Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 111, No. 4, June 12, 1937

A million dollars was invested in that fight, and the champ was all set — except for a little matter of murder!

Chapter I Murder Picture — with Frame

The little ivory ball went ’round and ’round. Like the music. Only it came out nowhere. Instead it went in. It took a sudden dive and plopped into a pocket of the spinning wheel.

A sad-eyed croupier with a dead pan droned: “Eight on the black,” and raked the board clean. With a deft flick of two fingers he sent the pill rolling again, adding: “Make your bets, please,” and the ball bounced and skittered in its fathomless course.

One of the half dozen players grouped before the roulette table was a man in his early thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore formal clothes that seemed poured on him. His features were too angular to be called handsome. But he had the kind of a face that drew attention and held it. His jet black hair, combed straight back, had a slight wave that caught the light and cast off a bluish sheen. Under finely-arched brows dark gray eyes danced as if he found life vastly amusing. A carefully tended black mustache topped thin lips that never quite lost their smile.

He was jiggling a few chips in his hand. These he placed on red “21,” and touched a snap lighter to a cigarette. The ivory ball stopped its dervish dance. A doll-faced blonde dressed in an anatomy — revealing gown let out a thrilled, “Ee-e-k!” and clapped her hands. Her fingers had too many rings; her wrists, too many bracelets. A pompous — looking oldster beside her beamed. Some half hundred patrons of the Hi-De-Hi Club glanced up from their various games of chance and smiled.

The coupier said tonelessly: “Double O on the green.” He paid off the blonde’s winnings, and started the ball on its dizzy journey once more. The black-haired man was standing before the board with his hands in his pockets. He said to him: “Another stack, Mr. Faughan?”

Jetson Faughan made a grimace of mock disgust. “No. That’ll be all for tonight.”

As he turned to leave, a soft voice at his elbow said: “If you’re finished trying to outguess that little white ball, I’d like a word with you. In my office.”

Jetson Faughan’s gaze met a pair of deep-socketed, expressionless eyes. Their owner was a lean, slightly gray man attired in faultless tails. The long dimples creased his face.

Faughan dropped his cigarette into a sand-filled urn.

“Hello, Crowley,” he greeted. “How long’ve you been watching me?”

Mark Crowley, proprietor of the Hi-De-Hi Club, led the way across the crowded gambling room past a broad staircase. He piloted Faughan into a dainty elevator paneled in black onyx.

“Fifteen minutes. Why?”

Faughan grinned sardonically. “If you wanted to talk to me why didn’t you give me a rumble sooner? I’d’ve saved five grand.”

“And be out that much? Be your age. As it is, I think I’ll break about even.” Crowley closed the elevator door, shutting out the low buzz in the gambling room. He pressed a switch.

Delicately-arched brows went up. “Which spells you’re thinking of hiring my services. Or am I wrong?”

“Are you ever wrong?” Crowley’s words were slightly sarcastic.

“Only in yielding occasionally to a weakness for roulette,” Faughan chuckled. “Who’re you thinking of hiring? Jetson Faughan, attorney-at-law — or The Black Faun Detective Agency?”

“You’re going to need both your vocation and your avocation to crack this case. It’s murder.”

“Murder?” Faughan rolled the word on his tongue. “How nice! Which makes you wrong, Crowley. You hoped to break even? I doubt it very much.”

The elevator rose to the floor above. Sliding doors opened, and the two men stepped into a lavishly outfitted office. Painted murals decked the walls. Heavy, red leather chairs; a massive, hand-carved desk perched on a rich oriental rug. Crowley did everything on an elaborate scale.

The room was not empty. Two men occupied two of the chairs. One was a small, chubby man with the yellow complexion of an anemic. He was plucking nervously at his nether lip and staring vacuously at the second man. The latter sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Faughan gave Hal Fencher, Crowley’s manager, a brief nod of greeting.

The second man raised his head, disclosing a youthful face. While coarse-featured it gave the impression of being clean-cut, honest. Now it was harried, strained. The eyes, childlike under low-hanging brows, seemed hunted.

Faughan’s forehead staffed. “Hello, Champ,” he said. “What’re you doing in town tonight? Thought you weren’t leaving your training camp in Singac until morning. Or did you want to be sure you’d be on time for your scrap tomorrow night?”

Eugene Pendell lumbered to his feet, face working. Erect, he showed the powerful physique that had made him the deadliest fighting machine of all time. Inches taller than Faughan, he was built in proportion. His muscles rippled under his clothes with each move like live things. He shot a look of mute appeal at Mark Crowley.

The gambler seated himself behind his desk, pushed a humidor of cigars toward Faughan.

He growled: “Pendell would’ve saved himself a lot of grief if he’d stayed the hell in Singac tonight. He’s in a jam. The rap is murder. The cops aren’t on his trail — yet. Your job is to keep him out of the can. Or clean his skirts. Before tomorrow night.”

Ignoring Crowley’s cigars, Faughan fired a cigarette. He flicked somber gray eyes at Pendell’s worried face, stared obliquely at the gambler’s wooden one.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured. “Count me out. I feel sorry for the Champ. But I don’t make a practice of whitewashing crime. Least of all murder. You know that, Crowley. If Pendell killed anyone, he’ll have to take his medicine. Or hire another lawyer.”

Pendell’s doglike eyes sizzled with panic. “Hey, Mr. Faughan,” he blurted. “You don’t think I really killed her! She... she was dead when I went to her apartment! Honest!”

“So you’re involved in the murder of a ‘she.’ Who?”

“Didn’t Mark tell you?” Pendell gulped. “It’s Zena. Zena Zorn.”

Two startled jets of smoke pumped from Faughan’s nostrils. Zena Zorn — the Glamorous Zee-Zee — was a headlined singer and dancer at the Cairo Casino. She was beautiful, exotic as her name. She was more. Walter Winched and the tabs had let the world know she was the Champ’s girl.

Crowley said unemotionally: “Gene didn’t kill her. He put his neck into a lousy frame.”

Faughan lowered himself into a chair, crossed long legs. “Suppose you tell me about it, Champ.”

Pendell shuffled his big feet. “Late this evening I got a phone call at the camp. Someone buzzed in my ear that if I dropped in Zena’s apartment around midnight I’d—”

He paused, then choked out words as if they scorched his throat: “—I’d catch her cold two-timing me. You know how crazy I was about her—”

Faughan nodded, smiling wryly. “I know. And crazy jealous. Didn’t I go to court for you the time you nearly crowned a guy who— But skip it. Go on.”

“I saw red. I piled into a car, and made tracks for New York. I got to Zena’s penthouse about twelve, let myself in—”

“You had a key to Zee-Zee’s apartment?”

Pendell’s jaw jutted. “What’s wrong with that?”

Faughan shrugged distantly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just asked. What happened when you waltzed in?”

“I... I found her stretched in her living room — shot through the heart! It was awful! Poor Zena — she was blood all over.”

He fished a crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket. As he started to raise it toward his steaming forehead, his glance fell on it. So did Faughan’s. The handkerchief bore crimson stains that were unmistakably blood.

Pendell licked his lips, put the handkerchief away hastily, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Did you touch her?” Faughan asked.

“No. I didn’t touch her. I could tell she was dead. I... well, got scared and beat it here to Mark’s. When I told him what was what, he told me to sit tight until he saw you.”

“Assuming you didn’t kill her. Champ... Why were you scared? Were you shocked to find her dead because you’d gone there prepared to do some blasting of your own?”

Pendell swallowed noisily, shifted his weight. “I guess I would’ve killed. I was kind of nuts. But I didn’t. I didn’t have a gun.”

Faughan pursed his lips, looked at Crowley. “He didn’t have a gun. Yet — only last week I got him a license to carry one.”

Pendell’s huge hands that could easily have encircled a ham pawed the air. “Honest, Mr. Faughan. I looked for my gun before I left my training camp. I kept it in my bureau. But it was gone. So I came along without it.”

Crowley said: “Unless Gene is lying about his gun — which I doubt — someone swiped it and killed Zena with it.” He turned to his manager. “Tell Faughan what you told me, Hal.”

Fencher coughed, drew in his breath, and let it out slowly.

“About an hour ago a call came for the boss. Mark wasn’t around. Whoever it was phoning gave me a message for him. He said: ‘Tell Crowley I was hidden in Zena Zorn’s apartment twenty minutes ago. Gene Pendell came in, beat her up, and then shot her. I followed him, saw him ditch a gun in a sewer.’ ”

The anemic club manager paused, blinked once, and went on:

“Then the guy said: ‘Now get this straight, guy, and see that Crowley gets it. He’s to contact Pendell — right away. He’s to tell the Champ to lose tomorrow’s fight — or the cops will be tipped off where they can find that gun. We’ll call back at three sharp for his answer.’ With that he hung up.”

“Do you get it?” Crowley asked Faughan. “Gene is the odds-on favorite to win tomorrow’s scrap. He could shellack the hide off his opponent, K. O. Browberg, with one hand. Some ‘wise-money’ heels want to fix it to clean up a fortune on bets. They thought as the Champ’s manager I’d talk him into laying down rather than lose my cut in his purse.”

“Sure, that’s it, Mr. Faughan,” the Champ croaked. “Only last week a couple of punks contacted me, tried to buy me to throw the fight. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars they offered me. And a promise of a return match with Browberg in six months — which would be on the up-and-up.”

Crowley’s expressionless eyes slewed around. “You never told me that, Gene,” he said.

Pendell laughed shortly. “No. And I never told you I took ’em up.”

“What?” Crowley barked. Faughan sucked a last drag on his cigarette, ash-trayed it.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Pendell explained. “I took ’em up. Then I got Zena to bet every dollar I owned on me — to win. Look.”

He reached into his breast-pocket, pulled out a slip of paper. He gave it to Crowley.

Faughan got up, circled the desk and read it over the gambler’s shoulder.

It was an acknowledgment signed by a betting commissioner noted for his square-shooting of a wager placed on Gene Pendell to win the scheduled fight. The amount was eight hundred thousand dollars. The odds were eight to three.

“Nice,” Faughan drawled. “Very nice. So you sucked them in, Champ — intending to take them to the cleaners!”

“You young fool!” Crowley snapped. “Why didn’t you ask my advice? Don’t you see what happened? The gang found out you planned a double-cross. So they framed you for murder to force you to play ball their way. By acting wise, you signed Zena’s death warrant.”

Pendell’s face congested. “I didn’t mean to do that. I thought—”

“Never mind what you thought,” Crowley growled. “The fat’s an the fire now.” He swung on Faughan.

“Before I fetched you I put it up to Gene whether or not he wanted to throw the fight to save his hide. He said no. Emphatically. Now I understand why. He’d be wiped clean. Lose his championship. His dough. And he’d never get another crack at Browberg.

“At three o’clock, I’m going to tell whoever calls me to go to hell. That puts it up to you. Gene’ll be arrested. You’ve got to fix it so he can fight. Either by getting him out on bail, or by clearing him before ten tomorrow night. Can you swing it?”

Faughan toyed with his mustache. “I couldn’t get bail for the King of England on a murder charge,” he confessed slowly.

He glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. That leaves me less than twenty hours to crack a murder case. Champ — who were the men that tried to bribe you to throw your fight?”

Pendell spread his palms. “I’d know them if I saw them again. But I never saw them before. One was short and dark. The other, tall and tough-looking. The birds called themselves ‘Murray’ and ‘Weiber.’ ”

“You’re a great help. Crowley, those names mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. Must be out-of-towners. I know all the sharp-shooters that follow the fight racket in this burg.”

Faughan swung to the Hi-De-Hi’s manager. “Fencher, did the bloke’s voice that spoke to you sound familiar?”

“He had kind of a nasal voice. It did remind me a little of Slats Kaulper’s.”

“Slats Kaulper!” Crowley cried. “There’s a tie-in! I’ve heard rumors that Slats was laying heavy sugar on the fight. But I thought he was backing Gene.”

Faughan rubbed his lean jaw thoughtfully. “And Slats Kaulper runs the Cairo Casino — where Zena Zorn danced. That’s another tie-in worth looking into.”

“If you think you can hang a kill on Slats Kaulper in twenty hours,” Crowley lipped, “guess again. He’s as slick as they come.”

“You’re telling me? But I won’t bank on that.” Faughan’s eyes swept to Pendell. “Zee-Zee was killed about three hours ago. I surmise her body hasn’t been discovered, or we’d’ve heard about it by now—”

“The chances are it won’t be found till morning — when her maid arrives. Unless the cops are tipped.”

“They will be. Your friends will see to that. Now we mustn’t be seen leaving here together. You go back to Zena’s apartment — Where is it, by the way?”

“The Rheingold Arms,” Pendell gulped, staring. “On Central Park West. You want me to go back — there?”

“Yes. As if nothing has happened. Wait for me; I’ll join you shortly. Now scram. Take a back way out of here if there is one.”

“Do as he says,” Crowley said, pointing. “Use my private elevator. Go down to the basement. There’s an exit there to a back alley.”

Pendell opened his mouth, closed it. He spun on his heel, brows warped, and entered the small cage. Its door slid silently shut behind him.

Faughan scooped up Crowley’s phone, whirled the dial. When his number responded, he snapped:

“Stone...? Faughan. Is Petraske around...? Good. Tell him to grab One-Eyed Eddie and meet me in front of the Rheingold Arms — Central Park West — in fifteen minutes. You get the wires hot and exercise your dogs. Find out all you can about two birds named Murray and Weiber. They’re presumably tools of some big betting and yegg man who’s been laying his shirt on K. O. Browberg in tomorrow’s fight. See if they trail to Slats Kaulper.”

He rang off, saying to Crowley, “My agency; I keep ace ops on call there day and night,” and spun the dial again. It was a long three minutes before he got an answer this time. While he waited, he fired a cigarette, face inscrutable. Crowley watched him intently, frowning.

Finally his connection was completed. He said: “Hello, Martin Nord...? Jetson Faughan... Sure, I know it’s almost three in the morning. Did I get you out of bed...? Tsk! Tsk! I hope you haven’t been there long... Since ten...? My, my, but you’re an early-to-bed-goer...! However — I had a hunch you’d be awakened soon anyway so park your grouch and listen.

“A murder is going to crack shortly... Never mind who — I can tell you this: Gene Pendell, the Champ, will be accused of the crime. I’ve been retained for him. I’ll be ready to turn him over to you tomorrow morning at nine. On one condition. You’ve got to arrange to arraign him and shove through a hearing on the charge by ten. Is it a deal...?

Faughan grinned while he listened to Nord explode. “Sure, I know it’s not according to Hoyle,” he said smoothly. “But you can manage it. Use your drag as District Attorney... If you don’t agree, I’ll let Donald Swan, one of the Assistant D.A.’s make the pinch. Think of all the juicy publicity you’ll lose... You’ll do it...? Fine! Fine! I’ll be seeing you.”

Faughan chuckled as he hung up. “The fat slob — dangle a little publicity in front of him — bait him with his jealousy of Swan — and he’ll break every rule in the book.”

Crowley was regarding the lawyer through smoky eyes. “What was the idea of tipping off the D. A. about the case at this stage?”

Faughan’s lean face was faintly mocking. “You want the Champ free to fight tomorrow night, don’t you?”

“I stand to lose a wad of dough if he isn’t. And you know what it means to Pendell.”

“Well, I’m not taking any chances of muffing it. I’m going to spike the guns of the clucks trying to snowball him.”

“How?”

“Be in court tomorrow at ten and you’ll see. Meanwhile, you can develop a bad case of lost memory. If anyone should ask — you haven’t seen me or the Champ tonight. Be seeing you.”

Chapter II Counter-Offensive

Faughan retrieved his hat and coat from the cloakroom bandit downstairs, and hurried to the street. East Fifty-eighth Street was dark, deserted in the early morning starlight. An occasional automobile purred past, but not a cruising cab was in sight. Usually they were as thick as flies regardless of the hour.

The lawyer frowned, and started west toward a nearby hotel before which a hack stand was stationed. Just then a taxi drew up at the curb. He walked toward it, thanking his luck, when the door opened and a man lurched out.

Faughan’s brows knit. The man was Slats Kaulper. A bleary-eyed, loose-lipped Kaulper, who swayed on unsteady feet and stared at the lawyer blankly.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Faughan greeted cheerfully. “And pie-eyed! My, my, what could be sweeter! I intended to look you up later, but there’s no time like the present.”

His voice lost its bantering tone. “Get back in the cab, Kaulper. I’ve got a date. So we’ll talk while we ride.”

Kaulper rocked on his heels like a cornstalk blown in the wind.

“See me s’m’other time, Faughan,” he mumbled, thick-tongued. “Lookin’ for someone — now.” He tried to brush past the lawyer.

Faughan grabbed his arm. “I said back — in,” he snapped.

Kaulper wrenched himself loose, reeled drunkenly. “Damn you—” he muttered. His words were slurred, sounded slightly plaintive. “Get out of my way or—”

A hand, curiously lethargic, Faughan noticed, snaked inside the turned-up collar of a heavy camel’s hair coat. The lawyer sighed regretfully. His fist lanced up. It clipped the night club owner on the point of the chin, snapping his head back.

Kaulper let out air in a sudden gust. He began to melt like an icicle thrust into a hot furnace. The lawyer caught him on the way down, lifted his sagging body into the cab.

“The Rheingold Arms,” he told the goggle-eyed driver. “Central Park West.”

Gears clashed. The cab shot away from the curb. Faughan let three blocks slide past. When Kaulper did not regain consciousness, he leaned over and shook him.

“Come on — snap out of it,” he said. “You’re not hurt that bad. I pulled my punch—”

He broke off suddenly on a muffled gasp. The hackles of his neck stiffened. He had realized instinctively that he was shaking a dead man.

It did not seem possible. He could have sworn he had not hit Kaulper hard enough to kill him. Yet—

He dug under Kaulper’s coat to feel his heart. He smothered a gasp again, and jerked his hand away as though it had touched a red-hot stove.

The little light that seeped into the cab from the street showed his hand smeared with red. The gooey stuff from which his touch had shrunk was blood!

He suppressed his qualms, let his fingers probe beneath Kaulper’s blood-soaked shirt. A wet handkerchief was stuffed in a slit in the chest directly above the heart. A heart that was still.

His racing thoughts formed a hundred questions. Only one or two answers presented themselves.

Obviously a knife had done for the night-club owner. Undoubtedly he had been dying on his feet — not drunk — when he lurched from the cab.

Who had inflicted the fatal wound? When? Where had he been attacked? Why had he been headed for the Hi-De-Hi Club?

Absently Faughan fished out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers. The act recalled another handkerchief to his mind. Gene Pendell’s handkerchief had been blood-stained!

The lawyer’s thoughts took a sudden dive, and his thin lips fused in a taut line. Had he been played for a sucker, duped into believing Pendell innocent of Zena Zorn’s murder?

It was possible the fighter, driven into a jealous frenzy, had manhandled Zena. And she had confessed to being over-friendly with Slats Kaulper. That jibed. The night-club owner had taken her out of a chorus, made her. He wasn’t the type to dispense favors without strings. Thereupon Pendell had shot her. After ditching his gun he had sought out Kaulper, knifed him.

Panic-stricken he had to run to Mark Crowley with his troubles. The gambler was noted for two things: his shrewdness; and his love of money. He knew he would lose a fortune if Pendell were arrested and the scheduled fight stopped. He knew also Faughan’s penchant for clearing any innocent person accused of crime regardless of ways and means. So he had concocted a credible story to convince the lawyer of Pendell’s innocence. The fight had to go on. What happened after that wouldn’t bother him.

In the darkness of the cab, Faughan’s eyes blazed angrily. That he’d been duped wasn’t his only concern. If the cab driver told what he’d seen in front of the Hi-De-Hi Club, the result was evident. Faughan would be charged with Kaulper’s murder!

The lawyer swore softly. He couldn’t report Kaulper’s death. He couldn’t be found with the body. And to save himself he was in the unenviable position of needing to prove a man guilty of murder whom he had set out to clear of another murder!

He rapped his knuckles on the driver’s partition. The cab stopped.

“Where did you pick up your fare?” Faughan asked, indicating the form of Kaulper slouched in the cushions.

“It was a call-in,” the driver said. “I picked Mr. Kaulper up in front of his apartment house on West Seventy-second.” The hackman chuckled. “He sure had a load on. An’ that clout you handed him, Mr. Faughan, was a beaut. Is he still out?”

“Yes,” Faughan said, grimly. “So you know him and me, eh?”

The cabbie grinned. “I hacked him lotsa times. An’ I seen your picture in the paper plenty.”

Faughan grunted. That tied it. He took a bill out of his wallet. “Listen. I’m going to need your cab the rest of the night. But I want to drive it. Will fifty bucks cover it?”

The taxi driver licked his lips, grabbed the money.

“Throw in another ten, Mr. Faughan,” he grinned, “an’ the heap’s yours.” He slid from behind the wheel with alacrity.

Faughan took his place. “You’ll find your cab in front of my office in the morning,” he said, and drove off.

The Rheingold Arms was an imposing pile of brick and glass. Not a light shone in its towering facade. Some illumination gleamed from its entrance under a canvas marquee that ran to the curb. Across the street, Central Park was a dark blob of shrubs and trees.

Faughan parked ten feet from the marquee, hopped to the sidewalk. He took time to tumble Kaulper out of sight on the floor of the cab. He was locking the second door, when a figure sauntered toward him out of the shadows of the building. He was a small man with a cigarette dangling in his mouth. A black box was strung from his shoulder by a strap.

“Hello, chief,” he greeted.

Faughan said: “Hello, Petraske.” His glance fell on the black box. “I see you didn’t forget One-eyed Eddie.”

Petraske fell in step beside the lawyer. “Nope. What’s up, chief? Whose picture d’you want me to take at this hour of the night?”

Faughan laughed dryly. “Plenty’s up. The Glorious Zee-Zee’s been murdered. I wanted you to use your camera on her corpse before the police found her. But something’s happened to make me change my mind.”

Petraske whistled softly. “What?”

Faughan jerked a thumb backwards. “Slats Kaulper. He’s in that cab. Knifed.”

Petraske chuckled callously. “His destiny caught up with him finally. He’s been chiseling his way ’round this man’s town too long. Same party kill him and Zena Zorn?”

“Must’ve. You’ll meet him soon.”

Faughan swung his lithe figure across the ornate lobby of the Rheingold Arms toward a bank of elevators. A colored operator squinted sleepy eyes at the two men as they entered his cage.

The lawyer said: “Miss Zorn’s penthouse apartment. Make it snappy.”

The Negro pointed to a switchboard in the rear of the lobby at which an operator dozed. “You gotta be announced, suh,” he offered, diffidently.

“We’ll skip that, Sam. You took Gene Pendell up a short time ago, didn’t you?”

“Yassuh. I done took Mistah Pendell up ’round twelve. But he come down ’most right away. Den I took him up fifteen — twenty minutes ago agin.”

“Well, he’s expecting us. Let’s go.”

The darkie took one helpless look into Faughan’s level, respect-commanding eyes, and set the elevator in motion.

Zena Zorn’s living room was expensively, but tastefully, furnished. It showed the expert touch of an interior decorator.

The dancer lay on the floor near a tapestried divan. She was dressed in a black sheer peignoir over black pajamas. Her flimsy garments had seeped blood in profusion. It had congealed in a wide pool under her body.

Not over twenty-five, neither death, nor the manner of her dying had detracted from her beauty. If anything, death had erased the tell-tale hard line of sophistication from her face.

Bruises stood out on the ivory of her neck where ruthless hands had evidently choked her. There was a cut on her chin, purple rimmed, where a fist had left its imprint.

Gene Pendell was seated before a fireplace, smoking in jerky puffs, his back to the body. When Faughan and Petraske entered — they had found the door unlocked — he bounded to his feet like a frightened rabbit.

Faughan let his glance linger only a moment on the corpse of Zena Zorn, then he fixed icy eyes on the fighter.

Pendell wet his lips nervously. “Gosh, Mr. Faughan,” he stammered. “I thought you’d never come— Waiting here — alone — with her — was awful—”

“I should think it would be,” Faughan frowned. “With her murder on your conscience.”

Pendell fell back as if slapped. His eyes pinwheeled.

“What... what do you mean?” he blurted.

“I mean I’m wise to Crowley’s game. The two of you tried to trick me into going to bat for you. You did kill Zena Zorn. And that isn’t all — you killed Slats Kaulper. Knifed him to death.”

Pendell gagged. “I killed...? Is... is Slats Kaulper dead?”

Faughan scowled. “Stop stalling, Pendell. I’ve got the how of it now. You came here at midnight as you said. You found Zee-Zee alone. But you weren’t satisfied. You had a bug in your ear and you wanted the truth. You choked her, and beat her, until she admitted she’d been seeing Kaulper. Then you shot her.

“That yarn about not finding your gun at your camp was an invention. Of Crowley’s. After you ditched your gun in some sewer, you decided to polish off Kaulper, too. You went to his apartment, waited for him. Stuck a shiv into him. Left him for dead.

“He came to, doctored himself, and went looking for you. I met him in front of the Hi-De-Hi. He died in a taxi I forced him to take with me.

“If you want to know what gave you away — your handkerchief. You admitted you didn’t touch Zena. Yet it was covered with blood. Blood that spurted onto your fingers when you stabbed Kaulper.”

The lawyer took out his own handkerchief, held it up. “Look. I got some of Kaulper’s blood on my own fingers. Did the natural thing. Wiped them off on it.”

Sweat was oozing from every pore in Pendell’s face. He pulled out a handkerchief — the same blood-stained handkerchief he had exhibited in Crowley’s office. This time horror-distended eyes strained at it. He dropped it, cried:

“That blood — I got a poke in the nose sparring this afternoon. And a nose bleed. On my way down from Singac my nose started to bleed again. I used that handkerchief. So help me, Mr. Faughan — that’s the truth. I didn’t kill Zena — or Kaulper!”

He sank weakly into a chair.

Faughan rubbed a perplexed jaw, said in an undertone to Petraske: “Either the bruiser’s a damn’ sight better actor than I think he is — or he didn’t kill Zee-Zee or Kaulper.”

Petraske spoke past a dangling cigarette — either the same one he’d been smoking in the street, or its brother.

“A lot of this is over my head. But if you want proof whether the blood on Pendell’s handkerchief belongs to Kaulper — let me have it, and yours, and half an hour in our lab. I’ll tell you. Better yet — let me put a sphygmomanometer on Pendell.”

Faughan ground a fist into his palm. “By gad! A blood test and a lie test! Why didn’t I think of that?” He addressed Pendell. “Maybe I’ve got you wrong, Champ. Maybe you have been framed. Maybe there’s more to this than I can see right now.

“You’ve heard of the lie-detecting machine? Are you willing to submit to a test? If you’re really telling the truth — I’ll go the limit for you.”

Pendell sprang up, his face flushed with eagerness. “I’ll do anything — anything! If it’ll only get me out of this mess!”

Faughan spread his hands, exchanged glances with Petraske.

“Look at him,” he murmured. “As ingenuous as a babe in arms. Hell, I’m almost ready to believe him innocent without those tests.”

Petraske shrugged. “It’s up to you, chief.”

Faughan considered. “No — you take Pendell with you, make the tests. But first I’ll proceed with my original plan — on the theory he is innocent. If he is, I’ve got a job ahead of me tomorrow. I want to be ready.”

He pointed to a door at the far side of the living room. “Station yourself in that doorway with your camera. You’re going to ‘steal’ a candid shot.”

Petraske nodded, headed for the door, swinging his camera from his shoulder.

The lawyer pulled a gun from his pocket, turned to Pendell.

“Here, Champ, take this gun.”

The fighter took it uncertainly.

“Now,” Faughan went on, “stand over Zena Zorn’s body as if you’ve just shot her. Face that door. Besides being an ace scientist, my assistant, Mel Petraske, can do marvels with a camera. He’s going to snap your picture.”

Pendell hesitated a moment. Then, with an expression contorting his face that was palpably anguish, he placed himself over Zena Zorn’s body, gun poised.

“That’s right,” Faughan approved, and withdrew out of camera range. “Shoot it, Petraske.”

The blinding glare of an exploding flashlight bulb filled the room, and Petraske said: “Okay, chief. Got it.”

“Fine.” Faughan retrieved his gun from Pendell’s limp hand, hastily joined his assistant at the other side of the room.

“You’ve got a whale of a lot of work ahead of you, Petraske,” he told him in an undertone. “You’re to take Pendell with you, give him the lie-test. Test the blood in the handkerchiefs, too, just to be sure. Here’s mine.

“If he stands up, develop your picture. Print on the back of it in pencil, ‘This goes with the gun.’ Then wrap it up, and see that it gets to Martin Nord, the D. A., without a backtrail to us. But before you send it out, I want you to do this—”

Faughan’s voice dropped lower and he spoke swiftly and earnestly for several minutes. He finished with: “Can do?”

Petraske chuckled. There was an expression of frank admiration on his bland face. “Can do. When you cook up a job I can’t perform with my little camera I’ll retire to the old ladies’ home.”

“Good. I banked on you. Now — and this applies, too, only if you decide Pendell is innocent — when you’ve finished with him, hustle him out of the agency office.

“So far the cops don’t know about this kill. But they will shortly. It’s after three. They’ll know I’m representing him, and might search there for him. The Champ can’t go to a hotel; he’s too well known. Have Doyle hire a ‘U-Drive’ with a trailer — they’ve got ’em now, fully equipped. Pendell can grab some sleep — he’ll need it if he’s to win tomorrow’s set-to — while Doyle drives out into the country.

“At nine-thirty tomorrow morning, Doyle is to park his trailer in front of the Criminal Courts building. Now — you got everything straight?”

Petraske spat out a cigarette that was burning his lip. “I’m way ahead of you, chief,” he grinned. “Let’s go. What’re you gonna do meanwhile? Get some shut-eye?”

Faughan smiled sardonically. “Me? I’m going to put Slats Kaulper’s body on ice. I can’t afford to have it found just yet. Then I’ll hit the hay. But whatever the hour, call me and let me know the result of your test on Pendell.”

“Okay.” Petraske took Pendell’s arm. “Let’s go, Champ. I’ve got a feeling the cops’ll be swarming into this dump any second now.”

The three men left the room. Only one of them looked back. Gene Pendell stabbed a last glance at Zena Zorn’s still form. There was a suggestion of moisture in his dog-like eyes when he turned them away.

Chapter III Snatch

Faughan hadn’t spoken figuratively when he told Petraske he was going to put Kaulper “on ice.” He drove his borrowed taxi containing the body of the night club owner down Third Avenue to the City Morgue. A lugubrious-visaged old man opened the basement receiving door to his persistent ring.

The morgue watchman peered at the lawyer through watery eyes.

“Goodness me, Mr. Faughan,” he cackled. “What’re you doin’ here at this hour?”

Faughan smiled cheerfully. “I’ve been doing the rounds, Pat,” he said. “Happened to remember I left my brief case upstairs on the third floor in Doc Savage’s laboratory. I consulted with him yesterday afternoon. I’m going to need some papers in it the first thing in the morning. Like a good fella — will you fetch it for me?”

“Sure. Sure. You wait here. I’ll be right back.” The morgue attendant ambled off down a dimly lighted corridor.

Faughan waited until he heard an elevator door clang shut. Then he went into speedy action. He pulled Kaulper’s body out of the cab, carried it fireman-fashion to the refrigerator vault. The atmosphere was dank, reeked of ammonia, and dead human flesh. It didn’t bother him.

The vast icebox seemed lined with huge filing-cabinets. Which they were actually. Filing-cabinets for the city’s unclaimed dead.

Hastily, he read some cards on the panels until he found one with a three-months’ old date. He rolled out the slab, deposited Kaulper’s body on top of the corpse it held, and pushed it back.

He was smoking calmly at the morgue entrance when Pat O’Brien returned.

“Are you sure you left your brief case in the lab?” Pat asked. “I hunted high an’ low. It ain’t there.”

Faughan wagged his head puzzledly. “That’s funny,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I left it there. But never mind. It’ll turn up. And thanks just the same, Pat.”

He slipped the old man a bill, hopped into his cab.

Before heading for the apartment-hotel where he maintained bachelor quarters, Faughan drove past the Rheingold Arms. Now a score of lighted windows dotted its facade. Two police cars were parked in front of it.

Face inscrutable, he drove on. So the authorities had been tipped off to Zena Zorn’s murder. Whether by Crowley in pursuance of a pre-conceived plan to fool him — or by a man with a nasal voice — Faughan did not know. He would know when he heard from Petraske.

Too tired to garage the taxi, he left it before his building. It was four-fifteen when he let himself into his suite, closed the door.

He switched on the light in his living-room. And froze in an attitude of shocked surprise.

Two men were seated in two of his best chairs. One was short and dark. The other, tall and hard-looking. Both held black-snouted automatics in their fists. Both heaved themselves erect, hefting their guns.

The short one said: “You were long enough gettin’ here, Faughan. Now — behave. An’ you won’t get hurt.” His voice, Faughan noted, wasn’t nasal. It was guttural, harsh.

The lawyer’s lids flickered. The amazement went out of his face, leaving it blandly expressionless. He recalled Pendell’s description of the men who had propositioned him, drawled:

“Murray and Weiber, the ‘wise-money’ twins, I believe. I’m glad you’re here. This’ll save me the trouble of looking you up. This business that started with your attempt to buy Pen-dell’s fight and wound up with the murders of Zena Zorn and Slats Kaulper has me ga-ga. There’re angles I don’t understand.

“I see now you found out Pendell planned a fast one after you — or your boss — placed a mint of money on Browberg. To salvage your investment, you framed him for Zee-Zee’s murder. Result — no dice. Pendell turned out to be an honest scrapper with a one-track mind. You couldn’t buy him. You couldn’t intimidate him.

“You learned, somehow, I was going to bat for him. Now you want to crack down on him by gunning me out so I can’t clear him. Why go to all that trouble? Why not simply blast him down? And why did you kill Kaulper? Where does he fit in?”

The tall man snapped in a gruff bass: “We ain’t killers. You can’t dump the Kaulper or Zorn kills on our doorstep. We’ve got air-tight alibis. But if you act up that ain’t saying we won’t smoke you.”

He turned to his companion. “Fan him, Weiber.”

Faughan’s mouth curled ironic-ally. He submitted meekly to a thorough search, watched his gun disappear into the short man’s pocket.

“That makes you Murray,” he said to the tall man. “And you’ve got alibis... Think of that! If you didn’t kill them you shouldn’t even know they are dead! Or are you clairvoyant?”

Murray sidled forward, swung his fist. Faughan crashed against the wall, eyes flaring.

“What the hell was that for?” he grated, a dangerous flush on his lean cheeks.

“To button your lip. You talk too much. Now we’re going bye-bye. One peep and you get ventilated. Be nice, and you’ll live to grow whiskers.”

Faughan sighed. “You wouldn’t fool—”

Just then his phone began ringing with startling suddenness.

Weiber and Murray exchanged quick, uneasy glances.

Murray poked Faughan with his gun. “Move, shyster. We’re fading.”

Weiber said: “Wait. Maybe we better let him answer it. This dump has a switchboard downstairs. The op must’ve seen him come up. If there’s no answer, he’s liable to investigate.”

Murray nodded. “You’re using your bean.” He prodded Faughan again with his gun. “All right. Answer it. And remember. No shenanigans. We mean business.”

Faughan crossed the room, picked up his phone, murmured, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece.

Petraske’s voice crackled over the wire to him. “Pendell was telling the truth, chief. I’ve shipped him out with Doyle. Stone wants me to tell you he’s run down the names you gave him. Murray and Weiber are a couple of big-money sharpshooters from Chi. No tie-up with Kaulper that he could find. Anything else?”

“No, Rube,” Faughan said. “Except you might check all ‘out’ calls from Algonquin 4-3528.”

“Okay, chief,” Petraske said quietly, and rang off.

Faughan cradled the receiver, joined Murray and Weiber. They sandwiched him between them, trotted him out into the corridor. Then into an elevator. The car dropped them to the lobby. A deserted lobby. Not even the switchboard operator was in sight. Nevertheless, Murray and Weiber kept their guns discreetly in their pockets.

They walked the lawyer to the street, to a car waiting half a block away. The tall man got into the rear seat with him. The short man took the wheel. The starter coughed once, metallically. The motor roared to life. The machine drove off.

Four blocks west it turned south on Eighth Avenue.

No one spoke. Faughan remembered the sock on the jaw he’d received. So he essayed no speech except to ask if he could dig out a cigarette. Murray, who sat with his gun on his knee, gave him one, and a book of matches. The lawyer lit up. He puffed away, watching Eighth Avenue unwind its drabness alongside the speeding car. And thought.

The more he thought, the crazier the case he’d undertaken became. His captors could have killed him in his apartment — easily. They hadn’t. That meant his guess had been only half right. They didn’t wish to kill him — only to hold him prisoner until Gene Pendell had been indicted for Zena Zorn’s murder. Once that happened there would be no getting him out. Innocent, or not innocent. And the Champ was innocent. That much had been established.

If Murray and Weiber had killed the dancer and Kaulper, why hadn’t they killed him — Faughan? Instead of snatching him? That in itself didn’t make sense. Their attempt to frame Pendell into throwing his fight had failed. They were afraid he — Faughan — would vindicate the Champ in time for the bout. Apparently they were anxious to save their investment. Why hadn’t they simply killed the scrapper? Instead of complicating matters by kidnaping his lawyer?

Another thing. Why had Slats Kaulper been killed? The possibility occurred to Faughan that he had been in cahoots with Murray and Weiber. That there had been an argument resulting in the fatal attack.

And finally — Zena Zorn’s murder had been cold-blooded. In their present roles neither Murray nor Weiber were acting like killers. That presented another problem. Had Murray stated the truth when he said they hadn’t murdered the dancer and Kaulper? Then — who the hell had committed the crimes?

Faughan gave up. He flipped his cigarette from the fast-traveling car, dropped his chin to his chest, closed his eyes. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

He might have dozed five minutes, or fifty. He didn’t know. A rough hand shaking his shoulder roused him. A voice — Murray’s — said:

“Can you beat that? He’s asleep! Hey, wake up! This is the end of the line.”

Faughan dragged himself out of the car on Murray’s heels.

“My hours’re killing me,” he yawned, and looked around. “I’m dead on my feet.”

He recognized the neighborhood for what it was. The water-front. Frowsy, dismal buildings, gloomy warehouses, cowered in the darkness of a poorly-lighted, odoriferous street. An occasional hoot, the groan of rivercraft straining at their moorings at nearby wharves, and the low moan of a melancholy wind were the only sounds to break the eerie stillness of the night.

Murray said dryly: “From what I hear one of these days one of the cases you stick your nose into is going to kill you. You’re lucky we’re not hoods. Or by now you’d be dead on your back.”

He shoved the lawyer toward a house that seemed to be leaning dejectedly on its neighbor.

“This’ll be your address for a time. Like I told you — if you behave. In.”

Weiber had unlocked a door flush with the sidewalk, and switched on a sickly light inside the building. Faughan walked into a dirty hall that held the ghosts of so many smells none was definable.

“Behaving with a gun in my back,” he said caustically, wrinkling his nose, “is the best thing I do.”

They led him up a rickety flight of stairs, pushed him into a dark room. The door slammed behind him, and the lock clicked.

Faughan snapped on his lighter, held it over his head, and surveyed his surroundings. In one corner was a mildewed cot that sent a shudder over him. The only window in the room was boarded up. The planks were thick. The nails, big as spikes. It would have required a hefty axe to batter it open.

He examined the door. He had noticed it opened inward. It was old, but of solid oak. Its panels were sturdy enough to withstand the onslaught of any two men.

He sighed, removed his overcoat, and spread it on the cot. It had no pillow. So he doffed his jacket, rolled it. He stretched himself out on the cot, and was dead to the world before his head hit the improvised pillow.

At first he thought the crash of thunder had awakened him. He jackknifed erect, blinking sleep-laden eyes. Again a series of detonations, sharply defined, echoed through the lower part of the house. It was accompanied by harsh shouts, hoarse curses. Then pounding footsteps shook the ramshackle building.

Faughan grinned in the darkness, took his jacket and overcoat from the cot, and donned them. He was lighting a cigarette when the door swung wide, and the beam of an electric torch spotlighted him.

A voice — Petraske’s — said: “Hell, chief. You all right?”

Faughan pocketed his automatic lighter, walked from the room into the upper hall. A single, dust-caked bulb illuminated it rather badly.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his jaw where Murray had hit him. “Only my feelings are hurt.” He glanced at his watch. “Six-thirty. What kept you? I was asleep when you crashed in, but I was dreaming you didn’t get the agency ‘S. O. S.’ ”

Petraske followed him downstairs, chuckling:

“You would be asleep. I got the ‘Rube,’ all right. And when you told me to check ‘out’ calls from your own phone, I figured as you wanted me to. That someone had the drop on you and was crating you bye-bye.

“I called back Freddy Grunn, your switchboard operator, gave him the lowdown. He was for calling the cops. But I voted that out. Thought you’d prefer to keep this strictly ‘agency.’ I told him to tail you. Luckily he found a cab parked in front of your apartment house with the keys in it.”

Faughan laughed. “That was my cab. A bad habit mine — leaving keys in cars.”

“Yeah. Very. Well, Grunn spotted this dump, called me. It took him half an hour to locate a phone. That accounts for the delay. I hightailed it down here with Stone and Peters. And here we are.”

They reached the lower hall. Stone and Peters, another Black Faun Agency dick, were standing spread-footed in the center of it, smoking. Sprawled on the floor between them were two still bodies.

“Hello, boys,” Faughan greeted, and nudged a lean jaw at the inert forms. “Dead?”

Stone, a broadshouldered individual with keen eyes, and a battle-scarred face, nodded.

“Dead as pickled herrings. They put up a fight. Who are they?”

“Muggs named Murray and Weiber.” Faughan clucked his tongue. “Too bad you had to plug them. Alive, they might’ve talked. In fact, I was depending on them to help me crack this case. Now—”

He fell silent, considered a moment. Then he murmured, half to himself: “Sometimes even a smart guy can’t see the forest for the trees... I wonder—”

He turned to Petraske. “You never travel anywhere without a camera. Got one in the car you came down in?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Grab some shots of the faces of Murray and Weiber. Then lug their bodies down to the cellar. Hide ’em. I don’t want them discovered for a while. Your shooting foray must’ve gone unnoticed or we’d be hearing police sirens by this time.

“Then lam. I suppose you haven’t finished the other jobs I assigned you?”

Petraske shook his head. “Nope. Things’ve been happening too fast.”

“Well, attend to them first. Then develop the pictures of Murray and Weiber. Better make ’em life-size. Stone, you and Peters, tuck copies under your arms and trace the movements of the two blokes.

“Account for every minute of their time. Say from eight o’clock last night to four this morning. Your trail should wind up at my apartment-hotel. Report to me as soon as you can. I’ll be at the Criminal Courts Building from nine on. Check?”

The lawyer’s instructions were received with silent nods.

He saluted his men cheerfully, said, “Be seein’ you, boys,” and went out, yawning.

Chapter IV Arraignment

A shower, shave, change of clothes, and breakfast refreshed Faughan some. But he was still yawning when, at nine, a cab deposited him before the Criminal Courts Building. There was a Chrysler sedan, with a trailer hitched behind, parked at the curb. Doyle, his. op, sat at the wheel, staring straight ahead.

As he passed him, Faughan whispered out of the corner of his mouth:

“When I give you the high-sign let Pendell out.”

Without looking around, Doyle inclined his head slightly.

On the stone steps of the Courts Building a group of reporters loitered. Glimpsing the lawyer, they swarmed over him, plying him with questions. Over their heads, he spotted Martin Nord and Inspector Carter, of Homicide, at the building entrance.

The morning papers, which he’d read during breakfast, had carried scareheads about Zena Zorn’s murder. Chronicled facts had been meager. No mention had been made of his connection with the case, although it was stated the Champion, Gene Pendell, was being sought for questioning.

Apparently some rumor had leaked out, however. That would account for the presence of the scribes. Jetson Faughan’s name linked to any case meant more than news. It meant sensation.

“Hey, Blackie! Is it true you’re representing the Champ?”

Another legman shouted: “We heat you’re surrendering him to the D. A. this morning. Is that straight?”

And: “Got any rabbits up your sleeve this a.m., Blackie?”

Faughan grinned affably. He liked the newshounds. Their interest in him had made him famous, had helped to put his income in the seven figure bracket. There wasn’t one of them he did not know by name.

He said: “It’s a fine morning this morning, boys. Or am I wrong?”

Good-natured laughter greeted his evasive sally. The scribes fell back, let him make his way to Nord’s side.

The D.A. was a large, meaty man with the squashed-in face and hanging jowls of an English Bull. His close-set eyes, his whole bearing, stamped him a smug egotist. A mediocre lawyer at best, he had secured his position through political phenagling, and he had used his office for self-glorification ever since.

He stabbed a glance of belligerent appraisal at Faughan, said: “Well, where’s Pendell?”

Faughan looked at Inspector Carter, and back at Nord. He screwed up one corner of his mouth, countered with: “Got everything set? What judge will preside at the hearing?”

Nord became a lobster red. “Trustful as usual. Judge Porter.” He puffed out his cheeks angrily. “I’m sorry now I made a deal with you. If I’d known last night what an air-tight case I had against Pendell, I’d’ve gone after you; forced you to turn him in. Or you’d have gone to jail for compounding a felony.”

His little eyes narrowed slyly. “What’s to stop me from ordering your arrest now?”

“Don’t get ideas, Nord,” Faughan said quietly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those pencil-pushers are friends of mine. If you tried any back-knifing, I’d give them the facts. They’d make your name mud — politically.”

The slyness went out of Nord’s eyes; apprehension crept in.

“Besides,” Faughan continued, “Pendell didn’t commit a felony. So I couldn’t’ve compounded one, even if I knew where he was last night.”

Inspector Carter took a black stogy out of his mouth. He was a big man, wide across the chest, with a ruddy complexion. He wore a tailored, blue-serge suit, and a tailored overcoat of blue broadcloth. He had a hard, craggy face with a network of crow’s-feet around shrewd eyes. When he smiled you knew frowning hadn’t caused the crow’s-feet.

Officially, he was on Faughan’s tail. The lawyer-detective’s corner-cutting tactics tended to rouse the ire of the Bar Association and police officialdom alike. If he were brought to book for his unorthodox methods it would have pleased not only Martin Nord, but many judges and higher-ups.

Off the record, however, the Inspector and Faughan were good friends. Carter respected the lawyer’s cleverness, and secretly admired his code. Put tersely, it was, “Be sure you’re right. Then the hell with how you prove it. Prove it!” Many times the cop wished he had the courage to make it his own.

He dropped Faughan a covert wink.

“Must you two wrangle? As long’s the hearing’s all set — let’s get on with it. Where’s Pendell now, Blackie? I was all night looking for him with the rest of my department. I want to go home and get some sleep.”

“You and me both,” Faughan grinned. He turned, caught Doyle’s eye, and nodded.

Doyle left the sedan, walked to the rear of the trailer, opened the door.

Gene Pendell came out. Worry-lines etched his forehead. Otherwise he looked as if his troubles hadn’t interfered with his sleep.

Carter flicked an oblique glance at Faughan. The crow’s-feet were in evidence around his eyes.

“Clever monkey,” he muttered. “If Pendell rode around in that thing all night — sure you wouldn’t know where he was. And — no wonder we couldn’t find him.”

Nord scowled: “Clever hell! One of these days his chicanery will catch up with him.”

Upon the Champ’s appearance, he was immediately surrounded by whooping reporters. Cameras clicked. He fought his way to the Courts Building entrance. His eyes questioned Faughan’s in silent inquiry.

The lawyer took his arm, pressed it, said to the District Attorney: “Here’s your prisoner, Nord.”

The D.A. cleared his throat importantly, put a fat hand on the Champ’s shoulder. With a glance at the reporters to make sure they had their cameras focused, he said: “Eugene Pendell, it is my painful duty to arrest you for the murder of Zena Zorn!”

Pendell wet his lips, said nothing. Carter murmured under his breath, “Pompous ass!” A reporter yelled, “Hold that pose, Mr. District Attorney!” Nord beamed, and held it.

Faughan masked a grin. Just then Mel Petraske skirted the edge of the crowd. He handed the lawyer a flat, paper-wrapped package, and slipped quietly away.

Carter growled impatiently: “Do we have to twiddle our thumbs here while you look at the birdies, Nord? For Pete’s sake, let’s go!”

Nord retorted: “Keep your shirt on. I’m coming.”

He led Pendell into the Criminal Courts Building. As they crossed a wide rotunda toward Judge Porter’s court, Mark Crowley fell in step beside Faughan. The Champ’s manager was immaculate in a gray suit, and a black, velvet-collared overcoat.

He studied the lawyer, his eyes expressionless, said, “Well?”

Faughan winked. “Everything’s set. After Pendell’s arraignment, it’ll be over in an hour.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Nothing much. Except that Murray and Weiber’re in this up to their necks. They snatched me last night to keep me from appearing this morning. But I managed to get away.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Judge Porter must have been waiting in his anteroom, for he took his place on the bench as soon as Nord appeared with Pendell. He was a plump little man, with a shock of white hair, and a cherubic, red-cheeked face. He wore half-moon glasses and had a habit of digging his chin in his chest to squint pale eyes over them.

He gaveled his court to order, quickly disposed of Pendell’s arraignment. Then he addressed himself to Faughan.

“I understand, counsellor,” he said, “that you’ve arranged with the District Attorney for an immediate hearing on this charge.”

“That’s true, Your Honor.” Faughan said.

The judge tried to look stern, sueceeded in looking a little annoyed.

“Mr. Faughan, you seem to make a practice of... er... playing hob with legal procedure. Couldn’t you have permitted the law to take its usual course?”

Faughan said, gently: “If Your Honor please, my client, Eugene Pendell, stands charged with a serious crime — the murder of Zena Zorn. He is innocent. Would it serve the ends of justice better if he were incarcerated in jail until indicted by the Grand Jury — and then until his trial?”

“If... er... your client were unjustly accused, you might have applied for a writ of Habeas Corpus instead of—”

“That, too, takes time, Your Honor,” Faughan interrupted. “It is imperative — as you will learn — that he be at liberty today.”

Judge Porter shrugged, glanced at Martin Nord. “While this form of procedure is unusual, it is not disbarred by the legal statutes of this state. On the contrary. It lies within the District Attorney’s discretion to require a court of competent jurisdiction to weigh evidence in matters involving felony before it is presented to the Grand Jury. It then becomes the Court’s duty to determine whether or not the state has a prima facie case against the person charged with said felony. Inasmuch as you have consented to this hearing, Mr. Nord, we shall proceed. Call your first witness.”

The bang of the judge’s gavel was superfluous. The court room was tensely silent. All eyes were focused expectantly on Jetson Faughan as he calmly seated himself beside Gene Pendell.

Nord let a fleeting glance rest on the defending attorney. A fugitive expression of anticipation flitted across his features. He faced the courtroom, singled out a Negro seated amongst the spectators. It was the elevator operator of the Rheingold Arms.

The D.A. said: “George White, take the stand.”

Through White, Nord established the corpus delicti. The Negro also testified that he had taken Gene Pendell to and from Zena Zorn’s apartment the night before around twelve o’clock.

Faughan permitted him to leave the stand without cross-examination.

The next witness was the Inspector. Carter testified that shortly after three that morning he had received an anonymous phone call at headquarters. The unknown person, he said, informed him of the murder of Zena Zorn. His informant, who claimed he was in the dancer’s apartment at the time of her murder and had witnessed it, also stated he had followed the killer to the street, and had seen him throw a gun into a sewer. Who was the killer? Eugene Pendell.

Inspector Carter went on to say that after visiting the scene of the crime he had notified the District Attorney. Then he had supervised the recovery of the gun. Subsequently, from license records, he had determined the weapon actually belonged to Pendell.

Here Nord introduced the gun in evidence. Then, fumbling a moment in his brief case, he produced a sheet of glazed paper, which he handed to Carter.

“I show you a photograph, Inspector,” he said. “Can you identify the scene it depicts? And the people in it?”

Carter stared at the photograph hard, as if he saw it for the first time. His eyes flicked toward Faughan, and back to Nord.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“Mr. Faughan will undoubtedly ask that question,” Nord smiled. “So I’ll tell you. That photograph was left at my home early this morning. Now identify it for the court, please.”

“It shows Zena Zorn’s living-room. Her body lies in the foreground. Standing over her, with a gun in his hand, is Eugene Pendell.”

A wave of excitement swept over the courtroom. The gavel fell; His Honor gazed out upon the audience with unspoken censure. The ensuing silence heightened rather than relieved the tension.

Pendell was searching Faughan’s face with bewildered eyes. Crowley, too, was studying him. The lawyer met their stares with a vague smile.

Nord took the photograph from Carter, tendered it to Faughan.

“If you have no objection,” he said, with exaggerated politeness, “I want to offer this photograph in evidence.”

Faughan barely glanced at the picture, waved a hand. “No objection.”

The Court received the photo from Nord, scrutinized it thoughtfully, and handed it to the clerk. “Mark it ‘S-2.’ ”

Nord turned to Faughan. “That’s all. You may cross-examine.”

Faughan slouched down deeper in his chair, shook his head.

“No questions,” he murmured.

The D.A.’s brows screwed together in a little frown. For a moment he seemed perplexed. Then his face cleared and he called the county Medical Examiner. The latter testified that Zena Zorn had been killed the night before between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty.

Walter Berger, a Centre Street ballistics expert, followed the Medical Examiner to the stand. He proved the bullet that had killed Zena Zorn had been fired from the pistol identified as Pendell’s.

Chapter V Out of the Hat

As Berger was leaving the witness stand, Stone entered the courtroom. He approached the counsel table, gave Faughan a folded sheet of paper, and waited beside him in expectant silence.

The lawyer opened it, read its contents swiftly. He refolded it, and put it in his pocket. Ten seconds passed while he stared off into space, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair in a thoughtful manner.

Suddenly he leaned forward, hastily scribbled a note which he handed to Stone. His operative took it wordlessly and vanished from the courtroom.

Faughan sighed softly, and turned his attention to Nord, who was addressing the Court.

“Your Honor, I shall not take time to analyze the testimony you have just heard. I believe it speaks for itself. And I believe you will agree with me that it establishes a prima facie case of murder in the first degree against Eugene Pendell, sufficient — within the requirements of our statutes — to warrant his being held for the Grand Jury without bail.

“I have not touched upon Pendell’s motive for the murder of Zena Zorn. But, since a hearing of this kind by its very nature is informal, I will say now that jealousy prompted his act. That I shall prove at the proper time. At his trial.

“In view of the foregoing, Your Honor, I see no reason why Eugene Pendell should not be tried for murder. And I respectfully request that you so rule.”

The D.A. sat down pompously, casting Faughan a triumphant glance of well-ground satisfaction.

His Honor the Court peered over his half-moon glasses at Faughan, said tonelessly: “Mr. Defense-Attorney, if you have any testimony to present this court, you may proceed.”

Faughan rose, leisurely. “I have just one witness to call, if Your Honor please.”

Judge Porter leaned back in his chair, stifled a yawn absently. He seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the hearing.

“Call your witness.”

Faughan faced Martin Nord. There was a veiled twinkle in his eye.

“Mr. Nord — if you please,” he said quietly, and waved a languid hand toward the witness chair.

The D.A. jerked stiff, stared. “What?” he barked. “You’re calling me as your witness?”

“Yes,” gently, “I’m calling you as my witness.”

The District-Attorney looked so ludicrously bewildered and stunned that an amused titter welled in the courtroom. It was instantly stilled by the drop of the gavel.

His Honor the Court no longer gave the impression of bored disinterest. Watching Faughan inquiringly, he said to Nord:

“Take the stand, Mr. District-Attorney.”

Scowling, unable to conceal the fact that he suspected a trick, Nord lumbered to the witness chair. He was sworn in. After asking the usual preliminary questions, Faughan snapped suddenly:

“Where were you last night, Nord, between the hours of ten-thirty P.M. and two A.M.?”

Nord’s eyes popped. “Where was—” he croaked and swung to the judge. “I object!” he roared. “I object! Where I was last night is irrelevant, immaterial and — and—” He sputtered to a stop, his anger gagging him.

His Honor eyed Faughan indignantly. “What bearing can Mr. Nord’s whereabouts last night have on the case before this court?”

Faughan shrugged indifferently. “Since the witness objects to answering it, I’ll withdraw the question.”

He strode to his counsel table, unwrapped the package Petraske had given him on the Courts Building steps. He brought to view a rectangle of glazed paper. This he tendered to Nord.

“I show you a photograph, Mr. Nord,” he said, his tone slightly sardonic. “Can you identify the scene it depicts? And the people in it?”

The District-Attorney took one look at the photograph, and his face ran a gamut of color from greenish-white to red to purple. He whirled toward the judge.

“It’s a lie!” he screamed. “It’s a lie! I was home last night! Home in bed! Faughan’s trying to hoodwink the Court with a scurvy trick!”

The courtroom was in an uproar. Spectators were on their feet, craning their necks in a futile attempt to see the photo that had turned the District-Attorney into a wild man.

The gavel rose and fell. “Silence!” The Court yelled. “Silence! Or I’ll clear the courtroom!”

The clamor subsided, although hushed whispers persisted. His Honor took the photograph from Nord’s trembling fingers. He looked at it. His jaw sagged.

“Why,” he breathed, “this photograph is a replica of the one the District-Attorney introduced in evidence! Only the man standing over the murdered woman isn’t Pendell! It’s Mr. Nord!”

The audience received the sensational disclosure in breathless quiet.

“Zowie! There’s the rabbit!” was a stage whisper from one of the reporters present. It won a baleful glare from His Honor, which he immediately transferred to Faughan.

“Explain this,” he snapped fretfully. “If it’s another of your notorious tricks, I’ll have you know the Court won’t tolerate it!”

Faughan said calmly: “Your Honor, I admit that photograph was made at my order. But it is not a trick. I merely desired to convince the Court that even the most damning evidence can lie.

“You heard the District-Attorney say he was in bed last night — a fact most difficult of proof. I could go on and show that he knew Zena Zorn, that—”

Red of face, Nord pawed the air. “Your Honor, I object!”

Judge Porter said sarcastically: “Considering the start you made, I can well imagine you could build up a case against Mr. Nord. But surely you are not serious! You are not accusing the District-Attorney of the murder of Zena Zorn!”

Faughan smiled. “No, Your Honor. If I gave him a bad moment, I am sincerely sorry. I wanted to illustrate a fact. Eugene Pendell is as innocent of the murder of Zena Zorn as he is!

“That picture” — he pointed a dramatic finger — “State’s Exhibit number two — and all the other evidence adduced in this court this morning, is part of a deliberate plot to frame the accused.

“Pendell was never snapped almost in the very act of shooting Miss Zorn. That picture is a fraud. It stands to reason that if I could acquire a fake photograph compromising the District-Attorney, someone could resort to the same deception with Eugene Pendell the victim.

“It is true Pendell went to Miss Zorn’s apartment last night. But he was lured there from his training camp where he was preparing for a championship bout. He arrived there after she had been murdered.

“It is true his gun shot the woman down. But it had been stolen from him for that purpose. Then it was planted in the sewer to which the police were later directed.

“Where is this ‘unknown person’ that witnessed the shooting, snapped that photograph, and claims he saw Pendell dispose of the death weapon? Why didn’t he come forward instead of hiding under the cloak of anonymity?

“The Medical Examiner placed the shooting between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty. This ‘unknown person’ saw it, yet he waited three hours before reporting the killing to the police? Why? And why was he ‘Johnny-on-the-spot’ with a camera to photograph the scene?

“All these questions have one answer: he is the real murderer of Zena Zorn! He framed Eugene Pendell! Which gives rise to another question: Why did he choose Pendell, the Champion, as his victim?

“I’ll tell you — because this ‘unknown person’ is a member of a crooked gambling ring which sought to enrich itself by fixing Pendell’s coming bout. It tried to bribe him to throw it. Failing, it tried to intimidate him with a cold-blooded murder frame!

“The location of the murder weapon — that incriminating photograph — were the threats held over his head. I was apprized of the facts by Mark Crowley, the Champion’s manager. My services were retained.

“I subjected Pendell to a lie test. It showed him innocent of Miss Zorn’s murder. But unfortunately, the findings of a lie-detecting machine are inadmissible as evidence in any court. It was necessary to exonerate him before ten tonight. The time was too short to find the real killer of Zena Zorn. So, lacking other evidence, I did the one thing that would satisfy the Court Eugene Pendell was being framed. I duplicated part of the evidence I knew the District-Attorney would offer as proof of his guilt.”

Here Faughan paused momentarily. He continued, staring squarely into Judge Porter’s eyes:

“If Your Honor please, cold logic applied to the facts as I have submitted them should convince you that Eugene Pendell is innocent. If he were held for the Grand Jury it would serve no purpose. It would be a grave injustice. The police, working along the theory I’ve outlined, should have no difficulty in apprehending the real killer of Zena Zorn.

“I respectfully request, therefore, that the charge against him be dismissed.”

Martin Nord was on his feet. “I object, Your Honor!” he bellowed. “I object! This is highly irregular! Mr. Faughan’s statements are incompetent — based on pure conjecture. And his conduct in fabricating evidence was an affront to this Honorable Court! I demand that he be adjudged in contempt!”

Judge Porter frowned at the District-Attorney. “This Court is quite capable of maintaining its own dignity without recommendations.”

He turned to Faughan. “I don’t approve of your sensational way of presenting an argument. I should fine you for contempt of court. But I’ll overlook your zeal in your client’s behalf this time because, considering the curious elements in this case, I am inclined to believe Eugene Pendell was framed. Charge dismissed!”

A stampede broke out in the courtroom. Yelling reporters surged toward Faughan and Pendell in a mad rush.

Above the hubbub of excited voices and stamping feet rose the District-Attorney’s frantic: “Your Honor— Your Honor — I object! I—”

The Court’s gavel fell. “Silence! I will not countenance a demonstration!” The reporters stopped in their tracks. The Judge looked at Nord, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

“Mr. District-Attorney,” he said, “this Court has ruled. If you do not agree with me, you are at liberty to present your case to the Grand Jury yourself and request an indictment. I am sure Eugene Pendell will not leave the city pending their decision.”

With that the Judge gathered his robe about him, and disappeared into his chambers. The reporters started forward again.

Faughan seized Pendell’s arm, whispered: “Quick, Champ! The D. A. will do just that — try the Grand Jury next. I don’t want you to talk now — to anyone. Beat it into the judge’s chambers — and out his private door to a side street exit. Go to my office and wait there for me.”

Looking somewhat dazed, Pendell sprinted after the judge. He slammed the door in the reporters’ faces.

Mark Crowley, standing by Faughan’s side, said: “That was a neat stunt, Faughan. Very neat.” His eyes were glowing. Otherwise his face was expressionless.

Scowling, Nord strode to the counsel table, picked up his papers. “Well, you managed to win this skirmish,” he growled to Faughan. “But I’ll have Pendell indicted if it’s the last thing I do. When the Grand Jury convenes you won’t be around to hypnotize them.”

He pushed his way past the reporters who were now converging around Faughan.

As Inspector Carter followed the D. A., he leaned close to Faughan’s ear. “If and when you catch Zena Zorn’s killer,” he chuckled, “I’ll be home in the hay. Give me a ring.”

Faughan’s brows went up. “Meaning what?”

Carter grinned. “Meaning the police don’t mind having you do our work for us. The Grand Jury’ll indict Pendell sure as shootin’. The trick you bamboozled Porter with is shot. Your only hope of clearing Pendell when he’s brought to trial is to produce Zee-Zee’s real killer. So produce, Blackie, produce.” He moved away, still grinning.

Faughan matched the grin wryly, then waved back the clamoring reporters with: “Nothing to add, boys—”

The figure of a man hurtling into the courtroom cut him short. The lawyer recognized a reporter. The scribe, wild-eyed with excitement, cried:

“Blackie, Pendell’s been snatched!”

Faughan’s brows corrugated. “What! Higgins, are you sure?”

Higgins bobbed his head up and down. “When the Champ pulled his fade-out, I ducked into the hall. I wanted a statement from him. So he scooted out a side exit — me on his tail. I saw two muggs — masked — jab rods in his back and load him in a car. If that doesn’t spell ‘snatch,’ I’m an Eskimo! Now ’scuse, please. Gotta phone my rag.”

The courtroom became suddenly empty as the other reporters lit out for phones. Faughan took Crowley’s arm.

“Let’s me and you toddle to your office,” he suggested. “I’ve got a bill to collect from you for services rendered. And I think you’ll be wanting to hire the Black Faun Agency some more. Or am I wrong?”

Chapter VI Pay-off

In Crowley’s ornate office, Faughan lowered his frame into one of the red-leather chairs. He found a cigarette, snapped his lighter to it, before he answered the gambler’s question.

“What do I make of it? It’s simple. I told you Murray and Weiber snatched me last night to keep me from appearing in court for Pendell. Remember?”

Crowley was pacing up and down, puffing jerkily at a cigar. He nodded gloomily.

Keeping the deaths of Murray and Weiber to himself for a purpose, Faughan went on:

“Well, I escaped. They figured I’d clear Pendell somehow, and were all set. It’s obvious they — or others of their gang — snatched the Champ. They framed him for murder to intimidate him. That failed. They tried to have him jugged to stop his bout. That failed. Now they’re taking a last crack at him. They have a pile of jack bet on him, and are desperate. Either they’ll dope him to insure his losing, then turn him loose, or they’ll put him through the meat grinder — torture him until he agrees to throw the fight.”

“Or they might just kill him,” Crowley rapped out. He swung around. “Why don’t you do something instead of sitting here gabbing? Get after Slats Kaulper! I swear that punk’s implicated in this!”

Faughan laughed lightly. “He was you mean. Kaulper is dead.”

Crowley started. “Dead? When was he killed? I haven’t heard anything about it!”

“I met him last night in front of the Hi-De-Hi getting out of a taxi. He’d been stabbed somewhere by either Murray or Weiber. I don’t know why — yet. They left him for dead. I suppose they came here to cover Pendell. He must’ve trailed them. I shoved him back in the cab, where he died on me. So I had to get rid of his body.” Crowley’s phone rang. He picked it up, scowling, said, “Yes,” a couple of times, then, “I can make it in an hour.” Then he listened to his caller for a moment and growled: “All right.”

He hung up, faced Faughan. “Well, what’re we going to do?” he demanded.

The lawyer uncoiled from his chair. “You — nothing. Me — I’m going to find Pendell.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. I’ll have him at Madison Square Garden in time for his scrap. It’ll cost you twenty grand. That includes white-washing him this morning.”

“Cheap enough if you can do it,” Crowley said with a wry face.

“Gad, I’m tired,” Faughan said in the middle of a sudden yawn. He clicked his teeth shut, added: “What d’you mean — if? I guarantee it. So bring the money to the Garden with you. Tomorrow’s pay-day for my staff, and I can use it. I’ve got an overhead like the foreign war debt.”

He left the Hi-De-Hi Club, walked west to the nearest corner. Here, in a drug store, he folded himself in a phone booth. Ten minutes later he emerged on the street again, hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later he was in his apartment — in bed. And sound asleep.

At eight o’clock he woke up as if an alarm had roused him. He dressed in tails fresh from the tailor’s, and supped in leisurely fashion. Quarter of ten found him entering the dressing room under the Garden reserved for the Champ.

It was filled with men and smoke. Trainers, handlers, masseurs stood around indecisively. They were making ash out of cigarettes and cigars as if their lives depended on it. Mark Crowley, brows knit, sat slouched in a chair, mangling a Corona.

Upon Faughan’s entrance he jumped up. “Where the hell’ve you been? I’ve been calling your office, your agency, your hotel for hours— Nobody’s seen you, or knew where you were—”

“They hadn’t and didn’t,” Faughan grinned. He blew out breath. “Phew! The air in here’s foul!”

“Never mind the air,” Crowley snorted. “Did you give out the press release saying Pendell’d been released by his snatchers? That his fight would go on, and that he’d stay under cover until time for the fight?”

Faughan pushed his silk hat to the back of his head. “Yep. You didn’t want the Garden to be without customers, did you?”

“They’re hanging to the rafters. But what good is it? Where’s Pendell?”

At that moment a cheer came from the stadium proper. It rose wave on wave, a tremendous roar of sound that threatened to raise the roof.

“There’s Pendell,” Faughan smiled. “Just in time for his bout.” Crowley stifled an exclamation, and leaped for the door. The lawyer stopped him. “Just one minute, Crowley. My fee — if you please!”

The Champ’s manager muttered something under his breath, dug a hand in his breast pocket, took out a packet of bills. These he tossed to Faughan and darted on his way. He almost collided with a ruddy-faced man coming down the passageway. Without bothering to apologize he disappeared.

The man let out a muffled curse. Faughan, approaching him, said: “As I live and breathe! Inspector Carter! What’re you doing here?”

Carter flicked unsmiling eyes at the money the lawyer still held in his hand, then they bored into the lawyer’s.

“I came here expecting to find you, Blackie,” he said. “And hoping I wouldn’t.”

Faughan thrust the money away, patted the pocket. “That has an ominous sound,” he grinned. “What have I done now?”

Carter bit his lip. “I hate this job, Blackie,” he said, and looked as if he meant it. “I’ve got to take you downtown and book you — for murder!”

Faughan’s face clouded momentarily, then he grinned slowly.

“So you found Slats Kaulper,” he murmured.

Carter nodded. “Kaulper was found — not an hour ago. Where you hid him. The morgue keeper told us how you drove up in a taxi, sent him on a fool’s errand. We located the driver from whom you hired the cab. He filled in the gaps.” The cop paused. “Why did you do it, Blackie?”

Faughan sighed. “Creature of impulse — that’s me. I act first and think later. For instance—”

His fist shot up, and exploded on the point of Carter’s chin like a stick of dynamite. Carter didn’t even grunt. He buckled at the knees, fell.

Faughan caught him, muttered: “Sorry, Inspector. This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

He dragged the police officer’s inert form to a room across the narrow corridor. It proved to be an office. He deposited Carter in a small closet.

Three minutes later he was hurrying down an aisle in the Garden stadium toward the raised ring. The Champion, dressed in a striped robe, was being introduced to the shouting crowd. His opponent stood in a corner.

Crowley was standing beside the ring, his fists jammed in his pockets; his face impassive.

Just as Faughan reached the ring, Pendell gasped hollowly, snaked a taped hand toward his chest in a convulsive movement — and fell over backwards.

The excited, puzzled cry of the audience thundered in his ears as Faughan vaulted into the ring. His features were tautly set. When Pendell fell, Crowley, too, had leaped into the ring. The two men knelt beside the Champ.

Above them, jaws sagging, stood the challenger, Browberg; the officiating referee; a half a dozen other men that had surged into the ring.

Pendell had his eyes open. White-faced, he was breathing hard.

Crowley husked: “Gene — what happened? Are you all right?”

Pendell gulped; faltered: “I... I guess so—” He looked at Faughan.

The lawyer tore the fighter’s robe aside. Instead of disclosing a bare chest, he brought to light a jacket of fine steel mesh. The links over the heart were mashed a little; but they were still intact.

A chorus of stunned, incredulous gasps greeted the sight, and its significance.

Faughan ground out: “As I expected would happen — someone took a shot at him. The jolt of the bullet hitting him knocked him down. Think you can go on with the fight, Champ?”

Pendell essayed a sickly grin, staggered to his feet. “Sure,” he said. “Be all right soon’s I catch my breath. Only—” here he darted appraising eyes at Browberg — “I guess I’ll have to use both hands — now.”

Crowley seemed to have lost his composure. He was mopping his brow, trembling. The gaze he gave Faughan had awe in it.

“Whew!” he said.

The lawyer took his arm, said: “Come on downstairs, Crowley. The final act of this affair will take place there. You should be in on it.” He paused, added, chuckling: “It won’t cost you a cent.”

The office opposite Pendell’s dressing rooms wasn’t empty. Stone, Faughan’s operative, stood in the center of it. He held a gun in his hand casually. It was trained on a rat-faced man who cowered in a chair before him.

Without looking around, Stone said: “The punk’s name is ‘Crunch’ Malley, chief. He’s a freelance hood. Caught him with his pants down. There’s the gun he used.”

He jerked a thumb toward a desk. On it reposed a rifle, with a silencer attachment.

Crowley walked to the desk, stared down at the weapon, then at the lawyer.

“My hat’s off to you, Faughan,” he said. “You never miss an angle.”

Faughan showed even teeth in a grin. “Not often. I knew an attempt would be made on Pendell’s life. I had half a hundred men guarding the upper tier of the stadium — the logical place for an attack.”

He turned to Stone. “Give Crowley your gun, and go outside. See that we’re not disturbed. Malley and I’re going to pow-wow.”

Stone handed Crowley his gun, walked out, and closed the door behind him.

Malley’s thin, brutal face was the color of putty. He shrank back in his seat, licked dry lips. “What — what are ya gonna do?” he whined. Fright pitched his voice in a trembling squeak.

“I’m going to beat the living daylights out of you,” Faughan said. His granite-hard eyes belied the gentleness of his tone. “Until you tell me who hired you to kill Pendell. Here’s a sample—”

“Don’t! Fer Pete’s sa—” Malley choked to a terror-stricken stop as Faughan’s fist swung upward.

The lawyer-detective never landed his blow. Behind him a harsh voice grated: “Hold it, Faughan!”

Faughan dropped his fist, turned slowly. And looked into the bore of the gun in Crowley’s hand. His lips twitched.

He said: “So you were the one. I wondered—”

Malley lurched to his feet unsteadily, wiping drooling saliva from his mouth. “Cripes, Crowley — t’anks! This mugg would ’a’ hammered hell out of me... I could see it in his eyes!”

Crowley sneered: “And you would’ve shot off your trap... I could see that in your eyes.” He turned to Faughan. “So you wondered. This was one angle you missed! Call in your watch dog.”

Faughan ignored the order. He said: “You’re wrong there. I tagged you with the Zorn kill — and Kaulper’s carving — the minute I received a report from Stone. Remember his coming into the courtroom this morning and handing me a sheet of paper? It contained a check on Murray’s and Weiber’s movements of last night. They had not been near the Hi-De-Hi Club.”

Eyes pinpoints of hate, Crowley said nothing.

Faughan continued: “That could mean but one thing: Kaulper was looking for you because you had shived him. Or was I wrong?”

Crowley jeered. “Are you ever wrong? He was in that betting coup with Murray and Weiber and me. We’d pooled three hundred grand apiece. Stood to clean up millions if Pendell threw his fight.

“When Pendell reneged, Murray and Weiber accused me of a double-cross. I had to do something or eat lead. And I had to go it alone.”

“Because you suggested a murder-frame to coerce Pendell. Murray and Weiber wouldn’t tune in. They were tough, but drew the line on that. And you couldn’t let Kaulper in on your plan because you knew he was still soft on Zena and would blast you if you harmed her. After you killed her, you decided to sidestep his rage — you figured he’d find out — by killing him.”

Faughan paused. “Sure. I figured all that out. You called yourself at your club, imitating Kaulper’s voice when you spoke to Fencher. When Pendell refused to throw the fight in spite of the frame, you called me... For two reasons: You surmised it would direct suspicion from you; and at the same time you wanted me to prevent his actually taking the murder rap.”

The lawyer laughed shortly. “Greedy guy. You wanted to keep him from fighting Browberg to save yours and Murray’s and Weiber’s money, but you hated to lose a goose laying golden eggs for you. Then to make sure I didn’t clear Pendell in time for the fight you got Murray and his pal to take me bye-bye.

“Well, I cleared Pendell. I knew his life would be in danger from then on. So I had my men snatch him, with orders to hole him up and deliver him at the Garden a few minutes before ten. The call you received today at twelve-thirty — supposedly from Murray — came from one of my men.

“You were advised they had taken precautions. You were asked to come to their hideout at eight. You went there and found Murray and Weiber dead. I know. You were followed there. You thought my men killed them getting Pendell. You were wrong. They were killed last night.

“I still had no proof tying you to the murder plot. You could have explained away your visit to the waterfront dump. And I knew that — with Pendell free to fight — you’d shoot your last bolt. You’d plant a sniper in the stadium to kill him — because you disliked the idea of losing three hundred grand. A bullet-proof vest took care of that—”

Faughan stopped and chuckled softly. “The joke is — I wondered if you’d fall into my trap!”

Crowley was breathing deeply, slowly. His eyes were red-flecked with hate and sudden panic. “Trap?” he spat. “What trap? Call your watchdog in here, damn you! Or so help me, I’ll drill you now!”

“Blaze away,” Faughan answered quietly. “But if I were you, I’d drop that gun and take my chances with the law.”

As he spoke, the lawyer took a paced step forward.

“You asked for it!” Crowley snarled. His finger tightened on the trigger of his gun. The room reverberated to the echo of the explosion.

Faughan was still standing there. A grim, gruesome smile twisted the corners of his mouth. The door burst open and Stone dashed in. He stabbed one look at Crowley, said: “Well, that’s that!”

Malley was staring in the same direction. He pumped out a hollow: “Jeez!”

Crowley was lying sprawled on the floor, fragments of the still-smoking gun in his hand. And that hand which had held the gun was a pulped, bleeding mass.

At that moment, angry fists pounded on the closet door.

Faughan poised a cigarette in midair, said: “I had to clout Inspector Carter a while back. Apparently, he’s just come to. Let him out of that closet, Stone.”

Stone opened the door, turned quickly to bend over Crowley’s shattered hand. Carter staggered into the room, wild-eyed. His ruddy face was black with rage. A cut on his chin was trickling blood over his stiff collar.

“Blackie, damn you—” he roared, and his glance fell upon Crowley’s lax form. “What... what the devil happened to him? He’s dead — shot! Blackie, have you gone nuts altogether? Did you kill him?”

“Be your age, Inspector,” Faughan said. “I didn’t kill anyone. No, not even Kaulper. Crowley will tell you all about it, if Stone keeps him from bleeding to death. And our friend here—” he indicated Malley — “will tell you all about it. Won’t you, Malley?”

The Inspector swung around.

Malley gulped. “I’ll talk!” he blurted.

Carter riveted slitted eyes on Faughan. “All right,” he said grudgingly, “You didn’t kill Crowley. But what in Hades did happen?”

Faughan’s eyes twinkled. He touched the broken gun beside Crowley’s limp body with the point of his shoe. “Crowley borrowed a gun from one of my operatives. He forgot to see whether the barrel was clean or not. It wasn’t. Someone had sort of plugged it with leadfoil.”

While Carter blinked stupefied eyes, Faughan extracted a thousand-dollar banknote from his pocket. He tucked it into the dazed cop’s hand. “That’s to buy you some court plaster for that cut, Inspector...”

At that moment, a wild, sustained cheer seeped down to them. Faughan jerked his head erect, listening. “That must mean Pendell has just flattened Browberg. Come on, Stone. Let’s go see. Maybe I’m wrong.”