Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)

Watch your wallets, friends! Sackler, that parsimonious prince of penny-pinchers, is on the premises. This time it’s the case of the counterfeit killer — and the covetous coin-collector is running true to form.

Chapter One Easy Money

I am a man who customarily eats a hearty breakfast. However, on this cold February morning the thought of oatmeal acted as an emetic and the idea of scrambled eggs completely unsettled me. All I craved was a pint of bitter black coffee.

There was a taste of old octopus in my mouth and my head was Gene Krupa’s drum. My fingers were unsteady and a damp load of remorse sat heavily upon my shoulders. I had, in short, a hangover.

After consuming my liquid breakfast, I staggered from the corner coffeepot into the windy street. I hailed a bus, jammed my miserable self into a horde of unhappy humanity and clung to a greasy strap for dear life as we rumbled downtown to Rex Sackler’s office.

Somehow I made my way into the elevator which rode skyward pitching like a destroyer in the North Sea. I emerged into the corridor, made my way precariously down it and opened the frosted office door.

I got over to my desk and sank into my swivel chair without bothering to remove my hat and coat. Sackler’s flinty voice cut into my consciousness.

“Good morning, Mr. Manville.”

I looked up, blinked and said, “Huh?”

“Manville,” he explained patiently. “Thomas Manville, the playboy who you seem to think you are.”

“Oh,” I said weakly. “Well, a guy’s got to let himself go every once in a while. All work and no play—”

“Makes jack,” he finished for me.

I knew that he’d stolen that one but I was in no mood to argue, even with Rex Sackler. I got out of the chair and with some effort took off my overcoat.

Sackler sat at his desk as I did so regarding me with chiding, disapproving eyes. He ran a thin white hand through his black hair and sighed.

“So,” he said, “I find myself the employer of a roisterer, a drunkard, a weak-willed tosspot. The life of a private detective should be above suspicion. We are aligned with law and order. We are the righteous sword of justice.”

“Always,” I said, “provided the price is right.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and looked like a long suffering man. “Joey,” he said, “invariably you reduce everything to a financial status. I am speaking to you not of money but of principle. You are spineless. You possess no will. You can not withstand temptation. The smell of whiskey, of a woman’s perfume, or the rattle of two dice cause you to sink into a slough of iniquity. Be influenced by your friends, some of whom are steel-willed, solid citizens.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. Now, wait a minute. I’ve got it! It’s you!”

He frowned at me. “You are still frivolous. Yet you may well emulate me. My will is not putty. What temptation do I yield to?”

That was an easy one. It was true enough that Rex Sackler wallowed in no fleshpots. But steel will, rectitude and righteousness had nothing at all to do with it. The hard fact of the matter was, that in our industrial civilization there aren’t any free vices left.

Wickedness costs dough and there never was an O.P.A. on vice. And Sackler was not the boy to toss money away, whether on a loose woman or on the collection plate.

His regard for cash was a holy thing, beside which Nathan Hale’s affection for his country, Abelard’s love for Heloise, and a lyric writer’s emotional ties with the state of Alabama were as nothing at all.

He possessed more United States War Bonds than any three camels could comfortably carry. And he lived like an indigent Hottentot. His furnished room cost him every cent of four bucks a week and his diet was strictly sixty cent table d’hote.

The receiving department of the Salvation Army would have lifted its eyebrows at his clothes which were older than the twenty-first amendment to the Constitution and shabbier than a carpetbag.

I put all these facts into a few well chosen phrases and uttered them.

Sackler heard me out with growing indignation. When I had finished there was a long silence during which a gleam came into his black eyes. Had I been more alert that gleam would have warned me.

It was the expression he invariably wore when some money-making scheme evolved in his chiselling brain. He coughed slightly, took a sack of tobacco from his pocket and proceeded, most inexpertly, to roll himself a cigarette.

“Now, Joey,” he said, “you say I have no vices because vices cost money. That is not true. I am not a saint, nor do I begrudge expenditure for certain indulgences. For instance, do you realize that I smoke, perhaps, forty or fifty cigarettes a day?”

That was true enough. Of that number he rolled about half of them and bummed the rest. Figuring it rapidly, I estimated that the cost of this prodigal habit was every bit of four or five cents a day.

“Now,” he said, “to prove my point about will power, Joey, I am about to give up smoking as an object lesson to you.”

I looked skeptical. I have observed that for a normal man, smoking is the toughest habit to break. It is an automatic habit. Heavy smokers don’t even realize that they have lighted a fresh cigarette.

I said: “You can’t do it. That is, not for any period of time.”

“No? How about three months?”

I shook my head. “I still say you can’t do it.”

“You and how much cash, Joey?”

A red lantern on a railroad track could not have been plainer than that. In seven years I had not won a bet from Rex Sackler. Thirty percent of the salary he had paid me had found its way back into his own bank account through some kind of gambling device or another.

However, his air of rectitude and righteousness had me thoroughly annoyed. His smug air of superiority trapped me into saying: “A hundred bucks that you can’t quit smoking for three months.”

He took the misshapen cigarette from his lips, crushed it out in the ash tray on his desk and said: “You’re on, Joey. One hundred bucks. Three months. Moreover, I offer you spot cash if you win, and shall deduct it from your salary in four installments if you lose. What could be fairer than that?”

I sat down at my desk aware of an empty, apprehensive sensation at the pit of my stomach. I still believed that it was a most difficult task for a heavy smoker to quit the habit overnight. But against that was the awful fact that Sackler would do anything at all for cash. For a hundred bucks he’d probably give up eating and sleeping for three months.

I was still wondering whether I’d tossed my money in the gutter when the outer door opened and a visitor walked in. He was an odd looking character just this side of forty. He wore an old-fashioned derby hat, a suit whose cut had been the rage at the turn of the century, a black tie in which nestled a single pearl pin which looked genuine to my inexpert eye, and a pair of well polished high shoes.

Sackler inspected him as he entered, like Armour’s purchasing agent inspecting a steer. I knew Sackler’s gaze essayed to pierce the man’s outer garments and peer straight into his pocketbook.

Apparently, he liked what he saw there. He assumed his best floor-walker smile, rubbed his hands together and said: “Ah, good morning, sir.”

The stranger nodded. He said: “My name is Wilbur Fleming. I have come to offer you a commission.”

Sackler waved him to the chair facing his desk. Fleming took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dusted its seat. He sat down carefully as if he half expected to find a tack on the chair.

Then he took a snuff box from his pocket, sniffed a pinch of it delicately and sneezed. He replaced the box and said, half proudly, half defiantly: “You may as well get used to me, sir. I am eccentric. Moreover, I need a stimulant. That west side subway exhausts me.”

Sackler nodded rather uneasily. He had not yet pigeon-holed his client. He had not vet decided how much the traffic would bear when it came to the matter of fixing the fee.

“Now,” said Fleming, “let us get to the point. I have come here because I have heard it said that you are the best private detective agency in the city. Experience has taught me that it is always cheaper to have the best.”

“Cheaper?” repeated Sackler weakly.

“In the long run.”

“Ah,” said Sackler, his spirits picking up, “of course.”

“Now,” said Fleming, “I have two requests to make. You will probably think at least one of them odd. However, since I am willing to pay for my eccentricities I see no reason why you should complain.”

“None at all,” said Sackler like the fourth assistant director talking to De Mille.

“First,” skid Fleming, “I desire to learn the present whereabouts of one Donald Lionel Dworkin, who when I last heard of him was living at 206 East 39th Street in this city.”

Sackler scribbled something on his desk pad. “When was this?”

“Three years ago.”

“And you haven’t heard of him since?”

Fleming shook his head. “And I know no one else who knew him. I know of no relatives. This is a hard job so, naturally, it will pay more money than my second request which is simple.”

Sackler said, “What is it?”

“I want you to find out who said: Love is the isthmus which joins the continents of Heaven and earth.”

Sackler blinked at him. That was a beautiful thought with capital letters and our office was unaccustomed to such sentimental touches.

Sackler said slowly: “You want me to find out who said that?”

Fleming nodded. “I have long wanted to know the author of such a profound saying. But I am very bad at research.”

Sackler scribbled once more on his pad. As he did so Fleming thrust a hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a wallet and two long envelopes. Sackler and I regarded him curiously.

From the wallet he withdrew three bills. I craned my neck and saw that there were two of five hundred dollar denomination; the third bill was a hundred. Sackler stared at the money like a little boy watching a conjuror.

“Now,” said Fleming. He put the two five hundreds into one envelope, sealed it and, picking up Sackler’s pencil, scrawled across the face of it the one word: Dworkin. He put the hundred dollar bill into the second envelope and wrote gravely across its face: Quotation.

He handed both envelopes to Sackler and said with an air of a man who has just finished some arduous business, “There!”

Sackler took the envelopes and said: “There what?”

“It is simple,” said Fleming. “I do not intend to pay for something I do not get.”

Sackler sat still silent. Usually he went right to the heart of the matter immediately a client entered. First he discussed money; then, and only then, would he hear the customer out. But Fleming somehow nonplussed him. He now sat uncertainly with the two envelopes in his hand.

“If within seventy-two hours,” went on Fleming, “you have definite information for me regarding the whereabouts of this Donald Dworkin, the envelope containing the two five hundred dollar bills is yours. That information is worth exactly one thousand dollars to me. If within the same period of time you have discovered for me who wrote the line: Love is the isthmus which joins the continents of Heaven and earth, the second envelope containing the hundred dollars is yours. For this second task I set you is worth but one tenth of the first task. Do you understand clearly?”

Sackler nodded weakly.

“As I have told you,” said Fleming, “I am eccentric. I must insist that you do not bank this money until it has become yours. It belongs to me until you have done what I have asked you to do. You will keep both envelopes in your desk for three days. Then I will call again. If you have succeeded you keep the money, if not you will return both envelopes to me. Is that clearly understood?”

Sackler nodded again. But this time he made some protest.

“But what if I fail? Surely my time is worth something.”

“Your time is worth nothing to me,” said Fleming curtly. “You will either accept my terms or hand me back my money.”

Even the thought of returning money caused Sackler to wince. He jerked the envelopes out of Fleming’s reach and stashed them away in the desk drawer. “I accept,” he said.

Fleming nodded and stood up. “Very well, then. I shall call again in three days to see what you have done.”

“Wait a minute,” said Sackler, picking up a pencil. “What’s your address?” Fleming said abstractedly: “Twenty-four s—” Then broke off shortly on the sibilant. “You won’t need my address. I told you I’d call back in person within three davs.”

He walked slowly to the door and let himself out into the corridor.

I eyed Sackler with envy and distaste. I said: “You are one lucky thus and so.”

“Lucky? Why?”

“Any idiot can find a quotation in the Public Library in twenty minutes and you get a hundred bucks for doing it.”

“True,” said Sackler. “But can any idiot track down Donald Dworkin? That’s where the money lies.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair, fixed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling and gave himself over to deep thought. Once I said: “What are you doing? Looking for Dworkin in a trance?”

He did not answer me. He continued his contemplation of the plaster for a full ten minutes. Then he sighed. He brought the chair back to its normal position and with an abstracted expression on his face fumbled in his pockets.

My heart leaped as he produced a little bag of tobacco. I held my breath as he fished a cigarette paper out of another pocket. What he was doing was almost reflex action. He had gone through these same physical actions fifty or more times a day for the past twenty years. Now he repeated it completely unaware of what he was doing.

He rolled the tobacco in the paper in his usual clumsy fashion. He thrust the end of the cigarette between his lips. He fumbled in his pockets for a match. Swiftly I whipped a packet from my pocket, struck a light and held it for him. He leaned forward his cigarette toward the flame and I felt the snappy crumple of a hundred dollar bill in my wallet.

But I had enumerated the chickens an instant before they were hatched. Perhaps, he caught sight of the expression of gloating triumph on my face. Anyway he uttered an exclamation of utter horror, snatched the cigarette from between his lips and flung it on the floor.

Then he leaned back in the chair looking like a man who has just missed being hit with an atomic bomb. I shook out the match ruefully and returned to my own desk.

Sackler aimed a trembling forefinger in my direction. “Rat,” he said, “you tried to trick me into lighting that cigarette. You are wilful and wicked. Get out of my sight.”

I stood up and donned my hat. I said, “Do you mean that I have the rest of the day off?”

“I do not. Go to the Public Library and check Fleming’s quotation. While you’re doing that, which should be a simple task for even one of your moderate intelligence, I shall check on this Donald Dworkin. Perhaps by sundown we shall be some eleven hundred dollars the richer.”

The we was rhetorical. Invariably the firm was a plural entity until the payoff came, then I was given to understand I was strictly a paid employee who should be grateful for my weekly salary without trying to cut in on management’s profits.

We’d argued this so often I didn’t bother to bring it up again. I went out of the office silently hoping that no one in the Metropolitan area had ever heard of Donald Lionel Dworkin.

Rather to my surprise I spent the better part of the day in the 42nd Street library. I came out into the street again at half past four, hopped a bus and went back to the office. He was grinning behind his desk as I came in.

“Joey,” he said, “for once I’ve been lucky.”

“For once?” I said bitterly. “You were born with a pair of golden and loaded dice in your mouth.”

He was far too happy to dispute that point.

“This Dworkin,” he said, “I got him.”

“Do tell,” I said sourly.

“The super of the house at the address Fleming gave me knew nothing. Naturally, I went to the post office to see if he’d left a forwarding address.”

“And,” I said, “he had.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Because you’re lucky. Because once in your youth you doubtless sold your miserable soul to the devil. Because—”

But he was too spiritually high to argue with me. “Yes,” he said. “Dworkin left a forwarding address of a place upstate. I phoned them and spoke to his sister. He’s now living in Texas. She hears from him regularly. She gave me the address. One afternoon’s work and we’ve made eleven hundred dollars.”

“You,” I corrected him, “have made a thousand.”

He looked at me and faint alarm came into his eyes. He said slowly and fearfully, “You mean—”

“I mean that I’ve been through every book in the Library and I could not find any record of that corny crack Fleming asked you to run down.”

Sackler groaned and clapped a hand to his head. “You looked in Bartlett?”

“I looked in Bartlett and every other book of quotations, every reference book, and I requested and received the aid of two librarians. We couldn’t find it.”

Sackler looked stricken now.

I said: “You’ve made a grand on the Dworkin deal. What are you looking so miserable about?”

“But I lose a hundred dollars,” he said hollowly. “On a simple matter like that quotation. A hundred dollars, Joey. That kind of money doesn’t grow on trees.”

“I repeat, you’ve made a thousand.”

But Rex Sackler didn’t look at it that way. He felt he was out a hundred bucks just as surely as if someone had picked his pocket.

“Well,” he said at last, “we’ve got a couple of days. Tomorrow I’ll go to the library myself.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I was concerned about a hundred dollars of my own. I had three months to trick Sackler into smoking a cigarette and I’d feel much easier when it was done.

I arrived at the office on the following morning, having spent a restless night. Sackler had not come in yet. I let myself in with the key, seated myself at the desk and picked up the morning paper.

I finished that, went downstairs and purchased a copy of the early edition of the afternoon paper, and Sackler had not returned yet.

It was almost noon when the door opened and he arrived. There was dark melancholy in his eyes and a worried expression on his thin face. He shook his head sadly and sank wearily into his chair.

“Joey,” he said, “you were right. I can’t find that quotation.”

“Good,” I said. “Now you’ll have to give him the hundred bucks back.”

He uttered a groan which sounded like the agony of a lost soul. However, it came as sweet melody into my ears. Next to making money myself I loved to see Sackler lose it.

An instant later the door opened again and a heavy footfall sounded on the floor. I swung my head around to see Inspector Woolley.

Chapter Two The Racket Boys

Woolley was a big, impressive man with a pair of black mustachios. He did not like Rex Sackler and at the moment that dislike was written clearly on his face. He strode across the room, halted before Sackler’s desk, pointed an accusing forefinger and said loudly: “What do you know of one Arthur Freuh?”

Then before Sackler could open his mouth to reply, Woolley added darkly: “You’d better come clean. This is important and legal business.”

Sackler, whose affection for Woolley was only equalled by the Inspector’s regard for him smiled coldly and said: “I know no Arthur Freuh. I never heard of him. And if he is a criminal I resent you suggesting that I have ever associated with him.”

“Well,” said Woolley heavily to me, “ain’t he the white knight, though.” He turned back to Sackler and addressed him with severity. “If you don’t come clean you’ll be associating with quite a number of criminals, son.”

Sackler lifted cold, interrogating eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re supposed to have a sharp mind. I mean I’ll throw you in the clink.”

“On what charge?”

“Suspicion of anything, or as a material witness held in the kind of bond it’d kill you to pay. Now what about this Freuh?”

Some of Sackler’s arrogance had left him. He knew that nothing would give Woolley more pleasure than to throw him in the pokey.

He said more mildly: “I’ve told you I know nothing of a man named Freuh. Now, suppose, you tell me why you think I do.”

Woolley took a small leather notebook from his pocket. “This,” he announced, “is one of those daily reminder books. Each page bears a date, one for each day of the year. On the page dated yesterday there are written the names of three men with whom its owner apparently had appointments yesterday. The first of those names is Joseph Capelli.”

“The big racket boy,” I said.

“The second,” said Woolley, “is that of Ralph Barnshaw.”

“A lesser racket boy,” said Sackler.

“And the third,” said Woolley with an ominous note in his voice, “is the name of Rex Sackler.”

“The greatest racket boy of them all,” I said heartily.

Sackler ignored that. “Where did you get that book?” he asked.

“My men took it from a corpse, gave it to the Treasury men who were interested in the case. They lent it back to me.”

“T men?” I said. “What have they to do with it?”

“That’s their business and the police department’s,” said Woolley bruskly.

“I take it,” said Sackler slowly, “that the corpse was that of this Arthur Freuh?”

“Right,” said Woolley, “and apparently he had a date with you yesterday.”

I shook my head. “No, sir,” I said, “the only guy here yesterday was—”

“Arthur Freuh,” said Sackler surprisingly.

“You’re crazy,” I said, “the only guy who was here yesterday was that nut, Fleming.”

“I’m beginning to think that Fleming was Freuh. Describe your man, Inspector.”

Woolley briefly described Arthur Freuh and it was a perfect description of Wilbur Fleming. Sackler nodded his head. “That’s the man.”

“What did he want with you?” snapped Woolley.

“To engage me on a confidential matter in no way illegal.”

Woolley thought that over and let it drop. He snapped, “Did he give you any money?”

Sackler considered carefully before he answered that question. Precisely what went on in his mind I do not know, but wherever money was concerned he invariably calculated all angles before he committed himself. After a long while he said, “Yes.”

“Ah,” said Woolley, registering extreme interest. “And what did you do with it?”

Again Sackler did not speak before he thought. Imagining, I supposed, that if Woolley knew the cash was in his desk, he would demand it as evidence or something, Sackler lied calmly. He said: “I banked it.”

“Oh,” said Woolley and it seemed to me that there was a note of disappointment in his voice, “that’s all right, then.”

What he meant by that odd remark I did not know. Neither apparently did Sackler. However, Rex was so relieved to change the subject that he became slightly more cooperative.

“I assure you,” he said, “that this Fleming or Freuh or whatever his name was had no business with me which would interest you. He only engaged me to locate a couple of items for him.”

Woolley seemed surprised. “He wanted something located?”

Sackler nodded. “And nothing material at that.”

“Well,” said Woolley, “I guess his business with you had nothing to do with my business with him.”

Sackler looked at him curiously but Woolley was putting out no more information. The Inspector sighed, pulled a fat cigar from his pocket, put it between his teeth and bade us a curt good day. Then he stalked from the office.

I said to Sackler: “What’s it all about?”

His thin shoulders shrugged. “I’m not sure. But piecing together Woolley’s odd conversation I should say Freuh was just murdered and that it appears like a very interesting case. However, since we haven’t been retained I refuse to apply my mind to the interpretation of the Inspector’s words.”

I sat down at my desk and a sudden thought came to me. I said: “That dough Freuh gave you.”

He glanced at me distastefully. “What about it, Joey?”

“You tracked down that Dworkin guy successfully so I suppose you’re entitled to those two five hundred dollar bills.”

“I did and I am.”

“Yeah. But you didn’t and you’re not on that quotation deal. That hundred bucks should revert to the Freuh estate if he has one. Anyway, it’s not yours.”

“The time limit Freuh set has not yet expired.”

“No, but Freuh has. It’s not your dough.”

He glared at me. His mind, I knew, was working rapidly as he desperately figured out some specious reason why he was entitled to the hundred bucks as well as to the grand. No brilliant idea had occurred to him by the time the door opened and the two hoods walked in.

One of them was tall, thin and dark. He wore a brown silk shirt with a flashy collar pin. His suit was blue with a pin stripe just a trifle too wide. His lips were tight and his eyes narrowed. His partner was thick and squat, dressed in ready made clothes and his shoes were unshined. The chief point of similarity between them was that they both held guns.

Sackler’s normally white face turned tattletale gray. He was thoroughly opposed to violence when it was directed at him. Not that I liked it myself. I have seen battalions of thugs in my day and I knew a tough guy when I laid an eye on one.

I took no chances. I raised my arms above my head without waiting for orders and said: “O.K., boys, the dough is in that desk over there. The top drawer on the left. In two envelopes.”

Sackler looked at me like a bishop who has just read a volume of Robert Ingersoll. He said: “Iscariot. Traitor, Biter of nourishing hand.”

“On the contrary,” I pointed out. “One of my duties is that of bodyguard. I am, perhaps, saving your life. I know you’d never tell them where the dough was while there was a drop of blood left in your veins.”

The tall hood said in an odd high pitched voice: “All right, you gees, break it up. We don’t want no damned dough.”

“My God,” I said, “this isn’t purely social, is it?”

The tall hood said to his partner: “A comical guy, Jake. Go get him.”

Jake crossed the room, studied my features carefully along the sights of his gun and said: “Get up, mug. We’re moving.”

I got up. I am not garrulous when facing a gun. Across the room I saw that Sackler, too, was standing. He gave me a jaundiced eyes and said: “Earn your keep, Joey. Take them.”

I laughed hollowly to let Jake know I took this last crack as a joke. Jake said over his shoulder: “All right, Lou. Let’s get going.”

Lou nodded. They herded us together just before the office door. There Lou made a little speech.

“We are taking a little trip,” he said. “Now, it might look funny to some dopes if we get on the elevator with these rods in our fists.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not in this building. No one would pay any attention. No one—”

“Shut up,” said Lou and I was certain he meant it.

“So,” he continued, “we’re going to put the hardware in our pockets. But our hands’ll be in our pockets, too. If either of you guys tries to make a break for it, you’re dead.”

We went out into the hall and got into the elevator. I felt Sackler’s eye upon me. I knew he was registering indignation. I knew he was holding me personally responsible for this kidnapping. I was his bodyguard and I wasn’t guarding his body. I was going to have to fight like hell to avoid a salary cut.

Out in the street Lou and his little friend herded us into a big sedan parked at the curb. We were ordered into the rear seat. Lou took his place behind the wheel and Jake sat alongside of him, twisting his squat body around so that he could keep an eye on us. He took his thirty-eight from his pocket and balanced it suggestively on the back of the seat.

Lou stepped on the starter and we headed downtown. For the first time since the hoods had come upon us I got a chance to think. Not that it did me any good. What their motives were, I did not know.

We’d been mixed up in no cases involving gangsters lately. Obviously it wasn’t a holdup since they had disregarded my information about the cash in the desk. And no one in his right senses would kidnap Sackler for ransom because not all the tortures of Torquemada could wring a single nickel out of him.

I said to Sackler, “Have you any idea what this is all about?”

“A glimmer, Joey. A faint glimmer. It’s not too bad. There may be a dollar or so in it.”

Jake and Lou remained allergic to conversation. In concert they said, “Shut up.”

We cut right on Fourteenth Street and headed toward the River. We came to an eventual halt before a pair of huge warehouse doors, a stone’s throw from Washington Market. Jake, who apparently had a high regard for monosyllables, said, “Out.”

We got out. Lou locked the car and joined us. We were escorted through a narrow alley at the side of the building. We were stopped before a narrow door with a bell set in the bricks at its side. Lou pressed the bell.

A moment later the door opened. We went into a tiny foyer at the end of which was a flight of wooden stairs. We mounted on Jake’s orders. At the top, Lou banged against a door panel. A suave voice said: “Come in.”

I gasped as the door opened. The room which I viewed was vast and lavishly furnished. It was not the sort of thing one expected in a warehouse hard by Fourteenth Street. The rug on the floor felt as if it had been stolen from the lobby of Radio City Music Hall. The walls were panelled. The chairs were chrome and red leather. At the far end of the room was an oblong mahogany desk which would have awed anyone but a corporation vice-president.

On one side of the room an open door revealed an elaborate bathroom. There was a man in there, bending over a green washbasin. As I moved forward into the room I recognized the figure and noted what it was doing.

The man was Joseph Capelli. And he was washing the barrel of an automatic with soap and water.

I didn’t know which of these facts surprised me most. First I had never heard of anyone laving a gun. Second, I failed to understand why a man of Capelli’s subtle and devious talents should stoop to something as obvious and unnecessary as kidnapping. If he wanted to see Sackler all he had to do was promise him a dollar bill plus his cab fare.

Lou said: “O.K., chief. We got ’em.”

Capelli came out of the bathroom, his automatic still in his hand. He tossed it carelessly on the desk, waved cheeringly to Sackler and myself and sat down.

Capelli was a man of about thirty-five. His hair was dark and curly, his face was dark, and his eyes black and liquid. He had begun life in Little Italy and by dint of a ruthless hand and a quick wit had eventually established himself as the top racket boy of the town.

All his life he had cleverly avoided publicity, with the net result that only the coppers, the police reporters, and a harassed D.A.’s office which had never obtained enough evidence to convict him, knew of his activities. The general public had never heard of him.

“Now,” he said to Sackler, “I’ll tell you what I want.”

“Will you?” said Sackler bitterly. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to get.”

Capelli lifted his dark eyebrows. “What?”

“Arrested. And indicted this time, too. You can’t get away with this.” Sackler removed his gaze from Capelli and transferred it to me. “If I’d had an adequate bodyguard your two hoods would be dead now.”

Capelli grinned at me. “Take it easy,” he counselled. “You don’t want to have me pinched, Sackler. I’ve brought you here to give you some money.”

Sackler’s indignation fell from him like a. strip teaser’s brassiere. “I am objective enough,” he said primly, “to keep my personal feelings out of a business affair,”

“Good,” said Capelli. “First, how about a smoke?”

He lifted the lid of an intricately worked silver box to reveal tiers of fat cigars. “I import them,” he said. “You couldn’t buy them for a buck apiece retail.”

I helped myself to set an example and prayed that Sackler would follow suit. He stretched forth his hand, then remembered. He looked at me. He said sweetly: “Cigars don’t count, do they, Joey?”

“Try one and see.”

He sighed and withdrew his hand reluctantly. Capelli looked at him oddly and closed the box. He said, “I want you to do something simple for me. There’s a grand in it.”

Sackler forgot he had been deprived of a free dollar cigar. His eyes glittered and a beatific expression wreathed his face. He said curiously: “If you wanted to offer me a fee why did you bring me here at gun point?”

“A fair question,” said Capelli. “It seemed the best way to do it. First, it would do me no good to be seen in your office, and it would do you no good at all for me to be seen there. Moreover, if it came to the ears of the coppers they might knock you around to find out why I wanted to see you and you might crack and tell them. I don’t want them to know.”

“My relations with my clients are confidential,” said Sackler with dignity.

“Naturally,” said Capelli without conviction. “Moreover, had I phoned you, you may have made the appointment part of your office records. I don’t want that done. This deal is just between us. No one is to know of it. Your are not to record it on your books. I am a direct man and it seemed simplest to send two of the boys to bring you in.”

“Very well,” said Sackler. “What do you want for this thousand dollars? And when do I get it?”

“The moment you have completed the assignment. I want you to find some thing for me.”

“What?”

“The personal effects of a man named Arthur Freuh.”

“Ah,” said Sackler, nodding his head and looking as if this was exactly what he had expected.

“This man, Freuh, was murdered last night. I don’t have any idea where he lived. But he must have lived somewhere. I don’t have any idea what he owned. But he must have owned something. Clothes, toilet effects and things like that at least. I want you to find out where he lived and bring me his personal possessions. If you do that I will pay you a thousand dollars. If, among those effects, there is an item I want very much to get my hands on, I will double the fee.”

“And what is that item?”

Capelli shook his head. “That’s a trade secret. It’s better for both you and me that you don’t know.” He glanced down at his wristwatch. “Can you have the stuff here in an hour?” Sackler looked startled. “I’m good,” he said, “But not that good. You expect me to find Freuh’s address in sixty minutes? Starting from scratch?”

A shadow of disappointment crawled into Capelli’s eyes. “You mean you don’t already know it?”

“I do not.”

“He didn’t give it to you when he called on you yesterday?”

That was an illuminating question. What Capelli was really doing was offering Sackler a grand for Freuh’s address. He hadn’t believed that we would actually have to go out and find it.

“He didn’t give it to me,” said Sackler. “He only said he’d come back and see me.”

Capelli’s eyes narrowed. “Did he give you anything else?”

“Only my fee.”

“For what?”

Sackler hesitated for a moment, then he said. “That’s a trade secret.”

Capelli made a gesture of impatience. “Very well, how long will it take you to do what I ask?”

Sackler’s shoulders shrugged. “Who knows? Isn’t it likely that his landlady will hear or read he is dead and hand his stuff over to the coppers?”

Capelli shook his head. “It isn’t likely his landlady knows him under his right name.”

“No,” said Sackler thoughtfully, “of course not.”

“Well, will you do it? And quickly?”

Sackler nodded. “You have hired my brain,” he said in a tone which implied Capelli had all the best of the bargain.

“O.K. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what that special item is. You’ll have to take my word on it when it comes to the bonus.”

“Don’t worry,” said Sackler surprisingly. “I know what it is and I shall hold out until I’m paid.”

Both Capelli and I looked at him in some astonishment. Capelli seemed stunned that he could know what the article was and so was I. I certainly had no idea what was going on and I was sure I knew as much as Sackler.

Chapter Three Betting Between Friends

Before either of us could speak however a familiar, roaring voice sounded from without.

“Either you ten cent punks let me in that door or I’ll have three wagon loads of coppers here with a battering ram. By God, I’ll—”

Capelli nodded to Lou who had been leaning against the wall ever since we entered. He said: “Let the inspector in.”

Lou walked across the yielding carpet and turned the doorknob. On the threshold stood Jake and Woolley. Woolley, to judge by his crimson complexion, was in a fine fury.

Jake stood aside and he strode into the office. The first thing his inflamed eyes fell upon was Sackler. He uttered the bellow of a wounded bull. He levelled an accusing finger at Sackler’s concave chest and shouted: “I knew you had your grubby hand in this somewhere.”

Sackler drew himself up and looked supercilious. Woolley glared wildly about the room, embracing both Capelli and Sackler in his gaze, and roared: “You’d both better come clean. What do you know about Freuh? I demand to know.”

Capelli held up a soothing hand. Sackler said: “By what right do you demand to know? Are you a grand jury? Are you even an assistant DA.? You will either shut up or arrest us.”

“I don’t have to consider that choice,” shouted Woolley. “Come on, both of you.”

Capelli stood up. “Take it easy, Inspector. Mr. Sackler’s excited. I’m willing to tell you what I know. Freuh had an appointment with me yesterday. He didn’t keep it. I understand you have his appointment book. Well, he saw Sackler here, and he went to Earnshaw’s right after the pinch. But he didn’t get here.”

Woolley regarded him with distaste. “You seem to know a hell of a lot about it. Have you a pipeline into headquarters?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Capelli, “I have. He left Sackler’s and was picked up by the Treasury men, searched and released. Then he went to Earnshaw’s. He never got here.”

Woolley scratched his head. He seemed to resent Capelli’s information, and he didn’t appear to have enough of his own.

“Well,” he said blusteringly, “you stay where I can get you, Capelli. I’m not satisfied with this. I’m going over to see Earnshaw.”

“I’ll go along,” said Sackler. “There’s one thing I need to straighten out in this case.”

“One thing?” roared Woolley. “There are a half hundred. And I’ve got Washington and the Commissioner on my neck this time.”

“And a fat red neck it is, too,” said Sackler as he strode out of the room.

Sackler’s tactful remark did not improve Woolley’s temper. However, I figured it was that Woolley was so damned baffled about something, that he welcomed Sackler, sharp tongue and all, in the hope that he could be of some aid.

The police car hurtled through the streets to the upper east side and stopped before an expensive apartment house. Woolley pushed past the doorman, got into the elevator and said, “Nine.”

We got out at the ninth floor and followed Woolley to a door where he rang a bell. A scar-faced individual opened the door. Woolley flashed his badge and said: “Police. Where’s Earnshaw?”

“Sick,” said Scarface. “In bed. You can’t see him.”

“The hell I can’t,” said Woolley, and pushed past him.

Sackler and I trailed along through a thickly carpeted hallway and eventually found ourselves in a lushly furnished bedroom.

In the centre of a huge bed was Earnshaw. His head was bald and because of the bandages wrapped around his face was, at the moment, the most prominent part of him.

Woolley stood at the foot of the bed and watched a white clad nurse take a thermometer from Earnshaw’s lips. Woolley put his hands on hips and said: “What’s the matter with you?”

A mumble from the bandages. The three of us cocked our ears toward the bed. I made out the words, “Met with an accident.”

Woolley snorted. “You mean some hoods beat you up. Who?”

Earnshaw shook his head. “I’ll take care of this. I don’t need you.”

“Did Freuh beat you up, yesterday?”

Earnshaw shook his head.

“Well, he was here yesterday, wasn’t he?”

This time the bandages bobbed up and down.

“Did he leave here alive or dead?”

The bandages were still for a moment. Then came an indignant mumble. “He left here alive and I can prove it.”

“By whom?”

“A couple of my boys.”

“They’d swear to anything.”

“Well, they’re witnesses. You have no witnesses at all to the contrary.”

There was a lot more dialogue. Most of it was concerned with Woolley’s trying to find out who beat Earnshaw up. But the bandages weren’t talking. At last Woolley walked out of the room in utter disgust. Sackler and I followed behind.

“I hope,” said Woolley when we got down into the street, “that you found out what you wanted to know. I didn’t find out anything.”

“I think I did,” said Sackler, “However, it may take me a couple of days to clean it up for you.”

“You miserable punk,” exploded Woolley, “it’d take you more than a couple of days to even find out what it was all about. It’s a police secret shared only between us and Washington.”

“And me,” said Sackler, heading toward the subway station.

I lit a cigarette and caught up with him. Deliberately I blew smoke in his face. He sniffed nervously. His nostrils twitched. I did a fast inward gloat. One day wasn’t up yet and he craved tobacco.

He said: “Joey, maybe we’ve been a couple of fools.”

“How come?”

“That silly bet. Neither of us can afford that kind of money. We were foolish. Perhaps we should cancel it. You can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars.”

“I’m not going to. You’re choking now. You’ll never hold out.”

He grunted, but discussed the matter no further.

He spent the next twenty-four hours at his desk apparently engrossed in deep thought. I smoked all day and blew the aroma toward him. He twitched a little but never broke down.

On the following day, he greeted me with a captivating smile. “Joey,” he said, “I have a few chores to do today. Your help won’t be necessary. So what do you think I’m going to do?”

“I haven’t any idea. What?”

“I’m going to give you the whole day off. With pay. You are free to do whatever you like.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “You are a Greek bearing a gift. What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Enjoy yourself.”

I shrugged. I said, “All right,” and picked up my hat. I had arrived at the doorway when he said, “And, oh, Joey?”

I stopped and turned around. “What?”

“About that idiotic bet. I was thinking—”

“Think all you like. Don’t smoke.”

I slammed the door on his curse and went out into the sunlight whistling. I went to two movies and a hockey game.

I hit the office some twenty minutes late the next morning. Sackler had not arrived yet. I let myself in, sat at my desk and ran through the morning paper. I had half finished the sports page when Sackler strolled in.

He carried an oblong package under his arm. There was a carefree smile on his lips and a lilt in his tone as he said: “Good morning, Joey.”

I returned the greeting as he stowed his parcel away in a desk drawer, then locked it. He sat down, drew a heavy sigh and looked at me speculatively.

I said: “You seem happy. I take it you have been on a successful pursuit of some unlucky dollar.”

He shook his head. “No, Joey. I have been thinking of our personal relations.”

“Interesting. Now, I have an uncle over in Jersey who—”

“Idiot. I mean the relations which exist between us. We bicker too much, Joey.”

I became wary. “Do we?”

“Indeed. And mostly about money, which is deplorable.”

I said incredulously: “You’re not going to raise my salary?”

“No. But I want this bickering stopped. Hereafter we will not bet with each other any more. I think that is the trouble.”

“That’s better than okay with me. I always lose anyway.”

“Good. And in order that we get along better I also think that we should cancel all bets which are still in existence between us.”

I am not the brightest boy in all the world but I didn’t need a sledge hammer to pound the point of this conversation into my skull. I laughed out loud.

I said: “So you’re cooking for a smoke, is that it? So you want to call off the bet in order that you may have a cigarette? Oh, no, brother. This is one bet I’m going to win. Besides, what’s become of the steel Sackler will power you spoke to me of only a few days ago?” He scowled at me. I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke ostentatiously in his direction. His scowl became deeper.

“You are a money-grubbing little rat,” he said bitterly. “No honor, no decency, no generosity.”

I grinned and decided to rub it in. “Since you feel you are possessed of all those three traits, may I call your attention to the fact that you must return Freuh’s hundred dollar bill to his estate or to the coppers or whoever gets it. You certainly can’t lay claim to it. You failed to find that quotation in the requisite time. You must return that money.”

He looked at me sourly.

“Yes, sir,” I went on. “I know what’s in the back of your conniving brain. You think you can start smoking again and pay me off with that dough which belongs to Freuh. That let’s you out for nothing. Well, you’re always getting out for nothing. This time it’s going to cost you a hundred bucks. If you’re dying for a butt now, think how you’ll feel in a month.”

For one of the few times in my life I had him against the wall. The happy mien that he had worn a few moments back had disappeared entirely. There was a little panic in his voice as he said: “And what do you intend to do if I keep this money of Freuh’s?”

“Squeal.”

“To whom?”

“To Woolley, of course. He hates the idea of you making money almost as much as I do. All I have to do is tell him you’ve got a hundred you’re not entitled to and he’ll grab it. If Freuh has no kin, it’ll probably go in Dewey’s treasury.”

He closed his eyes as if my perfidy were more than he could bear. He said in a weak voice: “Go away, Joey. Go out of my sight. Traitor, betrayer, go away. I cannot stand your presence.”

Nothing at all loath, I grabbed my hat and went to the door. When I was on the threshold he spoke again.

“While you’re out call Capelli. Tell him to be here at one o’clock sharp. Then call Woolley. Tell him to arrive at exactly one fifteen and to bring Earnshaw with him. Tell them all I have important news for them.”

I nodded and went out. I stopped in the saloon downstairs and had a couple of quick ones. This was one time I was going to show no mercy. When Sackler took his first smoke — and I was sure he couldn’t hold out much longer — I was going to collect a hundred bucks. Moreover, I was going to see he returned the hundred of Freuh’s to which he wasn’t entitled.

I phoned Capelli, gave him Sackler’s message, then decided to go down and deliver Woolley’s message personally. That would give me the chance to inform him that Sackler was holding Freuh’s dough.

I grabbed a bus and went down to police headquarters.

Woolley greeted me glumly. Apparently he hadn’t made much headway in the matter of Arthur Freuh’s murder. He brightened up considerably when I gave him Sackler’s message.

“Has he really got something?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “He hasn’t confided in me. He has, however, got something to which he isn’t entitled.”

Woolley looked inquiring.

I took a deep breath and told him of Freuh’s concern with the quotation, of the fee which was to be held in escrow as it were, and of the fact of Sackler’s not earning it.

“Therefore,” I concluded righteously, “I believe that hundred dollars should go to Freuh’s heirs, not Sackler.”

Woolley’s eyes were gleaming. “You say it was a hundred dollar bill?”

He emphasized the last three words.

“It was a hundred dollar bill, all right.”

“But I thought Rex said he banked the money Freuh gave him?”

“He may have banked the thousand. But I know the hundred is in an envelope in his pocket right now.”

Woolley bent his head devoutly and murmured: “Praise be to Heaven.”

I stared at him in some surprise. Woolley was not a devout man.

“Why the piety?”

“At last,” said Woolley happily, “Mr. Rex Sackler is delivered into my hands. But don’t tell him. First I want to know what he’s got on this case. After I have learned that I shall pounce. The indignities of years shall be avenged. Joey, I love you. If you ever need a drink badly, come to me and I shall buy it for you. Now, go away and leave me alone while I gloat.”

I had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. I left his office and stopped off for another drink. I felt pretty good myself. Though Woolley’s attitude had baffled me somewhat I was certain that he wasn’t going to let Sackler keep that hundred bucks.

Chapter Four A False Note

I had a leisurely lunch and killed time until almost one o’clock. Then I took the subway and went back to the office. I had barely removed my hat when Capelli walked in the door. Sackler greeted him effusively.

Capelli nodded, said anxiously: “Did you find out where Freuh lived?”

“Simplicity itself,” said Sackler.

“Good. Did you bring me his things?”

Sackler shook his head. “I saw no sense in packing up his personal effects. I only brought what you wanted.”

Capelli blinked. “How did you know what I wanted?”

Sackler looked smug and tapped the side of his head in a manner calculated to call attention to the great Sackler brain. Then he opened the desk drawer and withdrew the oblong package I had seen him bring in that morning.

Capelli snatched at it like a hawk at a chicken. He did not open it in the orthodox manner. Instead he tore away a fragment of the paper and peered inside. I peered, too. I made out that the article wrapped up seemed to be an oblong of metal. But I didn’t see enough of it to know what it was.

Capelli sighed happily and beamed at Sackler. “You’re a genius,” he said. “And you’ve earned two grand.”

He took a checkbook from his pocket and wrote rapidly. He handed the check to Sackler, who took it, caressed it, and stowed it away in his one-way wallet.

Capelli said: “Do you mind telling me how you did it?”

“Elementary,” said Sackler. “I just looked around the room until I found it.”

“That I can understand,” said Capelli. “But how did you find the address?”

“Oh, that,” said Sackler in his best deprecatory manner. “That was simple. Knowing what I did, Joey could have done it. As a matter of fact, Joey had the same information that I had. And I’m sure he knows how I did it. Joey.”

He waved in my direction. I had not the slightest idea how he had found Freuh’s address, nor the faintest conception of how he had gone about getting it. He knew this very well. All this act was calculated to prove me a fool and Sackler a genius. I was very happy I had sold him down the river to Woolley.

“Go ahead, big shot,” I said. “Tell the class how you did it.”

“The day Freuh called here,” said Sackler, “he said two things. First, that he had come downtown on the west side subway. Second, he started to give us his address, then thought better of it. But before that second thought came to him, he said. ‘Twenty-four,’ then stopped. Do you see, Joey?”

I saw nothing and said so.

Sackler went on. “Moreover, when Freuh said ‘twenty-four’ he began to mention another number. Thus the number was not merely twenty-four. Now could it have been two-hundred-and-forty-something? If so, he would have said ‘two-forty’ and not ‘twenty-four’. Therefore, the number he almost mentioned was twenty-four hundred or twenty-four hundred and something. And he came down on the west side subway.

“Now, assuming he lived in Manhattan which is better than an even money guess, there isn’t a cross street on the island whose numbers run as high as twenty-four hundred. That leaves only the avenues. Now, what avenue has numbers that high which is contiguous to the west side subway? Obviously, Broadway. Moreover, Broadway that far uptown contains a number of cheap rooming houses, and Freuh, if I had figured him correctly, lived in a rooming house.”

By this time I saw it. “So you went to all the twenty-four hundreds on Broadway and asked for a roomer who hadn’t been home for a couple of nights?”

“Right. And by means of some little judicious lying I obtained access to his room and procured the item Mr. Capelli considered worth two thousand dollars.”

Capelli looked impressed. He took a silver cigarette case from his pocket and held it out to Sackler. Sackler’s free wheeling hand moved automatically. Then he checked it and looked with sad inquiry at me. I shook my head emphatically. Sackler sighed and refused the free smoke. I took one and Capelli put the case down on the edge of the desk.

“Well,” said Capelli, “I guess that just about winds up our business. I guess I’ll run along.”

“Wait,” said Sackler. “Wait a minute or two. I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine. They’ll be here shortly.”

Capelli looked mildly suspicious but he nodded his head. “All right. In the meantime is there a men’s room on this floor?”

I gave him the necessary directions. He went out of the room leaving the torn brown package and his cigarette case on Sackler’s desk.

I glanced at Sackler. Despite the fact that his nicotine-conditioned body was crying for tobacco he looked happy. That caused me no wonder. He’d picked up a cold three grand in the last few days.

“Well,” I said aloud, “you won’t get that hundred.”

“What hundred, Joey?”

“The hundred Freuh gave you on condition you tracked down the author of that quotation.”

“What gives you the impression I won’t keep it, Joey?”

“Because I told Woolley you had it and he’s going to take it from you.”

He looked at me in sheer horror. When he found his voice he said in shaken accents: “You really did that? You really betrayed me, your employer and friend, to a professional copper?”

“I really did.”

He murmured, “My God,” three times dramatically. His face was white and I had never seen him so shaken. But then I had never seen him lose a hundred dollars before either.

His hand reached out toward Capelli’s cigarette case. I held my breath. He was so upset about the money it seemed he had completely forgotten about not smoking. His fingers took a cigarette from the case and he took a match from his pocket.

I felt like a man whose horse is running eight lengths ahead of the field in the stretch. He struck the match. My heart pounded wildly. He touched it to the tobacco. He inhaled. He took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the smoke as I bounded up from my chair.

I thrust my upturned palm under his face and yelled: “Pay up! You lose. You’re smoking!”

He froze to horrified immobility. He jammed the cigarette out in the glass tray at his elbow. He blinked slowly and adopted a whining tone.

“Now, Joey, you’re certainly not going to count that. It was an accident. I was engrossed in more important thought. Besides, I only took one puff.”

I kept my palm under his nose. “I am adamant.”

“But Joey—”

“I am the Rock of Ages—”

“One lousy puff and—”

“I have the heart of a loan shark at the moment. I am as hard as a diamond. As ruthless as a flood. Give me a hundred bucks.”

He cursed heartily. He said, “Naturally, I haven’t got the cash with me. I—”

“Don’t stall. You’ve still got that envelope that Freuh gave you.”

“But you yourself have said that that isn’t mine.”

“It isn’t. But money’s negotiable. You can give me that and give Woolley another hundred from the bank.”

He sighed like a heartbroken steam engine, thrust his hand in his pocket and took out the envelope Freuh had given him. He tore it open and withdrew a crisp hundred dollar bill. He said: “Put it in your pocket and may it pay for your not too distant funeral.”

I took it, sunk it deeply in my pocket and went back to my desk with a singing heart.

An instant later Capelli returned from the washroom and an instant after that Woolley walked in the door escorting a well bandaged Earnshaw.

Capelli glanced at our visitors suspiciously. I observed that Sackler looked happy again and wondered at his quick recovery. Earnshaw sat heavily down in a chair, glared at Capelli, and said, “I’m a sick man. What’s the idea of dragging me out of my bed?”

“You’ll be sicker,” said Sackler. “Sit down, Woolley.”

Woolley did so, on the edge of the desk. He said: “What’s going on? What do you want to tell me?”

“An attitude of more gratitude would be in order,” said Sackler smugly; “Once again I have been doing your work for you. How far have you moved on the Freuh matter?”

I translated Woolley’s grunt as meaning he hadn’t moved at all.

“Well,” said Sackler. “I have all the answers for you. I also have the plates.”

Woolley started. “The plates? Where are they?”

At the moment the oblong package was lying on the desk, and Capelli’s arm was lying on the package. Sackler indicated it. Woolley grabbed the parcel. Capelli glared at Sackler and said: “You punk. You double-crosser. You—” His vocabulary seemed strained at that point and he went off into an inarticulate gurgle.

Woolley ripped open the package and took out two pieces of metal. He held them up to the light. “That’s it,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

“In Freuh’s room.”

“How did you find his room?”

“I have methods,” said Sackler, “far too subtle for the police department.”

“Huh,” sneered Woolley uncomfortably. “And I suppose you know who killed Freuh?”

“Naturally. Earnshaw.”

Woolley blinked. Things were going a little fast for him. They were for me, too. I hadn’t the slightest idea what it was all about.

“And,” said Woolley heavily, “since you are obviously omniscient, I suppose you also know who beat up Earnshaw?”

“It is too, too apparent,” said Sackler. “It was Capelli.”

By now Woolley, Earnshaw and Capelli were all staring at him and there was not an iota of friendliness in any eye. Earnshaw and Capelli were frankly angry and somewhat afraid. Woolley was annoyed.

“I am not a genius,” began Woolley.

“Consider that statement seconded,” interrupted Sackler.

“No,” said Woolley, “I am not a genius. I do not know how you found the plates. How you found Freuh’s room, how you know Earnshaw killed Freuh, or that Capelli beat Earnshaw up. I do not even know how you knew what Freuh’s racket was, or anything else. The matter was a police secret.”

“I shall explain it,” said Sackler, “in monosyllabic words.”

“Do so,” said Woolley. He turned and gave me a heavy wink. “Then I shall explain something to you.”

“Very well. You, Woolley, came in here interested in Freuh. You also implied that the Treasury men were interested in him. Those two facts argue certain conclusions. First, that Freuh was not an honest citizen. If he was a crook why are the Treasury men interested? What sort of crooks call for their officers? Counterfeiters, obviously.”

“Next, Freuh had appointments with Earnshaw and Capelli. They are known racket boys. Obviously, he was trying to interest them in some counterfeiting racket. Then, Capelli offers me money to find out where Freuh lived and to obtain his personal possessions. He offers to double the fee if I find there an item which he will not identify. What could that be, if we accept the conclusion that Freuh is a counterfeiter? Obviously, again, plates.

“So, as per contract, I deliver the plates to Capelli and collect an honest fee.”

“You didn’t,” yelled Capelli, “That copper’s got them. He took them from me. He—”

“That doesn’t concern me,” said Sackler. “I delivered them to you.”

“All right,” said Woolley. “Tell me all about Earnshaw killing Freuh.”

“It’s easy. Freuh’s original deal was with Capelli. But Earnshaw heard of it and wanted to cut himself in. Somehow he got Freuh to see him. Freuh called on Earnshaw after he called on me and before he called on Capelli. But for some reason or other he wouldn’t do business with Earnshaw. He was sticking to Capelli. Earnshaw only cared about the plates which apparently Freuh had made with considerable skill. He tried to get the plates by force. He tried to beat the information out of Freuh. But Freuh wouldn’t talk and the beating became, inadvertently or not, a murder.”

“And Capelli beat Earnshaw up for that?” I said.

“Of course he beat him. Because he thought that Earnshaw’s beating had been successful and that Earnshaw knew where the plates were. Had it not been for that he would have killed Earnshaw at once. Then Capelli dragged me down to his place, believing that Freuh had given me his address when he was here. He found out he hadn’t and told me to go and find it any way.” Sackler bowed modestly and added, “I did.”

Woolley nodded. “It makes sense. But you don’t have any evidence, do you? I mean the sort of stuff we can take to a courtroom.”

“You big dumb goat,” said Sackler. “Of course, you have evidence. All sorts of evidence and all around you. Can’t you see it?”

Woolley obviously did not relish Sackler’s tone. But he shook his head woodenly and said, “No, I don’t.”

“You have a confession,” said Sackler. “From Earnshaw.”

“You’re crazy,” said Earnshaw.

“Oh, no, I’m not. Capelli’s mob is bigger and tougher than yours. He didn’t kill you last time because he thought you might know where the plates were. Now, it doesn’t matter. He’ll kill you for killing Freuh. At least, in a courtroom, you can plead self-defense or whatever your lawyer suggests. You’ve got a fighting chance. You haven’t against Capelli’s guns. Capelli will kill you. The law might give you as little as ten years. It’s pure percentage.”

Earnshaw thought it over for a long silent two minutes. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said. “Your way is safer. But, by God, I want Capelli held for assault on me.”

“You see,” said Sackler to Woolley, “you have a confession and an assault charge. And that cleans up everything for you.”

“Thanks,” said Woolley without gratitude. He grinned broadly and added, “I’ll just take the three of you in.”

“The three of us?” said Sackler,

“My very words.”

“On what charges?”

“Earnshaw for murder, Capelli for assault, and you for being in possession of counterfeit money.”

A warning bell hammered in my skull but I wasn’t quite sure exactly what it meant.

“Me?” said Sackler. “Counterfeit money?”

“Yes. You have an envelope in your pocket containing a hundred dollar bill which is counterfeit.”

“Me?” said Sackler again. I felt my stomach go suddenly empty. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” went on Sackler. “Whatever gave you that impression?” He glanced over at me and smiled, “Ah, I get it. Joey told you that. Joey is always kidding the department, Inspector. I’ve often spoken to him about it. I haven’t a hundred dollar bill in my possession. I’ll even waive my civil rights and permit you to search me.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” snapped Woolley, advancing upon him.

By this time I’d figured it out. I had the phony bill. And if I opened my mouth and said Sackler had given it to me I’d be the guy in illegal possession of a counterfeit note.

Woolley finished his examination of Sackler’s pockets and scowled in my direction. Sackler said, “If you’re thinking Freuh gave me a hundred dollars, you’re wrong. He gave me two five hundreds which I’ve banked. The bank would have spotted it if they were bad. Besides, those plates are for hundreds. No, Joey was just kidding you, Woolley. Weren’t you, Joey?”

He took a deep drag on a cigarette and watched me speculatively, like a scientist watching a guinea pig. Woolley was staring black murder at me. I took a deep breath and did the only thing I possibly could.

I said: “I was only kidding, Inspector,” then I laughed the hollowest laugh this side of Woodlawn Cemetery.

Woolley took a deep breath. He cursed me by bell and book. He fumed, raved and shouted. I stood with my head bowed and took every word of it. At last he grabbed his two glaring prisoners and took them from the room, leaving me alone with Sackler and my sorrow.

He said, rubbing it in: “One certainly enjoys a smoke after a layoff, Joey. You really should quit smoking yourself sometime.”

I said: “You rat, how did you know? How did you do it?”

He threw me his most perfect superior smile.

“It was obvious, really from the day Freuh was in here. There was a T man on his tail. He knew he’d be picked up and searched at any moment. He wanted to get rid of his sample phony bill for a day or two, so he gave it to me.”

“But he gave you a grand besides?” I inquired.

“That was to shut me up and lull my suspicions. He gave me a legitimate thousand bucks to find out a simple thing — the whereabouts of Dworkin, which Freuh knew himself all the time. Then he offered me a hundred to do something utterly impossible, knowing I’d have to return his hundred when I couldn’t do it.”

“You mean there is no such quotation?”

“Of course not. Freuh made it up. He’s not a literary man, and the quotation stinks. He planted the hundred on me. Then he went down, threw himself into the T man’s arms, got pinched and searched. He was clean. He would have come back the next day and got his hundred.”

“And lost his grand?”

“What of it? Those plates were magnificent. He and Capelli would have made a fortune with them. I always thought that hundred dollar bill was phony. After I examined the plates and saw they were devised to make bills of that denomination, I knew it was.”

“So you planted it on me?”

“Sure. After you told Woolley I had it. It enabled me to call off our bet, let me smoke again and for free. It also got a dangerous piece of money out of my possession. I knew Woolley would pin the rap on me when he thought I had it in my pocket.”

“Well,” I said bitterly, “you haven’t done badly at all. You’ve collected three grand and done nothing. One of your clients is in the can and the other in the next world. And you’re smoking again without losing your bet.”

He registered a complacency only equalled in the British Colonial office. “No, I didn’t do so badly, Joey.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced his little bag of tobacco. He looked at me for a thoughtful moment, then for the first time in his life made what to him was a supreme and generous gesture. He held the bag out to me.

“Here, Joey,” he said. “Try one of mine.”