. And I had to keep him talking, preoccupied, for at least another minute or two.

"Baron," I said sharply. "Wait a minute. Thurmond and his two buddies are down below, tied up in their car, the car I drove here. When the other cops in town, the honest ones, know what Thurmond's been messed up in, they'll tear him apart. He'll spill and they'll get to you finally. You said you haven't killed a man, not yet, not yourself. You've still got a chance. You—"

He broke in, staring, his voice tight. "I have no choice."

I knew from the expression on his face, the slight convulsive movement of his right hand, that he was going to shoot. His lips tightened over his teeth and he thrust the gun slightly toward me as I jumped aside, trying to get away from the muzzle of his gun. But I was too slow.

The gun cracked and simultaneously I felt the bullet slam into my middle, felt the sharp stinging sensation as the slug tore through flesh and muscle. I stumbled, fell to my knees, and twisted my body toward Baron as he stepped toward me, the gun pointed at my head.

The next moment seemed stretched, elongated, and dozens of distinct impressions raced through my mind. Baron's twisted, staring face, the louder wail of the siren below, the absence of pain in my side except for the slight stinging sensation there, the ugly bore of the gun in Baron's hand. And, in that moment, I knew that if I tried to jump him he'd fire again and again, and kill me.

"Baron!" I shouted. "Wait. A thousand people heard that shot."

Something in my tone or words stopped him momentarily. He paused, not yet squeezing the trigger. I pilled out the words. "I mean it. Every word either of us has said for the last five minutes has been heard by half the people in town. You'd better listen to me, Baron."

The intense, strained expression on his face slowly added and his eyes got puzzled. I got my feet under me, hands pressed to my side, feeling the warm blood spilling upon them. But there wasn't yet any real pain; there wouldn't be for a while. I said, "I planted a short-wave radio in here, a small sending set. It's in your wastebasket. Take a look."

His expression stayed the same. "You're lying. You couldn't have. I was gone only a few seconds. You're lying."

"Take a look."

He didn't move.

I heard the siren below moaning faintly. "You hear that siren, Baron? It's for you. And I'll bet these cops aren't friends of yours. You can't have any left. All your pals should be running by now. Jim Norris and his hoods, all your chums, they all know the operation's ruined now, Baron. They'll be pulling out."

He moved to the wastebasket, fumbled inside it, and even before he saw the small sending set, when his hand had merely touched it, his face changed. The flesh seemed to sag and his skin whitened. He pulled the small box out, glanced at it, then looked at me again. "You couldn't have. I heard you come in. There wasn't time." He looked at the plain box, at its grilled top.

I said, "No, Baron, nothing fancy. All I had to do was drop it in there. No outside wires, no nothing. Just some transistors and coils, a battery and a microphone. There's another set almost like that a few blocks from here, a receiving set. At the Red Cross stand, friend. And every word you've said, every word I've said—all that's happened here has been booming over the two loudspeakers there at that Red Cross platform. A thousand people must have heard your words, heard that gunshot. By now half the town knows about it. It's not just me any more, Baron. It's Seacliff. It's the whole town."

I hoped to God I was right, hoped that Betty had made it to the speakers, let everything her receiving set picked up blare out over the public-address system there, over Main Street and a good chunk of town. Because if anything had gone wrong, Baron could still win.

He gently placed the box on his desk and looked away from it to the wide window open at the front wall of his office, but he kept the gun pointed at me all the time.

He glanced out the window, down seven stories to the street, and then raised his eyes, skimmed his sight over the length of Main Street toward the Red Cross stand, more than two blocks away. His gaze was away from me for a full second or two, but I took only one step toward him and his eyes were on me again, the gun pointing at my chest.

I stopped, tensing the muscles in my legs, but then I saw Baron's face and knew he was shaken, unnerved and frightened by what he must have seen. His face was an almost sickly gray, and his mouth was partly open, the lips slack. The gun drooped until it pointed at the floor between him and me and he said so softly I could barely hear him, "My God."

Then I heard, in the hall outside, the slap of running feet. "Here's your cops, Baron," I said, but he didn't seem to hear me.

I suppose I should have known what was going through his mind; maybe I should have been able to stop him. I didn't stop him, though. For one thing, he didn't move quickly, didn't suddenly jerk into motion. He looked at me, unseeing, his eyes staring through me. Then he looked out of the window again, looked far down below him to the street, and then glanced at me once more. But his eyes merely brushed over me and then around his office, and he turned, it seemed slowly, and thrust his head and shoulders through the yawning window.

I yelled and jumped toward him, a fiery pain darting through my side. The door behind me burst open as I jumped and grabbed for Baron's foot, my fingers just brushing his shoe, and then he was gone. I leaned forward, one hand pressed against the side of the window, and I saw him fall, barely turning in the air. He didn't cry out; not a sound came from his lips. His form seemed to became smaller as he plummeted toward the sidewalk, and then he hit.

I had never seen a man fall from a high building before, and I hope I never see it again. It would almost have been less terrible if he had screamed. But it was strange what thought was forecast in my mind even seconds after he was a kind of jelly down there on the cement. I couldn't help wondering if Baron, in that last horrible moment before he struck, seeing the sidewalk rushing inevitably toward him, had thrust his hands out to break his fall. I don't know, but I imagine that he did.

Chapter Nineteen

I felt a hand on my shoulder, but for a moment longer I looked down at the sidewalk, thinking about Baron as he had been a few minutes ago and as he was now. I could see hundreds of people below on the street, like bugs crawling. Two and a half blocks away, around the Red Cross stand, the street was dotted with figures; cars were double-parked at both ends of that block, and more figures moved this way toward the Diamond Building in an accelerating stream.

In a few frightening seconds, Baron must have seen his monstrous dream being ripped to shreds, got a glimpse of what was happening in the city below him—and the knowledge of what would happen to him in the future. And he had jumped. I turned, one hand pressed against my side, a slight weakness and dizziness blurring my sight for a second. A man in a blue serge suit stood before me, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on my face. Behind him were other men, uniformed officers. One man in uniform stood in the doorway, facing the hall, waving other people back.

The man in front of me said, "Lieutenant Casey, Scott. Come along." His voice wasn't friendly, but he glanced at the hand against my side, saw the red stain of blood over my fingers. "How bad is that, Scott?"

"I don't think it'll kill me. If the state doesn't, I should live a while."

He stepped past me and looked out the window, then pulled his head back, distaste wrinkling his features. He glanced at my bloody side again. "We better get that fixed. Just in case."

"How much of this did you hear, Lieutenant?"

"A little. Some of the others heard it all. It doesn't mean anything yet."

"It will."

"It better." He sighed. "I don't suppose you could have pushed him."

"He jumped. You were coming in the door just as I tried to grab him—you must have seen me try to stop him. You know why he jumped. Besides, he still had his gun in his hand. And my gun in his pocket. They'll both be down below. I could hardly have pushed him, considering that, Casey."

He sighed again. "Sit down there, Scott." He nodded toward the chair behind Baron's desk. "There'll be a stretcher here in a minute."

I sat down carefully, dizziness sweeping over me momentarily again. "Lieutenant, what about Norris and the rest? If they run—"

"One thing's sure: You won't be running. You're gonna be locked up for quite a spell, Scott. Maybe as long as you live. If you live."

"Maybe. You talking about Blake?"

He chewed on the inside of his lip, heavy-lidded eyes boring into me. "We looked in the car below, too. One of them was dead."

"I know it. But Carver wasn't really a cop, you know. Any more than Blake was. He was just a hired killer, trying to earn his pay this afternoon. Well, he got paid. Casey, he was no more a cop than I am. He just wore the uniform."

He swore violently. Then he stopped, looking at the oblong case on Baron's desk. "That damn thing still on?" he asked.

"Should be."

He stepped to it, quickly flipped the switch from "On" to "Off." He had undoubtedly seen the same kind of set before. He stared at it a moment, shaking his head, then crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the desk, and stared at me. In another minute, men came in carrying a stretcher and, a minute later, they carried it out. With me on it.

There was a swarm of people in the hall. One of them, flanked by two husky officers, was Betty. She spoke to a policeman and he walked with her to my stretcher.

"Shell," she said shakily, "are you badly hurt?"

"Nope, I'm just tired. These fellows realize that, so they're carrying me." I grinned up at her. "Baby, you are the best of them all. I don't know how you managed it, but I knew you would."

The elevator was on its way up and we waited in front of it for a few seconds. She said, "It was perfect. They tried to stop me when they saw me up on the stand, but then the words started, just like turning on a radio. It started right when Baron was saying something about you wouldn't live to tell anybody. Everybody thought it was a joke of some kind at first, but then they understood, at least partly. Shell, are you really all right?"

"Yeah. He shot me a couple of times in the head, and it rocked me, but he missed my brain."

The elevator stopped and the door opened as she smiled softly. "You must be all right."

"Sure. I'll be up and around in a week." I thought of the cell I would assuredly be headed for as soon as I got out of the hospital and added, "At least I'll be up."

The boys carried me inside, and just before the doors closed Betty said, "I'll call to you from the women's wing."

We went down to the street. I shut my eyes, wondering what was still ahead, how I'd come out. There was a chance that if enough guys talked, I'd wind up outside the bars instead of inside. All I could do was wait, and hope I made it.

It was the sixteenth of September, and the papers later said it was the hottest September sixteenth in forty-two years. I imagine, if the statisticians had pursued their passion for figures a little further, they would have come up with the thrilling information that it was the hottest 2:33 p.m. on September sixteenth in several hundred years, because from where I sat, everything was heat waves.

A lot of this, of course, was due to Betty, because where I sat was on warm sand about fifteen yards from the surf's white edge, and less than two yards from where Betty lay flat on her stomach facing me. I was minus my mustache, my hair was short and white again, and I had been out of the clink for three weeks.

After getting out of the hospital, I'd been held for the preliminary hearing and arraigned. I'd pleaded not guilty, then been held for trial in superior court—and I had heard the jury say the words I'd figured I had only a fifty-fifty chance of hearing: "Not guilty." At least half of the jurors must either have heard the Red Cross "broadcast" or read all the details in Betty's story in the Star, which story practically monopolized conversation for miles around for a week, or so I heard. I also heard that the Red Cross got a lot of blood.

Anyway, the jury, most members of which must have hated my guts a few weeks before, was out only two hours. There was the "Not guilty," and a scramble of reporters for phones, and a stern tongue-lashing by the judge somewhere in there, and then I took off. I hadn't been charged with murder in the first degree, because there'd been so much singing by Norris and Dorothy Craig and a dozen others that the charge wouldn't have stood up with props, but even the charge of murder in the second was behind me now. And Betty was dead-ahead.

Norris and some of his hoods were in jail: Dorothy Craig, too, and Ferris Gordon, the lawyer, plus a few heretofore respected members of the city council and city planning commission, and the city engineer, who was to have greased Baron's rezoning application. Most of them pleaded not guilty, and were awaiting trial. I hadn't got to bash Norris's face in, but I'd get in some licks at him during his trial, which was probably better in the long run. And, of course, Dane's phony will was obviously phony now, and Dane's property would go to his ex-wife and kid, as he'd wanted. Seacliff was settling down, getting back to normal.

Betty said, "You're awfully quiet, darling."

"Just thinking back. Which is foolish. From now on, I'll think ahead. Covering the next half hour, say."

She smiled, her lower lip pouting a bit. "Make it the next hour and I'll join you." She scooted close to me and lifted her face in a gesture that was familiar to me now. I bent down and kissed her, put my arms around her as she pulled me close. The sun seemed to get even warmer for a minute or two, then Betty leaned back and said slowly, "Let's take another swim, Shell. A short one. Wash off the sand, and get a little coolish. Then we'll come back here."

I kissed her nose. "Sounds like an interesting idea."

"You know it is. At least you should."

She was right, of course. Betty, lately, had been full of interesting ideas. We got to our feet and walked out toward the white combers breaking and boiling in toward the sand, my arm around Betty's waist. Just before she broke away from me and ran laughing into the water, I looked around once more.

We were on a deserted strip of beach a few miles out of Seacliff. We'd been here before. It seemed likely we'd be here again. Betty stood facing me with the water swirling around her hips, shouting something and then blowing me a kiss. I ran toward her. I was fresh out of aches and pains, and it was good to be alive. Especially here in the sun.

And it was especially good with Betty.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1953 by Richard S. Prather

Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

ISBN 978-1-4804-9827-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen