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

The Shadowy Line by J. Lane Linklater

“I figure on taking the other guy all down the line. So I don’t like to play with people I like,” says the gambler. But when the gal he likes knows everything’s a gamble and is willing to play the game—

She was sitting at a table near the kitchen door, eating. It was a little after eight in the evening and she was no doubt through work and eating before going home. She was new on the job, too. Morrie couldn’t put his finger on just why he knew that; she was acting composed and quiet yet he knew she was nervous underneath. A large purse lay on the tablecloth near her hand, a good leather purse but a little worn and shabby. There was nothing shabby about the girl. She was neat and trim and her straight-featured face showed a quiet pride and her brown hair was fine and clean-looking.

Morrie, his back to her, was watching her, in the long mirror behind the Diamond Grill’s counter.

The girl was almost through eating. She was wrapping something in a paper napkin, something from her plate. That was the second time Morrie had seen her do that. Whatever it was she had wrapped up was slipped into her purse.

She looked up suddenly, and saw him in the mirror. Well, what she saw shouldn’t hurt her. He was still young, built like a lightweight boxer, with a good blond head on top of a straight neck. Morrie smiled at her. He could do pretty well with a smile. Her smile was very faint and hesitant, and she lowered her head.

Her name was Myrna. He had heard her called that.

Morrie got up, paid his check and walked out. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the main stem and found it good. Gambling palaces flashed their invitations all up and down, both sides. He was new here in Las Vegas but he liked it. He liked the brisk fall air pushing in from the Nevada plains beyond, but best he liked the bright pulsing life of the place, the light, the clink of western coins, the tenseness of the play.

In a little while the girl came out.

Morrie touched his hat and said: “Nice evening. Going home?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d rather go alone.”

“O. K.” Morrie grinned. “You don’t think I’m fresh?”

“I don’t think so.”

Morrie watched her and admired the way she walked. She was small and erect and moved easily. She turned down Third Street and Morrie walked that way, too. Those trees, planted all along the Las Vegas streets, except for the main stem, darkened them and made following her easy. She walked past the courthouse, three or four blocks, and then turned along a boardwalk. The walk ran by the side of a house fronting the street to a smaller house at the back of it. A door opened and stood open for a moment. By the light behind, Morrie could see that it was a young man who let her in.

Morrie was at the Diamond Grill at ten o’clock the next morning, for breakfast. Myrna was on duty. He liked to watch her, liked to hear her voice.

Yet there was a line between them. He had been aware of that line with a few other girls, but more than ever with Myrna. It wasn’t that he didn’t have confidence in himself, but with some girls, like with Myrna, he felt there was a shadowy line between him and them — shadowy, but real as steel.

It was a feeling that if he stepped across to the girl’s side of the line, it might not go well with her.

Not that he wanted to hurt her, not at all. But maybe it was the way he had lived: always gambling, on one side of the table or the other, ever since he could remember. Chicago, Philly, New York, New Orleans, Kansas City. It was the first time he had ever got as far west as Las Vegas, but there was gambling here, too.

He had thought, vaguely, of doing other things.

Morrie was through with his breakfast. He went out, walked up the main stem and turned into Third Street. He came to the walk that led back to the little house and followed it to the door. He knocked on the door.

The young man opened the door. Morrie looked him over quickly. He was fairly tall but very frail. He had dark curly hair and it was rumpled. The guy isn’t well, Morrie thought, and besides there’s something on his mind.

Morrie said: “Myrna sent me. She said she was worried about you, thought you weren’t feeling so good this morning and for me to drop in for a few minutes. I saw her just now down at the cafe.” Morrie stuck out his hand. “I’m Morrie Random.”

The young fellow seemed puzzled at first. Then he said: “Well, thanks. Come in.”

Morrie went in and looked around. The place was small, three rooms, and furnished barely. It was home-like, though. There were a few letters and postcards on the sideboard; Morrie glanced at them and saw some were addressed to Myrna Pierce and some to Ralph Patton.

Morrie turned to the young fellow, who had sat down, and said: “Well, Myrna said, ‘If you aren’t doing anything this morning,’ she said, ‘why not drop around and see Ralph. I’d like you to meet him anyway.’ ”

The young fellow, still nervous, but polite, said: “Well, I appreciate it. I don’t think my sister has mentioned you. She’s been working there only three days. And we don’t know anybody around here.”

Morrie nodded. “I’m a stranger myself in these parts. Have you been staying here long?”

“Only a week.”

Morrie grinned. “Five weeks more to go, huh?”

“That’s right.”

So one of them, either Myrna or Ralph, was here for a divorce, living out the six-weeks residence required before filing. He guessed it was Myrna.

Ralph said: “How about some coffee?”

“Sure,” said Morrie.

They went into the tiny kitchen. Ralph put the coffee pot on the gas. While he was doing that, Morrie’s eyes traveled. He saw a couple of green paper napkins, crumpled down in the trash bucket.

Those napkins came from the Diamond Grill. Morrie guessed one napkin had held a sandwich and the other a piece of cake. A sandwich and a piece of cake for Ralph.

They sat and drank coffee. Morrie began to find out things. It’s easy to draw some people out, Morrie very well knew, especially when they are hard pressed.

Ralph talked without knowing it. Mostly about his sister, Myrna.

Myrna was twenty-one, a year younger than Ralph. She had been married at sixteen to a man much older than herself. It turned out pretty bad. The man had a job in the city hall, out there on the Coast, and he was a good fellow with the gang but a tyrant at home. Myrna had stood it three years and then she had left him.

That had been hard to do. The man threatened all sorts of things if she left him, but she finally did. Then he threatened all sorts of things if she divorced him. “If you go through with it, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill your brother! I’ll kill myself!” That was the way he talked. That was the kind of a heel he was. Morrie understood; he had met guys like that.

Maybe he’d carry out his threats and maybe he wouldn’t. Myrna had no way of knowing, so it made it hard. She had decided to work and save her money and then go to Las Vegas, and get a quiet Nevada divorce. It would be much easier that way. She had saved seven hundred dollars. That was to pay for her living and legal expenses and something more to take her and Ralph back to the Coast.

Morrie didn’t ask what she was doing working in a cafe and toting home food in napkins if she had seven hundred dollars. But he noticed that when Ralph touched on that subject he was pretty nervous.

“Trouble is,” Ralph said, “I’m no help.” He thumped his puny chest. “No good. Can’t hold down a job.”

“You do any kind of work?” asked Morrie.

“Some, but I never made much at it. I like to think I’m an artist. I’ve sold a few paintings, that’s all. It’s all right if you’re darn good and manage to get recognition. If you’re one in a thousand, you do all right — otherwise it’s slow starvation.”

“I guess it’s a tough racket,” Morrie said. “It’s great stuff, though. You got anything here of yours?”

“Not much.” Talking about art seemed to quiet Ralph a little. “Like to see it?”

“Sure.”

They went into a bedroom. An easel was set up close to the window. A curtain was hung across a corner and Ralph drew it aside. Half a dozen paintings were tacked on boards. Most of them were landscapes. Morrie noticed one peaceful-looking scene showing cows in a field. There was one nude and Morrie felt a little embarrassed. The face was turned away but he had a feeling that Myrna had posed for it.

Morrie said: “I don’t know much about art, but they look swell to me. Say, I might be able to sell one of them for you.”

Ralph brightened perceptibly. “Do you really think so?”

“Maybe. To a pal of mine. How much would you want?”

“Well, I know I can’t expect much,” Ralph said dubiously. “If I got twenty dollars for the best of them I’d be lucky. You think you could get that much for me?”

Morrie shook his head. “Twenty bucks isn’t much. You need more than that, don’t you?”

“Need!” The word seemed to shake Ralph. He sure is in bad shape, Morrie thought. “Need! I’m afraid there’s no hope of getting what I need!”

That was getting around to it, getting close to where Morrie had been heading.

“I don’t get you,” Morrie said. “I thought you said Myrna had seven hundred bucks. I don’t see why—”

“She had seven hundred,” Ralph cut in. His eyes were getting wild and his long fingers were trembling. “She had it until her rotten brother lost it for her!”

“Take it easy, Ralph. How’d you lose it?”

“I thought I was smart. We got here a week ago. Myrna saw the lawyer and made arrangements, paid him an advance. We had about six hundred left. I had it. But I thought I was smart—”

“Gambling, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Morrie, “these layouts are all right. That is, they’re straight enough. But the percentage is against the customer. You can’t win if you stay with it.”

“It wasn’t a gambling house. I met a fellow who was just having a little game up in his hotel room. Poker. He was a crook. I let him rob me! I really thought I could make some money for Myrna. I was a rotten fool. I might have had a chance, but he was a crook. He had another fellow with him—”

“What’s his name?”

“Nolan. Hank Nolan.”

“I know him,” Morrie said. “Nolan is no good. I don’t like him. Who was the guy working for him?”

“The other fellow’s name was Harber.”

Morrie nodded. “Jake Harber. I’ve met him, but I don’t know him very good.”

Ralph stared at Morrie. “What would you do if some crook beat you out of your money — out of your sister’s money?”

Morrie didn’t even think about that. He said: “I’d take it away from him. One way or another, I’d take it away from him.” Morrie was leaning against an old bureau. He noticed a small photograph in a frame on the bureau, a picture of a young man. He picked it up. “Say,” he said, “who’s this?”

“Eh?” Ralph’s mind was churning over about the money, and he barely looked at the photograph. “Oh, that’s Jim Field. Jim works in an aircraft factory, out on the coast. He’s a swell fellow.”

Morrie grinned. “Jim is whacky about Myrna, huh?”

Ralph smiled feebly. He seemed to be thinking of something else, but he said: “Yes. Always has been. I guess Myrna likes him first rate, but she wouldn’t think of anything like that until she got the old business cleaned up.”

Morrie studied the face. Yes, it was a good face. Uneven features, but they were put together nicely. A friendly straightforward face. There wouldn’t be any line between a guy like that and a girl like Myrna.

Still, Jim was ’way out on the Coast, busy in a factory. And Morrie was here, and he could take all the time he wanted.

Morrie said: “Well, Ralph, I got to go. I’ll see about peddling a picture for you. We’ll do all right.”

Ralph let him out. He was quiet. It was bad, though, Morrie thought. A bad kind of quietness.

At two o’clock Morrie went back to the Diamond Grill. Myrna would be getting off for the afternoon. She was just sitting down with her lunch at the table near the kitchen door.

Morrie said: “Mind if I sit at this table with you?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “All right.”

“I got a confession to make,” Morrie said, as soon as he had ordered his sandwich. “I was over to your house, talking to Ralph.”

She colored a little. “I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I just barged in.” Morrie grinned. “You think I’m kind of nervy, huh?”

She hesitated again. “Maybe, but that’s all right.”

“Ralph is a swell guy,” Morrie said. “He paints fine pictures, too.” Morrie fiddled with his paper napkin. “That Jim Field looks like a great guy, too,” he added.

She colored a little more and her lip tightened. She looked beyond Morrie, out of the window, as if she were looking far west. “Yes,” she said, “Jim is certainly swell.”

Morrie was glad that was out. He expected her to feel that way, and it didn’t worry him, much. Now it was time to talk about himself.

“I haven’t done much of anything myself. I guess I’m what you’d call a gambler.”

“I had wondered,” Myrna said. She looked at him quite straight. “Well, I’ll bet you’re a good one.”

“In some ways I’m pretty good,” Morrie conceded. “Only I don’t like to gamble with friends, with people I like. That’s bad business, feeling like that.”

“Why don’t you like that?”

“I play hard. I figure on taking the other guy all down the line. So I don’t like to play with people I like. It’s bad business, being that way.”

“Have you never thought of doing anything else?”

“Why, yes,” said Morrie. “Yes. Especially being out here in Nevada gives me ideas. Now, right here in town is something like I always been used to, bright lights and hotel rooms and cards and dice. But all around the town is different. The wind blows the smell of the country into the town. It is the west, like you see in the movies. Cattle and horses. Even guys with guns, guns they have hanging on a belt out where you can see ’em, not hid away in a pocket.”

“Yes,” said Myrna. “I like that, too.”

“So I think maybe I’ll get me a ranch. I could blow into town any time I felt like it.”

“Yes,” said Myrna. “That would be good.”

Morrie got up. “Glad you like the idea,” he said. “Well, I got to go now.” He fingered his lower lip, more nervous than he was used to being. “I thought maybe tonight, at eight o’clock, when you got off duty, being as I know Ralph now, you might let me walk home with you.”

Myrna thought about that. Morrie knew what she was thinking. She was thinking about her life, and about Jim Field. And about what was happening to her. Morrie wasn’t worried about that, much.

“All right,” she said presently.

He walked home with her, under the trees along Third Street. They didn’t talk much. They turned along the boardwalk and Morrie noticed that she was hurrying.

“There’s no light,” she said. “There’s usually a light in the front room but I don’t see any. Maybe something’s happened.”

The door was locked. Myrna found a key and unlocked it. They went into the dark house and turned on lights. Ralph wasn’t there.

Myrna sat down. She said: “He shouldn’t have gone out. He might get sick. And why should he have gone out now anyway?”

“He’ll be here soon,” said Morrie. “He probably expected to be back before you got in.”

That was the way he figured it. But he didn’t blame Myrna for being worried. He had a feeling there was something to worry about.

And, in a few minutes, Ralph came. They heard him running down the walk. Myrna had the door open for him. He stumbled in. He had been running hard. He dropped on the couch. His long fingers were shaking.

Myrna said: “Ralph! What’s happened?”

Something had happened. When anything happened, Ralph wasn’t the kind who could conceal it. Ralph would spill it, Morrie thought.

“I got it!” Ralph said. “I got it back! Yes, sir! I got it back!”

“You got what back?” Myrna said. “The money. I got it back from Hank Nolan.” Ralph was shaking all over. He was sick and crazy. “The crook! If I hadn’t known he cheated, I wouldn’t have—”

“Ralph!” Myrna was down on her knees in front of Ralph. She was talking like a mother to her boy. “What have you done? Tell me — how did you do this thing?”

“I got it back,” Ralph said, very tired. He pulled a long wallet out of his pocket, broke it open, showed the edges of a stack of currency. “All of it, I guess. Maybe more. I don’t know.” Ralph looked at Morrie and grinned. “That’s the way to do it, eh?”

Morrie said nothing. He was looking at Myrna. But he knew what Ralph meant. Ralph had asked him what he would do if someone robbed him of his money — his sister’s money — and he had said he’d get it back. Just get it back, that’s all.

But this was wrong. This was different.

Morrie said quietly: “How did you do it, Ralph?”

Ralph looked up. “Eh? Oh, I knew I had to use force. But I couldn’t use a gun. If I had a gun I might kill him. So I used a club. I got a piece of wood about a foot long and hammered some nails in one end to make it heavy and then wrapped it in canvas. I put the club under my coat and went over town. I watched for Nolan. I saw him come out of his hotel. I followed him. Pretty soon he was at the bar in the Monte Drake and I was behind a slot machine. I heard him tell someone he was going some place and would go out the back way. So I went out to the alley and waited. It was dark. He came out. I hit him. Once. He never made a sound. He lay on the ground and I took the money and ran home.”

“You... you haven’t killed him?” said Myrna.

“No. I don’t think so. He was breathing all right.”

Morrie sat down. This would take some thinking. This was wrong. If he had done it himself it might have been all right — anyhow, not so bad. He probably wouldn’t have done it that way, but anyhow it would have been more in line if he had done it.

“How about the stick?” Morrie said. “The stick you made the club out of. Where did you get it?”

“Out in the back yard here. I think it was part of an old table leg. It made a good club.”

“And the canvas,” Morrie said. “The canvas you wrapped around the stick?”

“Oh, that,” said Ralph. “It was some of my canvas.”

“And where is the club now?”

“The club? Why, I guess I just dropped it in the alley.”

“You left it in the alley?”

“I left it there.”

Morrie wagged his head. “Did Nolan get a look at you before you conked him?”

“Eh? I don’t know. I guess he did. My arm seemed paralyzed for a moment just before I hit him and he stared at me. He seemed paralyzed, too.”

Yes, Morrie thought, Nolan would have been paralyzed with fright. It was pretty bad. Ralph hadn’t used his head at all. In fact, he didn’t have any head to use, not for that kind of a job.

Myrna, kneeling in front of Ralph, was stroking his fingers, along the backs of them. Ralph looked sick now.

Then Myrna said gently: “Ralph, we must return this money!”

“What?” said Ralph.

“We must return the money, darling. It was fine of you to try to set things right, but it was the wrong way to do things. This money won’t do us any good — not getting it this way.”

Ralph was dazed. “But it’s your money!”

“Not this money isn’t,” Myrna said. “We must get it back to Nolan.” She looked up at Morrie. “Isn’t that right?”

She was making it tougher. Here Morrie was trying to figure some way to keep the money and protect Ralph at the same time, and Myrna was bothered about who the money really belonged to.

But Morrie said: “Well, yes, I guess that’s right.”

“I don’t understand,” Ralph said. “How can I get the money back to Nolan?” He was docile with Myrna, obedient. “I guess I’d have to give myself up, wouldn’t I?”

Morrie put in briskly: “Myrna is right, but we don’t have to rush into this. You’re all in, Ralph. You’d better go lie down for awhile and take a rest. After that we can figure what we ought to do.”

Myrna nodded. “That’s right, Ralph. Go in and lie down.”

Ralph got up. He was tired and sick. He went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Myrna said: “I want to do this right. I want that money to go back to Nolan. At the same time, I must see that Ralph is protected. You understand?”

“Well, we’ve got to figure something fast,” Morrie said. “Just getting the money back would be easy, but covering up for Ralph is something else again. I hope Nolan is hurt bad.”

“Oh, I hope not,” said Myrna.

“Better if he is, then maybe he can’t talk for awhile. Maybe he recognized Ralph. Anyhow, it was pretty bad, leaving that club in the alley. That stuff can be traced without much trouble. The stick and the canvas.”

“I hope you understand about Ralph,” Myrna said. “It’s been too much for him. He and I are all of our family. You stick pretty close when there are two of you like that. He’s been carrying my worries in his head for the last five years. It’s been too much, in his condition.”

“Sure. But how about the dough?”

“Ralph can’t handle it,” said Myrna. “So it’s up to me. I’ll take the money and go find Nolan and talk to him. Maybe, me being a girl, it’ll go easier.”

Morrie said: “Not with Hank Nolan. He’s a snake. He’s a robber himself but let anyone touch him up and he yells copper at the top of his voice.”

“I’ve got to take a chance on that,” Myrna said. “Because Ralph can’t—”

The bedroom door opened. Ralph leaned against the door. He looked sick, and grim, and very sober.

He said: “I’ll take that money back to Nolan. Nobody else can do that. It’s my job.”

“All right,” Myrna said soothingly. “But you’d better rest for awhile.”

“Sure, go back to bed,” said Morrie. “There’s no rush.”

Ralph went into the bedroom again and closed the door.

“No, this is my job,” Myrna said to Morrie, speaking low. “Ralph can’t do it himself—”

“Listen,” said Morrie. “Look at it straight. If Ralph is caught, he’s through. Maybe he was robbed but he can’t prove that. And slugging a guy on the head and taking his dough brings plenty time in the jug. Nolan won’t go easy with him, no matter who brings his dough back. Ralph or you, it’s all the same with Nolan. Either way, Ralph draws time.”

Myrna drew breath in fast. “That would kill him!”

“Sure. So there’s only one thing to do.”

“What?”

“Leave it to me.”

Her head moved slowly from side to side. “How?”

“Just leave it to me. Give me the cash and leave it to me to get it to Nolan. Maybe I can cover up for Ralph, too. I don’t know.”

“But wouldn’t that be bad for you?”

“Not if I do a good job. How much money is there?”

Ralph had dropped the wallet on the couch. Myrna handed it to Morrie. He counted the money carefully.

“There’s a little over three grand here,” he said.

“Three thousand? Well, I hate to put this job off on you. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you because of it.”

Morrie put the wallet in his pocket. Myrna went with him to the door. She looked worried.

“Maybe I’m watching out for myself,” he said, and laughed. “I got three grand. I got it easy. Maybe I’ll just decide to keep it.”

He looked down at her. She was very pale, but there were bright spots of color in her cheeks. He kissed her, hard. He couldn’t tell by her eyes what she thought of that. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t bad either.

“Yes,” he said, “I guess I’m looking out for myself.”

Hank Nolan was in his hotel rooms. Morrie found out about that first. His hotel had been handy and they’d carried him there. Nolan had some concussion. He’d come out of it all right, the doctor said, but he was still dead to the world, might stay that way for several hours.

No doubt Nolan had recognized Ralph, Morrie thought. But maybe he wouldn’t remember. Sometimes people couldn’t remember what had happened for hours before they got knocked out. But you couldn’t depend on that. No. You could depend on Nolan remembering. And of course the police would stay with him. The police would want a statement from him as soon as he could waggle his tongue.

The coppers were good here in Las Vegas, Morrie had heard, smart police officers.

Well, he had three thousand bucks of Nolan’s dough. It didn’t seem right to hand it back — not to a guy like Nolan. But that’s what Myrna wanted, and it had to be done.

But Ralph had certainly overlooked everything. There should be an angle that might work the other way, too, but Ralph would never be able to think of it.

For instance, Ralph had heard Nolan say he’d leave the Monte Drake by the back way. That hadn’t meant anything to Ralph except a chance to get Nolan alone in the alley. But why leave by the back way?

That wasn’t so difficult to figure. Nolan would go out the back way because he wanted to avoid somebody. Who would he want to avoid? A sucker. What kind of a sucker? One whose cash he had already acquired. Why would he want to avoid the sucker? Because the sucker had woke up, sore, and wanted to start something.

Well, now it was necessary to get to Nolan, fix up the cash angle, and keep him from tweeping to the police. From here on it would take a bit of doing.

On the way to Nolan’s hotel, Morrie stopped at the newspaper office and went through the files. While he was there he bought a paper.

At Nolan’s hotel, Morrie told the clerk: “I want to see Hank Nolan.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” the clerk said. He was looking past Morrie at someone beyond, but Morrie didn’t look around. “You heard what happened to Mr. Nolan, sir?”

“I heard,” said Morrie. “Has he come around yet?”

“Not that I know of, sir.” The clerk was talking loud. “No, sir. You ask about Mr. Nolan, but I can’t say, sir. The orders—”

“Excuse me.” The voice was at Morrie’s shoulder. The man was large and he was dressed in a dark suit, something like a uniform, only it wasn’t. An officer, Morrie knew: one of those good Las Vegas coppers, a very fair guy but tough. “I heard you ask for Nolan,” the man went on. “I’m Macy of the police. You know this man Nolan?”

“I know him quite good,” said Morrie. “I knew him back in Chi and other places. I’ve only been in town a couple of days. I’m Morrie Random. I just heard about Nolan getting bopped. Thought maybe I could help.” Morrie looked at Macy. He was a smart copper, all right, easygoing but shrewd. “How is he?”

Macy shrugged. “Not serious, I guess. The doc says he should be O. K. quick now. How did you think you could help?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Morrie grinned. “I know Nolan. He maybe won’t talk. You know how it is. But if he ain’t hurt much, you boys won’t be interested.”

“I think we will. There’s some cash missing.”

Morrie lifted an eyebrow. “Robbed, huh? How’d you know?”

“Nolan’s partner, Jake Harber, says Nolan had several grand on him. It was gone.” It seemed to Morrie that Macy had his eye fixed on Morrie’s coat. It was there, in the inside pocket, that Morrie had Nolan’s money. Macy added: “You know Jake Harber?”

“Not very good. Nolan picked him up lately. I’ve seen him but I don’t know him. Could I get up to see Nolan?”

Macy considered. “You’ll help get him to talk?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” said Morrie.

There was no reason why Morrie should want Nolan to talk, and Morrie knew that Macy would think of that. Still, the officer didn’t know that Nolan was more likely to talk than not to, in this case. Anyhow, the police would want Nolan to talk, more than anything else. It was more than just finding out who bopped Nolan, or if he had been robbed. The Las Vegas police wanted to know who was who around the town, and what was going on.

Macy said: “Let’s go up.”

Nolan had a small suite, two rooms with a bathroom between. His stooge, Jake Harber, occupied one of the two rooms.

Harber and a young man nurse were in the room with Nolan when Morrie and Macy went in. Harber was a thin scraggly man with thin hands and large dreamy eyes.

Harber stared. He recognized Morrie and said: “Hello, Random.”

“Hello, Harber,” Morrie said affably. “It’s too bad about what happened to Nolan.”

“Sure.”

Morrie nodded. Sure, Harber would have a very good idea what had happened, but he wouldn’t talk — not before Nolan did. And Nolan wasn’t ready to talk yet. Nolan was lying on the bed, and there were bandages wrapped around his head.

He was a short heavy man and his fat jowls were dark with the whiskers that showed through the pale skin. With his head on the, pillow, his face looked like an upside-down chocolate pudding, Morrie thought.

The young man nurse was sitting on the bed. “Glad you came up,” he said to Macy. “I think this bird will come around soon.”

Macy said that was very good and sat in a chair near the bed. Morrie sat in a chair, too, close to the bed, near the head end. Nobody made much noise, just waited for Nolan to show some signs of life.

Morrie pulled his newspaper from his pocket and sat there reading it. He did not open it out, just read the back page. There was nothing on the back page except vital statistics and legal notices, but that’s all that seemed to interest him at the moment.

Presently Nolan groaned. His eyes opened. It took a little time to figure out where he was, and then he whined: “A drink!”

The nurse gave him a drink and he looked around. He saw Macy and Morrie. He understood Macy’s being there but Morrie puzzled him.

Macy started right in: “You sure got a sweet wallop, Nolan.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Nolan.

He looked at Morrie again. He was certainly puzzled about the presence of Morrie.

Macy said: “Can you talk, Nolan? Somebody whammed you hard and took your dough. Maybe we can get the guy if you talk fast.”

Nolan’s ugly little eyes gleamed. Sure, he wanted to talk. Morrie could see that. But he was still looking at Morrie.

Macy urged: “Better tell what you know.”

Nolan worked his tongue and started: “Well, I—”

“Better tell it right,” put in Morrie, very softly.

Nolan looked at Morrie again. Morrie was still holding his newspaper in front of him, looking over it at Nolan. The front page of the newspaper was facing Nolan. Gently, Morrie’s forefinger, as he held the paper, was working up and down. It was caressing the first column on the front page.

Nolan put his hand to his head. “I dunno,” he said vaguely. He looked up at Macy. “You know how it is. It was hard to see—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t talk that way, Nolan,” Morrie cut in again. “Macy needs something definite. You should give it to him. Now, try to remember. Some guy bopped you. Was he tall or short or maybe in between?”

Nolan said: “Huh? Aw, I guess he was sort of in between. Yeah, he was a kind of stocky guy.”

“Now, about his color,” prompted Morrie. “Dark or fair, or maybe redheaded?”

“Huh? Well, I dunno. I couldn’t see very good, but my guess is he was a red-head.”

Macy grinned. He was getting somewhere now. Morrie grinned, too, but Macy didn’t notice that.

“And how was he dressed?” said Morrie. “I mean, good or bad?”

“Pretty bad,” said Nolan. “Yeah, like a bum.”

Morrie leaned forward. “Did you recognize him?”

Nolan swished down another drink, a small one. He said: “I never saw the guy before in my life.”

Morrie turned to Macy. “Well, that’s that. Looks like the guy was a hobo, passing through. But maybe you can catch up with him.”

Macy seemed a little disappointed. Morrie turned his paper around and pretended to read it. Macy went on asking questions but Morrie didn’t pay much attention. The first column on the front page was headed:

Nolan had been able to read that easily, from where he lay. It had certainly scared him. It meant that if he pointed the finger at Ralph as his assailant, he would also be pointing the finger at himself as a “crooked unlicensed operator.” Of course, at the time of his being knocked out he hadn’t known of any police clean-up, but these investigations were likely to bob up at any time.

Well, Nolan wouldn’t go back on his original story, no matter what happened. To do that would start something.

Macy was now busy talking to Nolan, and not getting anywhere. Morrie got up and strolled through the bathroom to Harber’s room. He had caught Harber’s eye and the weasly little stooge followed him.

Morrie pulled a wallet out of his pocket. Nolan’s.

Harber’s eyes bobbled and he muttered something.

Morrie said: “Shut up. I found this thing. You can give it to Nolan when you get a chance. Be sure you don’t snitch it. I’ll be around to check up.” Before handing the wallet to Harber, Morrie opened it and counted out six hundred dollars. He put the money in his pocket. “Tell Nolan that for a measly six hundred bucks he is now a patron of the arts.”

Morrie folded his newspaper under his arm. One thing, Nolan hadn’t been close enough to read the date-line on it. If he had, he would have known that this issue of the paper was three years old.

Morrie slept very late the next day. It was two o’clock in the afternoon before he got as far as the Diamond Grill. Myrna was just eating lunch. She saw Morrie come in. From her eyes, he thought she had been looking for him all day. She was trim and neat and fresh but her eyes were very tired.

He sat down with her at the table. “It’s all fixed,” he said. “All you and Ralph got to do is sit tight and say nothing.”

She didn’t question that. Her eyes were bright with relief now, and deep with gratitude.

She said: “How did you do it?”

“I talked to Nolan. I just appealed to his better nature.” Morrie laughed. He took out the six hundred dollars and slid it across to her under cover of a napkin. “That’s Ralph’s. Nolan is buying one of Ralph’s paintings for six hundred bucks.”

Even that, she didn’t question. Whatever Morrie said, she didn’t question. Of course she knew this must be some kind of a queer deal, but she didn’t question it. “That’s wonderful,” she said. And from the way she said it Morrie could see that she was also saying: “You are wonderful.”

Morrie thought a moment. He knew which painting he’d like, but it wouldn’t do. He said: “Have Ralph send the painting to me and I’ll see about it. Room 612 at the Apache. Send the one with the cows in the field.”

“The one with the cows in the field.” Myrna seemed to be thinking. She said: “I guess everything’s a gamble, isn’t it?”

“That’s the way I always figured,” Morrie said. He smiled. “You hear from Jim Field lately?”

The question shocked her. “Jim? Yes. This morning.”

So she’d got a letter from Jim this morning. Morrie watched her as she looked away. She’d rather not talk about Jim, rather not be forced to think about him. She was looking out of the window, out toward the west, again.

She got up and went into the kitchen to get her coat and hat. She was anxious to get home and tell Ralph. Morrie walked out to the street. He went half a block west and stopped just outside one of the gambling houses. The door was only a half-door, a cut-away door, that swung both ways. The door was light and the hinges well oiled. They always made it easy for you to push your way into a place like that, Morrie thought.

Myrna would be along in a minute, on her way home. Everything is a gamble, she had said. Sure, Morrie thought, she’d play the game with him, knowing it was a gamble. She was dead game, all right. But there was another angle, one that always counted big with him. He had always avoided gambling with people he liked. And he liked her. Liked! Well, it was a pretty weak word, but—

He could see her coming out of the cafe. Trim and fresh and eager. Like the Nevada air that was pressing in off the hills and plains into the streets of the town. She hadn’t seen him yet, but he knew her eyes were searching.

Morrie turned and pushed in through the door.