Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

Collect from a Corpse by Louis L’Amour

The safe-cracking job had all the earmarks of Pete Slonski’s work — only Slonski was dead!

Pike Ambler called the Department from the Fan Club at 10 in the morning, and Lieutenant Wells Ryerson turned it over to Joe Ragan. “Close this one up fast,” be ordered, “but give me an air tight case.”

Ragan nodded. With Captain Bob Dixon headed for early retirement Ryerson was acting in charge of the burglary detail. If he made a record his chances of taking Dixon’s job were good.

He knew the Fan Club. A small club, working in the red, it had recently zoomed into popularity on the dancing of Luretta Pace. He was considering that when he arrived at the club with Sam Blythe and young Lew Ryerson. Sam was a veteran, Lew a tall young man with a narrow face and shrewd eyes. He had been only four months in the department.

Sam Blythe glanced at the hole chopped through the ceiling, then at the safe. “An easy one, Joe. Entry through the ceiling, a punch job on the safe, nothing touched but money, and the floor swept clean after the job was finished.” He walked over to the waste basket and picked from it a crumpled wad of crackly paper. “And here’s the potato chip sack — all the earmarks of a Pete Slonski job.”

Ragan rubbed his jaw and said nothing, his eyes puzzled and probing.

“Slonski, all right,” Ryerson agreed. “It checks with the modus operandi file, and it’s as open and shut as the Smiley case. I’ll call Headquarters and have them send out a pickup on Slonski.”

“Take it easy,” Ragan interrupted, “let’s look this over. Something smells.”

“What’s the matter?” Lew Ryerson was like his brother, too impatient to get things done. “You can see Slonski written all over it, like Sam said.”

“Yeah,” Ragan was dubious, “it does look like it.”

“It is it!” Ryerson replied flatly. “I’m going to call in.”

“It won’t do any good,” Ragan said mildly. “I said something smelled and it does. This job would even fool Slonski — but he didn’t do it.”

Sam Blythe was puzzled, Ryerson irritated. “How can you be so sure?” Ryerson demanded. “It’s obvious to me!”

“This isn’t a Slonski job unless ghosts crack safes. Pete was killed last week in Kansas City.”

“What?” There was shocked incredulity on Ryerson’s face. “How do you know that?”

“It was in the papers. And as we have a charge against him, I wired the FBI. They had a check on the prints. It was Slonski, all right, dead as a herring.”

Blythe scowled. “Then something is funny. I’d take an oath this was Pete Slonski.”

“So would I,” Ragan admitted, “but now I’m wondering about the Smiley case. He swears he’s innocent, and if I ever saw a surprised man it was Smiley when I put the cuffs on him.”

“Oh, he’s guilty, all right!” Ryerson was positive. “Of course, he would say he was innocent, but that case checked too well, and you know you can go almost as much by a crook’s method of operation as by his finger prints.”

“Like this one, you mean?” Ragan gestured at the safe. “This was a Slonski job, but Slonski’s dead and buried.”

“Smiley has a long record,” Blythe said uneasily. “I never placed any great faith in his going straight.”

“Neither did I,” Ragan agreed, “but five years and no trouble. He’s bought a home, built up a business, and not even a traffic count against him.”

“On the other hand,” Ryerson insisted, “he needs money. Maybe he’s just been playing it smart.”

“Crooks aren’t smart,” Ragan objected, “no man who will take a chance on a stretch in the pen is smart. They all make mistakes. They can’t beat their own little habits.”

“Maybe we’ve found a smart one,” Ryerson suggested, “maybe he used to work with Slonski and made this one look like him to cover up.”

“Slonski worked alone,” Blythe objected. “However, the similarity may be an accident. Let’s get some pictures and get along with it.”

Joe Ragan prowled restlessly while Ryerson got his pictures. Turning from the office he walked out through the empty bar, crossing the shadowed dance floor through the aisles of tables and stacked chairs. Mounting the steps from the street, he entered the studio from which entry had been gained to the office below.

The door had been unlocked with a skeleton key, or picked open. There was a reception room with walls covered by the pictures of sirens with shadows in the right places and bare shoulders. In the studio itself there was a camera, a few reflectors, a backdrop and assorted props. The hole had been cut through the dark room floor.

Squatting, he studied the workmanship with care. A paper match lay on the floor and he picked it up and after a glance, put it in his pocket. The hole would have taken an hour to cut, and as the club closed at 2, and the personnel left right after, the burglar must have entered between 3 and 5 in the morning.

Hearing footsteps, Ragan turned to see a plump and harassed photographer. Andre Gimp fluttered his hands. “Oh, this is awful! Simply awful! Who could have done it?”

“Don’t let it bother you. Look around and see if anything is missing and be careful you don’t forget and break a leg in that hole.”

Ragan walked to the door and paused, lighting a cigarette. He was a big man, a shade over six feet tall, his wide, thick shoulders and big hands made men look twice. His hair was always rumpled, and despite his size there was something surprisingly boyish looking about him.

Ryerson had borrowed him a few days before from the Homicide Squad, for Ragan had been the ace man on the burglary detail before he transferred to Homicide.

Ragan ran his fingers through his hair and returned to the club. He was remembering the stricken look on the face of Ruth Smiley when he arrested her husband. There had been a feeling then that something was wrong, yet detail for detail the Smiley job had checked as this one checked with Slonski.

Leaving Lew Ryerson and Sam Blythe to question Ambler, he returned to Headquarters. He was scowling thoughtfully when he walked into Wells Ryerson’s office. The lieutenant looked up, his eyes sharp with annoyance. “Ragan, when will you learn to knock? What is it you want? I’m very busy!”

“Sorry,” Ragan dropped into a chair. “Are you satisfied with the Smiley case?” Briefly then, he explained their findings at the Fan Club.

Wells Ryerson waited him out, his irritation obvious. “That has nothing to do with Smiley. The man had no alibi. He was seen near the crime within thirty minutes of the time. We know his record and that he needs money. The tools that did the job came from his shop. The D.A. is well satisfied and so am I.”

Ragan leaned his thick forearms on the chair arms. “Nevertheless,” he insisted, “I don’t like it. This job today checks with Slonski, but he’s dead, so where does that leave us with Smiley? Or with Blackie Miller or Ed Chalmers?”

Ryerson’s anger and dislike were evident as he replied. “Ragan, I see what you’re trying to do. You know Dixon is to retire and if you can mess up my promotion you might step up. Well, you go back to Homicide. We don’t want you or anybody like you. As of this moment you’re off the burglary detail.”

Ragan shrugged. “Sorry you take it that way. I’m not bucking for your job. I asked for my transfer to Homicide, but I don’t like to see an innocent man go to prison.”

“Innocent!” Ryerson’s contempt was thick. “You talk like a school boy! Jack Smiley was in the reform school when he was sixteen, and in the pen when he was twenty-four. He was short of cash and be reverted to type. Go peddle your papers in Homicide.”

Joe Ragan closed the door behind him, his ears burning. He knew how Ryerson felt, but could not forget the face of Ruth Smiley, nor the facts that led to the arrest of her husband. Smiley, Miller and Chalmers had been arrested largely on information from the modus operandi file.

It was noon and lunch time. He hesitated to report to his own chief, Mark Stigler. Yet he was stopping his car before the white house on the side street off Melrose before he realized it.

Ruth Smiley had no welcoming smile when she opened the door. He removed his hat, flushing slightly. “Mrs. Smiley, I’d like to ask a few questions if I may. It might help Jack if you’ll answer them.”

There was doubt in her eyes, but a flicker of hope, too. “Look,” he said, “something has come up that has me wondering. If the Department knew I was here they wouldn’t like it, as I’m off this case, but I’ve a hunch.” He hesitated. “Now, we know Jack was near the scene of the crime that night. What was he doing there?”

“We told you, Mr. Ragan. Jack had a call from the Chase Printing Company. He repaired a press of theirs once and they wanted him there not later than four o’clock as they had a rush job to begin the following morning.”

“That was checked, and they said they made no such call.”

“Mr. Ragan,” Ruth Smiley pleaded, “please believe me! I heard him talking! I heard his replies!”

Ragan scowled unhappily. This was no help, but he was determined now. “Don’t raise your hopes,” he said, “but I’m working on an angle that may help.”

The Chase Printing Company was no help. All their presses were working and they had not called Smiley. Yes, he had repaired a press once, and an excellent job, too. Yes, his card had been found under their door when they opened up.

Of course, the card could have been part of an alibi, but that was one thing that had bothered him all along. “Those guys were crooks,” he muttered, “and yet none of them had an alibi. If they had been working they would have had iron clad stories to prove them elsewhere!”

Yet the alternative was a frame-up by someone familiar with their working methods. A call had taken Smiley from his bed to the vicinity of the crime, a crime that resembled his work! With their records he would certainly be convicted.

He drove again to the Fan Club. Pike Ambler greeted him. “Still looking? Have you any leads?”

“A couple.” Ragan studied the man. “How much did you lose?”

“Two grand three hundred. I can’t bake it, Joe.” His brow creased with worry. “Luretta hasn’t been paid and she’ll raise a squawk you’ll hear from here to Flatbush.”

“You mean Luretta Pace? Charlie Vent’s girl?”

Ambler nodded. “She was Vent’s girl before he got himself vented.” He smiled feebly at the pun. “She’s gone from one extreme to the other. Now it’s a cop.”

“Cop?” Ragan looked around at Ambler. “Who?”

“Lew Ryerson’s dating her.” Ambler shrugged. “I don’t blame the guy. She’s a number, all right.”

Ragan returned to the office and reported, then completed some routine work. It was late when he finally got to bed.

He awakened with a start, the phone jangling in his ears. He grabbed it sleepily. “Homicide calling, Joe. Stigler said to give it to you.”

“To me?” Ragan was only half awake. “Man, I’m off duty!”

“Yeah,” the voice was dry, “but this call’s from the Fan Club. Stigler said you’d want it.”

He was wide awake now. “Who’s dead?”

“Pike Ambler. He was shot just a few minutes ago. Get out there fast as you can.”

Two patrol cars were outside and a cop was barring the door. He took his arm down to let Joe in and he walked back to the office. Ambler was lying on his face alongside the desk, wearing the cheap tux that was his official costume. His red face was drained of color now, the blue eyes vacant.

Ragan glanced around to the doctor. “How many times was he shot?”

“Three times, and damned good shooting. Two of them right through the heart at close range. Probably a .45.”

“All right.” Ragan glanced up as a man walked in. It was Sam Blythe. “What are you doing here?”

“Prowling. I was talking to the cop on the beat when we heard the shots. We busted in here, and he was lying like that, with the back window open. We went out and looked around but nobody was in the alley and we heard no car start.”

“Who else was in the club?”

“Nobody. The place closed at two, and the last one to leave was that Pace gal. What a set of gams she’s got!”

“All right. Have the boys round ’em all up and get them back here.” He dropped into a chair when the body had been taken away and studied the situation, with Blythe watching him through lowered lids.

He got up, finally, and made a minute examination of the room, locating two of the three bullets and digging them from the wall. They were .45’s all right. He studied them thoughtfully.

“You know,” Blythe suggested suddenly, “somebody could be playing us for suckers. Kicking his modus operandi stuff around like they are.”

“Could be.” What was Blythe doing here at this hour? He got off at midnight. “Whoever it is has established a new method of operation. All these jobs, Smiley, Chalmers, Miller and this one, all between 3 to 5 a.m. The technique of other men, but his own working hours,”

“You think those jobs were frames? Ryerson won’t like it!”

Ragan shrugged. “I’d like to see his face when he finds I’m back on this case.”

“You think its the same one?” Blythe asked quickly.

“Don’t you?” Blythe was shrewd, “I don’t know. Those were burglaries, this is murder.”

“Sure,” Ragan said, “but suppose Ambler suspected somebody otherwise not suspected? Wouldn’t the crook have a motive for murder?”

A car slowed out front and then a door slammed open. They heard the click of angry heels and Luretta Pace swept into the room. Her long almond shaped eyes swept from Blythe to Ragan. “You’ve got a nerve!” she stormed. “Getting me out of bed in the middle of the night! Why couldn’t you wait until tomorrow?”

“It is tomorrow,” Ragan replied. He held out a crumpled pack of smokes. “Have one?”

She started to refuse, but something in his amused gray eyes made her resentment flicker out. She turned abruptly, seated herself on the arm of a chair. “All right, ask your questions!” she flared.

She had green eyes and auburn hair. Ragan found himself liking it. “First,” he suggested, “tell us about the fight you had with Ambler.”

Luretta Pace stiffened and the warmth left her face. “Listen!” she protested sharply. “Don’t try to frame me! I won’t stand still for it! I was out of here before he was shot, and you know it!”

“Sure, I know it. And I don’t think you slipped around back and shot him through the rear window, either.” He smiled at her. “Although you could have done it.”

Her face paled, but Luretta had been fighting her own battles too long. “Do you think I’d kill a guy who owes me six hundred bucks? You don’t collect from a corpse! Besides, Pike was a good lad. He was the first guy I’d worked for in a long time who treated me right.”

“What about the fight?” Joe persisted.

“You’ll hear about it, anyway,” Luretta said. “Joe owed me money and couldn’t pay up. The dough he figured on paying me was in that safe, so when he was robbed, I figured I was working for nothing. I can’t afford that, so we had some words and I told him what he could do with his night club.”

“Did he say when he could pay? Or tell you when he might have money?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact he said he would have it all back, every dime. He told me he would pay me tomorrow. I didn’t believe him.”

“Where do you think he planned to get it?”

“How should I know?” Luretta shrugged a rounded shoulder.

“Then,” Ragan asked gently, “he said nothing about knowing who robbed him?”

Sam Blythe sat up abruptly, his eyes on Ragan’s and Luretta lost her smile. She was suddenly serious. “No, not exactly, but I guess what I told you could be taken that way. Do you think that was why he was killed? Because he knew, and tried to get his money back?”

It was a theory and a good one. Suppose Ambler possessed information not available to the police, and believed he could get his money returned by promising not to turn in the thief? If he contacted the criminal, that would be a motive for murder. Joe realized there were other reasons for murder. He believed the relationship of Ambler and Luretta was strictly business, as they represented it — but suppose someone had not?

Yet the only admirer of Luretta’s he knew was Lew Ryerson, and that was ridiculous. Or was it?

Such a girl as Luretta Pace would have many admirers. That Sam Blythe thought she was really something was obvious. For that matter, he did, himself.

It was almost noon when he left the club and walked out into the sunlight, trying to assemble his thoughts and assay the value of what he had learned. He was standing on the curb when Andre Gimp came up to him. “Mr. Ragan,” Gimp was fluttering again, “only one thing is missing, and it seems very strange, for it was only a picture.”

“A picture?” Joe Ragan knew what was coming. “Of whom?”

“Luretta Pace — in costume!”

There it was again. The burglary, Luretta, the murder. He drove back to Headquarters and found Stigler pacing the floor with excitement. “Hey,” Stigler exploded. “Look at this! You’ve really got something! The gun that lolled Ambler was the same that killed Charlie Vent!”

“I thought so when I ordered them checked. A hunch I had.”

“You think this ties up with the burglaries?” Stigler asked. Then he smiled. “Ryerson called up, boiling mad. Said you’d been questioning people. I told him Homicide had a hand in it now. He shut up like a clam, but he was sure sore.” Stigler studied him. “What next?”

“A little looking around, then another talk with Luretta Pace.”

In the alley back of the Fan Club he found where a man had been standing behind a telephone post watching Ambler through the window. A man who smoked several cigarettes and dropped paper matches. Ragan picked up a couple of them and each paper match stub had been divided at the bottom, parted by a thumb nail and bent back to form a cross. Such a thing a man might do unconsciously, while waiting.

Ragan stowed the matches in a white envelope with a notation as to where they were found. In another envelope was an identical match. And he knew where more could be found.

Later, he went to a small target range in the basement of Headquarters and fired a couple of shots, then collected all the bullets he could find in the bales of cotton that served as a back stop for the targets.

Luretta met him at the door when he arrived, and he smiled at her curious glance. “Wondering?” he asked.

“Wondering whether this call is business or social.” She took his hat, then glanced over her shoulder. “Drink?”

“Bourbon and soda.”

She was wearing sea green slacks and a pale yellow blouse. Her hair was down on her shoulders and it caught the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching her move about.

“Ever think about Charlie?” he asked suddenly.

The hand that held the bottle hesitated for the briefest instant. When she came to him with his drink and one of her own, she looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s a curious thing to ask. Charlie’s been dead for four, nearly five months.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ragan said.

She looked over her glass at him. “Occasionally. He wasn’t a bad sort, you know, and he really cared for me. But why bring him up?”

“Oh, just thinking!” The highball tasted good. He realized suddenly that he was sleepy. “I wondered if some of your most recent company had made you forget him.”

Luretta looked him over carefully. “Joe,” she said suddenly, “you’re not subtle. Why don’t you come right out and ask me what you want to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. The truth is, I’ve got a finger on something and its pure dynamite. I can’t do a thing until I know more or the whole thing is liable to fly up and hit me in the face.

“This I will say. Two things are tied up with the killing of Pike Ambler. One of them is these burglaries, and the other one is you.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Oh, no, Joe! Don’t tell me that! Why, it couldn’t be! There was nothing between us, and you certainly don’t think I double in robbing safes?”

“No, I don’t. Nor do I think there was anything between you and Pike. It’s what somebody else might think. Moreover, you may know more than you realize, and I believe if I could be inside your mind and memory, I could put the pieces together that would give me a murderer.” He got to his feet and put his glass down. “If anybody should ask you, this call was purely social. If you’re looking as lovely as you do now, it would be easy to believe!”

The buzzer sounded from the door, and when she opened it, Lew Ryerson stood there, his eyes going from her to Ragan. He seemed about to speak, but Ragan beat him to it. “Hi, Lew! Nice to see you.”

Ryerson came on into the room, his eyes holding Ragan’s. “Heard you were wrapped up in a murder case?”

“Yeah, but I took time off to drop around for a drink.”

“Looks like I’ve got competition.” There was no humor in the way he said it, and his eyes were cold, measuring.

“With a girl like Luretta you’ll always have it.”

Ryerson looked at her, his lips thinned down. “I guess that’s so,” he said, “but that doesn’t make me like the idea any better.”

She followed Ragan to the door. “Don’t mind him, and do come back!”

There was ugly anger in Ryerson’s eyes. “Luretta,” he said, “I want you to tell him not to come back!”

“Why, I won’t do anything of the kind!” She turned on Lew. “We’re only dating occasionally, Lew. I told you after Charlie was killed that it wouldn’t be any different. I just wasn’t tying myself down. If Mr. Ragan wants to come back, he’s welcome!”

“Thanks, honey,” Ragan turned to Lew. “See you later, Lew. It’s all fun, you know?”

Ryerson glared. “Is it?” he demanded. “I’m not so sure.”

Sam Blythe was waiting for him when he walked into the office at Homicide. His face was dark and angry. “What goes on here?” he demanded. “Who gave you the right to have my gun tested by Ballistics?”

“Nobody,” Joe admitted cheerfully. “I knew you didn’t carry it off duty, and figured I’d have it checked. I had mine checked, too, and Stigler’s.”

“What?” Stigler glared. “You had Ballistics check my gun?”

“Sure!” Ragan dropped on a corner of the desk. “I had to have some dope, and now I’ve got it.”

“Aside from fooling around, how are you coming with the Ambler case? Have you found the murderer?”

“Sure I have.”

Stigler jumped and Blythe brought his leg down from the arm of his chair. “Did you say — you have? You know who did it?”

“That’s right. I know who did it, and that means I know who killed Charlie Vent, too.”

He scowled suddenly, and picked the phone from its cradle, dialing a number. Luretta answered. “Joe here,” he said, “still busy?”

“Yes.”

“Luretta, I wanted to tell you but forgot. The same man who killed Pike Ambler killed Charlie Vent.”

“What?” He heard her astonished gasp, but before she could ask questions, he interrupted.

“Honey, don’t ask any questions now, or make any comments, but you do some thinking, and then call me, any time of the day or night.”

He replaced the phone and turned back to Stigler, who took the cigar from his mouth. “All right, give! Who did it?”

“Stigler,” Ragan leaned back against the desk, “you’d call me a liar if I told you. Nor have I evidence enough for a conviction, but I’ve arranged a trap for him if he’ll only walk into it. Also, he pulled those jobs for which Blackie Miller, Ed Chalmers and Jack Smiley are now awaiting trial!”

“That’s impossible!” Stigler protested, but Ragan knew he believed. Sam Blythe sat back in his chair watching Ragan and saying nothing, his eyes cold and curious.

“Well, then. What happens now?” Stigler demanded.

“We sit tight. I’ve some more prowling to do.”

“What if your killer lams? I want this case sewed up, Ragan!”

“Just what Wells Ryerson told me. You’ll both get it.” Ragan studied his shoes. “Anything about Charlie Vent’s murder ever puzzle you, Chief? You’ll recall that he was shot three times in the face, and that’s not a normal way to kill a man.”

“I’ve thought of that. If it hadn’t been a gang killing, I’d say it was jealousy or hate.”

“That’s my idea. Somebody wanted to take over, all right, but the muscle was on Charlie’s girl, not the rackets.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Blythe protested. “Lew Ryerson is going with her.”

“And how many other guys?” Ragan asked. “She’s a doll, that one.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed dryly, “I could name three of them right now.”

The phone rang. Ragan dropped a hand to it, lifting it. “Joe, this is Luretta. I think I know what you mean. Can you come over about ten tonight?”

“Sure, and not a minute late.” He hung up and glanced around at them. “That’s a date for ten, and I think we’ll get all the evidence we need. If you guys can sit in a car and wait for awhile, I’ll give you a murderer.”

It was dark under the row of trees along the curb opposite the apartment house where Luretta Pace lived, and the dark, unmarked car was apparently empty. Only a walker along the walk between the park fence and the trees might have seen the three men who sat in the car.

“You’re sure this deal is set right, Joe? We can’t slip now!”

“It’s set. Just sit tight and wait.”

Rain began to fall, whispering on the leaves and the car top. It was almost 8:40 when Ragan suddenly touched Stigler on the sleeve. “Look!” he whispered.

A man had come around the corner out of the side street near the apartment house. He wore a raincoat and his hat brim was pulled down. He stepped quickly into the door.

Mark Stigler sat straight up. “Man, that looked just like—!” His voice faded as he met Ragan’s eyes.

“It was!” Ragan replied, grimly.

A curtain in an apartment house window went up and down rapidly, three times. “Let’s go,” Ragan said, “we’ve got to hurry.”

An officer in uniform admitted them to the apartment next door to that of Luretta Pace. A recording was already being made, and through the hidden mike in the next apartment they could hear the voices, hear them plainly.

“—I don’t care who he is!” A man was speaking, a voice that stiffened Sam Blythe to the same realization that had touched Mark Stigler on the outside. “Keep him away from here!”

“I don’t intend to keep anyone away whom I like. As a matter of fact, I don’t care for him.”

“Then tell him so!”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Luretta’s voice was taunting. “Are you afraid? Or won’t he listen to you?”

“Afraid? Of course not! Still, it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’d rather he not know we’re acquainted.”

“You weren’t always so hesitant.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Why, you never approved of Charlie, either. You knew I liked him, but you didn’t want me to like him.”

“That’s right. I didn’t.”

“One thing I’ll say for Charlie. He was a good spender. I don’t really care whether a man spends money on me or not, but it helps. And Charlie did.”

“You mean that I don’t? I think I’ve been pretty nice, lately.”

“Lately. Sometimes I wonder how you do it on your salary.”

“I manage.”

“As you managed a lot of other things? Like Charlie, for instance?”

There was no sound, then the man’s voice, lower and colder. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“Well, didn’t you? You didn’t really believe that I thought he was killed in a gang war, did you? Nobody wanted Charlie dead — nobody but you.”

The man laughed. “I always did like a smart girl! Well, now you know the sort of man I am, and you know just how we stand, and what I can do to you or anyone. The best of it is, they can’t touch me!”

There was a sound of a glass put down on a table. “Luretta, let’s drop this nonsense and get married. I’m going places and nothing can stop me.”

“No, I won’t marry you. This has gone far enough as it is.” Luretta’s voice changed. “You’d better go now. I never knew just what sort of person you were, although I always suspected. At first, I believed you were making things easy for me by not allowing too many questions, but now I realize you were protecting yourself.”

“Naturally! But I was protecting you, too.”

Joe Ragan got up and took his gun from the shoulder holster and slid it into his waist band. Blythe was already at the door. His jaw was set hard.

“I neither wanted nor needed protection,” Luretta was saying, “I cared for Charlie. I want you to know that. No, I wasn’t in love with him, but he was good to me, and I hadn’t any idea that you killed him. If I had, I’d never have spoken to you. Now get out!”

The man laughed. “Don’t be silly! We’re staying together, especially now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I wouldn’t dare let you go now. We’ll either get along together or you’ll get what Charlie got.” There was a bump as of a chair knocked over and a shout. “Stay away from that door!”

Ragan was moving fast, his face white. He swung into the hall and gripped the knob, but it was locked. There was a crash inside, and in a sudden fury of fear for the girl, he dropped his shoulder against the door in a lunge. The lock broke and he stumbled into the room.

Lieutenant Wells Ryerson threw the girl from him and grabbed his gun, but Ragan came too fast. Slapping the gun aside, he smashed a right to the chin, then a left. Ryerson fell backward, firing as he fell, then scrambled to his feet, lifting his gun.

Joe Ragan drew and fired in the same instant and his shot slammed Ryerson back against the wall, while the other bullet buried itself harmlessly in the wall. The gun dribbled from Ryerson’s fingers and he slipped to the floor.

His eyes opened and for a moment as they met Ragan’s they were sharp, clear and intelligent. “I told you,” he said hoarsely, “to close this one up fast. An air — tight case.”

His voice faded, and then he fought for air, and whispered, “It looked so — easy! The file — those — those ex-cons on the loose. I... I could make — record, and — money, too.”

He seemed to catch his breath, then exhaled slowly. He did not inhale again.

Mark Stigler stared at him. “Ryerson! Who would ever have believed it!” He glanced at Ragan, who stood with Luretta’s face buried against his shoulder. “What tipped you off?”

Ragan waved a hand. “It had to be somebody with access to the modus operandi file, and who could be out between three and five a.m. It couldn’t be you, Mark, because your wife wouldn’t stand for it. And Sam likes his sleep too well, but what really tipped me off was this,” he picked up a split paper match from an ash tray. “It was a habit he had of splitting the end of those matches.

“Matches like that were found on the Smiley and Miller jobs, and I found some in the alley near Ambler’s office.”

“Did Lew know his brother liked Luretta?”

“I doubt it.”

“What about Ambler?”

“I think he knew. And somehow he knew that it was Wells Ryerson who cracked his safe, and he must have called him. Ryerson didn’t dare return it for then there would always be someone who knew his secret.”

When the body had been taken away, Stigler looked over to Ragan. “Coming with us, Joe? Or are you staying?”

“Neither! We’re going to see Ruth Smiley, and I want that to be the first thing you do. Turn him loose.”

“She’ll be so happy!” Luretta said, when they were in the car. “It must be wonderful to make someone that happy!”

He chuckled. “You’ll find out, honey! You’ll find out!”