Learning to Kill: Stories

Good and Dead

Starting with its very first issue in January of 1953, and continuing through July of 1954, Manhunt published seven stories featuring an alcoholic former private eye named Matt Cordell. All of these stories carried the Evan Hunter byline. Cordell was my stab at creating a private eye character who was something different for his time. It amuses me when some reviewers call the 87th Precinct novels “hard-boiled.” I think of them as bittersweet, lyrical, even sometimes sentimental. But hard-boiled? You want hard-boiled, try the Matt Cordell stories. The one that follows was published in July of 1953, and is the tamest of the lot. In fact, Cordell is almost likable in this story, a trait not often attributed to him.

He was a small man, small in stature and small in social significance. Another bum, another wino, another panhandler. A nobody.

But he was Joey, and we’d shared the warmth of many a doorway together, tilted the remains of countless bottles of smoke together, worked the Bowery from end to end like partners, like friends.

He was Joey, but he was dead.

He was tattered in death, as he had been when alive. His clothes were baggy and ill-fitting, rumpled with the creases of park benches and cold pavements, stinking with the sweat of summer’s heat, crawling with the lice that were the legged jewels of the poor.

“Shall we get the cops, Matt?” someone asked.

I nodded and kept looking down at Joey and at the bright stain of blood on the side of his head, the matted hair soggy and dirt encrusted where the bullet had entered.

Cooper Square, and the statue of Peter Cooper looked down with bronze aloofness, hemmed in by a grilled fence, surrounded by empty park benches. Cooper Square, and a summer night as black as a raven’s wing, sprinkled with a dazzle of stars that Joey would never see again.

I felt empty.

“Why’d anyone want to kill a bum, Matt?” one of the winos asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Across the street, the squat structure that was Cooper Union fought with the Third Avenue El for dominance of the sky. A boy and a girl hugged the shadows of the building, walking their way slowly toward the small park and the cluster of winos. There was a mild breeze on the air, a summer breeze that touched the skin with delicate feminine hands. There was a hum on the air, too, the hum of voices on fire escapes, of people crowding the streets, of the day dying as Joey had died.

And over the hum came the wail of a siren, and the winos faded back into the anonymity of the Bowery, blending with the shadows, merging with the pavements and the ancient buildings, turning their backs on the law.

I turned my back, too. I walked away slowly as the siren got louder. I didn’t turn for another look. I didn’t want another look.

Chink was waiting for me outside the flophouse I’d called home for close to three months.

He was standing in the shadows, and I’d have missed him if he hadn’t whispered, “Matt?”

I stopped and peered into the darkened doorway. “Who’s that?”

“Me. Chink.”

“What is it?”

“You got a minute, Matt?”

“I’ve got a lifetime. What is it?”

“Joey.”

“What about him?”

“You were friends, no?”

I stared into the darkness, trying to see Chink’s face. It was rumored that he came originally from Shanghai and that he could speak twelve Chinese dialects. It was also rumored that he’d been a big man in China before he came to the States, that he’d come here because of a woman who’d two-timed him in the old country. That gave us a common bond.

“You were friends, weren’t you, Matt?”

“We were friends. So?”

“You know what happened?”

“I know he was killed.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.” I stepped into the doorway. There was the sickish smell of opium about Chink, overpowering in the small hallway. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell are you wasting my time?”

“I got an idea, Matt.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you interested?”

“What the hell are you driving at, Chink? Spit it out.”

“Joey. I think he was killed for some reason.”

“That’s brilliant, Chink. That’s real...”

“I mean, I don’t think this was just an ordinary mug-and-slug, you follow? This was a setup kill.”

“How do you figure?”

“I think Joey saw too much.”

“Go smoke your pipe, Chink,” I said. I started to shove past him. “Joey was usually too drunk to see his own hand in front of...”

“Harry Tse,” Chink said.

It sounded like Harry Shoe. “Who’s Harry Shoe?”

“He was killed the other night, Matt. You heard about it, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“They thought it was a tong job. Harry was big in his own tong.”

“What is this, Fu Manchu?”

“Don’t joke, Matt.”

“Okay, Chink, no jokes. What makes you think they tie?”

“Something Joey said when I told him about Harry.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. He said, ‘So that’s who it was.’ ”

“That doesn’t mean a damned thing, Chink.”

“Or it could mean a lot.”

“Stop being inscrutable. So it means a lot, or it means nothing. Who gives a rat’s backside?”

“I thought Joey was your friend.”

“He was. He’s dead now. What do you want me to do? The cops are already on it.”

“You used to be a shamus.”

“Used to be, is right. No more. Joey’s dead. The cops’ll get his killer.”

“You think so? They’re already spreading talk he fell and cracked his head that way even though there’s a bullet hole in him. They say he was drunk. You think they’re gonna give a damn about one bum more or less?”

“But you do, huh, Chink? You give a damn?”

“I do.”

“Why? What difference does it make to you?”

“Joey was good to me.” His voice trailed off. “He was good to me, Matt.” There was a catch in his voice, as if he were awed by the idea of anybody being good to him.

“The good die young,” I said. “Let me by, Chink. I need some sleep.”

“You’re... you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“I guess not. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Good night, Chink.”

I started up the stairs and Chink yelled, “He was your friend, too, Matt. Just remember that. Just remember it.”

“Sure,” I said.

It took me a long time to forget it.

I still hadn’t forgotten by the time I fell asleep.

The morning was hot and sticky. My shirt stuck to my back and my skin was feverish and gummy, and I wanted to crawl out of it like a snake. I dug up a bottle of wine, taking four drinks before one would stay down. I faced the morning then, blinking at the fiery sun, wishing for a beach, or a mountain lake, or even a breeze. There was none. There was only the El, rusted and gaunt, and the baking pavements. I started walking, heading for Chinatown because things can look different in the blaze of a new day.

I found Chink. He was lying on a pad, and there was opium in his eyes and the slack tilt of his mouth.

He looked up at me sleepily, and then grinned blandly.

“Hello, Matt.”

“This Harry Shoe,” I said.

“Harry Tse.”

“Yeah. Any survivors?”

“His wife. Lotus Tse. Why, Matt? You going to do something? You going to get Joey’s killer?”

“Where is she? Tse’s wife.”

“On Mott Street. Here, Matt, I’ll give you the address.” He reached behind him for a brush, dipped it into a pot of ink, and scrawled an address on a brown piece of paper. “Tell her I sent you, Matt. Tell her Charlie Loo sent you.”

“Is that your name?”

He nodded.

“All right, Charlie. I’ll see you.”

“Good luck, Matt.”

“Thanks.”

I knocked on the door and waited, and then I knocked again.

“Who is it?”

The voice had a singsong lilt, like a mild breeze rustling through a willow tree. It brought pictures of an ancient China, a land of delicate birds and eggshell skies, colorful kimonos and speckled white stallions.

“I’m a friend of Charlie Loo,” I said to the closed door.

“Moment.”

I waited a few more minutes, and when the door opened, I was glad I had. She was small, with shiny black hair that tumbled to her shoulders, framing an oval face. Her eyes tilted sadly, brown as strong coffee, fringed with soot-black lashes. She had a wide mouth, and she wore a silk blouse and a skirt that hugged her small, curving hips. “Yes, please?”

“May I come in?”

“All right.” The singsong made it sound like a question. She stepped aside, and I walked into the apartment, through a pair of beaded drapes, into a living room that was cool with the shade of the building that crowded close to the open window.

“My name is Matt Cordell,” I said.

“You are a friend of Charlie’s?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Sit down, Mr. Cordell.”

“Thank you.” I slumped into an easy chair, clasped my hands over my knees. “Your husband, Mrs. Tse. What do you know about his death?”

Her eyes widened a little, but her face remained expressionless otherwise. “Is that why you are here?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He... was killed. Is there more to say?”

“How?”

“A knife.”

“When?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Today is Friday,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Is it?” she asked. There was such a desperate note in her voice that I looked up suddenly. She was not watching me. She was staring through the open window at the brick wall of the opposite building.

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“The tong, they say. I don’t know.”

“You don’t think it was a tong?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I... I don’t know what to think.”

“What did your husband do?”

“Export-import. His business was good. He was a good man, my husband. A good man.”

“Any enemies?”

“No. No, I don’t know of any.”

“Did he seem worried about anything?”

“No. He was happy.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, is there anything you can tell me? Anything that might help in...”

She shook her head, dangerously close to tears. “You... you do not understand, Mr. Cordell. Harry was a happy man. There was nothing. No reason. No... reason to kill him. No reason.”

I waited a moment before asking the next question. “Was he ever away from home? I mean, any outside friends? A club? Bowling team? Band? Anything like that?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A club. He went on Mondays. He was well liked.”

“What’s the name of the club?”

“Chinese Neighborhood Club, Incorporated, I think. Yes. It’s on Mulberry Street. I don’t know the address.”

“I’ll find it,” I said, rising. “Thank you, Mrs. Tse. I appreciate your help.”

“Are you looking for Harry’s murderer, Mr. Cordell?”

“I think so.”

“Find him,” she said simply.

The Chinese Neighborhood Club, Inc., announced itself to the sidewalk by means of a red and black lettered sign swinging on the moist summer breeze. A narrow entranceway huddled beneath the sign, and two Chinese stood alongside the open doorway, talking softly, their panamas tilted back on their heads. They glanced at me as I started up the long narrow stairway.

The stairwell was dark. I followed the creaking steps, stopping at a landing halfway up. There were more steps leading to another landing, but I decided I’d try the door on this landing first. I didn’t bother to knock. I took the knob, twisted it, and the door opened.

The room was almost unfurnished. There was a long curtained closet on one wall, and an easy chair just inside the doorway. A long table ran down the center of the room. A man was seated at the table. A stringed instrument rested on the table before him, looking very much like a small harp. The man had the withered parchment face of a Chinese mandarin. He held two sticks with felted tips in his hands. A small boy with jet-black hair stood alongside the table. They both looked up as I came into the room.

“Yes?” the old man asked.

“I’m looking for friends of Harry Tse.”

“Okay,” the old man said. He whispered something to the boy, and the kid tossed me a darting glance, and then went out the door through which I’d entered. The door closed behind him and I sat in the easy chair while the old man began hitting the strings of his instrument with the two felted sticks. The music was Old China. It twanged on the air in discordant cacophony, strangely fascinating, harsh on the ears, but somehow, soothing. It droned on monotonously, small staccato bursts that vibrated the strings, set the air humming.

The sticks stopped, and the old man looked up.

“You who?” he asked.

“Matt Cordell.”

“Yes. Mmm, yes.”

He went back to his instrument. The room was silent except for the twanging of the strings. I closed my eyes and listened, remembering a time when Trina and I first discovered the wonder of Chinatown, found it for our very own. That had been a happy time, our marriage as bright and as new as the day outside. That was before I found her in Garth’s arms, before I smashed in his face with the butt of my .45. The police went easy on me. Trina and Garth dropped charges, but it was still assault with a deadly weapon, and the police yanked my license, and Matt Cordell drifted to the Bowery along with the other derelicts. Trina and Garth? Mexico, the stories said, for a quick divorce. Leaving behind them a guy who didn’t give a damn anymore.

I listened to the music, and I thought of the liquor I’d consumed since then, the bottles of sour wine, the smoke, the canned heat. I thought of the flophouses, and the hallways, and the park benches and the gutters and the stink and filth of the Bowery. A pretty picture, Matt Cordell. A real pretty picture.

Like Joey.

Only Joey was dead, really dead. I was only close to it.

The music stopped. There was the bare room again, and the old man, and the broken memories.

“Is someone coming to talk to me?” I asked.

“You go up,” the old man said. “Upstairs. You go. Someone talk to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and went into the hallway, wondering why the old man had sent the kid up ahead of me. Probably a natural distrust of Westerners. Whoever was up there had been warned that an outsider was in the house. I climbed the steps, and found another doorway at the landing.

I opened the door.

The room was filled with smoke. There were at least a dozen round tables in the room, and each table was crowded with seated Chinese. There was a small wooden railing that separated the large room from a small office with a desk. A picture of Chiang Kai-shek hung on one wall. A fat man sat at the desk with his back to me. The kid who’d been downstairs was standing alongside him. I turned my back to the railing and the desk, and looked into the room. A few of the men looked up, but most went on with what I supposed were their games.

The place was a bedlam of noise. Each man sitting at the tables held a stack of tiles before him. As far as I could gather, the play went in a clockwise motion, with each player lifting a tile and banging it down on the table as he shouted something in Chinese. I tried to get the gist of the game, but it was too complicated. Every now and then, one man would raise a pointed stick and push markers across wires hanging over the tables, like the markers in a poolroom. A window stretched across the far end of the room, and one group of men at a table near the window were the quietest in the room. They were playing cards, and from a distance, it looked like good old-fashioned poker.

I turned away from them and stared at the back of the man seated at the desk. I cleared my throat.

He swung his chair around, grinning broadly, exposing a yellow gold tooth in the front of his mouth.

“Hello, hello,” he said.

I gestured over my shoulder with my head. “What’s that? Mah-jongg?”

He peered around as if he hadn’t seen the wholesale gaming. “Chinese game,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Did Harry Tse play it?”

“Harry? No, Harry play poker. Far table. You know Harry?”

“Not exactly.”

The Chinese shook his head, and the wattles under his chin flapped. “Harry dead.”

“I know.”

“Yes. Dead.” He shook his head again.

“Was he here last Monday night?”

“Oh sure. He here every Monday.”

“Did he play poker?”

“Oh sure. He always play. Harry good guy.”

“Who played with him?”

“Hmm?”

“Last Monday? Who was he playing with?”

“Why?”

“He was killed. Maybe one of his friends did it. Who did he play with?”

The fat Chinese stood up abruptly and looked at the far table. He nodded his head then. “Same ones. Always play poker. Only ones.” He pointed at the far table. “They play with Harry.”

“Thanks. Mind if I ask them a few questions?”

The fat Chinese shrugged. I went across the room past the mah-jongg tables and over to the poker game. Four men were seated at the table. None of them looked up when I stopped alongside it.

I cleared my throat.

A thin man with short black hair and a clean-shaven face looked up curiously. His eyes were slanted, his skin pulled tight at the corners. He held his cards before him in a wide fan.

“My name’s Cordell,” I said to him. “I understand Harry Tse was playing cards here the night before he was killed.”

“Yes?” the thin man asked.

“Are you the spokesman for the group?”

“I’ll do. What’s on your mind?”

“Who won Monday night?” The thin man thought this over. He shrugged and turned to another player. “Who won, Tommy?”

Tommy was a husky boy with wide jowls. He shrugged, too. “I don’t remember, Lun.”

“That your name?” I asked the first guy.

“That’s right. Lun Ching.”

“Who won, Lun Ching?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did Harry win?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Lun Ching stared at me. “Are you from the police?”

“No.”

He nodded, his head imperceptibly. “Harry didn’t win. That’s enough for you.” He turned back to his cards, fished two from the fan, and said to a player across the table, “Two cards.”

The dealer threw two cards onto the table, and Lun Ching reached for them. I reached at the same time, clamping my fingers onto his wrist.

“I’m not through yet, Lun.”

He shook his hand free, and shoved his chair back. “You better get the hell out of here, Mac,” he said.

“Matt,” I corrected. “I want to know who won here Monday night. You going to tell me?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know.”

Lun Ching gestured impatiently with his head. “Tommy won.”

I turned to the husky-jowled Chinese. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A few bucks.”

“Did Harry lose?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. Two, three dollars.”

“Who else won?”

“What?”

“You said you’d won a few bucks, Tommy. You also said Harry lost about three bucks. What did the rest of you do?”

Lun Ching stood up. “We broke even. Does that answer you?”

“Maybe,” I said. I turned and started across the room. Over my shoulder, I said, “I might come back.”

Someone from the table whispered, “Don’t hurry.”

The fat Chinese looked up when I stopped at the desk behind the wooden railing.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” I said.

“Wong. Sam Wong.”

“Mr. Wong, did Harry leave here alone on Monday night?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did he say where he was going? Did he have to meet anyone?”,

“No. He didn’t say. I think he go home.”

“I see.”

Sam Wong looked at me curiously. “Harry no killed Monday night,” he said, his voice puzzled. “Harry killed Tuesday night.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

None of it fit.

I was banging my head against a stone wall, and I didn’t like the feeling. It wasn’t like the old days when someone shoved a fat retainer under my nose, held it out like a carrot to a rabbit, challenged me to find a missing husband or squelch a bit of blackmail.

There was no retainer now. There was only the thought of Joey lying dead in that small park, Joey about whom I knew practically nothing. We shared a big thirst, that was all, and we’d done our damnedest to quench it. I thought of the last bottle I’d shared with him. We’d sat on the corner of my flophouse cot a few days back, drinking the fifth of Imperial, forgetting the heated streets outside, forgetting everything but the driving desire to get blind stinking drunk.

Now Joey was dead, and Charlie had suggested a tie-in between that and the death of Harry Tse, a man I didn’t know at all. A sensible man would have called it a day. A sensible man would have said, “All right, you stupid bastard, your first idea was wrong. Harry Tse didn’t win any money, and that’s not why he was killed. There was another reason, and it wasn’t a cheating wife because her love is stamped all over her face. So give it up and go rustle a bottle of smoke, give it up and forget it.”

I’d stopped being sensible a long time ago.

I’d stopped the night I took Garth’s face apart.

I shook my head and bummed a dime from the next guy who passed. That bought me a glass of beer, and that cleared my head a little, and I was ready to play shamus again even though it was too hot to be playing anything.

I started walking through Chinatown, looking for an idea. I passed windows crammed with herbs and roots, crammed with fish and spice and fowl. I passed windows brimming with sandals and kimonos and jade and beads and boxes and figurines and fans. I passed newsstands displaying Chinese periodicals and newspapers. I passed restaurants, upstairs, downstairs, level with the street. I passed all these in a miasma of heat that clung to the narrow streets like a living thing.

And no idea came.

The heat stifled thought. It crawled around the open throat of my shirt, stained my armpits, spread sweat across my back muscles. It was too hot to walk, and too hot to think, and too damned hot to do anything but sidle up to a beer glass beaded with cold drops.

But I had to think, so I forced the heat out of my mind and I tried to remember what Mrs. Tse had told me about her husband, Harry.

Export-import.

I stopped in the nearest candy store, waded through two dozen Tses in the phone book, and finally located his business address, right in the center of Chinatown where I’d hoped it would be. I sighed against the heat, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and headed for his office.

It was upstairs. A small unimportant office with an important-looking title on the door: HARRY TSE: EXPORTS-IMPORTS. I tried the knob, half expecting the office to be closed. The door opened, and I found myself in a small reception room. A desk hugged the wall, and a Chinese girl hugged the desk. She stopped typing when I came in, her sloe eyes frankly appraising me.

She was dressed like any girl you’d see in the subway. She was small, the way most Chinese women are, but there was nothing slight or delicate about her. She wore no makeup other than a splash of lipstick across her full mouth.

“My name is Matt Cordell,” I said.

“Yes?” she said. “How may I help you, sir?”

“Mrs. Tse sent me,” I lied. “What do you know about her husband?”

“You’re investigating his murder?”

“More or less,” I said.

She looked at me dubiously and then she shrugged, and her eyes met mine frankly and levelly.

“I don’t know anything about his murder,” she said.

“What about his habits?”

“What about them?”

“Do you know where he was going on the night he was killed?”

“Yes. One of his clients lives on West Seventy-second Street. I think he was going there. In fact, I’m sure he was.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me he was walking up to Fourteenth to catch the uptown subway there. He never reached it. He was stabbed outside Cooper Union.”

“Where Joey was killed,” I said.

“Who? Oh yes, Joey. Charlie Loo’s friend.”

“You knew Joey?”

“No, I didn’t know Joey,” she said. “But Charlie told me what he said.”

“What do you mean?”

“About seeing somebody.”

“Is that what Joey said?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“He said, ‘So that’s who it was.’ ”

“And that’s what Charlie told you, is that it?”

“Yes. So I figured there might be some connection. To Mr. Tse getting stabbed.”

“I see.”

“So I passed it on to Mrs. Tse. She said she was going to look up Charlie and get him to point out this Joey person to her. She said she wanted to ask him what he’d seen.”

“When was this? That you told Mrs. Tse?”

“Yesterday, I think. I don’t really remember. There’s been so damned much confusion around here...”

She shook her head.

“You’ve been very helpful,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, and went back to her typing.

I’d been walking for two blocks before I realized I was being followed. I quickened my pace, hurried down narrow twisting streets, ducked into an alley, and sprinted for the other end. My followers knew Chinatown better than I did. Lun Ching and his pal Tommy were waiting for me at the other end of the alley.

“You son of a bitch,” Lun shouted.

The sap in his hand went up over his head and came down on the side of my neck, knocking me flat against one wall of the alley. I grabbed at the bricks for support, but the sap went up and down again, and this time it peeled back a half inch of flesh from my cheek.

“You’re going to the morgue, you bastard,” Lun said. He brought back the sap again, swung it at my head. I fell to my knees and Tommy kicked me quickly and expertly. Lun bent over me, the sap a sledgehammer now, up and down, hitting me everywhere, on my shoulders, my face, my upraised hands and arms.

“Break up the card game, will you? Come acting tough, huh?”

And always the sap, up and down, viciously pounding me closer and closer to the cement until my head was touching it and Tommy’s kick to my temple made everything go black.

The brick wall was a mile high. It stretched out above me and leaned dangerously against the sky. I watched it, wondering when it would fall; and after a while I realized it wasn’t going to fall at all.

I stumbled to my knees then and touched the raw pain that was my face. I ached everywhere, and I ached more when I remembered Tommy and Lun. But I wasn’t angry at them. They’d given me a hell of a beating, but they’d also given me an idea, and it was an idea any stupid bastard should have got all by himself. So I filed them away under unfinished business and stumbled my way out of the alley.

Lun Ching had said I was going to the morgue, and he was right.

It was cool inside the morgue.

I thanked the respite from the heat and followed the attendant down the long, gloomy corridor.

“This is it,” he said. He pulled out the drawer and I looked down into Joey’s lifeless face, at the flabby whiskey-sodden features that even death could not hide.

“That’s him,” I said.

“Sure, I know it’s him,” the attendant answered, his voice echoing off the windowless walls.

“I was wondering about his personal effects,” I said.

“You a relative?”

“No. I don’t think he had any relatives. I was his friend.”

The attendant considered this.

“Not a hell of a lot there,” he said at last. “Sent all of it up to Homicide because they’re still investigating this. Got a list, though, and I can tell you what was on him.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Sure. No trouble at all.” I followed him to a desk at the end of the corridor. He sat down and picked up a clipboard, and then began flipping the pages. “Let’s see. Yeah, here he is, Joseph H. Gunder.”

I hadn’t even known Joey’s last name. The anonymity of the Bowery is almost complete.

“Yeah, he didn’t have much,” the attendant said. “Want me to read this off?”

“Yes, please.”

“A dollar bill, and thirty-five cents in change. Want that broken down?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Okay, let’s see. Handkerchief, switchblade knife, pint of Carstairs, almost empty, some rubber bands, package of Camels, two butts in it. Wallet with identification. That’s it.”

“A pint of Carstairs?”

I was thinking of the fifth of Imperial Joey had brought to me and how we’d killed it.

“Yep, that’s right.”

“And... a switchblade knife?”

“Yeah.”

“And money, too?”

“Say, you want me to repeat the whole damn list?”

“No, that’s fine. Thanks.” I paused. “Did they decide what killed him?”

“Sure. Hole in the head. Want to see him again?”

“No. I meant, what caliber pistol?”

“ .22. Why?”

“Just curious. I’ll be going.”

“Drop in again sometime,” he said.

I walked out into bright sunshine. For me, the beginning was in the morgue, after all, and I owed Lun Ching a debt. But the end was somewhere else, and I headed there now.

The door opened when I knocked and gave my name.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just came across something.”

“That’s all right.”

“May I come in?”

“Certainly.”

I followed her into the living room again, and I sat down in the same easy chair. I didn’t look at the floor or my clasped hands this time. I looked directly at her.

“Ever walk through the Bowery, Mrs. Tse?”

Her eyes were still troubled. “Yes?” she said.

“Often?”

“I know the neighborhood.”

“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Tse?”

She hesitated. “Why... yes. Yes, I do.”

“A .22 maybe?”

She hesitated again, for a long time. She sighed deeply then and lifted her eyes to mine. There was no expression on her face, and her tone was flat.

“You know,” she said.

“I know.”

She nodded.

“He deserved what he got,” she said.

“Joey?”

“Yes. Joey. He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

“My drinking companion, Mrs. Tse. A man doesn’t get to know much about anyone in the Bowery. Nor about what makes them tick.”

“How did you know? How did you know I... killed him?”

“A few things. A bottle of Imperial, for one. When Joey brought it to me, I never thought to ask where he’d got the money for it. That kind of money doesn’t come easy to a bum. When I saw his stuff at the morgue, there was another pint there, and more money. I knew then that Joey had hit it rich recently and his switchblade knife told me how.”

“Harry was stabbed,” she said tonelessly.

“Sure. Joey didn’t even know who his victim was. When Charlie mentioned it to him, Joey was probably drunk. He said, ‘So that’s who it was,’ without even thinking. Charlie thought Joey had only seen your husband’s murderer. He didn’t know Joey was the murderer.”

“And me? How did you come to me?”

“A guess, and a little figuring. A .22 is a woman’s gun.”

“I have a permit,” she said. “I go through the Bowery often. Harry thought... he thought I should have one.”

“What happened, Mrs. Tse? Do you want to tell me?”

“All right,” she said, and paused. “Charlie pointed out your... friend to me. Joey. I followed him to Cooper Square. I asked him what he’d meant by ‘So that’s who it was.’ He got terribly frightened. He said he hadn’t meant to kill Harry. I think he was drunk, I don’t know. He said he’d asked Harry for a dime and Harry refused. He pulled a knife and when Harry started to yell, he stabbed him. For a... a dime. He stabbed him for a dime.”

“He got more than just a dime, Mrs. Tse.”

“I couldn’t believe it, Mr. Cordell.”

She still couldn’t.

“For a dime!” she said again, and shook her head. “I took the gun from my purse and shot him. I shot him only once. Just once. Because he’d stabbed Harry, you see.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So I shot him,” she repeated. Her voice was very small now. “Will you take me to the police?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“But...”

I got to my feet.

“Mrs. Tse,” I said, “we’ve never even met.”

I walked to the door, leaving her alone in the living room that faced a blank wall, leaving her alone because once upon a time I’d lost someone I loved, and I knew exactly how it felt.

It was hot in the street.

But it was hotter where Joey was.

Death Flight

This story was first published as “Ticket to Death” in the September 1954 issue of Argosy. It carried the Evan Hunter byline. I wrote it while I was still living in a development house in Hicksville, Long Island. I know this because the guy next door was a commercial airline pilot who provided much of the flight information in the story. “Death Flight” — my original title, and the one I’m using here — was an early shot at a more conventional p.i. story than the Matt Cordells. I later decided cops were the only people who had any right to be sticking their noses in murder investigations.

Squak Mountain was cold at this time of the year.

The wind groaned around Davis, and the trees trembled bare limbs, and even at this distance he could hear the low rumble of planes letting down at Boeing and Renton. He found the tree about a half mile east of the summit. The DC-4 had struck the tree and then continued flying. He looked at the jagged, splintered wood and then his eyes covered the surrounding terrain. Parts of the DC-4 were scattered all over the ridge in a fifteen-hundred-foot radius. He saw the upper portion of the plane’s vertical fin, the number-two propeller, and a major portion of the rudder. He examined these very briefly, and then he began walking toward the canyon into which the plane had finally dropped.

Davis turned his head sharply once, thinking he’d heard a sound. He stood stock-still, listening, but the only sounds that came to him were the sullen moan of the wind and the muted hum of aircraft in the distant sky.

He continued walking. When he found the plane, it made him a little sick. The Civil Aeronautics Board report had told him that the plane was demolished by fire. The crash was what had obviously caused the real demolition. But the report had only been typed words. He saw “impact” now, and “causing fire,” and even though the plane had been moved by the investigating board, he could imagine something of what had happened. It had been in nearly vertical position when it struck the ground, and the engines and cockpit had bedded deep in soft, muddy loam. Wreckage had been scattered like shrapnel from a hand grenade burst, and fire had consumed most of the plane, leaving a ghostlike skeleton that confronted him mutely. He stood looking at it for a time, then made his way down to the charred ruins.

The landing gear was fully retracted, as the report had said. The wing flaps were in the twenty-five-degree down position.

He studied these briefly and then climbed up to the cockpit. The plane still stank of scorched skin and blistered paint. When he entered the cockpit, he was faced with complete havoc. It was impossible to obtain a control setting or an instrument reading from the demolished instrument panel. The seats were twisted and tangled. Metal jutted into the cockpit and cabin at grotesque angles. The windshield had shattered into a million jagged shards.

He shook his head and continued looking through the plane, the stench becoming more overpowering. He was silently grateful that he had not been here when the bodies were still in the plane, and he still wondered what he was doing here anyway, even now.

He knew that the report had proved indication of an explosion prior to the crash. There had been no structural failure or malfunctioning of the aircraft itself. The explosion had occurred in the cabin, and the remnants of the bomb had shown it to be a homemade job. He’d learned all this in the past few days, with the cooperation of the CAB. He also knew that the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the military police were investigating the accident, and the knowledge had convinced him that this was not a job for him. Yet here he was.

Five people had been killed. Three pilots, the stewardess, and Janet Carruthers, the married daughter of his client, George Ellison. It could not have been a pleasant death.

Davis climbed out of the plane and started toward the ridge. The sun was high on the mountain, and it cast a feeble, pale yellow tint on the white pine and spruce. There was a hard gray winter sky overhead. He walked swiftly, with his head bent against the wind.

When the shots came, they were hard and brittle, shattering the stillness as effectively as twin-mortar explosions.

He dropped to the ground, wriggling sideways toward a high outcropping of quartz. The echo of the shots hung on the air and then the wind carried it toward the canyon and he waited and listened, with his own breathing the loudest sound on the mountain.

I’m out of my league, he thought. I’m way out of my league. I’m just a small-time detective, and this is something big...

The third shot came abruptly.

It came from some high-powered rifle, and he heard the sharp twang of the bullet when it struck the quartz and ricocheted into the trees. He pressed his cheek to the ground, and he kept very still, and he could feel the hammering of his heart against the hard earth. His hands trembled and he waited for the next shot.

The next shot never came.

He waited for a half hour, and then he bundled his coat and thrust it up over the rock, hoping to draw fire if the sniper was still with him. He waited for several minutes after that, and then he backed away from the rock on his belly, not venturing to get to his feet until he was well into the trees.

Slowly, he made his way down the mountain.

“You say you want to know more about the accident?” Arthur Porchek said. “I thought it was all covered in the CAB report.”

“It was,” Davis said. “I’m checking further. I’m trying to find out who set that bomb.”

Porchek drew in on his cigarette, and leaned against the wall. The busy hum of radios in Seattle Approach Control was loud around them. “I’ve only told this story a dozen times already,” he said.

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell it once more,” Davis said.

“Well,” Porchek said heavily, “it was about 2036 or so...” He paused. “All our time is based on a twenty-four-hour clock, like the Army.”

“Go ahead.”

“The flight had been cleared to maintain seven thousand feet. When they contacted us, we told them to make a standard range approach to Boeing Field and requested that they report leaving each thousand-foot level during the descent. That’s standard, you know.”

“Were you doing all the talking to the plane?” Davis asked.

“Yes.”

“All right, what happened?”

“First I gave them the weather.”

“And what was that?”

Porchek shrugged, a man weary of repeating information over and over again. “Boeing Field,” he said by rote. “Eighteen hundred scattered, twenty-two hundred overcast, eight miles, wind south-southeast, gusts to thirty, altimeter twenty-nine, twenty-five. Seattle-Tacoma, measured nineteen hundred broken, with thirty-one hundred overcast.”

“Did the flight acknowledge?”

“Yes, it did. And it reported leaving seven thousand feet at 2040. About two minutes later, it reported being over the outer markers and leaving the six-thousand-foot level.”

“Go on,” Davis said.

“Well, it didn’t report leaving five thousand and then at 2045, it reported leaving four thousand feet. I acknowledged this and told them what to do. I said, ‘If you’re not VFR by the time you reach the range you can shuttle on the northwest course at two thousand feet. It’s possible you’ll break out in the vicinity of Boeing Field for a south landing.’ ”

“What’s VFR?” Davis asked, once again feeling his inadequacy to cope with the job.

“Visual Flight Rules. You see, it was overcast at twenty-two hundred feet. The flight was on instruments above that. They’ve got to report to us whether they’re on IFR or VFR.”

“I see. What happened next?”

“The aircraft reported at 2050 that it was leaving three thousand feet, and I told them they were to contact Boeing Tower on 118.3 for landing instructions. They acknowledged with ‘Roger,’ and that’s the last I heard of them.”

“Did you hear the explosion?”

“I heard something, but I figured it for static. Ground witnesses heard it, though.”

“But everything was normal and routine before the explosion, that right?”

Porchek nodded his head emphatically. “Yes, sir. A routine letdown.”

“Almost,” Davis said.

He called George Ellison from a pay phone. When the old man came on the line, Davis said, “This is Milt Davis, Mr. Ellison.”

Ellison’s voice sounded gruff and heavy, even over the phone. “Hello, Davis,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Ellison. I’d like out.”

“Why?” He could feel the old man’s hackles rising.

“Because the FBI and the MPs are already on this one. They’ll crack it for you, and it’ll probably turn out to be some nut with a grudge against the government. Either that, or a plain case of sabotage. This really doesn’t call for a private investigation.”

“Look, Davis,” Ellison said, “I’ll decide whether this calls for...”

“All right, you’ll decide. I’m just trying to be frank with you. This kind of stuff is way out of my line. I’m used to trailing wayward husbands, or skip-tracing, or an occasional bodyguard stint. When you drag in bombed planes, I’m in over my head.”

“I heard you were a good man,” Ellison said. “You stick with it. I’m satisfied you’ll do a good job.”

“Whatever you say,” Davis said, and sighed. “Incidentally, did you tell anyone you’d hired me?”

“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact...”

“Who’d you tell?”

“Several of my employees. The word got to a local reporter somehow, though, and he came to my home yesterday. I gave him the story. I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

“Has it reached print yet?”

“Yes,” Ellison said. “It was in this morning’s paper. A small item. Why?”

“I was shot at today, Mr. Ellison. At the scene of the crash. Three times.”

There was a dead silence on the line.

Then Ellison said, “I’m sorry, Davis, I should have realized.”

It was a hard thing for a man like Ellison to say.

“That’s all right,” Davis assured him. “They missed.”

“Do you think — do you think whoever set the bomb shot at you?”

“Possibly. I’m not going to start worrying about it now.”

Ellison digested this and then said, “Where are you going now, Davis?”

“To visit your son-in-law, Nicholas Carruthers. I’ll call in again.”

“Fine, Davis.”

Davis hung up, jotting down the cost of the call, and then made reservations on the next plane to Burbank.

Nicholas Carruthers was chief pilot of Intercoastal Airways’s Burbank Division. The fatal flight had been made in two segments; the first from Burbank to San Francisco, and the second from Frisco to Seattle. The DC-4 was supposed to let down at Boeing, with Seattle-Tacoma designated as an alternate field. It was a simple ferry flight, and the plane was to pick up military personnel in Seattle, in accordance with the company’s contract with the Department of National Defense.

Quite curiously, Carruthers had been along on the Burbank-to-Frisco segment of the hop, as company observer. He’d disembarked at Frisco and his wife, Janet, had boarded the plane there as a nonrevenue passenger. She was bound for a cabin up in Washington, or so old man Ellison had told Davis. He’d also said that Janet had been looking forward to the trip for a long time.

When Davis found Captain Nicholas Carruthers in the airport restaurant, he was sitting with a blonde in a black cocktail dress, and he had his arm around her waist. They lifted their martini glasses and clinked them together, the girl laughing. Davis studied the pair from the doorway and reflected that the case was turning into something he knew a little more about.

He hesitated inside the doorway for just a moment and then walked directly to the bar, taking the stool on Carruthers’s left. He waited until Carruthers had drained his glass and then he said, “Captain Carruthers?”

Carruthers turned abruptly, a frown distorting his features. He was a man of thirty-eight or so, with prematurely graying temples and sharp gray eyes. He had thin lips and a thin straight nose that divided his face like an immaculate stone wall. He wore civilian clothing.

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Milton Davis. Your father-in-law hired me to look into the DC-4 accident,” Davis said, and showed his identification. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”

Carruthers hesitated, and then glanced at the blonde, apparently realizing the situation was slightly compromising. The blonde leaned over, pressing her breasts against the bar top, looking past Carruthers to Davis.

“Take a walk, Beth,” Carruthers said.

The blonde drained her martini glass, pouted, lifted her purse from the bar, and slid off the stool. Davis watched the exaggerated swing of her hips across the room and then said, “I’m sorry if...”

“Ask your questions,” Carruthers said.

Davis studied him for a moment. “All right, Captain,” he said mildly. “I understand you were aboard the crashed DC-4 on the flight segment from Burbank to San Francisco. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Carruthers said. “I was aboard as observer.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on the trip?”

“If you mean did I see anyone with a goddamn bomb, no.”

“I didn’t—”

“And if you’re referring to the false alarm, Mr. Whatever-the-Hell-Your-Name-Is, you can just start asking your questions straight. You know all about the false alarm.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it all over again,” Davis said.

“Sure,” Carruthers said testily. “Shortly after takeoff from Burbank, we observed a fire-warning signal in the cockpit. From the number-three engine.”

“I’m listening,” Davis said.

“As it turned out, it was a false warning. When we got to Frisco, the mechanics there checked and found no evidence of a fire having occurred. Mason told the mechanics—”

“Who’s Mason?”

“Pilot in command.” A little of Carruthers’s anger seemed to be wearing off. “He told the mechanics he was satisfied from the inspection that no danger of fire was present. He did not delay the flight.”

“Were you satisfied with the inspection?” Davis asked.

“It was Mason’s command.”

“Yes, but your wife boarded the plane in Frisco. Were you satisfied there was no danger of fire?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did your wife seem worried about it?” Davis asked.

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to Janet in Frisco,” Carruthers said.

Davis was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “How come?”

“I had to take another pilot up almost the moment I arrived.”

“I don’t understand.”

“For a hood test. I had to check him out. I’m chief pilot, you know. That’s one of my jobs.”

“And there wasn’t even enough time to stop and say hello to your wife?”

“No. We were a little ahead of schedule. Janet wasn’t there when we landed.”

“I see.”

“I hung around while the mechanics checked the fire-warning system and Janet still hadn’t arrived. This other pilot was waiting to go up. I left.”

“Then you didn’t see your wife at all,” Davis said.

“Well, that’s not what I meant. I meant I didn’t speak to her. When we were taxiing for takeoff, I saw her come onto the field.”

“Alone?”

“No,” Carruthers said. “She was with a man.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“No. They were rather far from me, and I was in a moving ship. I recognized Janet’s red hair immediately, of course, but I couldn’t make out the man with her. I waved, but I guess she didn’t see me.”

“She didn’t wave back?”

“No. She went directly to the DC-4. The man helped her aboard, and then the plane was behind us and I couldn’t see any more.”

“What do you mean, helped her aboard?”

“Took her elbow, you know. Helped her up the ladder.”

“I see. Was she carrying luggage?”,

“A suitcase, yes. She was bound for our cabin, you know.”

“Yes,” Davis said. “I understand she was on a company pass. What does that mean exactly, Captain?”

“We ride for a buck and a half,” Carruthers said. “Normally, any pilot applies to his chief pilot for written permission for his wife to ride and then presents the permission at the ticket window. He then pays one-fifty for the ticket. Since I’m chief pilot, I simply got the ticket for Janet when she told me she was going up to the cabin.”

“Did you know all the pilots on the ship?”

“I knew one of them. Mason. The other two were new on the route. That’s why I was along as observer.”

“Did you know Mason socially?”

“No. Just business.”

“And the stewardess?”

“Yes, I knew her. Business, of course.”

“Of course,” Davis said, remembering the blonde in the cocktail dress. He stood up and moved his jacket cuff off his wristwatch. “Well, I’ve got to catch a plane, Captain. Thanks for your help.”

“Not at all,” Carruthers said. “When you report in to Dad, give him my regards, won’t you?”

“I’ll do that,” Davis said.

He bought $25,000 worth of insurance for fifty cents from one of the machines in the waiting room, and then boarded his return plane at about five minutes before takeoff. He browsed through the magazine he’d picked up at the newsstand, and when the fat fellow plopped down into the seat beside him, he just glanced up and then turned back to his magazine again. The plane left the ground and began climbing, and Davis looked back through the window and saw the field drop away below him.

“First time flying?” the fellow asked.

Davis looked up from the magazine into a pair of smiling green eyes. The eyes were embedded deep in soft, ruddy flesh. The man owned a nose like the handle of a machete, and a mouth with thick, blubbery lips. He wore an orange sports shirt against which the color of his complexion seemed even more fiery.

“No,” Davis said. “I’ve been off the ground before.”

“Always gives me a thrill,” the man said. “No matter how many times I do it.” He chuckled and added, “An airplane ride is just like a woman. Lots of ups and downs, and not always too smooth — but guaranteed to keep a man up in the air.”

Davis smiled politely, and the fat man chuckled a bit more and then thrust a beefy hand at him. “MacGregor,” he said. “Charlie or Chuck or just plain Mac, if you like.”

Davis took his hand and said, “Milt Davis.”

“Glad to know you, Milt,” MacGregor said. “You down here on business?”

“Yes,” he said briefly.

“Me, too,” MacGregor said. “Business mostly.” He grinned slyly. “Course, what the wife don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”

“I’m not married,” Davis told him.

“A wonderful institution,” MacGregor said. He laughed aloud, and then added, “But who likes being in an institution?”

Davis hoped he hadn’t winced. He wondered if he was to be treated to MacGregor’s full repertoire of worn-out gags before the trip was over. To discourage any further attempts at misdirected wit, he turned back to the magazine as politely as he could, smiling once to let MacGregor know he wasn’t being purposely rude.

“Go right ahead,” MacGregor said genially. “Don’t mind me.”

That was easy, Davis thought. If it lasts.

He was surprised that it did last. MacGregor stretched out on the seat beside him, closing his eyes. He did not speak again until the plane was ten minutes out of San Francisco.

“Let’s walk to the john, eh, Milt?” he said.

Davis lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks, but—”

“This is a .38 here under my overcoat, Milt,” MacGregor said softly.

For a second, Davis thought it was another of the fat man’s tired jokes. He turned to look at MacGregor’s lap. The overcoat was folded over his chunky left arm, and Davis could barely see the blunt muzzle of a pistol poking from beneath the folds.

He lifted his eyebrows a little. “What are you going to do after you shoot me, MacGregor?” he asked. “Vanish into thin air?”

MacGregor smiled. “Now who mentioned anything about shooting, Milt? Eh? Let’s go back, shall we, boy?”

Davis rose and moved past MacGregor into the aisle. MacGregor stood up behind him, the coat over his arm, the gun completely hidden now. Together, they began walking toward the rear of the plane, past the food buffet on their right, and past the twin facing seats behind the buffet. An emergency window was set in the cabin wall there, and Davis sighed in relief when he saw that the seats were occupied.

When they reached the men’s room, MacGregor flipped open the door and nudged Davis inside. Then he crowded in behind him, putting his wide back to the door. He reached up with one heavy fist, rammed Davis against the sink, and then ran his free hand over Davis’s body.

“Well,” he said pleasantly. “No gun.”

“My name is Davis, not Spade,” Davis told him.

MacGregor lifted the .38, pointing it at Davis’s throat. “All right, Miltie, now give a listen,” he said. “I want you to forget all about that crashed DC-4. I want you to forget there are even such things as airplanes, Miltie. Now, I know you’re a smart boy, and so I’m not even going to mark you up, Miltie. I could mark you up nice with the sight and butt of this thing.” He gestured with the .38 in his hand. “I’m not going to do that. Not now. I’m just telling you, nice like, to lay off. Just lay off and go back to skip-tracing, Miltie boy, or you’re going to get hurt. Next time, I’m not going to be so considerate.”

“Look...” Davis started.

“So let’s not have a next time, Miltie. Let’s call it off now. You give your client a ring and tell him you’re dropping it, Miltie boy. Have you got that?”

Davis didn’t answer.

“Fine,” MacGregor said. He reached up suddenly with his left hand, almost as if he were reaching up for a light cord. At the same time he grasped Davis’s shoulder with his right hand and spun him around, bringing the hand with the gun down in a fast motion, flipping it butt end up.

The walnut stock caught Davis at the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping the sink in front of him. He felt the second blow at the back of his head, and then his hands dropped from the sink, and the aluminum deck of the plane came up to meet him suddenly, all too fast.

Someone said, “He’s coming around now,” and he idly thought, Coming around where?

“How do you feel, Mr. Davis?” a second voice asked.

He looked up at the ring of faces. He did not recognize any of them. “Where am I?” he asked.

“San Francisco,” the second voice said. The voice belonged to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and friendly blue eyes. MacGregor had owned friendly green eyes, Davis remembered.

“We found you in the men’s room after all the passengers had disembarked,” the voice went on. “You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. Davis. Nothing serious, however. I’ve dressed the cut, and I’m sure there’ll be no complication.”

“Thank you,” Davis said. “I wonder... did you say all the passengers have already gone?”

“Why, yes.”

“I wonder if I might see the passenger list? There was a fellow aboard I promised to look up, and I’m darned if I haven’t forgotten his name.”

“I’ll ask the stewardess,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Dr. Burke.”

“How do you do?” Davis said. He reached for a cigarette and lighted it. When the stewardess brought the passenger list, he scanned it hurriedly. There was no MacGregor listed, Charles or otherwise. This fact did not surprise him greatly. He looked down the list to see if there were any names with the initials C. M., knowing that when a person assumes an alias, he will usually choose a name with the same initials as his real name. There were no C. M.s on the list, either.

“Does that help?” the stewardess asked.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll find him now.”

The doctor shook Davis’s hand, and then asked if he’d sign a release stating he had received medical treatment and absolving the airline. Davis felt the back of his head, and then signed the paper.

He walked outside and leaned against the building, puffing idly at his cigarette. The night was a nest of lights. He watched the lights and listened to the hum of aircraft all around him. It wasn’t until he finished his cigarette that he remembered he was in San Francisco.

He dropped the cigarette to the concrete and ground it out beneath his heel. Quite curiously, he found himself ignoring MacGregor’s warning. He was a little surprised at himself, but he was also pleased. Even more curiously, he found himself wishing that he and MacGregor would meet again.

He walked briskly to the cyclone fence that hemmed in the runway area. Quickly, he showed the uniformed guard at the gate his credentials, and then asked where he could find the hangars belonging to Intercoastal Airways. The guard pointed them out.

Davis walked through the gate and toward the hangars the guard had indicated, stopping at the first one. Two mechanics, in greasy coveralls were leaning against a work bench, chatting idly. One was smoking and the other tilted a Coke bottle to his lips, draining half of it in one pull. Davis walked over to them.

“I’m looking for the mechanics who serviced the DC-4 that crashed up in Seattle,” he said.

They looked at him blankly for a few seconds, and then the one with the Coke bottle asked, “You from the CAB?”

“No,” Davis said. “I’m investigating privately.”

The mechanic with the bottle was short, with black hair curling over his forehead, and quick brown eyes that silently appraised Davis now. “If you’re thinking about that fire warning,” he said, “it had nothing to do with the crash. There was a bomb aboard.”

“I know,” Davis said. “Were you one of the mechanics?”

“I was one of them,” he said.

“Good.” Davis smiled and said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jerry,” the man said. “Mangione.” His black brows pulled together suspiciously. “Who you investigating for?”

“A private client. The father of the girl who was a passenger.”

“Oh. Carruthers’s wife, huh?”

“Yes. Did you know her?”

“No. I just heard it was his wife. He’s chief pilot down Burbank, ain’t he?”

“Yes,” Davis said.

Mangione paused and studied Davis intently. “What’d you want to know?”

“First, was the fire-warning system okay?”

“Yeah. We checked it out. Just one of those things, you know. False alarm.”

“Did you go into the plane?”

“Yeah, sure. I had to check the signal in the cockpit. Why?”

“I’m just asking.”

“You don’t think I put that damn bomb on the plane, do you?”

“Somebody did,” Davis said.

“That’s for sure. But not me. There were a lot of people on that plane, mister. Any one of ’em could’ve done it.”

“Be a little silly to bring a bomb onto a plane you were going to fly.”

“I guess so. But don’t drag me into this. I just checked the fire-warning system, that’s all.”

“Were you around when Mrs. Carruthers boarded the plane?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“What’d she look like?”

Mangione shrugged. “A broad, just like any other broad. Red hair.”

“Was she pretty?”

“The red hair was the only thing gave her any flash. In fact, I was a little surprised.”

“Surprised? What about?”

“That Tony would bother, you know.”

“Who?”

“Tony Radner.”

“Are you sure about that? Sure you know who the man with her was?”

Mangione made an exasperated gesture with his hands. “Hell, ain’t I been working here for three years? Don’t I know Tony when I see him? He used to sell tickets inside. It was him, all right. He brought her out to the plane and helped her get aboard. Took her right to her seat, in fact. I guess maybe... well, I gotta tell you, I was surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tony’s a good-looking guy. And this Mrs. Carruthers... well, she wasn’t much. I’m surprised he went out of his way. But I guess maybe she wasn’t feeling so hot. Tony’s a gent that way.”

“Wasn’t feeling so hot?”

“Well, I don’t like to talk about anybody’s dead, but she looked like she had a snootful to me. Either that, or she was pretty damn sick.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Hell, Tony had to help her up the ladder, and he practically carried her to her seat. Yeah, she musta been looped.”

“You said Radner used to work here. Has he quit?”

“Yeah, he quit.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Mangione shrugged. “Maybe you can get his address from the office in the morning. But, mister, I wouldn’t bother him right now, if I was you.”

“Why not?”

Mangione smiled.

“Because he’s on his honeymoon.”

When Davis awoke in the morning, the back of his head hardly hurt at all. He shaved and washed quickly, downed a breakfast of orange juice and coffee, and then went to the San Francisco office of Intercoastal Airways.

Radner, they told him, was no longer with them. But they did have his last address, and they parted with it willingly. Davis grabbed a cab, and then sat back while the driver fought the California traffic. When he reached Radner’s address, he paid and tipped the cabbie, and listed the expenditure in his book.

The rooming house was not in a good section of the city. It was red brick, with a brown front stoop. There was an old-fashioned bellpull set in the wide, wooden doorjamb. He pulled this and heard the sound inside, and then he waited for footsteps. They came sooner than he expected.

The woman who opened the door couldn’t have been more than fifty. Her face was still greasy with cold cream, and her hair was tied up in rags.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m looking for Tony Radner,” Davis said. “I’m an old friend of his, knew him in the Army. I went out to Intercoastal, but they told me he doesn’t work for them anymore. I wonder if you know where I can reach him.”

The landlady regarded him suspiciously for a moment. “He doesn’t live here anymore,” she said.

“Darn,” Davis said. He shook his head and assumed a false smile. “Isn’t that always the way? I came all the way from New York, and now I can’t locate him.”

“That’s too bad,” the landlady agreed.

“Did he leave any forwarding address?” Davis asked.

“No. He left because he was getting married.”

“Married!” Davis said. “Well, I’ll be darned! Old Tony getting married!”

The landlady continued to watch Davis, her small eyes staring fixedly.

“You wouldn’t know who he married, would you?”

“Yes,” she said guardedly. “I guess I would.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Trimble,” the landlady said. “A girl named Alice Trimble.”

“Alice Trimble,” Davis said reflectively. “You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”

“Come on in,” the landlady said, finally accepting Davis at face value. She led him into the foyer of the house, and Davis followed her to the pay phone on the wall.

“They all scribble numbers here,” she said. “I keep washing them off, but they keep putting them back again.”

“Shame,” Davis said sympathetically.

“Hers is up there, too. You just wait a second, and I’ll tell you which one.” She stepped close to the phone and examined the scribbled numbers on the wall. She stood very close to the wall, moving her head whenever she wanted to move her eyes. She stepped back at last and placed a long white finger on one of the numbers. “This one. This is the one he always called.”

Davis jotted down the number hastily, and then said, “Well, gee, thanks a million. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

“I hope you find him,” the landlady said. “Nice fellow, Mr. Radner.”

“One of the best,” Davis said.

He called the number from the first pay phone he found. He listened to the phone ring four times on the other end, and then a voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” he said. “I’m an old friend of Tony Radner’s. He asked me to look him up if ever I was in town.” He paused and forced himself to laugh in embarrassment. “Trouble is I can’t seem to find him. His landlady gave me this number...”

“Oh,” the girl said. “You must want my sister. This is Anne Trimble.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...” He paused. “Is your sister there?”

“No, she doesn’t live with me anymore. She and Tony got married.”

“Well, now, that’s wonderful,” Davis said. “Know where I can find them?”

“They’re still on their honeymoon.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” He thought for a few seconds, and then said, “I’ve got to catch a plane back tonight. I wonder if I might come over and... well, you could fill me in on what Tony’s been doing and all. Hate like the devil to go back without knowing something about him.”

The girl hesitated.

“I promise I’ll make it a very short visit. I’ve still got some business to attend to here. Besides... well, Tony loaned me a little money once, and I thought... well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave it with you.”

“I... I suppose that’d be all right,” she said.

“Fine. May I have the address?”

She gave it to him, and he told her he’d be there in about an hour, if that was all right with her. He went to the coffee counter then, ordered coffee and a toasted English, and browsed over them until it was time to go. He bought a plain white envelope on the way out, slipped twenty dollars into it, and sealed it. Then he hailed a cab.

He found the mailbox marked A. Trimble, and realized the initial sufficed for both Alice and Anne. He walked up two flights, stopped outside apartment 22, and thumbed the ivory stud in the doorjamb. A series of chimes floated from beyond the door, and then the peephole flap was thrown back.

“I’m Mr. Davis,” he said to the flap. “I called about—”

“Oh, yes,” Anne Trimble said. The flap descended, and the door swung wide.

She was a tall brunette, and her costume emphasized her height. She was wearing tightly tailored toreador slacks. A starched white blouse with a wide collar and long sleeves was tucked firmly into the band of the slacks. A bird in flight, captured in sterling, rested on the blouse just below the left breast pocket.

“Come in,” she said, “won’t you?” She had green eyes and black eyebrows, and she smiled pleasantly now.

Davis stepped into the cool apartment, and she closed the door behind him.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude when you called,” she said. “I’m afraid you woke me.”

“Then I should be the one to apologize,” Davis said.

He followed her into a sunken living room furnished in Swedish modern. She walked to a long, low coffee table and took a cigarette from a box there, offering the box to him first. Davis shook his head and watched her as she lighted the cigarette. Her hair was cut close to her head, ringing her face with ebony wisps. She wore only lipstick, and Davis reflected that this was the first truly beautiful woman he had ever met. Two large, silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. She lifted her head, and the earrings caught the rays of the sun streaming through the blinds.

“Now,” she said. “You’re a friend of Tony’s, are you?”

“Yes,” he answered. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the sealed envelope. “First, let me get this off my mind. Please tell Tony I sincerely appreciate the loan, won’t you?”

She took the envelope without comment, dropping it on the coffee table.

This is a very cool one, Davis thought.

“I was really surprised to learn that Tony was married,” he said.

“It was a little sudden, yes,” she said.

“Oh? Hadn’t he known your sister long?”

“Three months, four months.”

Davis shook his head.

“I still can’t get over it. How’d he happen to meet her?”

“Like that,” Anne said. “How do people meet? A concert, a club, a soda fountain.” She shrugged. “You know, people meet.”

“Don’t you like Tony?” he asked suddenly.

She seemed surprised. “Me? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I think he’ll be very good for Alice. He has a strong personality, and she needs someone like him. Yes, I like Tony.”

“Well, that’s good,” Davis said.

“When we came to Frisco, you see, Alice was sort of at loose ends. We’d lived in L.A. all our lives, and Alice depended on Mom a good deal, I suppose. When Mom passed away, and this job opening came for me... well, the change affected her. Moving and all. It was a good thing Tony came along.”

“You live here alone then, just the two of you?”

Anne Trimble smiled and sucked in a deep cloud of smoke. “Just two little gals from Little Rock,” she said.

Davis smiled with her. “L.A., you mean.”

“The same thing. We’re all alone in the world. Just Alice and me. Dad died when we were both little girls. Now, of course, Alice is married. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m very happy for her.”

“When were they married?”

“January sixth,” she answered. “It’s been a long honeymoon.”

January sixth, Davis thought. The day the DC-4 crashed. “Where are they now?” he asked.

“Las Vegas.”

“Where in Las Vegas?”

Anne Trimble smiled again. “You’re not planning on visiting a pair of honeymooners, are you, Mr. Davis?”

“God, no,” he said. “I’m just curious.”

“Fact is,” Anne said, “I don’t know where they’re staying. I’ve only had a wire from them since they got married. I don’t imagine they’re thinking much about me. Not on their honeymoon.”

“No, I guess not,” Davis said, and smiled. “I understand Tony left his job. Is that right?”

“Yes. It didn’t pay much, and Tony is really a brilliant person. He and Alice said they’d look around after the honeymoon and settle wherever he could get located.”

“When did he quit?”

“A few days before they were married, I think. No, wait, it was on New Year’s Eve, that’s right. He quit then.”

“Then he wasn’t selling tickets on the day of...”

Anne looked at him strangely.

“The day of what?”

“The day he was married,” Davis said quickly.

“No, he wasn’t.” She continued looking at him, and then asked, “How do you happen to know Tony, Mr. Davis?”

“The Army,” Davis said. “The last war.”

“That’s quite a feat,” Anne said.

“Huh?” Davis looked up.

“Tony was in the Navy.”

Once again, he felt like a damn fool. He cursed the crashed plane, and he cursed George Ellison, and he cursed the stupidity that had led him to take the job in the first place. He sighed deeply.

“Well,” he said. “I guess I didn’t meet him in the Army.”

“I guess you didn’t meet him at all,” Anne said. She was staring at him coldly now. “Maybe you’d better get out, Mr. Davis. If that’s your name.”

“It’s my name. Look,” he said, “I’m a private eye. I’m investigating the crash for my client. I thought...”

“What crash?”

“A DC-4 took a dive in Seattle. My client’s daughter was aboard her when she went down. There was also a bomb aboard.”

“Is this another one of your stories?”

Davis lifted his right hand. “God’s truth, s’help me. I’m trying to find whoever put the bomb aboard.”

“And you think Tony did?”

“No, I didn’t say that. But I’ve got to investigate all the possibilities.”

Anne suddenly smiled. “Are you new at this business?”

“No, I’ve been at it a long time now. This case is a little out of my usual line.”

“You called yourself a private eye. Do private eyes really call themselves that? I thought that was just for the paperback trade.”

“I’m afraid we really do,” Davis said. “Private Investigator, shortened to Private I, and then naturally to private eye.”

“It must be exciting.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s usually deadly dull.” He rose and said, “Thanks very much for your time, Miss Trimble. I’m sorry I got to see you on a ruse, but...”

“You should have just asked. I’m always willing to help the cause of justice.” She smiled again. “And I think you’d better take this money back.”

“Well, thanks again,” he said, taking the envelope.

“Not at all,” she said. She led him to the door, and shook his hand. Her grip was firm and warm. “Good luck,” she said.

The door whispered shut behind him.

He stood in the hallway for a few moments, sighed, and then made his way down to the courtyard and the street.

The time has come, he thought, to replenish the bank account. If Ellison expects me to chase hither and yon, then Ellison should also realize I’m a poor boy, raised by the side of a railroad car. And if a trip to Vegas is in the offing... the time has come to replenish the bank account.

He thought no more about it. He hailed a cab for which Ellison would pay, and headed for the old man’s estate.

The butler opened the door and announced, “Mr. Davis, sir.”

Davis smiled at him and entered the room. It was full of plates and pitchers and cups and saucers and mugs and jugs and platters. For a moment Davis thought he’d wandered into the pantry by error, but then he saw Ellison seated behind a large desk.

Ellison did not look old, even though Davis knew he was somewhere in his seventies. He had led an easy life, and the rich are expert at conserving their youth. The only signs of age on Ellison were in his face. It was perhaps a bit too ruddy for good health, and it reminded him of MacGregor’s complexion, but Ellison was not a fat man. He had steel-gray hair cropped close to his head. His brows were black, in direct contrast to the hair on his head, and his eyes were a penetrating pale blue. Davis wondered from whom Janet had inherited her red hair, then let the thought drop when Ellison rose and extended his hand.

“Ah, Davis, come in,” he said. “Come in.”

Davis walked to the desk, and Ellison took his hand in a tight grip.

“Hope you don’t mind talking in here,” he said. “I’ve got a new piece of porcelain, and I wanted to mount it.”

“Not at all,” Davis said.

“Know anything about porcelain?” Ellison asked.

“Not a thing, sir.”

“Pity. Volkstedt wouldn’t mean anything to you then, would it?”

“No, sir.”

“Or Rudolstadt? It’s more generally known as that.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Davis said.

“Here now,” Ellison said. “Look at this sauceboat.”

Davis looked.

“This dates back to 1783, Davis. Here, look.” He turned over the sauceboat, but he did not let it out of his hands. “See the crossed hayforks? That’s the mark, you know, shows it’s genuine stuff. Funny thing about this. The mark so resembles the Meissen crossed swords...” He seemed suddenly to remember that he was not talking to a fellow connoisseur. He put the sauceboat down swiftly but gently. “Have you learned anything yet, Davis?”

“A little, Mr. Ellison. I’m here mainly for money.”

Ellison looked up sharply and then began chuckling. “You’re a frank man, aren’t you?”

“I try to be,” Davis said. “When it concerns money.”

“How much will you need?”

“A thousand will do it. I’ll probably be flying to Vegas and back, and I may have to spread a little money for information while I’m there.”

Ellison nodded briefly. “I’ll give you a check before you leave. What progress have you made?”

“Not very much. Do you know anyone named Tony Radner?”

Ellison looked up swiftly. “Why?”

“He put your daughter on that DC-4, sir. Do you know him?”

Ellison’s mouth lengthened, and he tightened his fists on the desktop. “Has that son of a bitch got something to do with this?” he asked.

“Do you know him, sir?”

“Of course I do! How do you know he put Janet on that plane?”

“An eyewitness, sir.”

“I’ll kill that bastard!” Ellison shouted. “If he had anything to do with...”

“How do you know him, Mr. Ellison?”

Ellison’s rage subsided for a moment. “Janet was seeing him,” he said.

“What do you mean, seeing him?”

“She fancied herself to be in love with him.”

“You mean she knew him before she met Carruthers?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean she was seeing him after she and Nick were married. She... she had the supreme gall to tell me she wanted a divorce from Nick.” Ellison clenched his hands and then relaxed them again. “You don’t know Nick, Davis. He’s a fine boy, one of the best I feel toward him the way I’d feel toward my own son. I never had any boys, Davis, and Janet wasn’t much of a daughter.” He paused. “I’m grateful I’ve still got Nick,” he said.

“Did Carruthers know she wanted to divorce him?”

“No,” Ellison said. “When she told me, I said I’d cut her off without a penny if she did any such damn-fool tiling. She changed her mind mighty fast after that. Janet was used to money, Davis. The idea of marrying a ticket seller didn’t appeal to her when she knew she’d have to do without it”

“So she broke off with him?”

“On the spot.”

“When was this?”

“About six months ago,” Ellison said. “I thought it was over and done with. Now you tell me he put her on that plane. I don’t know what to think.”

Davis nodded.

“It is a little confusing.”

“You don’t suppose they were going to be together in Washington, do you? Damn it, I wouldn’t put it past her!”

“I don’t think so. At least... well, wouldn’t they have flown together if that were the case?”

“Not if she didn’t want to be seen. She was traveling on a company pass, you know.”

“That seems odd,” Davis said. “I mean—”

“You mean, with all the money I gave them both, why was she traveling on a pass?” Ellison smiled. “Nick’s a proud boy. Getting Janet her ticket was one of the things that kept his pride going.”

“You gave them money, huh?”

“I still give Nick money. He’s all I’ve got now.”

“I see,” Davis said, and washed his hand over his face. “Well, I’ll talk to Radner. Did you know he was married now?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes. On the day of the crash.”

“On the day... then what on earth was he doing with Janet?”

“That’s a good question,” Davis said. He paused, and then added, “Can I have that check now?”

It was not until after dinner that evening that Nicholas Carruthers showed up. Davis had eaten lightly, and after a hasty cigarette had begun packing a small bag for the Vegas trip. When the knock sounded on the door to his apartment, he dropped a pair of shorts into the suitcase and called, “Who is it?”

“Me. Carruthers.”

“Second,” Davis said. He went to the door rapidly, wondering what had occasioned this visit from the pilot. He threw back the night latch and then unlocked the door.

Carruthers was in uniform this time. He wore a white shirt and black tie, together with the pale blue trousers and jacket of the airline. A peaked cap was tilted rakishly on his head.

“Surprised to see you,” Davis said. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Carruthers said. He glanced around the simply furnished apartment noncommittally, then stepped inside and took off his cap, keeping it in his hands.

“Something to drink?” Davis asked. “Scotch okay?”

“Please,” Carruthers replied.

“What’s on your mind?” Davis asked.

Carruthers looked into the depths of his glass, sipped a bit of the scotch, and then looked lip.

“Janet,” he said.

“What about her?”

“Let it lie. Tell the old man you’re dropping it. Let it lie.”

“Why?”

“How much is the old man paying you?” Carruthers asked, avoiding Davis’s question.

“That’s between the old man and myself.”

“I’ll match it,” Carruthers said. “And then some. Just let’s drop the whole damn thing.”

Davis thought back to the genial Mr. MacGregor. “You remind me of someone else I know,” he said.

Carruthers did not seem interested. “Look, Davis, what does this mean to you, anyway? Nothing. You’re getting paid for a job. All right, I’m willing to pay you what you would have made. So why are you being difficult?”

“Am I being difficult? I didn’t say I wouldn’t drop it, did I?”

“Will you?”

“It depends. I’d like to know why you want it dropped.”

“Let’s just say I’d like it better if the whole thing were forgotten.”

“A lot of people would like it better that way. Including the person who put that bomb on the plane.”

Carruthers opened his eyes wide. “You don’t think I did that, do you?”

“You were aboard the plane. You could have.”

“Why would I do a thing like that?”

“I can think of several reasons,” Davis said.

“Like what?” Carruthers said, and sipped at the scotch again.

“Maybe you found out Janet was playing around with Tony Radner.”

Carruthers laughed a short, brittle laugh. “You think that bothered me? That two-bit punk? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You mean you knew about it?”

Carruthers nodded, sipped some more scotch, and then said, “I was used to Janet’s little excursions. Radner didn’t bother me at all. Janet collected men the way the old man collects porcelain. A hobby, you know.”

“Did the old man know this?”

“I doubt it. He knew his daughter was a bitch, but I think Radner was the first time it came out in the open. He squelched that pretty darn fast, you can bet.”

“But you knew about it? And it didn’t bother you?”

“Not in the least. I’m no angel myself, Davis. If Janet wanted to roam, fine. If she thought of leaving me, that was another thing.”

“That you didn’t like,” Davis said.

“That I didn’t like at all.” Carruthers paused. “Look, Davis, I like money. The old man has a lot of it. Janet was my wife, and the old man saw to it that we lived in style. I could have left the airline any time I wanted to, and he’d have set me up for life. Fact is, I like flying so I stayed on. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my meal ticket walk out.”

“That’s not the way I heard it,” Davis said.

“What do you mean?”

“Janet’s gone, and the old man is still making sure you live in style.”

“Sure, but I didn’t know it would work that way.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I don’t get you,” Carruthers said, and swallowed the rest of his scotch.

“Look at it this way. Janet’s a handy thing to have around. She comes and goes, and you come and go, and the old man sees to it that you come and go in Cadillacs. A smart man may begin wondering why he needs Janet at all. If he can be subsidized even after she’s gone, why not get rid of her? Why not give her a bomb to play with?”

“Why not?” Carruthers asked. “But I didn’t”

“That’s what they all say,” Davis told him. “Right up to the gas chamber.”

“You’re forgetting that I didn’t know what the old man’s reaction would be. Still don’t know. It’s early in the game yet, and he’s still crossing my palm, but that may change. Look, Davis, when a man takes out accident insurance, it’s not because he hopes he’ll get into an accident. The same thing with Janet. I needed her. She was my insurance. As long as she was around, my father-in-law saw to it that I wasn’t needing.” Carruthers shook his head. “No, Davis, I couldn’t take a chance on my insurance lapsing.”

“Perhaps not. Why do you want me to drop the case?”

“Because I like the status quo. The memory of Janet is still fresh in the old man’s mind. I’m coupled with that memory. That means he keeps my Cadillac full of gas. Suppose you crack this damned thing? Suppose you find out who set that bomb? It becomes something that’s resolved. There’s a conclusion, and the old man can file it away like a piece of rare porcelain. He loses interest — and maybe my Cadillac stops running.”

“You know something, Carruthers? I don’t think I like you very much.”

Carruthers smiled. “Why? Because I’m trying to protect an investment? Because I don’t give a damn that Janet is gone? Look, Davis, let’s get this thing straight. We hated each other’s guts. I stayed with her because I like the old man’s money. And she stayed with me because she knew she’d be cut off penniless if she didn’t. A very simple arrangement.” He paused. “What do you say?”

“I say get the hell out of here.”

“Be sensible, Davis. Look at it...”

“Take a walk, Carruthers. Take a long walk and don’t come back.”

Carruthers stared at Davis for a long time. He said nothing, and there was no enmity in his eyes. At last he rose and settled his cap on his head. At the door, he turned and said, “You’re not being smart, Davis.”

Davis didn’t answer him.

Maybe he wasn’t being smart. Maybe Carruthers was right. It would have been so much easier to have said no, right from the start. No, Mr. Ellison, I’m sorry. I won’t take the case. Sorry.

That would have been the easy way. He had not taken the easy way. The money had appealed to him, yes, and so he’d stepped into something that was really far too big for him, something that still made very little sense to him. A bomb seemed an awfully elaborate way of killing someone, assuming the death of Janet Carruthers was, in fact, the reason for the bomb. It would have been so much easier to have used a knife, or a gun, or a rope, or even poison.

Unless the destruction of the plane was an important factor in the killing.

Did the killer have a grudge against the airline as well?

Carruthers worked for the airline, but he was apparently well-satisfied with his job. Liked flying, he’d said. Besides, to hear him tell it, he’d never even considered killing his wife. Sort of killing the goose, you know. She was too valuable to him. She was — what had he alluded to? Insurance. Yes, insurance.

Which, in a way, was true.

Carruthers had no way of knowing how Ellison would react to his daughter’s death. He could just as easily have washed his hands of Carruthers, and a man couldn’t take a chance on—

“I’ll be goddamned!” Davis said aloud.

He glanced at his watch. It was too late now. He would have to wait until morning.

“I’ll be goddamned,” he said again.

It would be a long night.

Arthur Schlemmer was a balding man in his early fifties. A pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose, and his blue eyes were genial behind them.

“I can only speak for Aircraft Insurance Association of America, you understand,” he said. “Other companies may operate on a different basis, though I think it unlikely.”

“I understand,” Davis said.

“First, you wanted to know how much insurance can be obtained from our machines at the San Francisco airport.” Schlemmer paused. “We sell it at fifty cents for twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth. Costs you two quarters in the machine.”

“And what’s the maximum insurance for any one person?”

“Two hundred thousand,” Schlemmer said. “The premium is four dollars.”

“Is there anything in your policy that excludes a woman traveling on a company pass?” Davis asked.

“No,” Schlemmer said. “Our airline trip policy states ‘traveling on ticket or pass.’ No, this woman would not be excluded.”

“Suppose the plane’s accident occurred because of a bomb explosion aboard the plane while it was in flight? Would that invalidate a beneficiary’s claim?”

“I should hardly think so. Just a moment, I’ll read you the exclusions.” He dug into his desk drawer and came out with a policy that he placed on the desktop, leafing through it rapidly. “No,” he said. “The exclusions are disease, suicide, war, and, of course, we will not insure the pilot or any active member of the crew.”

“I see,” Davis said. “Can I get down to brass tacks now?”

“By all means, do,” Schlemmer said.

“How long does it take to pay?”

“Well, the claim must be filed within twenty days after the occurrence. Upon receipt of the claim, and within fifteen days, we must supply proof-of-loss forms to the claimant. As soon as these are completed and presented to us, we pay. We’ve paid within hours on some occasions. Sometimes it takes days, and sometimes weeks. It depends on how rapidly the claim is made, the proof of loss submitted, and all that. You understand.”

“Yes,” Davis said. He took a deep breath. “A DC-4 crashed near Seattle on January sixth. Was anyone on that plane insured with your company?”

Schlemmer smiled, and a knowing look crossed his face. “I had a suspicion you were driving at that, Mr. Davis. That was the reason for your ‘bomb’ question, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Was anyone insured?”

“There was only one passenger,” Schlemmer said. “We would not, of course, insure the crew.”

“The passenger was Janet Carruthers,” Davis said. “Was she insured?”

“Yes.”

“For how much?”

Schlemmer paused. “Two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Davis. The maximum.” He wiped his lips and said, “You know how it works, of course. You purchase your insurance from a machine at the airport. An envelope is supplied for the policy, and you mail this directly to your beneficiary or beneficiaries as the case may be, before you board the flight.”

“Yes, I’ve taken insurance,” Davis said.

“A simple matter,” Schlemmer assured him, “and well worth the investment. In this case, the beneficiaries have already received a check for two hundred thousand dollars.”

“They have?”

“Yes. The claim was made almost instantly, proof of loss filed, the entire works. We paid at once.”

“I see,” Davis said. “I wonder... could you tell me... you mentioned suicide in your excluding clause. Was there any thought about Mrs. Carruthers’s death being suicide?”

“We considered it,” Schlemmer said. “But quite frankly, it seemed a bit absurd. An accident like this one is hardly conceivable as suicide. I mean, a person would have to be seriously unbalanced to take a plane and its crew with her when she chose to kill herself. Mrs. Carruthers’s medical history showed no signs of mental instability. In fact, she was in amazingly good health all through her life. No, suicide was out. We paid.”

Davis nodded. “Can you tell me who the beneficiaries were?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Schlemmer said. “A Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner.”

He asked her to meet him in front of DiAngelo’s and they lingered on the wharf a while, watching the small boats before entering the restaurant. When they were seated, Anne Trimble asked, “Have you ever been here before?”

“I followed a delinquent husband as far as the door once,” Davis answered.

“Then it’s your first time.”

“Yes.”

“Mine, too.” She rounded her mouth in mock surprise. “Goodness, we’re sharing a first.”

“That calls for a drink,” he said.

She ordered a daiquiri, and he settled for scotch on the rocks. As he sipped at the drink, he wished he didn’t suspect her sister of complicity in murder.

They made small talk while they ate. Davis felt he’d known her for a long time, and that made his job even harder. When they were on their coffee, she said, “I’m a silly girl, I know. But not silly enough to believe this is strictly social.”

“I’m an honest man,” he said. “It isn’t.”

She laughed. “Well, what is it then?”

“I want to know more about your sister.”

“Alice? For heaven’s sake, why?” Her brow furrowed, and she said, “I really should be offended, you know. You take me out and then want to know more about my sister.”

“You’ve no cause for worry,” he said very softly. He was not even sure she heard him. She lifted her coffee cup. Her eyes were wide over the rim.

“Will you tell me about her?” he asked.

“Do you think she put the bomb on that plane?”

He was not prepared for the question. He blinked his eyes.

“Do you?” she repeated. “Remember, you’re an honest man.”

“Maybe she did,” he said.

Anne considered this, and then took another sip of coffee. “What’d you want to know?” she asked.

“I want to...”

“Understand, Mr. Davis...”

“Milt,” he corrected.

“All right. Understand that I don’t go along with you, not at all. Not knowing my sister. But I’ll answer any of your questions because that’s the only way you’ll see she had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s fair enough,” he said.

“All right, fire away.”

“First, what kind of a girl is she?”

“A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest, Milt, very honest. Innocent. I think Tony Radner is the first man she ever kissed.”

“Do you come from a wealthy family, Anne?”

“No.”

“How does your sister feel about—”

“About not having a tremendous amount of money?” Anne shrugged. “All right, I suppose. We weren’t destitute, even after Dad died. We always got along very nicely, and I don’t think she ever yearned for anything. What are you driving at, Milt?”

“Would two hundred thousand dollars seem like a lot of money to Alice?”

“Yes,” Anne answered without hesitation. “Two hundred thousand would seem like a lot of money to anyone.”

“Is she easily persuaded? Can she be talked into doing things?”

“Perhaps. I know damn well she couldn’t be talked into putting a bomb on a plane, though.”

“No. But could she be talked into sharing two hundred thousand that was come by through devious means?”

“Why all this concentration on two hundred thousand dollars? Is that an arbitrary sum, or has a bank been robbed in addition to the plane crash?”

“Could she be talked,” Davis persisted, “into drugging another woman?”

“No,” Anne said firmly.

“Could she be talked into forging another woman’s signature on an insurance policy?”

“Alice wouldn’t do anything like that. Not in a million years.”

“But she married Radner A man without money, a man without a job. Doesn’t that seem like a shaky foundation upon which to build a marriage?”

“Not if the two people are in love.”

“Or unless the two people were going to come into a lot of money shortly.”

Anne said, “You’re making me angry. And just when I was beginning to like you.”

“Then please don’t be angry. I’m just digging, believe me.”

“Well, dig a little more gently, please.”

“What does your sister look like?”

“Fairly pretty, I suppose. Well, not really. Actually, I don’t know if she is or not. I never appraised her looks.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“Yes, I do.”

She put her purse on the table and unclasped it. She pulled out a leather wallet, unsnapped it, and then removed one of the pictures from the gatefold. “It’s not a good picture,” she apologized.

The girl was not what Davis would have termed pretty at all. He was surprised, in fact, that she could be Anne’s sister. He studied the black-and-white photograph of a fair-haired girl with a wide forehead, her nose a bit too long, her lips thin. He studied the eyes, but they had the vacuous smile common to all posed snapshots.

“She doesn’t look like your sister,” he said.

“Don’t you think so?”

“No, not at all. You’re much prettier.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s all fake,” Anne said. “I visit a remarkable magician known as Antoine. He operates a beauty salon and fender repair shop. He is responsible for the midnight of my hair and the ripe apple of my lips. He made me what I am today, and now you won’t love me anymore.” She brushed away an imaginary tear.

“I’d love you if you were bald and had green lips,” he said, hoping his voice sounded light enough.

“Goodness!” she said, and then she laughed suddenly, a rich, full laugh he enjoyed hearing. “I may very well be bald after a few more tinting sessions with Antoine.”

“May I keep the picture?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. “Why?”

“I’m going up to Vegas. I want to find your sister and Radner.”

“Then you’re serious about all this,” she said softly.

“Yes, I am. At least, until I’m convinced otherwise. Anne...”

“Yes?”

“It’s just a job. I...”

“I’m not really worried, you understand. I know you’re wrong about Alice. And Tony, too. So I won’t worry.”

“Good,” he said. “I hope I am wrong.”

“Will you call me when you get back?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Definitely.”

“If I’m out when you call, you can try my next-door neighbor. Her name is Freida, she’ll take a message.” She scribbled the number on a sheet of paper. “You will call, won’t you, Milt?”

He covered her hand with his and said, “Try and stop me.”

He went to City Hall right after he left her. He checked on marriage certificates issued on January 6, and was not surprised to find that one had been issued to Anthony Louis Radner and Alice May Trimble. He left there and went directly to the airport, making a reservation on the next plane for Las Vegas. Then he headed back for his apartment to pick up his bag.

The door was locked, just as he’d left it.

He put his key into the lock, twisted it, and then swung the door wide.

“Close it,” MacGregor said.

He was sitting in the armchair to the left of the door. One hand rested across his wide middle and the other held the familiar .38, and this time it was pointed at Davis’s head. Davis closed the door, and MacGregor said, “Better lock it, Miltie.”

“You’re a bad penny, MacGregor,” Davis said, locking the door.

MacGregor chuckled. “Ain’t it the truth, Miltie?”

“Why are you back, MacGregor? Three strikes and I’m out, is that it?”

“Three...” MacGregor cut himself short, and then grinned broadly. “So you figured the mountain, huh, Miltie?”

“I figured it.”

“I wasn’t aiming at you, you know. I just wanted to scare you off. You don’t scare too easy, Miltie.”

“Who’s paying you, MacGregor?”

“Now, now,” MacGregor said chidingly, waving the gun like an extended forefinger. “That’s a secret now, ain’t it?” Davis watched the way MacGregor moved the gun, and wondered if he’d repeat the gesture again.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“We take a little ride, Miltie.”

“Like in the movies, huh? Real melodrama.”

MacGregor scratched his head. “Is a pleasant little ride melodrama?”

“Come on, MacGregor, who hired you?” He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready to jump the moment MacGregor started wagging the gun again. MacGregor’s hand did not move.

“Don’t let’s be silly, Miltie boy,” he said.

“Do you know why you were hired?”

“I was told to see that you dropped the case. That’s enough instructions for me.”

“Do you know that two hundred grand is involved? How much are you getting for handling the sloppy end of the stick?”

MacGregor raised his eyebrows and then nodded his head. “Two hundred grand, huh?”

“Sure. Do you know there’s a murder involved, MacGregor? Five murders, if you want to get technical. Do you know what it means to be an accessory after?”

“Can it, Davis. I’ve been in the game longer than you’re walking.”

“Then you know the score. And you know I can go down to. R and I, and identify you from a mug shot. Think about that, MacGregor. It adds up to rock-chopping.”

“Maybe you’ll never get to see a mug shot.”

“Maybe not. But that adds another murder to it. Are they paying you enough for a homicide rap?”

“Little Miltie, we’ve talked enough.”

“Maybe we haven’t talked enough yet. Maybe you don’t know that the Feds are in on this thing, and that the Army...”

“Oh, come on, Miltie. Come on now, boy. You’re reaching.”

“Am I? Check around, MacGregor. Find out what happens when sabotage is suspected, especially on a plane headed to pick up military personnel. Find out if the Feds aren’t on the scene. And find out what happens when a big-time fools with the government.”

“I never done a state pen,” MacGregor said, seemingly hurt. “Don’t call me a big-time.”

“Then why are you juggling a potato as hot as this one? Do you yearn for Quentin, MacGregor? Wise up, friend. You’ve been conned. The gravy is all on the other end of the line. You’re getting all the cold beans, and when it comes time to hang a frame, guess who’ll be it? Give a good guess, MacGregor.”

MacGregor said seriously, “You’re a fast talker.”

“What do you say, MacGregor? How do you feel, playing the boob in a big ante deal? How much are you getting?”

“Four G’s,” MacGregor said. “Plus.”

“Plus what?”

MacGregor smiled the age-old smile of a man who has known a woman and is reluctant to admit it. “Just plus,” he said.

“All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You’ve already had the ‘plus,’ and you can keep that as a memory.”

“I’ve only been paid half the dough,” MacGregor said.

“When’s the rest due?”

“When you drop the case.”

“I can’t match it, MacGregor, but I’ll give you a thou for your trouble. You’re getting off easy, believe me. If I don’t crack this, the Feds will, and then you’ll really be in hot water.”

“Yeah,” MacGregor said, nodding.

“Does that mean you’ll forget it?”

“Where’s the G-note?”

Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser.

“Who hired you, MacGregor?”

He looked up.

MacGregor’s smile had widened now.

“I’ll take it all, Miltie.”

“Huh?”

“All of it.” MacGregor waved the gun. “Everything in the wallet. Come on.”

“You are a jackass, aren’t you?” Davis said.

He fanned out the money in the wallet, and held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering toward the floor. MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.

It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn’t buying anything.

Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man’s chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis’s fingers clamped on his wrist. They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on MacGregor’s gun wrist now. They didn’t speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis’s breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man’s back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.

“Drop it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Drop it.”

He hit the wall with MacGregor’s hand again, and this time the fat man’s fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward and sank his clenched fist into the fat man’s middle.

MacGregor’s face went white. Clutching his belly, he lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, on the point of the jaw, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.

Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch. Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase and placed it on top of his shirts.

He snapped the suitcase shut, called the police to tell them he’d just subdued a burglar in his apartment, and then left to catch his Las Vegas plane.

He started with the biggest hotels first.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner,” he said. “Are they registered here?”

The clerks all looked the same.

“Radner, Radner. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’ll check, sir.”

Then the shifting of the ledger, the turning of pages, the signature largely scrawled, and usually illegible.

“No, sir, I’m sorry. No Radner.”

“Perhaps you’d recognize the woman, if I showed you her picture?”

“Well...” The apologetic cough. “Well, we get an awful lot of guests, sir.”

And the fair-haired girl emerging from the wallet. The black-and-white, stereotyped snapshot of Alice Trimble, and the explanation, “She’s a newlywed with her husband.”

“We get a lot of newlyweds, sir.” The careful scrutiny of the head shot, the tilting of one eyebrow, the picture held at arm’s length, then closer.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize her. Why don’t you try...?”

He tried them all, all the hotels, and then all the rooming houses and then all the motor courts. They were all very sorry. They had no Radners registered, and couldn’t identify the photograph.

So he started making the rounds then.

He lingered at the machines, feeding quarters into the slots, watching the oranges and lemons and cherries whirl before his eyes, but never watching them too closely, always watching the place instead, looking for the elusive woman named Alice Trimble Radner.

Or he sat at the bars, nursing endless scotches, his eyes fastened to the mirrors that commanded the entrance doorways. He was bored, and he was tired, but he kept watching, and he began making the rounds again as dusk tinted the sky, and the lights of the city flicked their siren song on the air.

He picked up the local newspaper in the hotel lobby.

In his room, drinking a scotch from the minibar, he flipped through the paper idly, and almost missed the story.

The headline read: FATAL ACCIDENT. The subhead read: FATE CHEATS BRIDE.

The article told of a Pontiac crashing through a highway guardrail, instantly killing its occupant. Initial inspection indicated defective brakes. The occupant’s name was Anthony Radner. There was a picture of Alice Trimble Radner leaving the coroner’s office. She was raising her hand to cover her face when the picture was taken. It was a good shot, close up, clear. The caption read: Tearful Alice Trimble Radner, leaving the coroner’s office after identifying the body of her husband, Anthony Radner.

Davis did not notice any tears on Alice’s face.

Little Alice Trimble, he thought.

Shy, often awkward.

Honest.

A simple girl.

Well, murder is a simple thing, he thought. All it involves is killing another person or persons. You can be shy and awkward, and even honest — but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a murderer besides. So what is it that takes a simple girl like Alice Trimble and transforms her into a murderess?

Figure it this way. Figure a louse named Tony Radner who sees a way of striking back at the girl who jilted him and coming in to a goodly chunk of dough besides. Figure a lot of secret conversation, a pile of carefully planned moves. Figure a wedding, planned to coincide with the day of the plotted murder, so the murderers can be far away when the bomb they planted explodes.

Radner gets to see Janet Carruthers on some pretext, perhaps a farewell drink to show there are no hard feelings. This is his wedding day, and he introduces her to his bride, Alice Trimble. They share a drink, perhaps, but the drink is loaded and Janet suddenly feels very woozy. They help her to the airport, and they stow the bomb in her valise. None of the pilots know Radner. The only bad piece of luck is the fact that the fire-warning system is acting up, and a mechanic named Mangione recognizes him. But, hey, those are the breaks.

Radner helps her aboard and then goes back to his loving wife, Alice. They hop the next plane for Vegas, and when the bomb explodes they’re far, far away. They get the news from the papers, file claim, and come into two hundred thousand bucks.

Just like falling off Pier 8.

Except that it begins to go sour about there. Except that maybe Alice Trimble likes the big time now. Two hundred G’s is a nice little pile. Why share it?

So Tony Radner meets with an accident. If he’s not insured, the two hundred grand is still Alice’s. If he is insured, there’s more for her.

The little girl has made her debut. The shy, awkward thing has emerged.

Portrait of a killer.

The easy part was over, of course. The hard part was still ahead. He still had to tell Anne about it, and he’d give his right arm not to have that task ahead of him. Alice Trimble? The police would find her. She probably left Vegas the moment Radner piled up the Pontiac. She was an amateur, and it wouldn’t be too hard to find her. But telling Anne, that was the difficult thing.

He looked at the newspaper photograph again.

He sat erect all at once, and swallowed a long gulp of his scotch, and then he took the snapshot of Alice Trimble from his wallet and compared it with the newspaper photo of the woman named Alice Trimble Radner, and said aloud, “Oh no,” and went immediately to the phone.

He asked long distance for Anne’s number, and then let the phone ring for five minutes before he gave up. He remembered the alternate number she’d given him then, the one belonging to Freida, the girl next door. He fished the scrap of paper out of his wallet, studying the number in Anne’s handwriting, recalling their conversation in the restaurant. He got long distance to work again, and the phone was picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Freida?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Milt Davis. You don’t know me, but Anne said I could leave a message here if...”

“Oh, yes. Anne’s told me all about you, Mr. Davis.”

“Well, good, good. I just tried to phone her, and there was no answer. I wonder if you know where I can reach her?”

“Why, yes,” Freida said. “She’s in Las Vegas.”

“What!”

“Yes. Her brother-in-law was killed in a car crash there. She...”

“You mean she’s here in Vegas? Now?”

“Well, I suppose so. She caught a plane early this evening. Yes, I’m sure she’s there by now. Her sister called, you see. Alice. She called and asked me to tell Anne to come right away. Terrible thing, her husband getting killed like...”

“Oh, Christ!” Davis said. He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did she tell you where she’d be staying?”

“Yes, with her sister.”

“Yes, where?”

“Just outside of Las Vegas. A rooming house. Alice and Tony were lucky to find a nice...”

“Please, the address!”

“Well, all right,” Freida said, a little miffed. She read off the address and Davis scribbled it quickly. He said good-bye, and hung up immediately. There was no time for checking plane schedules now. No time for finding out which plane Anne had caught out of Frisco, nor for finding out what time it had arrived in Vegas.

There was only time to tuck MacGregor’s .38 into the waistband of his trousers and then run like hell down to the street. He caught a cab and reeled off the address, and then sat on the edge of his seat while the lights of Vegas dimmed behind him.

When the cabbie pulled up in front of the clapboard structure, he gave him ten dollars and then leaped out of the taxi. He ran up the front steps, rang the doorbell, and heard footsteps approaching inside. A white-haired woman opened the door.

“Alice Radner,” Davis said. “Where?”

“Upstairs, but who...?”

Davis brushed past the woman and started up the flight of steps, not looking back. There was a door at the top of the stairwell. He rapped on it loudly. When he received no answer, he shouted, “I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”

The door opened instantly.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice said.

She was tall, and redheaded, and beautiful, with a pale complexion and blue eyes set against the ivory of her skin. She stared at Davis solemnly. A .22 caliber pistol was steady in her hand.

“Where is she?” Davis asked, and stepped into the room. Anne was lying oh the bed, her hands tied behind her, a gag in her mouth. He made a move toward her just as a voice came from outside the closed door.

“Mrs. Radner?”

The landlady.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Mrs. Mulready. He’s a friend of mine. Everything’s all right, thanks.”

He heard her footsteps retreating. He turned to the redhead again. The .22 was still steady in her hand.

“It all seemed out of whack,” he said, “but I didn’t know just where. It all pointed to Tony Radner and Alice Trimble, but I couldn’t conceive of her as a murderess. Sure, I figured Tony led her into it. A woman in love can be talked into anything. But when I learned about Tony’s accident here, a new Alice Trimble took shape. Not the woman who was talked into anything, and not the woman who’d do anything for love. This new Alice Trimble was a cold-blooded killer.”

Davis saw Anne’s eyes widen.

“Tell me,” he said. “Was your sister a redhead?”

Anne nodded.

“I never thought to ask,” he said. “About her hair. I had her picture and I thought that was all I needed.”

There was a puzzled, apprehensive look of recognition in Anne’s eyes now. All at once, Davis realized he’d said, “Was your sister a redhead?” Past tense. Was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and drew a deep breath. “Alice is dead.”

She flinched as if he’s struck her.

“Believe me,” he said, “I’m sorry. I...” He wiped his hand across his lips and then said, again, “I’m sorry, Anne.”

Tears sprang into her eyes. He went to her in spite of the .22 that was still pointed at him, ripped the gag from her mouth, and said again, “I’m sorry.”

She was shaking her head now. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Alice left you on the sixth,” he said, “to meet Tony Radner, allegedly to marry him. She didn’t know about the trap that had been planned by Tony and Janet Carruthers, who wanted to be free of her husband more than anything else in the world. But not at the expense of cutting herself off without a cent.” He turned to the redheaded woman holding the gun. “Am I right so far, Janet? Or should I call you Mrs. Radner now?”

“Be my guest,” Janet said. “You’re doing fine so far.”

“Alice met Tony as scheduled on the day they were to be married. He probably suggested a drink in celebration, drugged her, and then took her directly to the airport. You met him there because she was being insured as Janet Carruthers, and your signature was necessary on the insurance policy. The beneficiaries were Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner. That’s who you are now, am I right?”

“Ever since the afternoon of the crash,” Janet said. “You’ve got it all right except for the drug, Mr. Davis. That would have been overdoing it a bit.”

“What’d Tony do, just get her too damned drunk to know what was going on?”

“Exactly. Her wedding day, you know. It wasn’t difficult.”

A sob caught in Anne’s throat. Davis glanced at her briefly and then said to Janet, “Did Tony know he was going to be driving into a pile of rocks?”

Janet smiled. “Poor Tony. No, I’m afraid he didn’t know. That part was all my idea. Even down to stripping the brakes. Tony never knew what hit him.”

“Neither did all the people on that DC-4. It was a long way to go for a lousy hunk of cash,” Davis said. “Was Tony insured, too?”

“Yes,” Janet said, “but not for much.” She smiled. “Enough, though.”

“I still don’t know how you hoped to swing it. You obviously sent for Anne because you were afraid someone would recognize you in Frisco. Hell, someone would have recognized you sooner or later, anyway.”

“In Mexico?” Janet asked. “Or South America? I doubt it. Two hundred thousand can buy a lot outside of this country, Mr. Davis. Plus what I’ll get on Tony’s death. I’ll manage nicely, don’t you worry,” she said, and smiled pleasantly, and leveled the gun at his head.

Davis smiled back.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot. And then try to explain the shots to your landlady.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Janet said, and walked to the dresser. She opened a drawer and came out with a long, narrow cylinder. The cylinder had holes punched into its sides, and Davis knew a silencer when he saw one. He saw her fitting the silencer to the end of the .22 and he saw the dull gleam in her eyes and knew it was time to move. He threw back his coat and reached for the .38 in his waistband.

The .22 went off with a sharp pouff and he felt instant pain when the small bullet ripped into his shoulder. But he’d already squeezed the trigger of the .38 and Janet’s arm jerked as his larger bullet tore into flesh and bone. Her fingers opened, and the silenced gun fell to the floor. He kicked it out of her reach.

Footsteps were rushing up the stairs. Outside the door, the landlady shouted, “What is it, Mrs. Radner? What is it?”

“Call the police!” Davis yelled through the closed door. “Now!”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Janet said. “This will kill my father.”

“Your father still has Nick,” Davis said. “And his porcelain.” He paused and looked directly into Janet’s eyes. “That’s all he ever had.”

Kiss Me, Dudley

When you start writing parodies of private eye stories, it’s time to stop writing them. By the time this story was published, in January of 1955, I had written the last of the Matt Cordell stories and was ready to give up on the subgenre. Not only was I finding it increasingly more difficult to justify a private citizen investigating murders, but Cordell presented the added problem of an investigator who wasn’t even licensed! Manhunt published this story under the Hunt Collins byline. It was a kiss-off to private eyes in general and Matt Cordell in particular.

She was cleaning fish by the kitchen sink when I climbed through the window, my .45 in my hand. She wore a low-cut apron, shadowed near the frilly top. When she saw me, her eyes went wide, and her lips parted, moist and full. I walked to the sink, and I picked up the fish by the tail, and I batted her over the eye with it

“Darling,” she murmured.

I gave her another shot with the fish, this time right over her nose. She came into my arms, and there was ecstasy in her eyes, and her breath rushed against my throat. I shoved her away, and I swatted her full on the mouth. She shivered and came to me again. I held her close, and there was the odor of fish and seaweed about her. I inhaled deeply, savoring the taste. My father had been a sea captain.

“They’re outside,” I said, “all of them. And they’re all after me. The whole stinking, dirty, rotten, crawling, filthy, obscene, disgusting mess of them. Me. Dudley Sledge. They’ve all got guns in their maggoty fists, and murder in their grimy eyes.”

“They’re rats,” she said.

“And all because of you. They want me because I’m helping you.”

“There’s the money, too,” she reminded me.

“Money?” I asked. “You think money means anything to them? You think they came all the way from Washington Heights for a lousy ten million bucks? Don’t make me laugh.” I laughed.

“What are we going to do, Dudley?”

“Do? Do? I’m going to go out there and cut them down like the unholy rats they are. When I get done, there’ll be twenty-six less rats in the world, and the streets will be a cleaner place for our kids to play in.”

“Oh, Dudley,” she said.

“But first...”

The pulse in her throat began beating wildly. There was a hungry animal look in her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath and ran her hands over her hips, smoothing the apron. I went to her, and cupped her chin in the palm of my left hand.

“Baby,” I said.

Then I drew back my right fist and hit her on the mouth. She fell back against the sink, and I followed with a quick chop to the gut, and a fast uppercut to the jaw. She went down on the floor and she rolled around in the fish scales, and I thought of my sea captain father, and my mother who was a nice little lass from New England. And then I didn’t think of anything but the blonde in my arms, and the .45 in my fist, and the twenty-six men outside, and the four shares of Consolidated I’d bought that afternoon, and the bet I’d made on the fight with One-Lamp Louie, and the defective brake lining on my Olds, and the bottle of rye in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet back at Dudley Sledge, Investigations.

I enjoyed it.

She had come to me less than a week ago.

Giselle, my pretty redheaded secretary, had swiveled into the office and said, “Dud, there’s a woman to see you.”

“Another one?” I asked.

“She looks distraught.”

“Show her in.”

She had walked into the office then, and my whole life had changed. I took one look at the blonde hair piled high on her head. My eyes dropped to the clean sweep of her throat, to the figure filling out the green silk dress. When she lifted her green eyes to meet mine, I almost drowned in their fathomless depths. I gripped the desktop and asked, “Yes?”

“Mr. Sledge?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Melinda Jones,” she said.

“Yes, Miss Jones.”

“Oh, please call me Agnes.”

“Agnes?”

“Yes. All my friends call me Agnes. I... I was hoping we could be friends.”

“What’s your problem, Agnes?” I asked.

“My husband.”

“He’s giving you trouble?”

“Well, yes, in a way.”

“Stepping out on you?”

“Well, no.”

“What then?”

“Well, he’s dead.”

I sighed in relief. “Good,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“He left me ten million dollars. Some of his friends think the money belongs to them. It’s not fair, really. Just because they were in on the bank job. Percy...”

“Percy?”

“My husband. Percy did kill the bank guards, and it was he who crashed through the roadblock, injuring twelve policemen. The money was rightfully his.”

“Of course,” I said. “No doubt about it. And these scum want it?”

“Yes. Oh, Mr. Sledge, I need help so desperately. Please say you’ll help me. Please, please. I beg you. I’ll do anything, anything.”

“Anything?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she wet her lips with a sharp, pink tongue. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Anything,” she said.

I belted her over the left eye.

That was the beginning, and now they were all outside, all twenty-six of them, waiting to close in, waiting to drop down like the venomous vultures they were. But they hadn’t counted on the .45 in my fist, and they hadn’t counted on the slow anger that had been building up inside me, boiling over like a black brew, filling my mind, filling my body, poisoning my liver and my bile, quickening my heart, putting a throb in my appendix, tightening the pectoral muscles on my chest, girding my loins. They hadn’t counted on the kill lust that raged through my veins. They hadn’t counted on the hammer that kept pounding one word over and over again in my skull: kill, kill, kill.

They were all outside waiting, and I had to get them. We were inside, and they knew it, so I did the only thing any sensible person would have done under the circumstances.

I set fire to the house.

I piled rags and empty crates and furniture and fish in the basement and then I soaked them with gasoline. I touched a match, and the flames leaped up, lapping at the wooden crossbeams, eating away at the undersides of the first-floor boards.

Melinda was close to me. I cupped her chin in one hand, and then tapped her lightly with the 45, just bruising her. We listened to the flames crackling in the basement, and I whispered, “That fish smells good.” And then all hell broke loose, just the way I had planned it. They stormed the house, twenty-six strong. I threw open the front door and I stood there with the .45 in my mitt, and I shouted, “Come on, you rats. Come and get it!” Three men appeared on the walk and I fired low, and I fired fast. The first man took two in the stomach, and he bent over and died. The second man took two in the stomach, and he bent over and died, too. I hit the third man in the chest, and I swore as he died peacefully.

“Agnes,” I yelled, “there’s a submachine gun in the closet. Get it! And bring the hand grenades and the mortar shells.”

“Yes, Dud,” she murmured.

I kept firing. Three down, four down, five down. I reloaded, and they kept coming up the walk and I kept cutting them down. And then Melinda came back with the ammunition. I gathered up a batch of hand grenades, stuck four of them in my mouth, and pulled the pins. I grabbed two in each hand and lobbed them out on the walk and six more of the rats were blown to their reward. I watched the bodies come down to the pavement, and I took a quick count of arms and legs. It had been seven of the rats.

“Seven and five is thirteen,” I told Melinda. “That leaves eleven more.”

Melinda did some quick arithmetic. “Twelve more,” she said.

I cut loose with the submachine gun. Kill, kill, my brain screamed. I swung it back and forth over the lawn, and they dropped like flies. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Nine more to go. Seventeen, eighteen, and they kept dying, and the blood ran red on the grass, and the flames licked at my back. They all ran for cover, and there was nothing to cut down, so I concentrated on a clump of weeds near the barn, shooting fast bursts into it. Pretty soon there were no more weeds, and the barn was a skeleton against the deepening dusk. I grabbed a mortar and tossed it into the yard, just for kicks. Pretty soon, there was no more barn. Behind me, I heard Melinda scream. I whirled. Her clothes were aflame, and I seized her roughly and threw her to the floor. I almost lost my mind, and I almost forgot all about the nine guys still out there. I tore myself away from her, and I ran into the yard with two mortar shells in my mouth, the submachine gun in my right hand, and the .45 in my left. I shook my head, and the mortar shells flew, and three more of the rats were dead and gone. I fired a burst with the machine gun, and another two dropped. There were four or five left now, and I picked them off one by one with the .45. The yard ran red with blood, and the bodies lay like twisted sticks. I sighed heavily and walked back to the house because the worst part still lay ahead of me.

I found her in the bedroom.

She had taken a quick sponge bath, and her body gleamed like dull ivory in the gathering darkness.

“All right, Agnes,” I said. “It’s all over.”

“What do you mean, Dud?”

“The whole mess, Agnes. Everything, from start to finish. A big hoax. A big plot to sucker Dudley Sledge. Well, no one suckers Sledge. No one.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Dud.”

“You don’t know, huh? You don’t know what I mean? I mean the phony story about the bank job, and the ten million dollars your husband left you.”

“He did leave it to me, Dudley.”

“No, Agnes. That was all a lie. Every bit of it. I’m only sorry I had to kill twenty-six bird-watchers before I realized the truth.”

“You’re wrong, Dudley,” she said. “Dead wrong.”

“No, baby. I’m right, and that’s the pity of it because I love you, and I know what I have to do now.”

“Dudley...” she started.

“No, Agnes. Don’t try to sway me. I know you stole that ten million from the Washington Avenue Bird Watchers Society. You invented that other story because you wanted someone with a gun, someone who would keep them away from you. Well, twenty-six people have paid... and now one more has to pay.”

She clipped two earrings to her delicate ears, snapped a bracelet onto her wrist, dabbed some lipstick onto her wide mouth. She was fully dressed now, dressed the way she’d been that first time in my office, the first time I’d slugged her, the time I knew I was hopelessly in love with her.

She took a step toward me, and I raised the .45.

“Kiss me, Dudley,” she said.

I kissed her, all right. I shot her right in the stomach.

She fell to the floor, a look of incredible ecstasy in her eyes, and when I turned around I realized she wasn’t reaching for the mortar shell on the table behind me. Nor was she reaching for the submachine gun that rested in a corner near the table. She was reaching for the ten million bucks.

There were tears in my eyes.

“I guess that’s the least I can do for you, Agnes,” I said. “It was what you wanted, even in death.”

So I took the ten million bucks, and I bought a case of Irish whiskey.