Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 24, No. 9 — January, 1942)

Jimmy Legg was guilty as hell — and there were witnesses to prove it. So — why did the worthy Judge Reynolds dismiss the D.A.’s case against the little cracksman? The answer was a surprise even to the shockproof Cellini — paid real dough for the first time in his checkered career to explain why Justice was deaf and dumb as well as stone blind.

Chapter One Justice For Sale

He checked a curved wrist watch that you knew he couldn’t have come by honestly and found that it was just two minutes short of nine in the morning. Chewing away at the toothpick between his thin, slitted lips, he entered the Hall of Justice.

His colorless eyes surveyed the signs and arrows on the walls of the vaulted vestibule. Coroner, Traffic, Small Claims, Bail — there were dozens. He read them all and when he didn’t find what he wanted he walked over to the elevator starter.

“Reynolds.” He spoke the word without moving the toothpick.

“Huh?” asked the starter.

“Reynolds,” he repeated. “Where do I find the guy?”

“Oh, you mean Judge Reynolds.”

“I know what I mean. Where do I find him?”

The starter named a floor and office number and he entered a waiting elevator. Other passengers pushed in, crowding him to the back. A big man, well-cushioned with fat, squeezed him to the wall but suddenly stiffened. The fat man wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt something hard and unyielding — something like a gun — over the other one’s chest. The fat man swung around to find himself looking into the colorless eyes. The fat man swallowed heavily, said nothing, and got off at the first stop.

He left the elevator four stops later and walked down the hall till he found the door he wanted. He pushed through without knocking. An elderly man sat alone behind a desk, robed in judicial black.

He spat out the toothpick and asked: “You Reynolds?”

“Yes,” replied the jurist. “What can I do for you?”

“Plenty. My handle is Manny Simms.”

“Yes?”

Manny Simms reached into his breast pocket and tossed an envelope onto the glass top. “Look at that first, Reynolds.”

The judge removed a rubber band from the envelope and emptied its contents on the blotter. It was a packet of twenty-dollar bills.

“Count them, Reynolds.”

The judge frowned. “Mr. Simms, I want to be certain before I do something about it. Are you trying to bribe me?”

Simms ignored the question. “There’s fifty slices of that lettuce there — just one grand — and you can buy a lot of gavels with that. You got a case coming up in your court this morning. A guy called Jimmy Legg.” Manny Simms shoved another toothpick into his face before continuing. “That grand, Reynolds, is to let Jimmy Legg go.”

An hour later, at precisely ten o’clock, Judge Reynolds left his chambers, crossed the hall, and passed through a door that gave into the rear of Magistrate’s Court, Division Six.

The bailiff saw him coming and intoned: “Los Angeles County Magistrate’s Court Division Six the Honorable Frank Reynolds presiding rise please sit down please thank you quiet everybody.”

The crowd in the courtroom made a half-hearted gesture toward standing up as His Honor entered with dignified steps and sat behind the massive, elevated desk.

Reynolds fitted pince-nez to his razorback nose and thumbed through the mound of papers before him. They concerned the cases that were scheduled for hearing that day. He read the first sheet carefully, scanned through several of the following, then nodded to the clerk.

The clerk called the first case. A henpecked husband had gone berserk and forced his mother-in-law to eat his marriage certificate and had then proceeded to beat her with a telephone. The husband pled not guilty and Reynolds remanded him for trial. The second, third, and fourth cases were disposed of with equal rapidity. It was hardly ten twenty by the clock when the case of James Legg was called.

Jimmy Legg stood up and gazed at His Honor with all the doe-eyed innocence that a two-time loser can muster. Beside him stood Howard Garrett, one of the better mouthpieces, a comforting hand on his client’s shoulder. Garrett gave the impression that this thing would make the Dreyfus case look like a traffic violation. A young, pimply-faced deputy district attorney rose for the state. He had Jimmy Legg dead to rights and he sounded very bored.

Legg, it seemed, had jimmied his way into the Lansing Investment Company, at the Tower Building, two nights before and had souped open the office safe. The janitor of the building heard the detonation and rushed up to be sapped for his pains. Legg made good his escape after slugging a screaming stenographer who was returning for some papers she’d forgotten.

Through a thumbprint on the outside door jamb of the Lansing offices, the police were able to identify Legg and haul him in two days later. Both janitor and stenographer picked Jimmy Legg out of a lineup as the man who had assaulted them. The deputy D. A. concluded the bare recital by asking for an early trial.

Judge Reynolds regarded the accused. It was an open and shut case but Legg looked jaunty and confident. Howard Garrett, his attorney, pled not guilty. Legg was a victim of circumstances, the lawyer nearly sobbed. That thumbprint was on the door because Legg had gone up earlier that day to invest some money. As for the identification by janitor and stenographer — who knew what sinister forces were behind this whole thing?

Judge Reynolds asked several perfunctory questions. He didn’t seem very interested in the replies but seemed, rather, to be debating something within himself. Finally, he buried his nose in the papers before him and said in a low voice: “Insufficient evidence for trial. Release the accused.”

The deputy laughed. His Honor was some joker!

“I was not aware of my reputation for wit,” flared Judge Reynolds. “I said there was insufficient evidence to waste the taxpayers’ money on a trial.”

The pimples on the deputy’s face reddened. “Insufficient—”

“Enough of this,” snapped His Honor. “Next case.”

A hiss of shocked astonishment passed over the courtroom. The deputy sat down weakly, staring at the judge in dumbfounded wonder. Even James Legg could hardly believe his good fortune and stood without moving till Garrett grabbed him by the arm and hustled him out.

More cases were called. White-faced, his hands clenched tensely, Reynolds handed down his decisions. It was some thirty minutes later when he rapped for silence and said: “Clerk, what time is it?”

The clerk checked. “Five minutes past eleven, Your Honor.”

“In that case I should like to interrupt these proceedings to explain my behavior in freeing James Legg who should patently have been held for trial.”

The pimple-faced deputy D. A. swore softly under his breath. A couple of reporters sat up straight, their noses twitching at the scent of a headline.

“This morning at nine,” continued the judge, “I received a visitor in my chambers. He introduced himself as one Manny Simms, and offered to bribe me if I freed James Legg. Naturally, I refused and sent out an alarm but he escaped. When I later entered court I found this paper on my bench. Clerk, read it aloud.”

The judge passed it down. The clerk’s voice sounded strange in the hushed room as he read aloud the scrawled writing. “I’m hiding under your desk and I’ve got a rod on your belly so you better not move from the desk. Do as I tell you. Let Jimmy Legg go and give him a half-hour start. Not a second less if you want to live.” The clerk looked up. “It is signed, Manny Simms.”

A swelling murmur swept the courtroom and the bailiff called for silence. Judge Reynolds stood up and passed a weary hand over his eyes. He said: “Perhaps I should not have considered my own life so valuable. I don’t know. At any rate, bailiff, arrest that man hiding under the bench.”

Manny Simms stepped out and viewed the courtroom with a sardonic smile. The toothpick in his mouth was now soft and pulpy. He laid the gun in his hand on the bench. “O. K., Reynolds. You followed orders. I ain’t kicking.”

A free man, Jimmy Legg left the Hall of Justice with Howard Garrett, his attorney, at his side. The lawyer was frowning. “Jimmy, you must have been born with a gold horseshoe in your mouth.”

“The judge knew I was innocent,” declared Legg with a grin.

“I’m your lawyer, Jimmy,” Garrett reminded, “and I know better. And Reynolds knew better too.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy Legg softly, “and you know better than to stick your beak where it don’t belong. I’m dusting now, Garrett.”

The lawyer grabbed him by the arm. “Hold it, Jimmy. Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

“What’s got into you? The D. A. might make a stink because Reynolds didn’t hold you. I may have to get in touch with you.”

“You got my address.”

“Don’t take me for a child, Jimmy. You wouldn’t go near your apartment till you were sure the police didn’t want you again.”

“I’ll ring you at your office.”

Howard Garrett shook his head slowly. “I don’t like it.”

Jimmy Legg laughed. It sounded like a glass cutter in action. “What’s the beef?”

“Why,” asked the attorney, “should a judge as scrupulously honest as Reynolds even think of letting you go scot free? Why do you refuse to tell me where you’re holing in? Do you expect more trouble? And why did you come to me in the first place?”

“You know damned well why I come to you, Garrett.”

The lawyer nodded. “Because I happen to own stock in Lansing Investment and you thought I could persuade them to go easy on you.”

“So they went easy and I still don’t get your beef.”

“You’re acting dumb, Jimmy. You know the Lansing people did nothing because I haven’t even had a chance to talk to them. Still you got off — and I don’t like it.”

Jimmy Legg absently rearranged the silk handkerchief in the lawyer’s breast pocket. “Everything’s just ducky, Garrett.”

“But—”

Jimmy Legg said, “Easy does it,” and ambled off. He rounded the corner into Sunset and the instant he was out of his lawyer’s sight his casual saunter became a rapid stride. His quick, purposeful steps faltered only when he looked behind to see if he was being tailed. But he saw no one and soon he gained a corner cut-rate drugstore.

He made for one of the phone booths at the far end, hunted in the directory, then dialed a number. The voice that responded said, “Hamilton Apartments,” with an inflection calculated to let you know that the rents there were plenty high.

“Let’s have Winnie Crawford.” Jimmy Legg’s voice sounded dry, almost frightened, and he had to repeat the name.

Another few moments and a languid contralto said: “Yes?”

“Are you alone, Winnie?”

There was a contralto gasp. “Jimmy! I thought they arrested you.”

“I asked if you were alone.”

“Yes.” A moment’s hesitation and she added: “Yes, darling.”

“That’s good. Now listen, honey,” Legg said rapidly, “I’m coming up to your place. Pull the shades, lock the doors, and don’t let anyone into your apartment till I get there.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Winnie Crawford. “How did you get off? Did you get bail?”

“I’ll tell you later, honey. I’m sitting on top of the world now and if you’re smart there’s a place right next to me for you. Get what I mean?”

“Of course, Jimmy. Only you’ll have to give me a little time. You know I like you a lot but you mustn’t rush—”

“That’s good enough for me, sugar. You’ll find out I like you enough for both of us when I get up there.”

“But, Jimmy, maybe you shouldn’t come up here. They’ll see you at the desk downstairs.”

“Don’t worry, sugar. I’m coming up the back way.”

Winnie Crawford said, “Good-bye, darling.” She also said, “A fat chance you got to play bingo with me, you lousy bum,” but Jimmy never heard that part for she had already cradled the receiver.

Once again Jimmy Legg consulted the directory. This time it was the yellow book and he searched under Private Detectives until he had his number, then dialed. The brittle, somewhat bored voice of a man answered.

“Is this Cellini Smith?” asked Jimmy Legg.

“Yes.”

“Well, this is Jimmy Legg. I want to hire you to—”

“Listen, you underslung gunsel,” interrupted Cellini Smith, “you couldn’t hire me to laugh at you. Where’d you get the nickel to phone me?”

“It’s on the level, Smith,” protested Jimmy Legg. “I want you to do a job for me and I’m willing to give you a retainer.”

“Get back under your damp rock, Legg. You couldn’t retain a square meal, let alone retain me.”

It never occurred to Jimmy Legg to get insulted. He said: “Look, Smith, there’s real dough in this for you if you can help me out. I want you to come around and meet me.”

“In the pig’s eye,” scoffed Cellini. “Whatever mess you’re in, Legg, you probably deserve it.”

“Now don’t go off the deep end, Smith. You know your way around and you got to help me out. I’ll pay in advance. I’ve got sugar on me right now.”

There was a slight pause before Cellini Smith said: “That sounds better, crumb. How come you’re out? I thought you were hooked on that Lansing Investment job.”

“That’s just what I want to see you about, Smithy I want you to meet me at the Hamilton Apartments on Rossmore.”

“Listen, you animated sewer, I’m not stepping out of this office till I find out what kind of a job you want me for — so you’d better tell me right now.”

Jimmy Legg swore. “It’s about that Lansing Investment job, Smith. I was in court this morning. The judge had me with my pants down but still he let me go. I want you to find out why that judge didn’t hold me. Something stinks and I got to know.”

“That sounds kind of interesting,” said Cellini. “O. K. I don’t promise to do anything but I’ll drop around for a look-see.”

“Fine, Smith. The Hamilton Apartments in about forty minutes and make it the back entrance. If I ain’t down there I’ll have someone waiting to bring you up to the right apartment.”

Cellini Smith promised to be there. Jimmy Legg pronged the receiver and left the booth. He went over to the counter and ordered a double-decker sandwich. Still eating the sandwich, he left the store and caught a Wilshire bus. After a while, he reached Rossmore, left the bus, and cut up the block toward a marble-fronted building.

When Jimmy Legg came abreast of the Hamilton Apartments, he paused to light a cigarette till the doorman’s back was turned, then took the narrow alley on the north side. He walked down its length till he reached a fireproof door, pushed it open, and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Jimmy Legg’s eyes bulged at what he saw and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His face was suddenly shiny with cold sweat. “No, no.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Please don’t.”

Even as he spoke he knew his pleas were futile. There was a sharp report as a small-caliber gun went off and Jimmy Legg slowly tumbled forward — as if carefully choosing the spot of ground on which to die.

Chapter Two Rendezvous

Cellini Smith worked his feet back and forth, trying to get the sleep out of them. Finally, he yawned and stood up. He decided that he might as well get around and see what that Jimmy Legg business was about. Detectives who live in rent-due offices can’t be choosy about clients.

Some twenty minutes later, Cellini turned off Wilshire at Rossmore and parked his heap of scrap iron opposite the Hamilton. He remembered that Legg had asked to meet him at the back entrance and he crossed the street and padded down the length of the alley on the north side — then stopped short. His face was a bored blank as he said: “Hello. Haenigson.”

Ira Haenigson, detective-sergeant of Homicide, stood up from his examination of Jimmy Legg’s corpse and made a wry face. “Why don’t they draft you or something, Smith?”

“A killing?” asked Cellini disinterestedly. “Anyone I know?”

“Anyone you know!” The detective-sergeant seemed to swell like a blow-fish. He turned to a porcine rookie. “Our friend wonders if it’s anyone he knows.”

The rookie laughed uncertainly.

“You’re bloody well right it’s someone you know!” Ira Haenigson suddenly shouted.

“How do you figure that?”

The Homicide man calmed himself, substituting irony for anger. “Now, I’m only a cop that goes out on homicide calls, Smith. Just a dumb cop from Homicide. Do you understand?”

Cellini’s brows furrowed as he gave the appearance of concentration. “You’re a dumb cop from Homicide. I think I understand. Go on.”

“That’s right, Smith. And then I get a call to go out on a killing. Where is it? On Hollywood and Vine? On Wilshire and La Brea? Any place where it would be reasonable for you to show up? No indeedy. The corpse is hidden in an alley by the rear door of an apartment building. Then by sheer coincidence you happen to show up in a place a quarter-hour later and you ask me if the body is anyone you know. Come, Smith, let me pinch your cheeks. You’re so goddamned cute!”

The photographer finished taking his pictures of the body and chalk marks were made on the concrete outlining the position and angle at which it had fallen. Jimmy Legg was lifted on a stretcher and carted away. Then the fingerprint experts, sighing hopelessly as they regarded the stucco walls and the dull metal finish on the fireproof door, set about their jobs.

Cellini said: “I happened to be passing outside, Haenigson, when I noticed the department cars and I just came in here out of sheer curiosity to find out what had happened.”

“Now that’s entirely different, Smith.

I shouldn’t have left our cars on Rossmore right plunk in front of the apartment, eh?”

“I guess not.”

“You great detective,” said the detective-sergeant witheringly. “It so happens the department cars are not on Rossmore because I don’t like to advertise my arrival. The cars are in back of this building. Anyone but a moron would have noticed that the body was just carried down the alley through to the street on the opposite side.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Cellini smoothly. “I was passing through the other street and figured you were stopping at the Hamilton here so I came around the front—”

“All right,” snapped the Homicide man. “Wrap it in Kleenex. Were you supposed to meet James Legg right here?”

Cellini Smith was a picture of innocence. “What’s a Legg?”

“If you didn’t show up here to meet Legg, then you came to meet his murderer. Which one was it?”

“I get it, Haenigson. Have I stopped beating my wife? Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” Cellini demanded.

“James Legg muscled his way out of court on a burglary rap this morning. An hour later he’s garbage. A two-bit homicide, Smith, but the kind that makes good headlines. Can the underworld make a mockery out of our courts? Get what I’m driving at?”

“Sure,” nodded Cellini. “If you don’t crack it quick you need somebody to throw to the wolves — and I’m handy.”

“Exactly, Smith. This happens to be the wrong kind of case to play button-button with the police. So you better open up and say what you’re doing here and who you were supposed to meet.”

“I was driving by and saw the department cars,” began Cellini, “and I figured I’d see what was cooking—”

Ira Haenigson’s bulky figure slowly advanced on Cellini. “Get out I Quick!”

Cellini didn’t move. Other than a narrowing of the eyes, his face was infuriatingly calm But the tapered body was braced with catlike tensity to meet the Homicide man’s elephantine rush.

Haenigson suddenly thought better of it and halted. “That’s better,” said Cellini, “—and safer.” He wheeled and walked out.

Cellini Smith sat in his parked car debating with himself. His client had been murdered. It would be little better than sucker stuff to try and nail the killer out of charity. Besides, whoever mayhemmed Jimmy Legg didn’t do mankind any disservice. But there was Ira Haenigson and his threat could not be regarded idly. He could make much of Cellini’s appearance at the scene shortly after the murder — and he would certainly refuse to accept the true explanation for it. Haenigson would never believe that a gunsel of Legg’s caliber would hire a peeper.

Cellini sighed and got out of the car. He had no alternative but to follow through — and to do so before Haenigson began wondering what Legg was doing in these parts.

He passed through the palm-studded doorway of the Hamilton and approached the desk. He asked: “Does Mr. James Legg live here?”

The clerk, a delicate, lavender specimen, flipped through his files. “Now let me see. That should be under L. No, sir, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of Mr. Legg.”

“You’ve heard, all right. That’s the guy who was shot outside in your alley an hour ago.”

“Oh, you know of it?” said the clerk brightly. “I’m so glad. I’m such a poor liar.”

“Fine. But did Legg have an apartment here?”

“Certainly not.” The clerk sounded offended. “We don’t lease apartments to such rowdies — such, such potential corpses.”

Cellini leaned, over the desk. “Listen, my androgynous friend. If Legg didn’t park his shoes here then he visited somebody and the chances are you know who it is. Now why don’t you open up and dish out an intelligible remark?”

“Fine, sir! I’m glad you asked that because we like to bruit about the idea that we supply no information about our lessees. And it’s no use glowering because I know you’re not from the police and I simply refuse to be intimidated by—”

Cellini didn’t trust himself to linger longer. He walked out and circled around to the alley where Jimmy Legg had met, in rapid succession, his destroyer and his Maker. Haenigson hadn’t even bothered to post a cop. Murderers, he well knew, rarely return to the scene of their crime.

Cellini passed by the tradesmen’s entrance and pushed through a smaller door beyond. He found himself in the cellar. The janitor, a grimy individual in overalls, was laying out a game of solitaire on a side-turned wardrobe trunk.

Cellini dropped a dollar bill on the trunk. “I’ll bet you that buck you don’t know how many cards there are in that deck.”

“Fifty-two,” said the surprised janitor.

“It’s yours. Now, what do you know about Jimmy Legg?”

The janitor palmed the greenback. “For a moment I thought you was Santa Claus. Well, all I know is some dame found this Legg guy and started screaming like she lost her virtue so I run outside and called the cops. That’s all.”

“Didn’t you hear any shots some time before that?”

“So a car backfired,” said the janitor. “So what? That’s like I asked the cops. I asked am I expected to go about having premonitions about a murder?”

“And you never saw or heard of Jimmy Legg before?”

“Nope. Not even for a sawbuck.”

“Well, he must have been visiting somebody here and I’ve got to get a line on it. Start telling me about the tenants.”

“We got five floors and six big apartments on each,” began the janitor. “In 1-A we got a nice old couple. They’re vegetarians. Next to them in 2-A is a family that’s vacationing. Then—”

“Forget that. No families. Legg must have been visiting a dame or a man. What single tenants are there?”

“Only three because the apartments are pretty expensive for one guy. In 2-D we got an old maid.”

“No good. Next.”

“Then there’s a guy with a Vandyke beard in 4-C. He owns a few oil wells and he hides under his bed all day and drinks.”

“No good. Who’s the other?”

“A blonde that’s something. Her body ain’t ersatz either. She’s strictly the wrong side of the tracks but you got to have sugar to live here so I guess she’s got it.”

“That’s a good bet,” said Cellini eagerly. “What’s her name?”

“Winnie Crawford in 4-E.”

“Who’s keeping her?”

“This’ll kill you — nobody!”

“Are you sure?”

“So help me. She don’t like men and it’s sure a waste because if I ever seen production for use she’s it. It’s ridiculous!” The janitor sounded offended.

“It’s impossible,” said Cellini, “and I’ll check right now.”

Cellini leaned on the button and heard the chimes sounding inside of 4-E. A husky contralto yelled: “Relax. I’m not deaf.”

A moment later the door was opened by a woman in her late twenties and Cellini could see what the janitor had meant. She was something that the Hayes office would have banned even in a burlap bag. At the moment, however, she wore a form-clinging, silk dress that would have caught male eyes in a nudist colony.

“Who asked for you?” Her hands rested aggressively on her hips and she seemed surprised to see him.

“Are you Winnie Crawford?” Cellini asked.

“Uh-huh. Spring it.”

“It’s about Jimmy Legg. He’s not coming.”

“Why not?”

Cellini grinned. This was the right party. He walked by her through a short foyer and found himself in the living-room. He wondered if there was anyone else around and toured through kitchen, dinette, bedroom, bath, and dressing alcove but drew a blank. He returned to the living-room to find Winnie Crawford leveling a huge revolver at him with both hands.

Cellini sighted some bourbon on an end table and poured himself a stiff drink. He said: “That thing you got in your soft, white, creamy hands. You’d better put it down.”

“What’s the idea smelling around this place?” she countered. “What are you looking for?”

Cellini tasted the drink. It was good liquor. “I was just wondering if you were alone, Winnie — whether you had a couple of boy friends in the Frigidaire or something.”

“I got no boy friends and I’m alone and I can take care of myself. You better tell me what you want. Make it quick.”

“And you’d better ditch that rod,” said Cellini casually, “if it happens to be the one that killed Jimmy Legg this morning.”

Winnie Crawford sat down heavily on a divan. Cellini gave silent approval of the exposed legs. He walked over, removed the revolver from her unresisting fingers, and broke it. It was fully loaded and didn’t smell as if it had been recently fired.

He tossed the revolver aside, half-filled a glass with straight bourbon, and handed it to her. Her face was white and drawn and her fingers trembled. He decided that Jimmy Legg must have meant a lot to her.

She drank deeply and seemed to regain control of herself. “I never got anything but trouble from that chiseling heel,” she muttered.

Cellini decided, on second thought, that Jimmy Legg meant nothing to her and that she was worried about her own skin. “Did you kill him?” he asked.

She registered a look of disgust and pulled her skirts over her knees. She was her normal self again. “Where did it happen?”

“Downstairs in the alley at the side of this building. He was sneaking up the back way to see you.”

“What gives you the ridiculously fantastic idea that he was visiting me?” Her head went back and the nose up in what she hoped was a chilling, regal look.

He grinned. “Too late to backwater now, Winnie. Get down to the monosyllables. You’re more at home there.”

She regarded him speculatively for a moment, then sighed resignedly. “All right. Tell me about it and especially what your racket is.”

“My handle is Cellini Smith and I’m a private op. Legg phoned me to meet him in the back alley but when I got there he wasn’t receiving. So I cher-chez-ed the dame and here I am.”

“What did he want you for?”

Cellini shrugged. “Something about the cops and a safe-cracking job. At the Lansing Investment Company, I think it was.”

“I know all that. How come they didn’t hold him?”

“That’s exactly what Mr. Legg wanted me to find out.”

“Oh. Listen, Smith, you know I didn’t kill Jimmy. I’m just not the type.”

“Perish the thought,” he said. “Go on.”

“But I got other reasons for wanting to be kept out of this mess,” Winnie Crawford continued. “Good reasons. Get out of here, Smith, and just forget all about me.”

“Not a chance. The shams are down on me because they think I know more than I do and I’m not the kind of hero that’ll get in a mess to save the name of some fair twist. Besides, Winnie, you forget the cops’ll get around to you just as easily as I did.”

“I guess that’s so,” she admitted. She drained her glass and nervously poured more bourbon.

“Of course it’s so. Loosen up, Winnie, and tell me what you know about all this.”

“Nothing. Jimmy phoned that he was coming up here. That’s all. I was surprised, too, they let him go.”

“Why was Jimmy Legg coming here? This is a pretty classy place you’ve got — not the kind of thing Legg could afford.”

She drew herself up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come off it, Winnie. You know as well as I do that you look like a love captive in a penthouse.”

“Get this, you louse! I’m nobody’s keptie. Just because I’m beautiful and there ain’t no cockroaches in the kitchen is no sign I am.”

“All right. Simmer down. Your dimples disappear when you get angry. If you’re not doing light housekeeping for a male, then who pays for all this?”

“Men,” pronounced Winnie Crawford, “are beasts.”

“Sure — the cads — but Jimmy Legg was still liquidated right outside this building,” he reminded her, “and the cops will be here in a little while.”

“I’m not worried about the cops. I was up here all the time and it’s no crime if Jimmy was visiting me.”

“That kind of weasel talk doesn’t jell,” he hammered. “I’ve got to get some kind of lead on this and I think you can cupply it. So come across.”

She chewed at one of her long, vermilion nails. “Listen, could you tell me why Jimmy was killed?”

“Holy mother of hell!” he exploded. “What do you think I’m trying to find out?”

“Well, when you do find out you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“Sure and I’ll pass out a ten dollar bill with each syllable,” he replied not too subtly.

She stood up and walked over to a corner taboret that served as the bar. She opened a cocktail shaker and removed a fat roll of bills. Carefully, she counted five wrinkled twenty dollar bills into his hand. “Here. I’m hiring you to find out why Jimmy was killed.”

“Why he was killed? Don’t you want to know who killed him?”

“That’s not so important.”

“And suppose I pin it on you?”

“I’ll take the chance.”

He slipped the money into his slender wallet, frowning. “And I’ll take the job, Winnie, though you’re a rather phoney client. Are you sure you and Jimmy weren’t soulmates?”

“You heard me. Why do men always think of only one thing?”

“I remember — because they’re beasts. But you’re not Bryn Mawr stock, Winnie, and you weren’t born with any gold shovel in your mouth. Someone’s paying your bills. Who?”

“Why can’t you get it through your head I’m nobody’s woman? I spent my life shining up to slick chiselers and visiting firemen. Now I’m through with the whole lousy breed and I’m relaxing.”

Her voice was hard and grating and carried conviction. Cellini surrendered the point. “All right, you’re stainless. Then where did you get that fat roll of kohl-rabi you flashed before and how do you pay the rent here?”

“That’s none of your business. Just go and find out why Jimmy was killed.”

“What difference does it make to you? Why was he coming up here anyway?”

“Nothing doing.”

“Then at least tell me what time Jimmy Legg phoned to say he was coming.”

“Around eleven.”

“That’s about when he phoned me,” said Cellini. “All right. When the cops get around to you just tell them I’m handling your interests and they’ll put you under arrest immediately.”

Chapter Three Careless Lead

Cellini Smith stepped into the hallway, shutting the door to Winnie Crawford’s apartment behind him, just as the elevator pulled level with the floor and a huge man stepped out.

Cellini said: “Hello, Mack. No, I’m not betting.”

Mack was square and solid as the truck he was named after. There was a lot of him and his customers never fooled with him for he was one of the town’s toughest bookmakers. But they liked him. “Your loss,” he replied. “Everybody’s taking me. Say, don’t tell me you just came out of Winnie’s stable. Please don’t tell me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to beat you to a gooey pulp, Cellini, and I hate to beat friends to gooey pulps.”

Cellini looked up at the big man and smiled crookedly. “Maybe,” he said, “but I never fight Queensberry with monsters like you. But I don’t get it — why should you jump me for coming out of Winnie Crawford’s apartment?”

“Because I long ago decided that if I can’t have her then nobody else will.”

“You can relax. That type’s a little too synthetic for my tastes.”

“You just don’t know her, Cellini. She’s the laziest white woman in the country without hookworm — but what a build!”

“You beast,” said Cellini. “How come she snaps her fingers at a great big he-man like you?”

“Now you’d think Winnie would know better, wouldn’t you?” His voice was charged with complaint. “That double-dealing twist gets her mitts on some real dough and right away she’s through with men.”

“Where’d she get the dough?”

“I wish I knew. I keep asking her but she don’t even bother to lie. It’s a hell of a life.”

“She might have gotten it from her family,” suggested Cellini. “Heiress stuff — like in the movies.”

Mack’s laughter sounded like the fall of bowling pins. “Her family is the backbone of the W.P.A., when it’s sober, and she was a carhop in a drive-in.”

“Then how’d she get out of it?”

“A small-time crook saw her and picked her up. Maybe you know him. Jimmy Legg.”

“Go on.” Cellini hoped his voice was casual.

“So she stayed with him for a while. Jimmy Legg played the horses through me so I happened to meet Winnie. Then I took over and we made it a twosome until I made a big mistake.”

“What was that?”

“I figured to keep her out of trouble while I was working so I got her a job with one of my customers. Switchboard girl at the Lansing Investment Company.”

Cellini took a deep breath. At last something was beginning to connect. “Then what, Mack?”

“Then she left me flat and moved in with the head of that place — Lansing himself. Lansing is a big bettor with me so I didn’t even have the satisfaction of beating him up. Then a few months later Winnie got this dough somehow and she ditched all of us.”

“All this is very interesting.”

“Winnie ain’t interesting,” said Mack. “This no-man business of hers is just irritating. There should be a law.”

“I mean Jimmy Legg. He cracked the safe at this same Lansing Investment a few days ago.”

“Yeah,” frowned the big man. “I heard. But I don’t catch.”

“And that’s not all,” said Cellini slowly. “I was seeing Winnie Crawford before to get me a client and to let her know that Jimmy Legg was killed this morning.”

The violence of the explosion was unexpected. For a full two minutes, colorful expletives issued from Mack’s big mouth and bounced through the hallway of the Hamilton Apartments.

“Why the excitement?” Cellini was finally able to ask.

“Excitement! That guy Legg has been backing platers with me for the last year. On credit! I got over eight hundred bucks in I.O.U.’s from him.”

“Well, you can’t collect now.”

“Say, nobody runs out on Mack. Not even a corpse. I’ll get it if—” He suddenly paused. “Where’s your angle in the killing?” he asked quietly.

Cellini shrugged. “Strictly the dough in it.”

Mack’s two large hands vised Cellini’s shoulders. “Say, I don’t like the way you were leading me on before.”

“Your paws, Mack. I’m asking you only once. Drop them.” Cellini stared fixedly at the big man’s tie-pin.

The hands slowly loosened their grip. “Hell, Cellini, we’re friends. We don’t want to fight. There’s a nag called Inquisitor running at Holly Park today. That should be a good hunch for a dick like you.”

“Some other time.” Cellini made for the elevator.

Cellini Smith went through every afternoon paper, reading the sensationalized accounts of how one Manny Simms had hidden under Judge. Reynolds’ desk, forcing the jurist to release Jimmy Legg.

It puzzled him. Obviously, Jimmy Legg had neither instigated Manny Simms’ enterprise nor had he been aware of it — else he would not have wanted to hire Cellini to discover the cause of his release. This Manny Simms had acted either on his own or for someone else — but why? Why should Simms accept the certainty of a couple of years in jail to spring Jimmy Legg? Perhaps Howard Garrett, Legg’s mouthpiece, had the answer.

Cellini turned his coupe around and urged it back to Hollywood. A half-hour later, he pushed by a frosted glass door in the Equitable Building that read: Howard Garrett — Attorney at Law. Under it were the names of a couple of junior partners.

The black-haired, eagle-beaked secretary-receptionist released the fetching smile reserved for men only and asked if she could help. Her voice had the high, irritating whine of a sawmill.

Cellini blocked the smile with a come-on leer. Secretaries can be useful. “I’m a very important guy,” he said, “and I want to hold converse with Mr. Garrett about a crumb — one Jimmy Legg.”

The secretary giggled, plugged in the switchboard, and announced him with that voice. He passed into an inner office and sank into a leather chair beside the desk. Howard Garrett, with a lawyer’s caution, waited for him to speak first.

Flatly, without frills, Cellini explained who he was and what he wanted. When he was finished, Garrett said: “I’d like to help but I couldn’t give even the police any information of value.”

“I don’t get it,” insisted Cellini. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that Jimmy Legg was probably guilty of cracking the Lansing Investment safe.”

“We’re both men of the world, Mr. Smith, and so I don’t mind admitting, off the record, that I knew Legg was guilty. But even the guilty have the right to counsel.”

“Sure — if they can pay for it. But if you knew Legg was guilty, weren’t you surprised when Reynolds let him off?”

“Naturally. Surprised, and pleased because my client had won.”

“Did you get Manny Simms to pull that trick of threatening the judge from under the desk?”

“No. I didn’t know of it. I don’t even know this Simms individual, and I don’t know who later killed James Legg.”

The lawyer was unruffled, even slightly amused. A smooth article, Cellini thought. He asked: “What happened after Legg and you went out of the courtroom?”

“Nothing. He simply left me in front of the Hall of Justice and we went our separate ways.”

Cellini lit a cigarette and thoughtfully watched the smoke curl up. “I just remembered,” he said abruptly, “I know a guy who was pinched for stealing a bottle of milk. He’s broke and I wonder if you could give him a break and try to spring him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but attorneys eat like everyone else and I can’t afford charity cases.”

“That’s what I thought,” snapped Cellini. “Yet you take on a nickel-mooching gunsel like Jimmy Legg. How come?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Smith.”

“Where did Legg get the retainer to hire you? It certainly wasn’t from any dough he stole from Lansing because you’re too smart to stick your neck out like that. Why did you defend him?”

Howard Garrett stood up. “I don’t understand your tricky antagonism toward me, Mr. Smith, and I certainly don’t have to stand for it. I’m sorry I can’t say I’m glad I met you.”

Cellini left little doubt that the feeling was mutual and walked out, closing the door. He leaned over the secretary-receptionist’s desk. “How about giving me Jimmy Legg’s home address?”

“Have you asked Mr. Garrett?”

“Why ask him when I can have the pleasure of asking you?”

She giggled and reached for a box of filing cards. The leer was paying off. She supplied an address in her sawmill voice and added philosophically: “Isn’t it just awful how the world is full of murder and sorrow, like this poor Mr. Legg?”

“Legg was no awful loss and he wasn’t very poor. He probably stole a batch of bills from the Lansing Investment — crisp bills as shiny as your hair — and they’re probably waiting to be found someplace right now.”

The giggle sounded again. “My hair’s shiny only because I haven’t washed it in a long time. Isn’t it funny? But it’s peculiar how Mr. Garrett defended Mr. Legg in this Lansing burglary charge even though he owns a lot of stock in the Lansing company.”

The strident-voiced secretary went on to say how she wasn’t doing anything that night, but Cellini wasn’t listening. He had hold of something good — a mouthpiece representing a burglar who had robbed a firm in which he was a heavy stockholder.

Cellini Smith fished among the tools under the seat of his car and selected a heavy screwdriver. It would be as good a jimmy for forcing a door as anything else.

The apartment building where the late Jimmy Legg had parked his hat was a dreary affair with dark halls that smelled of unappetizing cooking. Cellini walked up to the third floor, then down the hall, checking the name-plates, till he had the one he wanted.

He was glad to find the door a weak-looking affair. He inserted the screwdriver into the crack between lock and jamb, and the door suddenly sprang back inside. It had not been locked.

Puzzled, he stepped over the threshold. From the corner of one eye he thought he detected a movement and tried to duck but was too late. He felt himself yanked backward with one powerful jerk and a telegraph pole seemed to wind around his neck. It was unexpected and very efficient. The pole around Cellini’s neck was an arm and his assailant’s other arm circled his ribs with the same bone-crushing effect.

Cellini tried to twist around to get at his attacker but he was no match for those powerful arms. He kicked back and up at the groin with the heel of his shoe but connected with nothing. The other was an old hand at such tricks.

The arm around Cellini’s neck tightened and he was slowly forced down till his back was in a painful arch. His breath became short and constricted. His fists clenched from the pain and he slowly became aware of the screwdriver still in his hand. He reversed it so that the point faced his attacker and drove it back, with all his power, in a short, vicious arc. There was a muffled yell of pain and the encircling arms dropped away from Cellini. He whirled — to find himself facing Mack’s mammoth figure.

Astonishment mingled with the pain in Mack’s face when he saw Cellini. He mumbled something indistinguishable and pulled his shirt up to examine the wound made in his side by the screwdriver. Though deep, the cut was small and narrow and the blood came only in a reluctant trickle. He took his undershirt off and tied it tightly around his body, binding the wound. Then he dressed again and suddenly became voluble.

“I know it looks bad jumping you like that, Cellini, but I swear I thought it was someone else. I wouldn’t—”

“Who did you think I was?”

“Manny Simms. The guy that sprang Jimmy Legg out of court this morning.”

“That’s not good enough, Mack. Try again.” Cellini’s voice was not threatening but he kept one hand in his pocket over a small, 25 caliber automatic and the bookie suddenly broke into a sweat.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “I know Manny Simms and I tell you I saw him downstairs. I thought it was him coming after me. I’ll show you.”

They walked over to a window and Mack pointed down at a black sedan on the other side of the street. Two men stood by it and they seemed to be staring at the very window where they were. “That’s them. The one on the left is Simms. If you was close enough you’d spot the toothpick in his puss. Always has one.”

Cellini relaxed. “O.K. I didn’t think Simms would be out on bail this quick. Who’s the other guy with him?”

Mack shrugged. “Another torpedo. Birds of a feather. If you want to go after them to make up a bridge foursome I’ll help you.”

“Not right now. I’d first like to find out who killed Legg and it wasn’t Manny Simms because he was under the judge’s apron at the time. But let’s hear what you’re doing here.”

“Hell, man, you know Jimmy Legg stuck me for eight hundred dollars. And when you told me he was fogged I started figuring that maybe the dough he stole from the Lansing outfit was up here, and I could kind of collect the debt on my own.”

“How did you get in here without breaking the lock?”

Unexpectedly, Mack grinned. His voice was a conflict of modesty and bragging as he confessed: “You don’t know it, man, but I was the smoothest thing in the safe-cracking line in my youth and it takes a good lock to stop me.”

Cellini looked at him sharply but he seemed sincere. “How come you stayed out of college?”

“I was smart. When I become too big to be inconspicuous I just quit and become a bookie. I had a terrific technique, too, for those days.”

“All right, you’re wonderful. Let’s look around for that Lansing dough.”

It was a small, three-room apartment, sparsely furnished, and there weren’t many likely hiding places. With a fine disregard for the furnishings, Mack took a jackknife from his pocket, and began slashing open cushions, pillows and bed mattress.

Cellini checked through closets and cupboards, searched under rugs and behind pictures, pawed through drawers, and even sounded walls. There was nothing even remotely suggesting the Lansing Investment loot. The only item of interest was a small cache of tools he came upon in the icebox. It contained hammer, nails, a spool of wire, pliers, and some files. It was, decided Cellini, a very sorry-looking burglar’s kit.

He remembered that people often rolled money into shades and walked over to a window in time to hear the squeal of brakes as a car came to a halt in the street below. There was familiar authority about that squeal and Cellini looked down. Detective-sergeant Ira Haenigson and a couple of his men were getting out of the car below. Across the way, Manny Simms and his fellow hood climbed into their black sedan and decided to mosey along.

Cellini said: “We weren’t the only ones with the bright idea of casing this place. The minions of the law are here.”

“Let ’em come,” replied the disgusted bookmaker. “They’ll only find magnolia.”

Cellini went into the kitchen and looked out the back window. It was just an empty lot below. He returned to the living-room. “No fire escape.”

“It’s all right. There’s a back way.”

They went out, proceeded down the end of the hallway, and started down the back stairs as they heard the Homicide men come up the opposite way. They reached the street and saw no sign of Manny Simms.

“I could use a drink,” declared Mack. “Let’s try the Greek’s.”

Cellini agreed and a couple of minutes later they pulled up in front of a hole-in-wall honky-tonk.

They stepped out of the coupe and started inside when Cellini heard the sudden acceleration of a supercharged engine. He whirled in time to see a black sedan charging down the block toward them. Automatically, he wedged a foot between Mack’s ankles, bringing the big man crashing to the ground, and, in the same instant, threw himself prone.

It was only split seconds before the sedan was by them and dime-turning the next corner. But in that time there was a crashing, trip-hammer rat-a-tat that made it seem very long, a vicious spatter of bullets that seemed never to stop. The counterpoint of a woman’s hysterical scream, the hoarse shout of a passing motorist, the running, panicky feet that wanted only to get far away — all made the moments seem that much longer.

And when Cellini and Mack finally stood up they could see a strip of small holes against the building that housed the Greek’s saloon. The strip was at a height of some forty inches. If they had been standing up the bullets from Manny Simms’ sub-machine gun would have flattened out inside their stomachs.

“Shades of Capone,” said Cellini unsteadily.

Chapter Four Wild Goose

The Greek, a bulbous-nosed, stocky man, shoved two more glasses of suspect Scotch over the bar to Mack and Cellini Smith. “That kind shootings is beeg time,” he said. He patted an obsolete and rusty .455 Webley revolver on the liquor case. “But next time they shoot bullets into my building I geeve them with this.”

“I’ll geeve that — Manny Simms the lumps,” said Mack darkly. He and Cellini were both several sheets to windward, their anger over serving as targets for Simms increasing with each drink.

Cellini tapped the bar for emphasis. “There can be only one explanation why he’s gunning for us.”

“He only needs one,” Mack pointed out.

“He saw us go into Jimmy Legg’s apartment and there must be something there that Simms was afraid we’d see or get our hands on.”

“The haul from the Lansing job,” guessed Mack.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. That doesn’t explain why Simms held up the judge to get Legg off. He would have let Jimmy go to jail and then gotten the loot for himself.”

“I geeve them shootings,” said the one-tracked Greek.

“Furthermore,” Cellini persisted, “if it’s just for the dough that Legg stole, then Manny Simms would be trying to get it from us — not just kill us.”

“All right,” hiccupped the overgrown bookie, “so you explain me why I got to go around ducking Thompson subs.”

“I wish I knew.”

The Greek said hopefully: “Thees people who do the shootings — maybe they are Eyetalian.”

Cellini drained his glass. “We had plenty time to go through Jimmy Legg’s apartment before Haenigson got there and we found nothing out of the ordinary — excepting what’s in the icebox.”

“What about it?”

“That’s where Legg hid the tools of his trade.”

“Such as?” asked Mack interestedly.

“Pliers, wire, nails, and stuff.”

“That Legg was small-time,” declared Mack professionally. “All I ever needed to clean a box was a fine sewing needle. But it still don’t explain why Simms got Homicidal about us.”

The Greek refilled their glasses with the dubious Scotch. Cellini snapped his fingers as a thought crossed his mind. “Say, do you think my luscious client is in back of this?”

“I love Winnie madly but I got to admit there’s nothing that slut ain’t capable of.”

“Let’s see.” Cellini went to the wall phone and dialed the Hamilton Apartments. When he heard Winnie Crawford’s voice he said: “A hundred-buck retainer doesn’t give you the right to try and get me chopped down.”

“What are you talking about? You sound drunk.”

“That’s only from the liquor in me and I’m talking about Manny Simms. Is he the guy who pays your bills?”

“Damn you!” Winnie Crawford exploded. “I told you I was alone and liking it. Cut out the sex stuff.”

“O.K., Winnie. Simmer down. Do you know Manny Simms?”

“I never heard of the guy.”

The throaty voice was hesitant and falsely casual. Cellini knew she was lying. She said: “Listen, I gave you a century to find out why Jimmy was killed. What about it?”

“Give me time, Winnie. I’m lousy with clues.”

He pronged the receiver and returned unsteadily to the bar for another drink.

“What’d she say?” asked Mack.

“Nothing much. She blew her own strumpet about males and claimed she never heard of Manny Simms when I know damned well she read all about him in the papers.”

“I love her,” Mack sighed. “It’d be funny if she killed Legg.”

Cellini finished his drink. “Haenigson’s probably still messing around Legg’s place. I’ll go see what he knows about Simms.”

“And I’ll see if I can pick up Simms,” declared the bookie.

Cellini shook his head. “You wait here for me. I want to be around when we catch up with Manny Simms.”

Cellini Smith’s head was somewhat clearer and his step steadier by the time he got back to Jimmy Legg’s apartment. He pushed open the door to find the police still at it. Two of them were taking apart the plumbing in the hope of finding some tell-tale residue in the U-traps, another was dusting for prints, and yet another was tape-measuring the rooms to make sure they had missed no hiding place. Ira Haenigson was doing a thorough job.

The detective-sergeant himself sat on the ripped living-room sofa, supervising the proceedings. He fish-eyed Cellini. “I know,” he said. “You were passing by downstairs and you saw the squad car.”

“No. I knew you were here and I wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure you knew, because” — Haenigson’s voice became milder — “you took this place apart before we got here.”

“Me?” Cellini was injured innocence.

“No one else. And so help me, Smith, if it really was you, you’ll be eating San Quentin plum pudding next Christmas.”

“Why pick on me? Why couldn’t Manny Simms have searched this place before you got here?”

“What about Manny Simms?”

Cellini could see that the Homicide man was interested and followed up his advantage. “I’m here for an armistice, Haenigson. You stop treating me like a dishrag and I’ll open up.”

“It’s a deal,” said the detective-sergeant after a moment’s hesitation. “If you’re really on the level. Let’s hear.”

“Fine. I went to the alley behind the Hamilton to meet Jimmy Legg there. He wanted me to find out why he wasn’t held in court this morning.”

“He didn’t put Simms up to that job of springing him?”

“That’s what it looks like. After you and I had our sweet parting I checked and found that Legg was going to the Hamilton to meet a dame. But I suppose you found that out.”

Ira Haenigson nodded. “That Winnie Crawford tramp. I don’t know what to make of her. She looks faster than Legg’s speed.”

“I’m wondering myself. Anyway, she hired me on the killing and I came around here about an hour ago with a friend of mine. Just then I saw you pull up so I didn’t come in.”

“You sure of that, Smith?”

“Honest Injun. I went away for a drink and when I got out of the car along comes this Manny Simms and tries to chop me down with a Thompson sub.”

Cellini wasn’t sure whether the Homicide man’s frown indicated perplexity or disappointment over Manny Simm’s failure. He asked: “How come Simms is loose for such sport? Why wasn’t he held?”

“Good lawyer, small bail,” shrugged Haenigson. “He didn’t commit any homicide — just threats — and there wasn’t even any bullets in the rod he pulled on the judge so he got out on low bail. But what do you want me to do about it, Smith?”

“I want you to help me find Manny Simms. I don’t like the idea of that baby gunning for me.”

“Sure, Smith. I wouldn’t mind finding out for myself why he’s wasting bullets on you. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. My hunch is that it’s tied up with the dough that Jimmy Legg souped out of the Lansing Investment safe.”

“He didn’t steal any dough from them.”

Cellini stared at Haenigson. “I don’t get it. What then did he steal from that safe?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out, Smith. That’s why I’m up here taking this place apart right now.”

“Didn’t Lansing Investment make any claims about stolen stuff?”

“Nothing at all. They just asked us to forget the whole thing. Mr. Lansing seemed to think his firm would get a bad reputation if the public found out it was successfully burgled.”

“But if Lansing didn’t charge Jimmy Legg with anything then why was he arrested and brought into court this morning?”

“They couldn’t very well avoid it because Legg also slugged the janitor and a secretary and they identified him.”

“Say,” asked Cellini, “do you think this Lansing Investment is a crooked outfit?”

“Could be,” said Ira Haenigson. “Could be.”

Cellini Smith got out of the elevator and entered the offices of the Lansing Investment Company. The place was large with lots of pale-faced stenographers and sleek-haired clerks who gave their investment spiels with all the fervor of a Fuller brush man.

Cellini asked to see Mr. Lansing himself. He told what it was about, gave his pedigree, showed identification, and when he refused to settle for a vice-president he was finally shown past the balustrade and into an ornate inner office.

Mr. Lansing was bluff, confident, and obviously never tortured by self-doubt. Stocky from good feeding rather than hard work, he was in his forties and had a golf-tan complexion.

“Deplorable this murder of James Legg, very deplorable,” declared the president of Lansing Investment without preamble. “Death except from God or the legal executioner has always shocked me.”

“It’s very cruel,” said Cellini.

“Yes, quite. Of course you realize, Mr. Smith, that the murder of James Legg and his lamentable burglary of our offices is sheer coincidence and can have no conceivable connection.”

“If I realized that,” replied Cellini, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“My good man, do you imply that we may have a connection — even a remote one — with murder?”

“Perhaps not so remote.”

Mr. Lansing blinked. His voice was sharp. “Sir, my wife always kills a good joke but my connection with homicide ends there. It’s been a pleasure.” He stood up.

Cellini didn’t budge. “Is your wife a luscious blonde?” he asked innocently.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Smith, and I don’t wish to. I’m afraid I can waste no more time.”

Cellini snapped his fingers. “How stupid of me! Of course your wife isn’t a blonde. I was confusing her with Winnie Crawford.”

Lansing stopped in his tracks. He sat down again with a sickly smile, hauling forth brandy bottle and glasses from the desk. Cellini helped himself, then reached into the cigar humidor. He wondered if the investment manipulator had a solid alibi for the murder time.

Lansing finally broke the silence. “Mr. Smith, you don’t seem the prudish sort so you probably understand the necessity for an occasional peccadillo to relieve marital boredom.”

“Sure. Especially peccadillos built like Winnie.”

“Quite, sir, quite. And I’m sorry that you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

“You mean the wrong Legg.”

Lansing tried a laugh and missed. “It’s just my natural desire to prevent any unsavory talk of murders and robberies in connection with Lansing Investment. Our business depends so much on public confidence.”

“Then why don’t you help me so that I might clear it up?” Cellini suggested.

“By all means,” said Lansing with forced eagerness. “Only there’s very little I can tell you.”

Cellini Smith said: “Start with the reason why you people didn’t press any charge against Jimmy Legg when he knocked over the safe in this place.”

“That was only because we’d much rather absorb a small loss than have such bad publicity,” replied Lansing.

“What did the small loss amount to?”

“Oh, nothing of importance really.”

“Was it money? Did you have currency in the safe?”

“I don’t think so,” said Lansing evasively. “Just some non-negotiable bonds, I believe.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“I happened to be out of town the day of the robbery, Mr. Smith, and I haven’t had a chance to check. However, I’ll do so and mail you a list of the items.”

“That’s a lie,” said Cellini deliberately. “You know damned well what was stolen.”

Lansing squeezed another smile out of his face. “Please allow a difference of opinion, Mr. Smith.”

Cellini sampled the brandy again and got up to leave. Apprehensively, Lansing asked: “Mr. Smith, can I rely on your discretion about that Winnie Crawford — um — involvement?”

“Yes. How come you two broke it up though?”

“You know how it is about these affairs of the heart, Mr. Smith. One or the other cools.”

“How did you happen to meet her?”

“She used to work here as my secretary.”

“And your checkbook said, ‘I love you.’ Which still doesn’t explain where Winnie gets her dough if you’re not around any more.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr. Smith.”

“There’s no need to.” Cellini started out and Lansing took his arm in a brotherly fashion, telling him to drop around if he ever wished some real good investment tips. They passed into the outer office and Cellini noted a large safe built into one of the corners. “Is that the one Legg cracked?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Smith.”

“I thought the door was blown off.”

“Of course, but the safe manufacturers have been in since. They put on new hinges and repaired it.”

“All right.” Cellini walked out, past the balustrade, into the reception-room. Waiting in one of the club chairs was Howard Garrett, Jimmy Legg’s mouthpiece in court that morning.

“Surprise,” said Cellini. “Are you here to return what your dead client stole — or to split the loot with Lansing?”

Garrett examined his fingernails, studied the ceiling, and gave no indication that he had heard. Cellini shrugged and walked out of the Lansing Investment offices.

A stout woman worked a vacuum cleaner over the carpeting of the hallway. Cellini could see her key-ring, hanging from the keyhole of a broom closet farther down the hallway. As he passed by the closet, his hand reached out and silently and quickly transferred the ring of keys to his own pocket.

Cellini Smith phoned Ira Haenigson and asked if they had located Manny Simms and his Tommy. They had not and he returned to his car and headed for the Greek’s gin-joint to get Mack.

The gargantuan bookie took his liquor well. With another eight or nine drinks fermenting in him, his neck was redder and his voice hoarser but he showed little other effect.

Cellini straddled a stool and poured for himself. The bookie asked what was cooking. “I just checked with Haenigson,” Cellini replied. “They haven’t caught up with Simms yet.”

“That’s good,” said Mack. “Simms is our meat. What else you been doing?”

“I dropped up to see one of your customers — the president of Lansing Investment.”

“What’s he got to say?”

“He called my client a peccadillo and he showed me the safe that Jimmy Legg cracked.”

“What about it?”

“Plenty,” said Cellini. “Legg never touched that safe. The manufacturers were supposed to have put on new hinges but the ones I saw there aren’t new.”

“That’s a laugh. We go nimrodding through Legg’s dump looking for the stuff he stole and then you find out that he never even cleaned the Lansing safe.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Mack stared accusingly at his drink. “I don’t catch.”

“I just said that our defunct friend didn’t crack the safe Mr. Lansing showed me.”

“Oh. I see it all now, Cellini. Like hell!”

The Greek said, “Thees shootings and the drinks are bad combination,” and left to service a couple at a back table.

“Either Legg made a haul,” Cellini said, “or he didn’t. In either case, Lansing is not dishing out with information so I’d like to check just how phoney that investment company of his is.”

“Check how?” asked the bookie.

Cellini took from his pocket the keyring he had lifted. “One of these fits the Lansing office and you claim you were pretty handy with safes.”

“I begin to catch,” said Mack slowly. “All right. I’ll play along.”

“Fine. Let’s go out and get something to eat. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”

The Greek came back and Mack asked to borrow his museum-piece Webley.

“No, no. I need it to geeve that man shootings.”

“Come on. He’s after us — not you.”

The Greek acknowledged the point and gave in. Cellini and Mack had another brace of drinks and left.

Mack banged long and hard on the rear service door of the Tower Building. After several minutes, the night watchman opened it, a cautious hand over the revolver on his hip.

“Oh, it’s you,” said the watchman after he had identified the bookie’s big figure. “Can’t let you in. We’ve been having us a robbery. Besides, I’m broke.”

“You’re passing up a sure-fire thing, Harry,” said Mack persuasively. “It’s for the seventh, tomorrow.”

Mack pulled the Pacific edition of the Chicago racing form out of his pocket and beckoned the watchman to a transom light two doors down. Despite himself, the watchman followed the bookie and read the form over his shoulder. It never seemed to occur to him why they could not read the form by the overhead light of his own door. He was absorbed.

With his shoes in one hand, Cellini Smith silently left the shadows of the building and slipped through the door just a few feet behind the watchman’s back.

He could spot no immediate hiding place so he padded up the rear stairway and lay down flat on the first landing. After a few minutes he heard the watchman come in, lock the door, and move down the hallway. He waited another minute, then let in Mack.

Noiselessly, they mounted the eight flights to the darkened offices of the Lansing Investment, found the right key on the chain, and entered. Cellini locked the door from the inside. They waited some time before they felt assured nothing stirred in the hallway or adjoining offices, then snapped on a desk lamp.

Cellini led the way inside the railing. “There,” he said in lowered tone. “That’s the strong-box Lansing claims Legg cracked.”

Mack dropped on his knees before it. The safe was large and imposing and of recent vintage.

“Four tumblers,” the bookie muttered. “No ordinary chrome steele either. Work on it all day with an acetylene torch and get no place. I guess you’re right, Cellini.”

“About what?”

“Them hinges are the originals. Jimmy Legg didn’t blow this baby. I’d think twice before trying it myself. She’s probably wired from the back and if you’d try moving her to get at the wires the alarm would sound off.”

Cellini nodded with satisfaction. “That’s the way I figured. Now let’s try to find the box that Legg did crack. We’ll start with Lansing’s office first.”

They switched off the desk lamp and went into Lansing’s office, closing the door before snapping on the lights.

They did not have long to search. Behind a Currier and Ives print they found a small wall safe. Its door was glossy and untarnished, as if new.

“This is the baby all right,” said Mack. “Just about Jimmy Legg’s speed, too.”

“Think you can manage it?”

“Sure. And I don’t need soup. All I want is a needle.”

“A needle?” repeated Cellini, puzzled.

“Yeah. An ordinary sewing needle. Maybe we can find it in a secretary’s desk.”

Mack went out and returned a minute later. “Here it is. It’s a little thick but maybe it’ll work.”

He clenched the needle by its eye between his front teeth and placed the point over the lock, his forehead touching the safe. Then he began to turn the combination slowly, feeling every tremor through the highly sensitive nerves of his teeth.

Cellini watched with interested admiration as the bookie grunted through clenched teeth each time he felt a tumbler slide into place. Here was no need for wires or pliers or even nitro. Mack’s kit was a sewing needle.

Finally, the bookie stood up and let the needle fall from his mouth. “That does it.”

Cellini went to open the safe door when Mack’s voice halted him. “Not so damned fast.”

Pointed at him was the Webley the bookie had borrowed from the Greek. “What’s eating you?” asked Cellini quietly.

“The eight hundred smackers Jimmy Legg still owes me,” stated Mack harshly. “I didn’t come here and open this box to do you no favor.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“That’s right, Cellini. So I’m counting out my eight hundred first.” Without taking his eye off Cellini, he reached behind him with his free hand, flipped the safe door open and stuck his huge paw into the opening.

It was empty.

Cellini felt like having a good belly laugh but was afraid that the watchman might be making his rounds nearby. Instead, he said: “Put up the rod, Mack. Fate is forcing you to stay straight. Whatever was in there, it looks like Legg beat us to it.”

Chapter Five Cooked Goose

After five minutes of searing concentration, Cellini Smith felt virtually certain that that thing next to the bed he was lying on was a telephone. Carefully, he lifted the receiver, brought it to an ear, and asked something. A honeyed voice informed him that he was in a downtown hotel and that it was ten in the morning.

He managed to replace the receiver and suddenly remembered what he was doing there and why someone seemed to be carrying out a scorched earth policy inside his head. It had reason.

After drawing a blank at the Lansing Investment offices, he and Mack had decided to go find Manny Simms — before Simms found them. They had gone from gin-mill to gin-mill but could not find the hood. And at each place they had drinks and after a while forgot to search for Mr. Simms.

Vaguely, he remembered phoning Winnie Crawford at three in the morning to find out if she got her money by blackmailing Lansing Investment. The reply was colorful — so much so that he felt the blackmail hunch wasn’t far wrong.

Somewhat less vaguely, he remembered deciding to sleep at a hotel, safely distant from any visit by Manny Simms during the night. And he did not at all remember what had happened to Mack. The bookie had spent most of the evening bemoaning the $800 he had lost through Legg’s murder and yearning to get his hands on Manny Simms and Winnie Crawford — though for different reasons.

However, the night of alcoholic search had not been entirely fruitless. Nagging at Cellini’s mind had been the problem of why Jimmy Legg troubled to conceal apparently innocent items such as a spool of wire, pliers, and hammer in the icebox of his apartment. Somewhere between the double Scotches the answer had come. It added up beautifully.

Slowly, Cellini eased himself out of bed and floated into the bathroom. A needle shower helped a little and the black coffee and bromo in a cafe downstairs finally decided him against suicide. He tried several nearby parking lots before finding his car and then made for his office.

Cellini Smith sat behind his desk nursing both the hangover and the wisp of an idea that was beginning to form about Legg’s murder. And that was its one fault — that it did everything but solve Legg’s murder. It was an idea founded on the assumption that the Lansing Investment Company was a crooked outfit.

The phone sounded. Cellini lifted the receiver and gave a weak “Hello.”

He heard that horrible, sawmill voice of Howard Garrett’s secretary giggle coquettishly and then tell him to wait a moment as she plugged the lawyer into the board.

A click and Jimmy Legg’s mouthpiece was saying: “Mr. Smith, I am well aware that we dislike each other. Nevertheless, since you’re working on the murder of my former client, I feel there’s an explanation due you.”

“Goody. Let’s have it.”

“As you know, I represented James Legg in court on that Lansing Investment affair and yesterday you found me in those very offices waiting to see Mr. Lansing. That may cause you to suspect something.”

Cellini’s headache wasn’t getting any better. “Come on, Garrett. There’s a shortage of gas, so save it.”

“The point is, Mr. Smith, that I was up there because I’m a stockholder in the Lansing Investment Company.”

“How come Lansing didn’t object to your defending Legg?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Lansing was glad to have me handle the case because he didn’t want Legg punished. He thought I might be able to handle it discreetly.”

“What did you do when Legg was arrested? Chase after him to let you be his mouthpiece?”

“Certainly not. That’s unethical. He got in touch with me.”

Cellini almost felt like laughing. “Lansing would be glad to have you defend Legg just at the moment Legg decides to pick you.”

“It’s not that absurd,” Howard Garfarett conciliated. “Mr. Lansing got in touch with Jimmy Legg and asked him if he wished to have me for counsel.”

A sweet mess, thought Cellini. A man is robbed and then goes to the burglar to recommend a mouthpiece to spring him. He asked: “Are you going to defend Manny Simms when he conies up for trial?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did you or Lansing shell out the dough for Manny’s bail?”

“Mr. Smith, I called to give you information as a favor. I regret that you’re not sufficiently civilized to be polite about it.”

“You didn’t phone because you wanted to do me a favor.”

“Perhaps you know better, Mr. Smith. Why did I phone you?”

“I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that you and Lansing and that whole investment outfit will never have to worry about sunburn — you’re too shady for that.”

Cellini let the receiver drop into its cradle thinking that his parting shot would have been much better if he didn’t have to cope with the damned hangover. He heard heavy, stumbling steps in the hallway outside and a moment later the door pushed in and Mack entered.

The giant bookie gaped silently at Cellini. He made a ludicrous picture. One side of his face was shaved and the other bearded, with lather still smeared over it. His jaw trembled as if from some nervous tic.

“I just heard about Winnie.” Mack spoke as if the words were being jerked out of him. “She’s dying. She’s been shot.”

Cellini pounded Mack with questions until he had, at last, a coherent picture of what had happened. As little as twenty minutes before, there had been several shots in Winnie Crawford’s apartment at the Hamilton. A woman in an adjoining apartment had rushed out to see the back of a man disappearing around a bend in the hallway. She looked into Winnie’s apartment to find the blonde on the floor, still alive but with three bullets lodged in her.

An ambulance from a nearby hospital made the round trip in record time and within ten minutes Winnie was on the operating table. An interne, who placed his bets through Mack, recognized Winnie and phoned him at the barber shop. The bookie had immediately come up to Cellini’s office.

Winnie had evidently tried to put up a fight for the .45 was found by her side. No hope was held for her and her assailant had escaped.

Cellini felt a little sick. He remembered the clumsy way she held the big gun in her hands and thought that, unlike Legg, she was too decorative to be killed. But at last there was something to work on. It was now 11:25 and the murder had occurred at 11:05. It would be easy to check the alibis of the four persons who might have gunned for Jimmy Legg and Winnie Crawford.

Mack’s voice broke hoarsely into Cellini’s thoughts: “What the hell are you waiting for? I told you she’s dying!”

They hurried downstairs and crowded into the coupe. “Which hospital?” asked Cellini.

“Who said anything about going to the hospital? We can’t help her. Drive to the Greek’s. I know I need a drink.”

Cellini considered that to be sensible and turned over the starter. They reached the Greek’s a short while later and entered. It was early and they had the place to themselves. The Greek set out drinks and asked for the ancient Webley Mack had borrowed. After he got it he preserved a discreet silence for he saw that something was up.

Mack went to the wall phone and dialed his interne friend at the hospital. He returned to the bar, shaking his head. “Winnie ain’t got a chance to pull ahead. Too big a handicap. Carrying too much weight.”

“Sure you don’t want to go down to the hospital?”

“No. The doc promised to phone me here,”

“Good enough.” Cellini tried his drink and found that it helped his hangover jitters. 11:05, he thought. He had to find out where the four men were then — the four men who had a motive to murder Winnie Crawford. Lansing, Howard Garrett, Manny Simms, and the bookie himself.

The phone rang and Mack jumped for it. When he came back, unashamed tears cut two trails down his tough cheeks. “She’s dying, Cellini. My darling’s rounding the three-quarter mark.”

The bookie started to extol Winnie Crawford’s physical virtues when the sound of the phone interrupted him fifteen minutes later. He returned with another bulletin. “No hope. She’s nearing the home stretch.”

It was another half-hour before the phone rang again. This time, Mack’s voice was barely distinguishable. “Winnie just crossed the wire.” He reached for the bottle and drank out of it.

They drank without speaking and it was the Greek who finally broke the silence. “Do you remember thees Seems, thees people who do the shootings yesterday?”

“What about him?” asked Cellini impatiently.

“He comes now — with beeg gun.”

Cellini and Mack whirled too late. Manny Simms was entering the door, toothpick in mouth and the chatter gun in his hands. The torpedo who had been with him yesterday, flanked him now, sporting an automatic.

“All right,” barked Manny Simms. “Line up against that wall and tell me where you got it.”

Cellini and Mack backed slowly toward the wall. They were dealing with a known killer. Manny Simms spoke to the torpedo.

“You take care of the bartender,” he growled.

“I show you who takes good cares!” The Greek was fighting mad. The Webley was in his hand, leveled at the advancing torpedo, and he pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The rusted, obsolete weapon was jammed. The Greek delivered a Hellenic curse. He hurled the Webley at the torpedo and, that done, dived behind the bar just as the automatic planted a bullet in the mirror behind him.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” snapped Manny Simms, his eyes not leaving Cellini and Mack. “Stop piddling around.”

“Leave him to me, Manny.”

The torpedo leaped lithely onto the bar, after the Greek. From behind the bar an arm arced up in a swift, sure curve and the torpedo tumbled back, an agonized scream escaping him. Buried three inches deep into his shoulder was an ice pick.

Manny Simms tried a quick look in back of him to see what had happened. It was the break Cellini had waited and hoped for. At that same instant he dived forward, football fashion, and caught Manny Simms in the midriff, bearing him to the ground. Simms tried to angle the clumsy Thompson sub at Cellini. But the weapon dropped as his arm was twisted back and up.

Mack was there now and he yanked Manny Simms away from Cellini. A queer, chilling laugh escaped him. Now he could do something about Winnie Crawford’s murder.

On the floor, the torpedo stirred and moaned. Mack’s foot lashed out and caught him under his chin, returning him to unconsciousness with a crack that indicated a broken jawbone.

“Hold it, Mack,” said Cellini. “I want to ask Simms a couple of things first.”

“Sure. He’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Cellini said to Simms: “What did you mean before, when you asked us where we’ve got it?”

Manny’s yellow face stared impassively, registering no emotion. His shoulders tried to move in a shrug but they were vised tightly by Mack’s big paws.

“Come on,” said Cellini. “Did you want to know where we’ve got the stuff that Jimmy Legg stole from Lansing Investment?”

The same dead-pan stare.

Cellini asked: “Where were you at eleven five this morning when Winnie Crawford was shot?”

This time Manny’s lips moved to say: “I been third-degreed by experts.”

“Plenty time we got to become experts,” stated the Greek who stood by them now.

He and the bookie dragged Manny Simms around one end of the bar. Mack said: “You killed the only twist I ever loved.”

Simms made the mistake of laughing. Mack’s arm moved and the hood dropped down. “Did you kill Winnie Crawford?”

There was no answer from the floor. Cellini saw the bookie’s face twitch and was glad that his name wasn’t Simms. Mack’s eyes scanned the back-bar searchingly and saw a tray. “What’s that?”

“Dry ice,” replied the Greek.

“Good. That’ll be just fine to start with.” Mack sat on Manny Simms’ chest and the Greek held down the legs. Mack ripped open the hood’s jacket and shirt and clamped one hand over his mouth. With the other hand he inverted the tray of dry ice on the bare stomach.

Cellini strayed away. He tried not to hear the sudden writhing and stifled moans, tried not to imagine the ice searing and burning into Manny Simms’ belly.

He felt he had to keep himself busy and phoned the barber shop where Mack claimed to be when Winnie was shot. There was no doubt of it, a barber replied to the question. Mack was there at 11:05, taking bets and waiting for his turn in the chair.

When Cellini turned away from the phone again it was over. Manny Simms, a tough hood a short while before, was now a gibbering, babbling mess — confessing to the murder of Winnie Crawford, moaning about crooked deals pulled by Lansing and Howard Garrett with the investment outfit.

Relenting, the Greek poured some olive oil over the burned, tortured flesh. The bookie, a little tired now that it was all over, held on to Simms and dully asked why and how he had killed Winnie.

Cellini said: “That’s enough, Mack. You’re doing fine. Let’s go see Haenigson.”

Cellini tried the phone again and was informed that the detective-sergeant was up at the investment company offices, seeing Mr. Lansing.

It was a strange-looking crew that was ushered into Lansing’s private office by the secretary. Leading them was the torpedo, his shoulder bandaged by one of the Greek’s soiled napkins, his hands cupping the swollen, broken jaw. Behind, stumbled Manny Simms, every slight motion agonizing torture as clothing brushed against his skin. And bringing up the rear, Cellini and Mack, disheveled, sleepless, but satisfied.

“What’s this?” asked Ira Haenigson. He was there with a couple of his men, dishing out what looked like a warm grilling to Mr. Lansing and Howard Garrett, the attorney.

“Here’s your murderer,” replied Mack.

“Manny Simms?” Haenigson’s brows arched. “I was under the impression that Simms was under Judge Reynolds’ bench while Jimmy Legg was being killed.”

Mack, a little crestfallen, started to explain that it was probably the torpedo who did the Legg job but Cellini waved him into silence and turned to the Homicide man.

“It wasn’t Simms who did the murders. I just brought him up here to show that we made him see the light and he’s been talking. You can take them away to be fixed up.”

“I don’t like that kind of rough stuff, Smith, but we’ll discuss it later.” Haenigson nodded to one of his men and Simms and the torpedo were led out. “Now, who did you say the murderer was?”

“Not counting Simms, it has to be either Mack, or Lansing or Howard Garrett.”

“Unless it was someone else. Thanks for the tip, Smith.”

“They all had motive,” Cellini continued, ignoring him. “Mack here, might have wanted to cut a slice of the blackmail for himself that I’ll tell you about later. However, his alibi looks good. I’m pretty sure he was at a barber shop shortly after eleven this morning while Winnie Crawford was being killed.”

“Thanks, pal.” The bookie said it not sarcastically but threateningly. Lansing and the attorney were cautiously silent.

“Mr. Garrett’s alibi,” said Haenigson, “is equally good for the Crawford killing. It so happens he was in his office phoning me at just about that time.”

“I know,” nodded Cellini. “I happened to talk to him, too, around that time. That leaves Lansing.”

The Homicide man’s voice fairly purred. “He was at a board meeting, at the bank.”

Cellini frowned. It was the kind of alibi that could be easily checked and Lansing wouldn’t have tried it had it not been true. But still, one of the three alibis had to be a phoney.

Haenigson smiled benignly. “Let there be more revelations, Smith.”

“Sure. Some I know, some is guesswork — but it’s the only possible explanation. In the first place, Howard Garrett is the chief stockholder in this investment outfit and he and Lansing have been milking the company, juggling the books, for some time now.”

Haenigson made a face. “You’re a back number, Smith. And I didn’t have to use torture methods to find it out.”

“And you didn’t have to stand in front of a sub-machine gun. But here’s something else. Some time ago there had to be a murder connected with this place — a murder committed by Manny Simms.”

This time the Homicide man’s voice was serious. “Lansing and Forrester,” he murmured. “That’s what this place used to be called a couple of years ago. Forrester just disappeared and I remember we had Simms on the carpet for it but we couldn’t prove anything.”

“Perfect,” said Cellini. “Lansing had his partner killed by Simms when his partner found out that he and Garrett were juggling the books.”

“Preposterous!” snorted Mr. Lansing.

“Shut up!” countered Garrett.

“But,” Cellini went on, “Lansing also knew that once Simms did such a job for him he’d be blackmailed the rest of his life so, at the same time, he got proof that Simms had murdered his partner. Whether it’s in the form of an actual snapshot of the killing, a written confession, or something else, we’ll know later because that’s one of the things Jimmy Legg stole from here. Understand?”

“I’m still listening, Smith.”

“Then Winnie Crawford got a job here through Mack and soon she was playing office wife to Lansing. Being in a privileged position, she discovered that Lansing and Garrett were taking their gullible investors to the cleaners. So she simply left Lansing’s couch, decided that all men were beasts, and blackmailed Lansing into supporting her in style.”

“My relationship with Miss Crawford was purely personal,” Lansing protested.

“I’ll bet,” remarked the detective-sergeant dryly.

“Enter now Jimmy Legg,” continued Cellini. “He had been the first rung on Winnie’s ladder to death. When he saw Winnie in clover without a panting male around, he was able to figure out the blackmail angle and decided to cut in.”

Again Lansing protested. “This whole thing is based on the assumption that Mr. Garrett and I have misappropriated company funds.”

“Grow up,” said Howard Garrett wearily. “By tomorrow a dozen accountants will be going over the books with a fine comb and you know what they’ll find. But unless you keep talking we’ll only take a larceny rap and not murder.”

Ira Haenigson rubbed his hands together. “And that,” he announced, “is what I call making progress.”

Cellini picked it up again. “So Legg burgled this place. He knew that blackmail material wouldn’t be in the regular box so he looked around and found a small safe behind that picture.”

“How did you know there’s a wall safe behind there?”

“Sheer deduction,” said Cellini blandly. “Anyway, Legg cracked it and found the real books — the ones showing what Lansing and Garrett have stolen. So when Legg was picked up by the police he told Garrett that if he and Lansing wanted to stay out of jail they’d better mother him. That’s why Garrett became mouthpiece for a small-timer like Jimmy Legg.”

“You’re on the right track, Smith — for a change.”

“Then Manny Simms became panicky because he knew Legg had also gotten the proof of his having murdered Lansing’s partner. So he pulled that trick of forcing the judge to release Legg because taking such a rap is better than going up for murder. Simms had to get Legg away from the police where he could be killed at leisure and the stolen stuff recovered.”

The Homicide man interrupted: “Where is that stolen stuff?”

“I’ll tell you later. It’s obvious why Legg was killed. In the meantime, Winnie had hired me, trying to find out what it was all about and when Manny Simms saw me hanging around Legg’s house he thought I had recovered the loot and tried to chop me down.”

“And why,” asked Haenigson, “was Miss Crawford killed?”

“The murderer knew that Legg intended hiding out at Winnie’s house and got the idea he might also have hidden the loot up there. So one of these three men here went up to Winnie’s house to search and when she showed fight — simply killed her.”

“Very beautiful,” said Ira Haenigson, “but for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You still haven’t named the killer.”

Cellini Smith nodded and glumly studied the tips of his shoes. One of the three alibis for 11:05 that morning had to be wrong. Lansing was at a board meeting — with many witnesses. Mack was at the barber shop — also with witnesses. The lawyer was in his office — and there could be no question of that because the sawmill voice of his secretary could not be mistaken.

Cellini looked up to find Ira Haenigson standing over him. “It’s my turn, Smith. I’ve warned you before that I’ll break you and this is my chance. I found your prints all over Jimmy Legg’s apartment and I’m pulling you in.”

The detective-sergeant meant it. There was no doubt of that in Cellini’s mind.

Cellini stood up. “I want to make a call first.”

“Don’t try any Indian rope tricks, Smith.”

“Since you’re arresting me, I want to let my lawyer know.” He went out to the front office, a cop trailing, and dialed his number at one of the desk phones. The girl who answered informed him that the lawyer was at home.

“Give me his home number,” said Cellini. “I’ll ring him.”

The girl replied: “Would you want me to call him and connect you two? It would be no trouble.”

Cellini gripped the phone hard. “How can you do that?”

The girl laughed. “Oh, that’s just an across-the-board call. You can connect two outside calls on most any P-B-X board. It’s—”

“I love you,” said Cellini, “and I want you to marry me.” He returned to Lansing’s office, a happy grin dominating his face. He walked up to Howard Garrett and said bluntly: “You’re going up for murder and not larceny after all.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. When you came out of the courtroom with Jimmy Legg you followed him to the drugstore and listened while he called me and Winnie Crawford. You heard him say he was going to the Hamilton Apartments through the side alley. Legg probably made sure nobody was following him to the Hamilton but you were already waiting there for him.”

The lawyer didn’t turn a hair. “And I suppose you’ll deny talking to me and my secretary this morning just about when Miss Crawford was murdered.”

“On the contrary. Right after you killed Winnie you made for the first phone and you had your secretary ring Haenigson and myself immediately on an across-the-board call to establish your alibi. Hearing your secretary’s voice we naturally assumed that you were in your office. You thought—”

“All right.” Howard Garrett’s voice was very tired. “I know when I’m finished. Please don’t lecture me.”

Cellini beckoned Mack. “That’s that. How about a drink at the Greek’s?”

Ira Haenigson waved him back. “I don’t know how you weasel your way out of these things, Smith, but I still want to know where that stuff is that Jimmy Legg stole from here.”

“Certainly,” said Cellini graciously. “Remember the pliers, hammer, and spool of wire hidden in Legg’s icebox?”

“What about it? We looked through the whole place.”

“But you didn’t figure why Legg thought it necessary to hide those items. The stuff is hanging from wire underneath the outside sill of a window in Legg’s apartment — probably the window facing the empty lot.”