Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

Wealthy manufacturer M. Harrison Sprague rushed to break a puzzling appointment — with death.

Chapter One Unexpected Visitor

Awakened from sound sleep by the explosive bark of a gun, I looked for Lyria. The covers were thrown back — she was gone! The bedroom door stood wide open. I staggered out of bed, stumbling around in my pajamas. There was an acrid odor in the air; gunpowder. It was just getting daylight. Bits of the windowpane lay on the Persian rug; long, glittering splinters of sharp glass. Our bedroom is on the second floor of the house. The outside wall is of figured stone, easy to climb.

Lyria screamed! It came from somewhere downstairs, her voice muffled, rising thinly up the stair-well. Footfalls, frantic, fearful, came up the stairs and I whirled, ran to the vanity and picked up a bronze candleholder. The mirror tossed out my reflection, lips drawn back, new lines fanning around my blue eyes. I was staring at my own conscience! Yesterday afternoon I had flung the bank-loot in my safe downstairs, telling myself: Just overnight. Tomorrow you can return it. Tomorrow! And this was tomorrow — with my wife’s screams tearing me wide open!

I lunged into the hall.

Lyria ran toward me, stumbling, sobbing — threw herself into my arms. Her negligee was torn, silvery blonde hair whipping almost to her waist.

“What is it?” I choked.

“A man—” she gulped, fighting to get her breath. “I couldn’t see— He’s gone! I heard a noise, got up and went downstairs. He must have been up here! I thought he’d shot you! He came leaping downstairs. He had something over his face — something black — he grabbed me, threw me to one side and ran out the front door—”

With one hand I tried to jerk her arms from around my neck, gripping the candleholder in the other. “He must have put a bullet through the bedroom window. Let go, Lyria!”

“No, Monty! Stay here! Don’t go down—” Strong and supple, she wrestled me into the bedroom. “Let him go. He had a gun! What are you mixed up in? Tell me, Monty. I saw that money in the safe last night when I put my pearls away!”

I stared down into her eyes, breathing heavily. “Better get dressed.”

She pulled away from me. Her cheeks were ashen. “What is it, Monty? What?”

“I don’t know — for sure. But I can guess. Lyria, I’m in trouble up to my neck! He’s after me all right!”

“To kill you?” she whispered.

I looked at her. Until yesterday I would have said I had no enemies — unless I’d inherited some I didn’t know about since my manufacturing business began tottering three years before. This had been a riotous year, in which I’d married Lyria, built this fine house on the outskirts of Jacksonville, Florida, and decided only last week to slow down a bit.

My forty-two years couldn’t stand the strain of dumping my personal funds into the plant with one hand, and hurling luxuries at Lyria with the other. But yesterday—? Yes, I had an enemy — even if I didn’t know what he looked like exactly. Maybe more than one?

I grabbed up my robe, stuck my feet into straw slippers and moved toward the door, gripping the candleholder.

“Wait,” she panted. “I’m coming too.”

“You stay here!”

I slammed the door after me and plunged down the wide stairway to the floor below. Where were the servants? Then I remembered Lyria had taken them all to task yesterday about something or other — fired the lot of them. The front door was open.

My hand shook as I pulled it wider and stepped outside; padded toward the corner of the house, rounding it cautiously. In the gray half-light of dawn, nothing stirred. The grass beneath our bedroom window was spongy, wet with dew. There was lots of glass, almost as if the entire windowpane had fallen. It was impossible to detect footprints. Maybe he came this way; maybe not. I found a baseball bat. What connection that had I don’t know. I threw it back under the honeysuckle bush. A car was passing the line of palms hedging the highway and I realized I looked pretty silly clutching my improvised weapon. It was barely 5:30. I had a tennis match at 7:00; was supposed to fly to my plant in Tampa at 8:00. Our place is well out of Jacksonville, really isolated, and once the sound of that solitary car dwindled up the road, the silence seemed closing in...

As we finished dressing, Lyria kept eyeing me, vigorously brushing that shoulder-length cloud of silver, before the mirror. “We can’t just — just ignore a thing like this!”

“It wouldn’t do any good to call the police.”

“You mean you’re afraid too!”

Color was washing back into her face. Only twenty-six, she is attractive, the sleekness of that figure accentuated by her riotous hair, and eyes like a sleepy kitten’s eyes — sea green — wide and guileless. But those eyes were frightened now; filled with questions. “Someone may be only warning you, Monty — the first time. Is it — stolen money?”

“Funny,” I said thoughtfully. “In a way I’m a thief — simply by an act of omission. Simply because I didn’t drive right back to the bank and return it.”

She lowered the brush, turning slowly.

“Listen,” I pleaded, “Try first to understand. The business isn’t going good at all. You’ve known that. I haven’t even tried to fool you. I hate to lay people off. I’ve kept up our output of heaters—”

“The money in that box — I counted it last night. Almost sixty thousand dollars. Crisp bills with a bank seal. Its from that bank hold-up yesterday downtown, isn’t it?”

“Listen!” I said savagely. “I’m trying to explain to you what prompted the idiotic impulse to keep it overnight. Why I—”

“You don’t say how you got it? Aren’t you ever going to get around to that?”

“Well shut up and let me! I was parked in front of the bank, ready to drive off, when there was a lot of shooting — you read the headlines last night in the paper — and one of the crooks ran right past me. He took a good look, tossed that tin box into the back seat and kept going. I just sat there.

“The police ordered me on finally, after I’d identified myself with the help of some of the cashiers. They all know me. No one saw anything. I couldn’t even give them a description.”

“The paper said they got them all — three of them — killed them, Monty!”

“What do you think?”

She shivered. “He traced the car license — here! He knows you on sight.”

I turned back to the mirror, knotting my tie.

“Monty — you’re insane!”

“Sure. How am I going to get the money back to the bank?”

“Oh just walk in and say — ‘I’ve had a change of heart. I needed this in my business, but now I’m scared.’ ”

I saw her eyes in the mirror, drifting over me scornfully.

“Lyria!”

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?”

I strode over and caught her arm roughly. “I’ve been worried lately. Couldn’t you see? I’ve spent far too much on — things — this house. I was tempted— Hell yes, I was tempted! But only for awhile. The money’s going back to the bank!”

She pretended to be applauding.

I saw red.

Then abruptly she relented, melting into my arms.

“You’d better go away, darling.”

“A trip!”

Her face crumbled, lips quivering. “Please, Monty. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you. He’ll be back. He’s a big man — savage — a killer! Look where his hand gripped my arm?” She showed me an ugly bruise.

“What was he wearing? What can you remember about him?”

“I don’t know — the shock of seeing him plunging at me — a shape — he was just a big shape. Monty! Today — promise me you won’t do the usual routine things? Caned your appointments. We’ll go away — just for a few days!”

I held her trembling body close, surprised, and a bit angered that her terror could effect me like this. I was peering at the drapes along the wall as if expecting a movement — a sudden glimpse of a gun barrel.

“D’you think I’d take you with me?” I growled. “If I’m somebody’s target I certainly won’t have you mixed up in it!”

“You must go, Monty. Hide the money somewhere for a few days. Maybe under the edge of the swimming pool?”

It was a place we had often joked about; only she and I had discovered it. She was right. I had to get the tin box out of the house.

The task was easily accomplished. Our pool is surrounded by a high wall. But first I made doubly sure I was unobserved by sauntering around casually outside. Later I beat it back inside, greatly relieved, and we completed plans in the living room. I would take the convertible and drive—

“Sh-h-h—” she implored.

“You mean—?”

“I don’t even trust the walls,” she said slowly. “If you’re going to vanish, Monty — don’t tell anyone your destination!”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “But you can’t stay here alone. I’ll—”

“Have you forgotten?” She was checking the contents of my overnight bag.

“Your sister!” I exclaimed. “I’ve never met her — and she’s arriving today from Chicago!”

“Of course.”

“But what will you tell her about me?”

Lyria paused, dismayed. “What should I tell her, Monty? That you’re away on business?” She eyed me anxiously. “That would sound all right.”

“Sure,” I said. “Tell her anything. And Lyria — fill the house with people. You two mustn’t be alone. Don’t worry about me. This will be a little vacation. I’ll figure out a way to get the money back to the bank without implicating myself.”

Her lovely eyes clouded. “Oh, Monty, take me with you!”

I shook my head firmly.

“I’ll live by the phone,” she said. “If you need me—?”

“Of course!”

It was exciting — racing the car down long, open stretches of highway beside the blue gulf. Unconsciously, I had decided to head this way, instead of inland. Friends at the Club would never have recognized M. Harrison Sprague, wealthy manufacturer of hot water heaters. I wore dark-colored glasses, no hat at all, and sport clothes much in need of pressing. And I hit the accelerator hard, between towns.

Lunch was a brief affair. A loose wire under the dash had been giving me trouble. I monkeyed with it awhile. Then I was off again. Miami milage signs were growing more frequent. Saturday traffic was getting thick. A strange tenseness entered my hands. I was jumpy on the wheel, passing cars with too little margin to spare. I’ve made the trip before — but never with this feeling of impending disaster close at hand.

A flaming sunset dappled the cloudy horizon as I merged with the long line of cars on Biscayne Boulevard. I spotted a neon sign: EMPIRE HOTEL, and a parking lot; pulled into the driveway and eased up against the brick wail of the building. The motor sputtered. I fiddled with that loose wire again, but gave it up, hauling my grip out of the back. Momentarily I stood admiring the green sweep of grass beyond the boulevard, leading down to the bay, then walked around the corner of the building, glancing at my wristwatch. It was 6:30.

The lobby was large, comfortable, fat marble pillars extending up to a high ceiling. No bellhops came rushing forward. This seemed to be one of those moderate places that seek the average tourist trade. I lowered my grip before the long desk at the rear and a clerk rose from behind a switchboard.

He hurried forward, tall, dark haired, wearing glasses, an affable smile lighting his scarred face — the scar was more like a cleft in his chin, faintly purple. He turned the ledger around for me to sign.

I hesitated, then scrawled my name in a bold baud.

He whirled the book around dexterously. “Oh yes — Mr. Sprague. I have your reservation.”

I almost dropped my glasses as I slipped them in my pocket, eyeing him sharply. “Must be a mistake.”

He bent above the name again. “M. Harrison Sprague? No sir. I received a phone call about four o’clock.” He went over to the switchboard, ruffled through a few pieces of paper, moved to the key rack and brought out a key from box 214 with a slip of paper. “Here it is, Mr. Sprague. I’ve given you room 214 — very nice—” He handed me the paper.

On it was scribbled a notation in pencil: M. Harrison Sprague. Phoned 4:30 p.m. Saturday.

I looked at him. “But at four-thirty I was sixty miles from here!”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps a friend—?”

“Was it a man’s voice?”

“Yes sir.”

“I see.” I said slowly.

He came out from behind the counter and picked up my grip. I followed him across the lobby to the stairs. There was an elevator, but the door was closed, the indicator hand moving slowly from 4 to 1. We mounted to the second floor, moving down a dim hall.

He let me into room 214, fussed around opening the window, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. I reached in my pocket for a tip. He smiled, shaking his head. The overhead light gleamed on his glasses as he put the key in the door and left.

I closed the door, locked it, sat down limply on the bed, fumbling for my cigarette case. This was utterly impossible! No one knew I was coming to Miami, nor to this hotel. I hadn’t known it myself! And yet someone had phoned a reservation in my name at 4:30! I lit a cigarette, sitting very still, trying to think. I gazed around the room.

There was a phone. For an instant I battled a crazy notion to call Lyria — tell her about it. But I put the desire out of my mind. Presently I stood up, snubbing the cigarette in an ash tray on the dresser.

The phone rang.

I picked it up. The operator’s voice said she had a long distance call for M. Harrison Sprague! I groped for the back of a chair, leaning heavily.

“New York calling. Mr. Sprague?”

“Yes.” I replied weakly.

She spoke to someone on the other end of the line, “Here’s your party, sir.” A pause, a strange man’s voice spoke quickly, sharp and dear: “Sprague? You have something that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll have a visitor soon!”

“Who is this?” I asked.

There was a dick. The line was dead.

My heart was banging against my ribs as I replaced the phone on the table. I didn’t know anyone in New York. How could a hoodlum that held up a bank in Jacksonville, have someone phone me from New York, a few minutes after I’d checked into a hotel I never expected to stop at? In Miami! This was too much!

The overhead light blazed down from the ceiling, unwinking. The sound of traffic outside was muffled, distant. The room began to take on an eerie aspect. I peered into the bathroom. Empty. There was a door on the other side of the room. It opened, I found, into a huge, barren clothes closet. I looked under the bed. I was sweating. Maybe I should get help? But who could I trust? I was a stranger in this city. I didn’t even have a gun, in case my soon-to-be-visitor—?

I strode over and threw open the window, stood for a long time watching the lights on Miami Beach across the causeway. At 6:45 ft was already dark. A warm wind blew across the sill, fanning my face. Abruptly I couldn’t take this room any longer. It was a trap! I stepped to the hall door, unlocked ft, yanked it open.

There was nothing out there — except a sour, musty odor. Turning off the light at the wall switch, I whipped the key to the outside of the door, stepped out and locked it behind me, slipping the key in my pocket. I needed fresh air — and a chance to think — maybe the opportunity, once outside, to start running—?

I found the stairs and started down. A man was coming up, taking two steps at a time, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness. He was neatly dressed, hatless, with iron-gray hair and glasses. I slunk back against the wall, half raising my fist.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said soothingly. “The police are here now. It’s all right. Just an attempted robbery. I’m the manager, Mr. Albritton.”

“An attempted robbery? Here?”

He shook my hand off his arm impatiently. “Yes. My clerk was slugged and bound, dragged into the inner office. But he’ll be all right. They’re taking him in the ambulance now. You can go down, Mr.—?”

“Sprague. I’m in 214.”

“Oh yes — Mr. Sprague.” He started on up, changed his mind, muttering, “I must tell the police those crooks didn’t locate the wall safe. Nothing was taken.” He plunged downstairs again.

I followed.

He went across to a group of people at the desk, spoke to a blue-uniformed figure. They went back into an office beyond the switchboard. A few people were standing around, either guests of the hotel or onlookers attracted from the street. A siren moaned in the darkness out front, growing fainter.

I chatted with a bellhop near the elevator but didn’t learn much. He said the hotel had been “stuck up” about a year ago. This time they didn’t get anything. “Better stick around,” he advised me. “They may want to question everybody.”

I nodded, but headed toward the front door.

A detective eyed me suspiciously. At least I judged he was a detective when he came out of the manager’s office. He topped my one hundred and forty pounds by a good sixty, hat pulled low over his eyes, maneuvering past the switchboard, lifting the hinged part of the front desk and stepping into the lobby.

I knew he was watching me. I’m afraid I wore my fear badly — my hands were shaking when I paused, trying to light a cigarette.

He passed me slowly.

Chapter Two Crowded on the Inside

Avoiding his gaze I sauntered toward a phone booth, fumbling for change, heard him say something to the cop who was stationed by the front door, then his heavy stride approaching.

I closed the door; the light flicked on, and the operator’s voice was crisp, impersonal.

I asked for long distance. I was worried about Lyria — or maybe I just had to hear her voice again.

The echo returned: “Long Distance?”

“I’m calling Jacksonville. Mrs. M. Harrison Sprague. Reverse the charges. The number is—”

He pulled the booth door open, rested one shoulder against the edge, motioning for me to continue.

My ears grew red. I didn’t hang up because it would look suspicious. Instead, I repeated my information to the operator and added the number. Then there was the formality of waiting, and finally Lyria’s cool voice on the wire: “Monty? I’ve been waiting.”

“Guess where I am!” I could hear the radio going, a woman’s laughing voice.

“Are you all right?”

I wanted to tell her — so many things, but I said I was all right.

Her voice lowered: “I wish I was along.”

“You can’t guess how much I wish that,” I agreed fervently, “But, it’s best this way. Did your sister arrive?”

“Yes. She wanted to meet you. Monty—? Your voice sounds — worried. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lied hastily. “You sound a bit strange yourself. Maybe it’s the phone. Now listen, don’t worry, Lyria. Please.”

“How can I help it? Has anything happened?”

“No! I’ve got to hang up, Lyria. See you soon?”

She murmured what any husband likes to hear and I was smiling — until I turned.

He’d been taking it all in, face expressionless.

“My wife,” I explained coldly. “What do you want?”

His upper lip lifted slightly, exposing strong, white teeth. He took his time about stepping back and letting me emerge. “I’ll ask the questions, mister. There’s been an attempted robbery here.

“I know that. I checked in at six-thirty. It must have happened shortly afterward.”

He bit off the end of a black cigar, looking around for a cuspidor. “What are you so jittery for?”

“I’m not.”

“Anybody here identify you?”

I clenched my hands. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“I asked for your identification!”

While I fumbled angrily for my wallet, he spat on the floor, one hand carelessly sliding beneath his light, gray topcoat.

I’ve never been mistaken for a thug before. I didn’t like the faint prickles it aroused in the small of my back. “My name’s Sprague,” I told him. “I’m a stranger here. But my driver’s license ought to prove who I am. And here’s my check book — a business card—”

He thumbed through everything thoroughly, pausing to study my card. “Sprague Manufacturing Company.” His eyebrows lifted. “Hot water heaters.”

I didn’t like him, and yet — he seemed capable. There was a solidness about him — not just physically. He was tough, experienced. My eyes were taking him apart, estimating. How much should I tell him — about me? I realized that here was an opportunity to get protection — if I handled it right.

“I need your help,” I blurted. “Something’s happened in the last hour — since I checked into this hotel.”

He tossed the wallet back. “I’ll say it has. The clerk’s on his way to a hospital for one thing!”

“I don’t mean the hold-up or whatever it was. I mean to me.”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated, groping for words. “Someone knows every move I’m making. I don’t know who or why.” I dug out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to him. “Will you help me — say — unofficially?”

He was silent, the bill lost in his fist, black eyes studying me.

A bellhop brushed past with a handful of luggage. There was a different clerk at the desk, gazing nervously around the lobby, fooling with the inkwell. Suddenly I was desperately afraid that this big man wouldn’t help me. I watched him apprehensively, holding my breath.

The bill disappeared, tucked in a vest pocket. “M’name’s, Mace,” he grunted. “I’ve got to make a report. How about waiting in the bar?”

I nodded, relieved, staring after his broad back as he moved away. He went to the desk. The clerk ran and brought him a phone, asking several rapid questions, desisting when Mace volunteered nothing but grunts.

I went into the cocktail lounge, took a table and a Collins, grateful for dim lights and the booth at my back. A Vieneese waltz drifted from the radio. There were a few people seated at the bar, laughing and whispering, receiving scowls from the bartender. But none of this affected me, nor held my interest. I don’t suppose anything could really penetrate that fog of fear swirling within my mind. That voice—? I peered around furtively. There was no one in the next booth. I forced the quiver from my hands as I raised my glass.

He walked in a moment later, removing his coat. His glance found me, merged with the gloom. He thrust his bulk my way; a smooth, heavy stride, devouring the distance between us; squeezed in across from me. “All right, Sprague. From now until midnight I’m on my own time. Let’s cut the formalities and get down to facts!”

“What’ll you drink?” I asked.

“Skip it.” He pushed his hat to the back of his head, eyes drifting over me appraisingly, missing no detail. “You look crowded — crowded on the inside. Know what I mean? I’ve seen guys takin’ the last walk that looked better.”

I drew a shaky breath. “I must admit I am afraid. I think I’ll tell you first about the bullet hole in the window.”

I told him that part as briefly and concisely as I could, finishing with: “So you see I left Jacksonville this morning, driving alone, not heading any particular place.”

“Destination unknown, huh?”

It didn’t sound too good, the way he said it. I lifted my glass swallowing the rest of my drink. “That’s correct, Mace. I picked the Empire hotel just by chance; maybe because it had a parking lot easily accessible. I registered, and when the clerk saw my name he assured me my reservation had been taken care of. I was dumfounded! He had all the information scribbled on a card. The call had come in at four-thirty — a man’s voice, he said. But at four-thirty I was sixty miles from here!”

Mace looked skeptical.

I plunged on grimly. “There weren’t any bellhops around at the moment and he showed me up to the room. While I was having a smoke, the phone rang. It was a long distance call from New York. I don’t know anyone in New York.” I paused, sweat coming out on my forehead.

Mace flicked an ash from his cigar, watching me. “Go on.”

“It was a man’s voice, sharp and clear. He said, ‘M. Harrison Sprague? You’ll have a visitor soon!’ ”

“Go on.”

“That’s all. He hung up.”

Mace blew smoke at the ceiling, eyes almost closed. His left hand lay flat on the table, fingers lifting in time with the music crooning from the radio. “You checked in at six-thirty you said? How long were you in the room before you got the call?”

“I finished a cigarette — about three or four minutes, maybe less.”

“No visitor yet?”

I looked around uncomfortably, shaking my head.

He scratched his chin, a faint, rasping sound above the music. “Did you hear the operator’s voice?”

“Yes. She said, ‘here’s your party, sir’ to the man on the other end. One thing I am sure of — no one knew what town I’d stop in tonight — or that it would be this hotel. How could they? I didn’t know it myself until I got here!”

“Got any enemies?” he asked softly.

I looked him straight in the eye and shook my head.

He planted both elbows on the table, leaning forward. “You’ve stepped on somebody’s toes, haven’t you? Look, Sprague — you gotta come clean with me if you expect me to dig up the dirt. No guy’s perfect!”

I flushed. “I don’t say I am. But—” I spread my hands helplessly. “There isn’t anyone. I’m just an average person. Why would anybody—?”

“I’d say you’re above average. Owner of a manufacturing business, able to take off when you feel like it. That suit cost better than two hundred bucks. Right?”

I remained silent a moment, digesting this. “You think it’s money someone’s after?”

His lip lifted. “What else?”

“But how? And that New York call—”

“We’ll check on that in a minute. How many people knew you were taking this trip today”

“Only my wife.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. But she didn’t know where I was going. She couldn’t even have let it slip accidentally. Lyria was more frightened than I was. She urged me to cancel my appointments today and just vanish for awhile. She wanted to come with me, but of course I wouldn’t let her.”

“Naturally.”

I didn’t like the way he said it, his eyes half closed, not actually regarding me, as if his thoughts were racing far ahead. “A bullet hole in the window. Glass all over—” He paused, eyeing the tip of his cigar, gripped between the stubby fingers of his left hand. “You smelled gunpowder. How about your wife? Did she smell it too?”

“I don’t remember that I asked her. I was a bit confused — awakened from sound sleep like that. But you can leave her out of it, Mace.”

He shook his head. “That’s just where I begin, Sprague.”

I half rose.

He shoved me back. “Okay. So you’re touchy. But I’m sticking to facts. I’ve got to earn my hundred between now and midnight. That doesn’t give me much time.”

The blood was suddenly throbbing in my temples. “I said leave her out of it!”

His eyes went cold, boring into mine, probing.

When I couldn’t stand any more of it, I looked down into my empty glass. Lyria’s red lips, softly curved — her face — seemed to stare up from the bottom. I could hear her voice, frightened — or had it been coaxing? “Go away, darling. Now!” But her terror was entirely natural. Why shouldn’t she be worried about me? Me, with a stick-up artist on my neck, and sixty thousand hot dollars! A kill-crazy shape — hurtling downstairs.

Mace was watching me — sympathetically.

“Look,” I spluttered, “I just talked to Lyria on the phone. She doesn’t know yet where I am. She didn’t want me to tell her; probably in case someone was listening in. If you can’t do any better than to suspect her—?”

“What about the sister?”

“Viola? I never met her. She’s with Lyria now. You can’t connect her with this. How do you explain the fact that someone knew I’d stop here tonight?”

“There’s only one way to explain it. If you weren’t so upset you’d have figured it out.”

I sat back slowly. “How?”

“You were tailed. As you put it yourself — someone knows every move you’re making.”

I stared — trying to think back over long stretches of highway, recalling nothing particularly suspicious...

“You forget,” I said, “the clerk. He said a reservation was made at four-thirty this afternoon. I wasn’t even here yet!”

“That’s easy too. He was probably lying in his teeth!”

“He never saw me before in his life. Why would he?”

Mace sighed. “You’re a nice fella, Sprague. Would it break your heart if I informed you that there are rascals and scoundrels in the world?”

I stiffened. “We don’t need the wise remarks, Mace. Maybe this is funny to you — but not to me!”

His expression hardened. “It isn’t funny. Murder seldom is.”

“Murder?”

“Yeah. Yours. I never saw a better build-up for just that.”

The music was pounding, pounding. Someone had turned up the volume. I smiled a bit uncertainly. “You put it pretty strong. Are you trying to scare the hell out of me? Because if you are—”

“Someone beat me to it,” he said curtly. “Whoever your little playmates are — they play rough. You should have seen that clerk’s head.”

I looked my bewilderment.

He leaned across the table. “It was six forty-five when the manager found him lying on the floor of the inner office. Just how long before that he was slugged, we don’t know.”

“But what has that to do with me? I told you I checked in at 6:30. He was all right when he showed me to my room.”

Mace frowned, snubbed out his cigar. “Maybe plenty. I want to check that long distance phone call.” He rose, shrugging on his topcoat.

“Shall I — sit tight then?”

He glanced around. “You better stick with me. Come on.”

I tossed the bartender a bill and followed him into the lobby. At the desk, Mace beckoned the clerk.

“Do you keep a record of all phone calls?”

The young man shook his head. “Just out-going.”

“Get the supervisor on the wire and find out if there have been any New York calls to this hotel within the last four or five hours.”

“Yes sir.” The man hurried over to the switchboard.

Mace drew out another cigar, eyeing me. “You wanta bet there haven’t been?”

“You think the call was faked from right here?”

“Sure.”

“But the operator’s voice—?”

“All right. A man and a woman did the faking — so we’re after a man and a woman.”

“As simple as that? They walk into a hotel and take over the switchboard?”

“You said no one was around but the clerk when you checked in,” he pointed out. “This is only a two-hundred room joint, usually only one bell-hop on duty, as I recall it, and he probably shoots craps in the basement every chance he gets!”

“But the clerk—?”

“He was slugged. Remember?”

We stood waiting. Presently the desk-man returned, shaking his head.

“No call from New York.”

Mace looked at me, turned back to the clerk. “I wanta know one more thing — about the clerk who got slugged. Describe him for Mr. Sprague here.”

The young man stared. “You mean William Baker? I thought you saw him? He’s about fifty-five, real short, five foot three or four, red-headed—”

At the look on my face he stopped.

“That’s not the man,” I declared. “You’re not talking about the clerk at all! The clerk was tall, dark-haired, weighed about one hundred and seventy, had a scarred chin — a peculiar scar, jagged, faintly purple. He wore glasses.”

The clerk flushed. “I guess I know what I’m talking about. We’ve worked alternate shifts for three years!”

“Never mind,” Mace grunted. He grabbed me by the arm, drew me across the lobby out of ear-shot. “Good for you, Sprague. You’ve got an eye for detail.”

I shrugged him away. “What are you talking about? I tell you that man’s lying about the other clerk!”

“No he’s not. He’s talkin’ about the clerk all right. But you’re talkin’ about the man we’re after — or who’s after you — either way you wanta look at it. And there’s a woman in on the deal all right! Or else how could they have faked the operator’s voice?”

Mace was excited. It was the first time I had seen his face lose its immobility. “You see,” he said, “I’ll gamble it’s like this—. The clerk, Baker, was slugged before you checked in. They got him out of the way. This other guy posed as a clerk. It was a fast switch because he had to familiarize himself with the desk set-up, pick the right key for an unoccupied room, scribble that fake reservation business on a card — all the time keeping one eye out for a bellhop or some guest who might give him away. Probably the woman stood by to help out in any way she could if something like that happened.

I nodded slowly. “If I was being followed on the way down, they saw what hotel I picked when I swung into the parking lot, and then beat me inside the hotel!”

“Sure! Think back... You probably took a few minutes getting your grip out of the car, locking it up—?”

“As a matter of fact, there’s a loose wire under the dash. It caused me some trouble today. I fooled with it a minute or two, but quit because it was getting dark.”

“Sure they had time to knock the clerk out!” He pulled me around a corner of the lobby near a large pillar, almost hidden from the elevator.

The full impact of his reasoning began to sink in. Everything fit. An eerie feeling sent my pulse racing. It was like unseen hands reaching from the dark for my throat — reaching — to what end? Why? The money was under the edge of the swimming pool. If they wanted to snatch me; force me to lead them to the tin box, why all this hocus pocus? Mace had only certain pieces of this jigsaw puzzle to work with. I was afraid to give him more. But I put the question to him anyway. Why?

He looked at me for a long moment, appraisingly. “You seem to have a pretty stiff backbone at that. I’m gonna level with you on this case because we gotta work together. You know what the guy looks like and I don’t.”

“Well?”

“As I see it they’re trying to scare the hell out of you. Maybe wanta smoke you into going to the police here in Miami, telling a crazy story. They may fake an attempt on your life, so you tell the cops here about it. Then it’s on record. See? You’re a long way’s from home. You get knocked off — probably tonight — they might make it look like suicide. Anyway, the point is — the little lady at home is in the clear. See? All the dough you’ve got belongs to her, and the guy workin’ with her — and I imagine you’ve got plenty!”

I stood there, dazed. Then I swung.

He handled me very easily. My uppercut missed a mile. He jerked me behind the large pillar out of view of the desk and the cop by the door. By my second wild blow caught him on the mouth, and a thin, red string ran down over his chin. He slammed me back hard against the pillar, his breath hot on my face. “You fool! She’s played you for a sucker, and that hurts. Sure. Now grow up! It’s your life, Sprague. And they want it!”

Anger blurred my vision. Perhaps what he said stirred an instinctive fear deep within me. “I don’t want any part of you,” I rasped. “Get away from me, Mace, or I’ll kill you!”

He sneered. “You’re just off your nut. Cool down, fella. You think a bullet went through your bedroom window? Uh uh. A bullet makes a clean-cut penetration through glass; maybe a few cracks spreading away from the point of impact — you said half the window-pane was on the lawn, long splinters of glass, didn’t you? Use your head. Something was thrown through it from the inside, probably the baseball bat. Your wife could have fired a blank cartridge, a real gun for that matter — split timing wouldn’t matter — you were asleep.

“She was after an effect, something to make you think a killer had been heading into your bedroom. She probably sent the servants away the day before. Anyway, it scared you, and her talk of a man being in the house cinched it. And — get this — there’s no real evidence of anything except a broken window which is probably repaired by now. Kick me off the case? You—”

I was trembling. “You’re off!”

Slowly he released me, stepped back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He pulled out a handkerchief then and did a better job, grimacing wryly.

I left him there, walking blindly toward the stairs, fumbling for the key to my room.

A bellhop looked at me curiously as I passed. “Elevator, sir?”

“I’ll walk,” I mumbled, and took the stairs two at a time.

I don’t know what I really had in mind — to get out of the hotel and drive — anywhere. Get my grip. And think. Just think about Lyria, and how much she meant to me, and try to get back on an even footing. She could have made up the story about the “shape,” bruised her own arm.

She knew about the money in the safe last night. That gave her a few hours to plan. I hated Mace for what he was doing — destroying my faith in her. I hated everyone and everything at that moment and it was all the worse because down inside I was icy with fear!

The second floor hall was dim. I found myself wandering the wrong way; turned and retraced my steps. When I got to my room I paused and stared stupidly. The door was ajar. I hesitated — but common sense precaution wasn’t in me at the moment. I edged in, fumbling along the wall for the lights witch. The room seemed filled with a clammy dampness. My fingers brushed the wall vainly. There was a faint rattle as the breeze drifted in through the open window. Then I touched the plastic switch.

The overhead light sprayed down — silently, relentlessly, probing that object in the middle of the room. A sight that brought a hoarse scream to my lips, “Lyria!”

Her green eyes were wide, staring... Her slim, crumpled form stiffly propped in an armchair directly facing me, silvery hair falling in a disheveled cloud... A red, sponge-like stain spread horribly across the front of her blouse. My visitor had arrived!

For endless seconds, my scream dying in my throat, I stood numb, unbelieving. I took a faltering step forward and something blasted my skull, thrusting me into a black void, thick and soundless...

Chapter Three Don’t Come Back

Years may have passed; centuries. I saw a pin point of light. Something was moving. My head jiggled up and down, throbbing, cradled on a man’s arm. I looked up into a familiar face. Mace!

“Take it easy,” he advised. “Close your eyes again if it makes you feel better.”

Close my eyes? I didn’t think I’d ever close my eyes again! He was pressing a cold towel against the side of my head, his voice rattling on and on, “It isn’t bleeding now. You’re lucky. I told you they play rough. Maybe you’ll have sense enough to keep me on your team? It’s a good thing I decided to follow you.”

“Lyria,” I groaned, thrusting him away and sitting bolt upright. The chair was empty! My eyes darted around the room. “My wife—” I shuddered, grabbing his arm, babbling out the story.

“Here?” Mace exclaimed incredulously. “Dead? Look, fella — that sock on the head made you woozy!”

I climbed to my feet, staggering around the room. “I saw her, Mace. She had blood on her blouse.”

“Yeah? You talked to her on the phone a half hour ago too. And Jacksonville is a long ways from here!”

“The blood.”

“Shut up!”

I pressed my hands to my head, knees almost buckling; slumped on the edge of the bed. “I told you I had no enemies, Mace. I lied.”

He sucked in his breath. “You didn’t lie very well, Sprague. You’re not very practiced at it. I knew you were holdin’ out.”

“I was afraid, Mace, that’s why I didn’t tell you all of it. I thought he’d be after me, not Lyria. I left her there this morning. He must have got to her. She wouldn’t tell where the money was. He killed her.”

“Stop babbling!” he roared. “What money?”

I began shivering uncontrollably.

He jerked me up with one mawl-like hand, commenced cuffing me, slowly, methodically, open-handed blows that sent pain stabbing through my head.

My ears ringing, I began to talk, lucidly — and to the point, and he dropped me. I told him about the bank hold-up; the tin box containing almost sixty thousand dollars. That didn’t surprise him because he’d read the teletape at police headquarters. But as for my part in it—?

He stood wide-legged, hands on his hips, hat pushed back, and a look on his face that said I was a damned liar. Those opaque eyes nailed me to the bed.

“You don’t think I intended to return the money? Mace — Listen—. It’s hidden safely right now. Only Lyria knows where. Would I be telling you all this? Would I? Lyria’s dead. Murdered!” I covered my face with my hands.

After a long moment, his voice reached me, as though he was speaking to himself. “You couldn’t be lying, mister. Not now.” He began prowling about the room, searching for something. “This chair here?” he asked, “Facing the door?”

I looked up, groaned an affirmative.

“Too theatrical,” he said disgustedly. “And they can’t lug a corpse around like a suitcase.” He stopped, bent over and made a swipe at something with his fingers on the rug. They came away red. He brought it close to his face. “Look, Sprague.”

“Don’t!” I was shuddering again. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

He lunged toward me, one fist raised threateningly.

I ducked, raising my guard, blood rushing back into my face.

He ploughed to a standstill. “That’s better,” he growled. “They’re trying to turn your guts into jelly. Stay mad, Sprague. Stay mad! Take a poke at me if it’ll help any. But don’t give in to ’em. Your wife isn’t dead. I’d bet on it! She isn’t dead!”

“Not dead” I repeated inanely.

“I told you I had this thing figured! She was faking. If you’d have got to her you’d have known — but they saw to it you didn’t.” He jammed his finger under my nose. “Smell it!”

I sniffed, filled with a mixture of relief and loathing. It was catsup!

Mace brought one big fist into the palm of his hand with a resounding crack. “From now on we’re after them! Here’s your hat. Let’s get outta here!”

I stumbled to my feet. “Where?”

“We’ll use your car. I know this town like a book. We’ll make the rounds and you keep your eyes open for the guy with the scarred chin and — your wife!”

Lyria? Lyria wasn’t dead? I grabbed his arm. “But who did I talk with when I phoned home? Don’t you think I know my own wife’s voice? Mace you’re crazy! You—”

“The sister, you fat-head! Their voices are probably identical, or enough alike to fool you. Come on! We’re wasting time.”

“If Lyria was faking, Mace. That means she—?”

He grabbed my hat and shoved it into my hands, pushing me impatiently out into the hall, snapping off the light and closing the door. He reached into a shoulder holster and pulled out his revolver. “Here — keep this .38 handy. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

“But you—?”

“I’m not in your shoes.”

I slipped the gun into the side pocket of my coat. It was awkward and bulky and the pocket flap wouldn’t lay down, but it was the best I could do. The sagging weight of it felt pretty good at that. “Thanks, Mace.” I hesitated. “About tonight — there in the lobby. I lost my head. It isn’t easy to believe that Lyria — that my wife—”

“Oh shut up!” He batted at the brim of his hat. “I’d feel the same.”

We went down the hall. The stairs gave my head a jolting. It felt like it was tearing from my neck. I barely noticed the people in the lobby, but the hands of the clock above the front door stood at 8. I must have been unconscious longer than I realized.

Why hadn’t they finished me when they had the chance? Or was my friend, Mace, upsetting their plans? Or — and this was what gave me the peculiar feeling in my mid-section — were they biding their time; waiting for a better opportunity?

We were rounding the corner of the building, bending into a stiff breeze, Mace in the lead. The parking lot was black, no attendant. He held out his hand warningly, pressing me back against the brick wall. “Steady. Let’s wait a second. Which is your car?”

I pointed to the convertible.

“Soupy looking crate,” he said appreciatively.

But I knew he was stalling, eyes trying to pierce the shadows for any shape that might be lurking. I swallowed, looking up at the stars, thankful that I had a man like Mace at my side.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I led off to the car, handing him the keys. “You better drive.”

He shrugged, unlocked the door and climbed in first. As I slid in and closed the door, he found the starter, and the lights, backed us around in a tight circle. “We’ll hit a couple of roadhouses I know, Sprague. Ten to one they’d spot a place on the outskirts of town; the same route you came in from Jacksonville — the coast, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“My guess is, they’d use a joint out there somewhere for headquarters.”

He fell silent, and we wound through the boulevard traffic. It began to thin out finally. I recognized a super gas station. “It’s a slim chance, isn’t it?” I broke the silence at last. “They could be almost anywhere.” It was then I glanced into the double, rear-vision mirror and noticed the headlights following us. Those lights had been with us all the time and surely Mace was aware of it? Of course they’d be spotting the hotel when we came out, but playing it smart, keeping well hidden. Maybe Mace didn’t want to alarm me, but had figured all along that it would happen this way?

His eyes were on me. The light from the dash reflected flinty chips in those cold depths, then his gaze shifted back to the road. We were flying like a greased bow-string, wrapping up each turn of the highway neat and tight. Flying into the blank darkness of nowhere while a chill crept up my legs that wasn’t caused by the rushing wind.

The suspicion insinuated itself into my aching brain — exploded to full-blown warning. Was Mace really a policeman? I had never asked for any credentials, just assumed it because he had blustered up to me there in the phone booth — because he wanted me to think that perhaps? I thought he had exchanged official words with that cop by the door, but — he could have asked the time — anything! There in the room I had almost told Mace where I had hidden the money! Was Lyria — alive?

He was insisting that she was, trying to prove to me that she was behind all this. But was she? And here I was being rushed to an appointment — with those in the car behind — an appointment with — death?

My fingers encountered the gun in my right coat pocket. Why had he given it to me? My new-found distrust wavered. I told myself that I was simply worked up, so unstrung that it was too easy to imagine anything. To hand a man a loaded gun— Loaded? I felt it over with my fingers. How did I break it open to find out? It had been a long time since I’d handled a gun, but I remembered the trick of the catch on the top of the frame.

Presently, in that roomy pocket, I managed it. With my forefinger I discovered that the cylinder was devoid of shells. He had removed the bullets before handing it to me. Simple. Probably while I was still unconscious in that room.

I didn’t dare close the gun again, afraid he’d hear the slight click. My head was throbbing, but I managed to keep my face calm.

He was slowing, peering ahead. I saw that those lights stayed a good distance behind; were even now dropping farther back. A blue, neon sign flickered off to the right: “Jack’s Place.”

“I’ll pull in,” Mace said. “Liable to find anybody here. Usually some pretty tough boys. They run a game upstairs. We’ll have a quick drink and see what goes.”

Cars were parked before the door at haphazard angles and I noticed a big space behind the building, when our lights flashed over it, that held a few more. Watching Mace from the corner of my eye, I saw him glance that way, then into the rear mirror. Did he know they’d be here soon, perhaps in the next few moments, waiting out back?

He coasted up silently, shooting between two sleek looking sedans; motioned me out. We headed for the door, Mace taking the lead. “Don’t tip your hand if you see him,” he cautioned. “I’ll know by your face. Better jerk your hat over your eyes. And don’t pull that gun on anybody. That’s my end of the deal.”

“All right,” I agreed quietly. My teeth drew back from my lips when he turned. Somehow I’d give him the slip...

Eyes swung toward us when we entered and I kept my head lowered, following Mace to the bar. There were tables and booths, partially filled, the usual juke-box pitching an assortment of jive. The man behind the bar had a towel wrapped around his bull-neck. He nodded at Mace coldly, ignoring me altogether.

Over our drinks, such as they were, we gazed into a long mirror, eyeing the crowd. I saw a dapper little man edge toward a rear hallway and disappear. Mace looked at me questioningly.

“Don’t see him,” I mumbled to him quietly.

He nodded.

I saw his gaze shift toward the front door; linger there. His coat bulged out at the hip and I was convinced he had another gun hidden there. Our eyes met in the mirror above the bar.

“You look better,” he said. “Up in the hotel room I thought you’d pass out on me.”

I managed a stiff nod. “Because I didn’t know what I was up against before Mace.”

His lips twitched as though at a fleeting, humorous thought. “Yeah.”

The front door swung open. I gripped my glass so tight my knuckles ached, but it was only a newsboy. He began circling among the tables. I was tense, watching—

“We’ll stay here awhile,” Mace said out of the corner of his mouth. “Take it easy.”

Yes. Take it easy. While he was holding me here, what was going on outside? I was burning with impatience. They probably wouldn’t come in here at all. And presently he’d suggest we go back to my car. Once out there in the dark, what chance would I have? The time to make the break was now!

The juke box was blasting out with another round of rumba, screeching, jangling my nerves. I stood up and Mace half turned, cat-like.

“Wash my hands,” I explained. “Be right back.”

Slowly he sank back on the stool, eyes narrowing.

I don’t know whether he fell for it or not. I ambled toward that rear hall where the sign pointed to the washroom. Once out of sight, I trotted past it, turned and went up a flight of wooden stairs. A long hall stretched before me, closed doors on each side and a crack of light shining dimly beneath one of them.

A man’s voice, muffled, filtered from the room, mingling with the rattle of poker chips; a loud guffaw; other voices. I went on, stepping softly, came up against a closed door at the end of the hall. I eased the gun out of my pocket to use for effect if necessary, and twisted the knob. It opened.

My heart leaped when cool, night air struck my face. Wooden steps descended to the ground. My way was clear. But I hesitated. If Lyria and the man with the scarred chin were below somewhere, and I had bullets in my gun—? Ambitious thoughts of retribution held me there. I glanced back toward that room where the game was in progress. Tough men hung out here, Mace had said. They had guns of their own probably, and I knew a .38 revolver was a fairly common calibre. By now, Mace might be coming up those stairs after me, but I took a big chance and went back to that door with the slitted, yellow light creeping from beneath. I tore off my tie, opened my shirt at the throat, pasted an evil leer on my lips and kicked the door open, stepping into the room!

Five men froze, staring.

One wore a green eye-shade. There were stacks of currency on the circular, green-topped table. All of them held cards, chips piled high. I closed the door, backing against it, watching closely.

The small, wizened fellow nearest me, let his breath whistle through his teeth nastily. “You won’t get away with it, friend!”

No one else spoke. Their eyes were on my gun.

“This ain’t a stick-up,” I said harshly. “A cop’s on my tail and I need some spare lead for this .38. Who’s got some slugs?”

The expression on their faces was ludicrous. No one moved.

“The quicker I get outta here — the better for all of us!” I prodded.

The man with the green eye-shade moved cautiously, pulling open a drawer in front of him; carefully lifted out a revolver, broke it, and spilled shells on the table, pushing them toward me, watchfully.

Nodding wordlessly, I scooped them into my pocket.

“You got a car?” the wizened man growled.

“Yeah.”

The dapper little man I had spotted downstairs, picked up a stack of bills. “You need dough?”

“No. I’m all set!” I let my gaze travel over each of them in turn. “You guys are okay! Be seein’ you around.”

“Sure,” the man with the eye-shade nodded. “Sure.”

I opened the door and stepped out, closing it gently. No sign of Mace yet. There wasn’t a sound behind me in that room as I reached the outside and descended the wooden stairs. The wind was rising. In the blackness surrounding the building I loaded the revolver. Now I was on an even footing with Mace.

I moved off slowly into the darkness, prowling — seeking for a car with a man and a woman. A slight click back up those stairs, and the door on the landing opened — a large figure stood momentarily silhouetted — blotted out with the quick closing of the door. He was silent, evidently listening. There was no moon, no stars, and his eyes had to adjust themselves to this darkness.

The wind blew in gusts, sending dust swirling across the parking lot; pieces of paper skittering and scraping noisely; then it would subside, leaving an unnatural stillness that heightened even a faint football. During one of these gusts I covered ground fast, running head down, dodging just in time as I came up to a line of parked cars. I leaned there, breathing swiftly. The first car was empty. I heard steps descending those wooden stairs, unhurried, sure. It was this that spurred me on more than anything else, filling me with a strange panic. Crouching, I went from car to car, thinking that at the end of the line I’d cut and run blindly off into the darkness. With a shock I saw a glowing cigarette arc out of the front seat of the last car, a long, heavy sedan. It lit on the ground near my feet and rolled. There was the outline of two people in that seat!

Creeping close, I put one hand gently on the handle of the rear door, gun ready, easing the handle down, little by little. When it clicked, I jerked the door open and leaped into the back seat, growling: “Don’t move!”

Blurred faces swung toward me, a woman’s frightened gasp. She sat behind the wheel, one hand gripping it tightly. She was beautiful, long, silvery hair falling free to her shoulders, clasped about the temple by a narrow, jeweled band — a band I had recently given her. Lyria!

The man with her was twisting, coming over the seat. He wasn’t wearing glasses now, and he didn’t act like a clerk. His mouth was a snarling gash. I hit him in the face with the side of the .38, a chopping motion, and he fell back, but rose again.

“You want a bullet in your teeth?” I gritted. “Get back!”

“Monty!” Lyria whispered. “You found me. You — I’ve tried to warn you all day, darling — tried to get to you— Why are you staring at me like that? Monty!”

Her voice was clawing the insides out of me. Her lying, snivelling voice. I felt sick. I went blind, trying to pull that trigger — blast her from my sight forever. Maybe I would have — but a hand reached from nowhere, twisted my wrist, and the gun fell. Pain shot up to my elbow. It was Mace, reaching through the window!

The psuedo-clerk came over the front seat then, stabbing viciously with a knife — a silent, horrible death-thrust that took part of my coat as I squirmed back. He kept coming toward me.

The car starter ground raggedly, gears meshed as Lyria spun the wheel and I heard Mace bellowing above the lurching of the car — but I was struggling desperately with scar-chin, one arm locked around his neck, my other hand gripping his knife wrist.

It was the longest moment I ever lived, feeling the strength of him, like live steel, slipping away from my clutching hands — the car moving, rocking, gaining tremendous speed — then a crash as we went into a brick wall instead of the street. Mace was still on the running board.

Everything seemed to cave in — sluggish, struggling figures like a movie on a blood-red film. The writhing form on top of me jerked. Mace brought a gun butt down on his head a second time, which was enough, hauling the limp body out on the dirt. A crowd started to gather.

The front of the car was pushed in, the front seat hideously compressed beneath a sheet of broken glass, gasoline and oil gurgling onto the ground. Lyria lay crumpled up there, barely stirring. I groped for the .38 on the floor, but Mace leaned in again.

“Cut it out, tough guy. Where you got the bullets for that gat I wouldn’t know, but the way you go for it makes me suspicious.” He picked it up, broke it open, and whistled. “I musta had a hunch when I saw you getting ready to blast your wife. I think the law has a better right to stop her crooked schemes, don’t you?”

I stared at him dazedly. “The law—? But you gave me an empty gun. You didn’t let on when you knew they were following us here!”

He was opening the front door, lifting Lyria up roughly. He shot me a glance. “I didn’t know whether you could handle a gun. But I thought it would help your morale. Then I thought you might go to pieces if you knew they were trailing us — like you almost did back there in the hotel room. As it is — you’re plenty okay, M. Harrison Sprague. By the way, is the guy on the ground your hotel clerk? He’s Tony Mendraza, a gentleman the Florida police have had occasion to chat with more than a few times.”

“The same, minus the glasses,” I nodded, staring out at that still heap on the ground.

Lyria came to life, slapping Mace, twisting and clawing, knocking his hat off; her voice shrilling, not the cultured voice I had known in our one short happy year of marriage. “You dirty copper—”

He would have slapped her back, hard, but I saw him look down, stiffen. He was holding her instead. Her eyes darted to me, filled with hate and loathing and — something almost like disappointment — then she was going limp, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. She lay quietly.

Mace eased her head back, reached down and brought up the tin box from the floor. He snapped the lid up, eyeing those crisp banknotes, nodding. “This is it. We got the dope on the Jacksonville bank job that was pulled last night. All here, girlie?”

She looked at me, her lips quivering-terror in her green eyes. “Monty—?”

Mace turned her face gently with his big hand. “Was your husband here going to return this? Is that one reason you wanted him out of the way? And because you’d gotten tangled up with a rat like Mendraza and thought you might as well own a manufacturing company too?”

Lyria’s lips moved. “Yes.”

My expression must have been haggard.

“Monty?” she whispered. “There wasn’t anyone in the house this morning — except Tony. He’d been there a long time. He mixed me all up. I’m no good, Monty. Sis is no good. You would have known — if you’d met her. You’ve always been blind where I was concerned. She said your voice was nice on the phone. I called her, later. You... you are nice. You—”

I forced myself to look at her. “Why didn’t you just take the money and go?” I asked bitterly. “You got me out of the house — would you really have murdered me, Lyria?”

I never found out. She couldn’t answer.

Mace laid his hand on my arm, squeezed tightly. “Steady, Sprague. Take a walk. And don’t come back if you don’t want to.”

I climbed out slowly, realizing it was the first time I had seen him with his hat off. He was almost bald. I didn’t look back.