Los Angeles Noir 2

I FEEL BAD KILLING YOU

BY LEIGH BRACKETT

Santa Monica

(Originally published in 1944)

1

Dead End Town

Los Angeles, Apr. 21.—The death of Henry Channing, 24, policeman attached to the Surfside Division and brother of the once-prominent detective Paul Channing, central figure in the Padway gang-torture case, has been termed a suicide following investigation by local authorities. Young Channing’s battered body was found in the surf under Sunset Pier in the beach community three days ago. It was first thought that Channing might have fallen or been thrown from the end of the pier, where his cap was found, but there is no evidence of violence and a high guard rail precludes the accident theory. Sunset Pier was part of his regular beat.

Police Captain Max Gandara made the following statement: “We have reliable testimony that Channing had been nervous and despondent following a beating by pachucos two months ago.” He then cited the case of the brother, Paul Channing, who quit the force and vanished into obscurity following his mistreatment at the hands of the once-powerful Padway gang in 1934. “They were both good cops,” Gandara said, “but they lost their nerve.”

Paul Channing stood for a moment at the corner. The crossing-light, half a block along the highway, showed him only as a gaunt shadow among shadows. He looked down the short street in somber hesitation. Small tired houses crouched patiently under the wind. Somewhere a rusted screen door slammed with the protesting futility of a dying bird beating its wing. At the end of the deserted pavement was the gray pallor of sand and, beyond it, the sea.

He stood listening to the boom and hiss of the waves, thinking of them rushing black and foam-streaked through the pilings of Sunset Pier, the long weeds streaming out and the barnacles pink and fluted and razor sharp behind it. He hoped that Hank had struck his head at once against a timber.

He lifted his head, his body shaken briefly by a tremor. This is it, he thought. This is the deadline.

He began to walk, neither slowly nor fast, scraping sand under his feet. The rhythm of the scraping was uneven, a slight dragging, off-beat. He went to the last house on the right, mounted three sagging steps to a wooden porch, and rapped with his knuckles on a door blistered and greasy with the salt sweat of the sea. There was a light behind drawn blinds, and a sound of voices. The voices stopped, sliced cleanly by the knocking.

Someone walked heavily through the silence. The door opened, spilling yellow light around the shadow of a thick-set, powerful man in shirtsleeves. He let his breath out in what was not quite a laugh and relaxed against the jamb.

“So you did turn up,” he said. He was well into middle age, hard-eyed, obstinate. His name was Max Gandara, Police Captain, Surfside Division, L.A.P.D. He studied the man on the porch with slow, deliberate insolence.

The man on the porch seemed not to mind. He seemed not to be in any hurry. His dark eyes looked, unmoved, at the big man, at him and through him. His face was a mask of thin sinewy flesh, laid close over ruthless bone, expressionless. And yet, in spite of his face and his lean erect body, there was a shadow on him. He was like a man who has drawn away, beyond the edge of life.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asked.

Gandara shrugged. “They’re all here. Come on in and get it over with.”

Channing nodded and stepped inside. He removed his hat. His dark hair was shot with gray. He turned to lay the hat on a table and the movement brought into focus a scar that ran up from his shirt collar on the right side of his neck, back of the ear. Then he followed Gandara into the living room.

There were three people there, and the silence. Three people watching the door. A red-haired, green-eyed girl with a smoldering, angry glow deep inside her. A red-haired, green-eyed boy with a sullen, guarded face. And a man, a neat, lean, swarthy man with aggressive features that seemed always to be on the edge of laughter and eyes that kept all their emotion on the surface.

“Folks,” said Gandara, “this is Paul Channing.” He indicated them, in order: “Marge Krist, Rudy Krist, Jack Flavin.”

Hate crawled into the green eyes of Rudy Krist, brilliant and poisonous, fixed on Channing.

Out in the kitchen a woman screamed. The swing door burst open. A chubby pink man came through in a tottering rush, followed by a large, bleached blonde with an ice pick. Her dress was torn slightly at the shoulder and her mouth was smeared. Her incongruously black eyes were owlish and mad.

Gandara yelled. The sound of his voice got through to the blonde. She slowed down and said sulkily, to no one in particular, “He better keep his fat paws off or I’ll fix him.” She went back to the kitchen.

The chubby pink man staggered to a halt, swayed, caught hold of Channing’s arm and looked up at him, smiling foolishly. The smile faded, leaving his mouth open like a baby’s. His eyes, magnified behind rimless lenses, widened and fixed.

“Chan,” he said. “My God. Chan.”

He sat down on the floor and began to cry, the tears running quietly down his cheeks.

“Hello, Budge.” Channing stooped and touched his shoulder.

“Take it easy.” Gandara pulled Channing’s arms. “Let the little lush alone. Him and—that.” He made a jerky gesture at the girl, flung himself heavily into a chair and glowered at Channing. “All right, we’re all curious—tell us why we’re here.”

Channing sat down. He seemed in no hurry to begin. A thin film of sweat made the tight pattern of muscles very plain under his skin.

“We’re here to talk about a lot of things,” he said. “Who murdered Henry?” No one seemed particularly moved except Budge Hanna, who stopped crying and stared at Channing. Rudy Krist made a small derisive noise in his throat. Gandara laughed.

“That ain’t such a bombshell, Chan. I guess we all had an idea of what you was driving at, from the letters you wrote us. What we want to know is what makes you think you got a right to holler murder.”

Channing drew a thick envelope from his inside pocket, laying it on his knee to conceal the fact that his hands trembled. He said, not looking at anybody, “I haven’t seen my brother for several years, but we’ve been in fairly close touch through letters. I’ve kept most of his. Hank was good at writing letters, good at saying things. He’s had a lot to say since he was transferred to Surfside—and not one word of it points to suicide.”

Max Gandara’s face had grown rocky. “Oh, he had a lot to say, did he?”

Channing nodded. Marge Krist was leaning forward, watching him intently. Jack Flavin’s terrier face was interested, but unreadable. He had been smoking nervously when Channing entered. The nervousness seemed to be habitual, part of his wiry personality. Now he lighted another cigarette, his hands moving with a swiftness that seemed jerky but was not. The match flared and spat. Paul Channing started involuntarily. The flame seemed to have a terrible fascination for him. He dropped his gaze. Beads of sweat came out along his hairline. Once again, harshly, Gandara laughed.

“Go on,” he said. “Go on.”

“Hank told me about that brush with the pachucos. They didn’t hurt him much. They sure as hell didn’t break him.”

“Flavin, here, says different. Rudy says different. Marge says different.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to them—and you, Max. Hank mentioned you all in his letters.” He was talking to the whole room now. “Max I knew from the old days. You, Miss Krist, I know because Hank went with you—not seriously, I guess, but you liked each other. He liked your brother, too.”

The kid stared at him, his eyes blank and bright. Channing said, “Hank talked a lot about you, Rudy. He said you were a smart kid, a good kid but headed for trouble. He said some ways you were so smart you were downright stupid.”

Rudy and Marge both started to speak, but Channing was going on. “I guess he was right, Rudy. You’ve got it on you already—a sort of grayness that comes from prison walls, or the shadow of them. You’ve got that look on your face, like a closed door.”

Rudy got halfway to his feet, looking nasty. Flavin said quietly, “Shut up.” Rudy sat down again. Flavin seemed relaxed. His brown eyes held only a hard glitter from the light. “Hank seems to have been a great talker. What did he say about me?”

“He said you smell of stripes.”

Flavin laid his cigarette carefully in a tray. He got up, very light and easy. He went over to Channing and took a handful of his shirt, drawing him up slightly, and said with gentle kindness, “I don’t think I like that remark.”

Marge Krist cried, “Stop it! Jack, don’t you dare start trouble.”

“Maybe you didn’t understand what he meant, Marge.” Flavin still did not sound angry. “He’s accusing me of having a record, a prison record. He didn’t pick a very nice way of saying it.”

“Take it easy, Jack,” Gandara said. “Don’t you get what he’s doing? He’s trying to wangle himself a little publicity and stir up a little trouble, so that maybe the public will think maybe Hank didn’t do the Dutch after all.” He pointed at Budge Hanna. “Even the press is here.” He rose and took hold of Flavin’s shoulder. “He’s just making a noise with his mouth, because a long time ago people used to listen when he did it and he hasn’t forgotten how good that felt.”

Flavin shrugged and returned to his chair. Gandara lighted a cigarette, holding the match deliberately close to Channing’s sweaty face. “Listen, Chan. Jack Flavin is a good citizen of Surfside. He owns a store, legitimate, and Rudy works for him, legitimate. I don’t like people coming into my town and making cracks about the citizens. If they step out of line, I’ll take care of them. If they don’t, I’ll see they’re let alone.”

He sat down again, comfortably. “All right, Chan. Let’s get this all out of your system. What did little brother have to say about me?”

Channing’s dark eyes flickered with what might have been malice. “What everybody’s always said about you, Max. That you were too goddam dumb even to be crooked.”

Gandara turned purple. He moved and Jack Flavin laughed. “No fair, Max. You wouldn’t let me.”

Budge Hanna giggled with startling shrillness. The blonde had come in and sat down beside him. Her eyes were half closed but she seemed somehow less drunk than she had been. Gandara settled back. He said ominously, “Go on.”

“All right. Hank said that Surfside was a dirty town, dirty from the gutters up. He said any man with the brains of a sick flea would know that most of the liquor places were run illegally, and most of the hotels, too, and that two-thirds of the police force was paid to have bad eyesight. He said it wasn’t any use trying to do a good job as a decent cop. He said every report he turned in was thrown away for lack of evidence, and he was sick of it.”

Marge Krist said, “Then maybe that’s what he was worried about.”

“He wasn’t afraid,” said Channing. “All his letters were angry, and an angry man doesn’t commit suicide.”

Budge Hanna said shrilly, “Look out.”

Max Gandara was on his feet. He was standing over Channing. His lips had a white line around them.

“Listen,” he said. “I been pretty patient with you. Now I’ll tell you something. Your brother committed suicide. All these three people testified at the inquest. You can read the transcript. They all said Hank was worried; he wasn’t happy about things. There was no sign of violence on Hank, or the pier.”

“How could there be?” said Channing. “Hard asphalt paving doesn’t show much. And Hank’s body wouldn’t show much, either.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you. There’s no evidence of murder, no reason to think it’s murder. Hank was like you, Channing. He couldn’t take punishment. He got chicken walking a dark beat down here, and he jumped, and that’s all.”

Channing said slowly, “Only two kinds of people come to Surfside—the ones that are starting at the bottom, going up, and the ones that are finished, coming down. It’s either a beginning or an end, and I guess we all know where we stand on that scale.”

He got up, tossing the packet of letters into Budge Hanna’s lap. “Those are photostats. The originals are already with police headquarters in L.A. I don’t think you have to worry much, Max. There’s nothing definite in them. Just a green young harness cop griping at the system, making a few personal remarks. He hasn’t even accused you of being dishonest, Max. Only dumb—and the powers-that-be already know that. That’s why you’re here in Surfside, waiting for the age of retirement.”

Gandara struck him in the mouth. Channing took three steps backward, caught himself, swayed, and was steady again. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Marge Krist was on her feet, her eyes blazing, but something about Channing kept her from speaking. He seemed not to care about the blood, about Gandara, or about anything but what he was saying.

“You used to be a good reporter, Budge, before you drank yourself onto the scrapheap. I thought maybe you’d like to be in at the beginning on this story. Because there’s going to be a story, if it’s only the story of my death.

“I knew Hank. There was no yellow in him. Whether there’s yellow in me or not, doesn’t matter. Hank didn’t jump off that pier. Somebody threw him off, and I’m going to find out who, and why. I used to be a pretty good dick once. I’ve got a reason now for remembering all I learned.”

Max Gandara said, “Oh, God,” in a disgusted voice. “Take that somewhere else, Chan. It smells.” He pushed him roughly toward the door, and Rudy Krist laughed.

“Yellow,” he said. “Yellower than four Japs. Both of ’em, all talk and no guts. Get him out, Max. He stinks up the room.”

Flavin said, “Shut up, Rudy.” He grinned at Marge. “You’re getting your sister sore.”

“You bet I’m sore!” she flared. “I think Mr. Channing is right. I knew Hank pretty well, and I think you ought to be ashamed to push him around like this.”

Flavin said, “Who? Hank or Mr. Channing?”

Marge snapped, “Oh, go to hell.” She turned and went out. Gandara shoved Channing into the hall after her. “You know where the door is, Chan. Stay away from me, and if I was you I’d stay away from Surfside.” He turned around, reached down and got a handful of Budge Hanna’s coat collar and slung him out bodily. “You, too, rumdum. And you.” He made a grab for the blonde, but she was already out. He followed the four of them down the hall and closed the door hard behind them.

Paul Channing said, “Miss Krist—and you too, Budge.” The wind felt ice cold on his skin. His shirt stuck to his back. It turned clammy and he began to shiver. “I want to talk to you.”

The blonde said, “Is this private?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe you can help.” Channing walked slowly toward the beach front and the boardwalk. “Miss Krist, if you didn’t think Hank committed suicide, why did you testify as you did at the inquest?”

“Because I didn’t know.” She sounded rather angry, with him and possibly herself. “They asked me how he acted, and I had to say he’d been worried and depressed, because he had been. I told them I didn’t think he was the type for suicide, but they didn’t care.”

“Did Hank ever hint that he knew something—anything that might have been dangerous to him?” Channing’s eyes were alert, watchful in the darkness.

“No. Hank pounded a beat. He wasn’t a detective.”

“He was pretty friendly with your brother, wasn’t he?”

“I thought for a while it might bring Rudy back to his senses. He took a liking to Hank, they weren’t so far apart in years, and Hank was doing him good. Now, of course—”

“What’s wrong with Rudy? What’s he doing?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. He’s 4-F in the draft, and that hurts him, and he’s always been restless, never could hold a job. Then he met Jack Flavin, and since then he’s been working steady, but he—he’s changed. I can’t put my finger on it, I don’t know of anything wrong he’s done, but he’s hardened and drawn into himself, as though he had secrets and didn’t trust anybody. You saw how he acted. He’s turned mean. I’ve done my best to bring him up right.”

Channing said, “Kids go that way sometimes. Know anything about him, Budge?”

The reporter said, “Nuh-uh. He’s never been picked up for anything, and as far as anybody knows even Flavin is straight. He owns a haberdashery and pays his taxes.”

“Well,” said Channing, “I guess that’s all for now.”

“No.” Marge Krist stopped and faced him. He could see her eyes in the pale reflection of the water, dark and intense. The wind blew her hair, pressed her light coat against the long lifting planes of her body. “I want to warn you. Maybe you’re a brilliant, nervy man and you know what you’re doing, and if you do it’s all right. But if you really are what you acted like in there, you’d better go home and forget about it. Surfside is a bad town. You can’t insult people and get away with it.” She paused. “For Hank’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m in the phone book if you want me. Good night.”

“Good night.” Channing watched her go. She had a lovely way of moving. Absently, he began to wipe the blood off his face. His lip had begun to swell.

Budge Hanna said, “Chan.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to say thanks, and I’m with you. I’ll give you the biggest break I can in the paper.”

“We used to work pretty well together, before I got mine and you found yours, in a bottle.”

“Yeah. And now I’m in Surfside with the rest of the scrap. If this turns out a big enough story, I might—oh, well.” He paused, rubbing a pudgy cheek with his forefinger.

Channing said, “Go ahead, Budge. Say it.”

“All right. Every crook in the western states knows that the Padway mob took you to the wall. They know what was done to you, with fire. They know you broke. The minute they find out you’re back, even unofficially, you know what’ll happen. You sent up a lot of guys in your time. You sent a lot of ’em down, too—down to the morgue. You were a tough dick, Chan, and a square one, and you know how they love you.”

“I guess I know all that, Budge.”

“Chan—” he looked up, squinting earnestly through the gloom, his spectacles shining—“how is it? I mean, can you—”

Channing put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him around slightly. “You watch your step, kid, and try to stay sober. I don’t know what I may be getting into. If you want out—”

“Hell, no. Just—well, good luck, Chan.”

“Thanks.”

The blonde said, “Ain’t you going to ask me something?”

“Sure,” said Channing. “What do you know?”

“I know who killed your brother.”

2

Badge of Carnage

The blood swelled and thickened in Channing’s veins. It made a hard pain over his eyes and pressed against the stiff scar tissue on his neck. No one spoke. No one moved.

The wind blew sand in riffles across the empty beach. The waves rushed and broke their backs in thunder and slipped out again, sighing. Up ahead Sunset Pier thrust its black bulk against the night. Beyond it was the huge amusement pier. Here and there a single light was burning, swaying with the wind, and the reaching skeletons of the roller coaster and the giant slide were desolate in the pre-season quiet. Vacant lots and a single unlighted house were as deserted as the moon.

Paul Channing looked at the woman with eyes as dark and lonely as the night. “We’re not playing a game,” he said. “This is murder.”

The blonde’s teeth glittered white between moist lips.

Budge Hanna whispered, “She’s crazy. She couldn’t know.”

“Oh, couldn’t I!” The blonde’s whisper was throatily venomous. “Young Channing was thrown off the pier about midnight, wasn’t he? Okay. Well, you stood me up on a date that evening, remember, Budgie dear? And my room is on the same floor as yours, remember? And I can hear every pair of hoofs clumping up and down those damn stairs right outside, remember?”

“Listen,” Budge said, “I told you I got stewed and—”

“And got in a fight. I know. Sure, you told me. But how can you prove it? I heard your fairy footsteps. They didn’t sound very stewed to me. So I looked out, and you were hitting it for your room like your pants were on fire. Your shirt was torn, and so was your coat, and you didn’t look so good other ways. I could hear you heaving clear out in the hall. And it was just nineteen minutes after twelve.”

Budge Hanna’s voice had risen to a squeak. “Damn you, Millie, I—Chan, she’s crazy! She’s just trying—”

“Sure,” said Millie. She thrust her face close to his. “I been shoved around enough. I been called enough funny names. I been stood up enough times. I loaned you enough money I’ll never get back. And I ain’t so dumb I don’t know you got dirt on your hands from somewhere. Me, I’m quitting you right now and—”

“Shut up. Shut up!”

“And I got a few things to say that’ll interest some people!” Millie was screeching now. “You killed that Channing kid, or you know who did!”

Budge Hanna slapped her hard across the mouth.

Millie reeled back. Then she screamed like a cat. Her hands flashed up, curved and wicked, long red nails gleaming. She went for Budge Hanna.

Channing stepped between them. He was instantly involved in a whirlwind of angry flailing hands. While he was trying to quiet them the men came up behind him.

There were four of them. They had come quietly from the shadows beside the vacant house. They worked quickly, with deadly efficiency. Channing got his hand inside his coat, and after that he didn’t know anything for a long time.

Things came back to Channing in disconnected pieces. His head hurt. He was in something that moved. He was hot. He was covered with something, lying flat on his back, and he could hardly breathe. There was another person jammed against him. There were somebody’s feet on his chest, and somebody else’s feet on his thighs. Presently he found that his mouth was covered with adhesive, that his eyes were taped shut, and that his hands and feet were bound, probably also with tape. The moving thing was an automobile, taking its time.

The stale, stifling air under the blanket covering him was heavy with the scent of powder and cheap perfume. He guessed that the woman was Millie. From time to time she stirred and whimpered.

A man’s voice said, “Here is okay.”

The car stopped. Doors were opened. The blanket was pulled away. Cold salt air rushed over Channing, mixed with the heavy sulphurous reek of sewage. He knew they were somewhere on the road above Hyperion, where there was nothing but miles of empty dunes.

Hands grabbed him, hauled him bodily out of the car. Somebody said, “Got the Thompson ready?”

“Yeah.” The speaker laughed gleefully, like a child with a bass voice. “Just like old times, ain’t it? Good ole Dolly. She ain’t had a chansta sing in a long time. Come on, honey. Loosen up the pipes.”

A rattling staccato burst out, and was silent.

“For cripesake, Joe! That stuff ain’t so plentiful. Doncha know there’s a war on? We gotta conserve. C’mon, help me with this guy.” He kicked Channing. “On your feet, you.”

He was hauled erect and leaned against a post. Joe said, “What about the dame?”

The other man laughed. “Her turn comes later. Much later.”

A fourth voice, one that had not spoken before, said, “Okay, boys. Get away from him now.” It was a slow, inflectionless and yet strangely forceful voice, with a hint of a lisp. The lisp was not in the least effeminate or funny. It had the effect of a knife blade whetted on oilstone. The man who owned it put his hands on Channing’s shoulders.

“You know me,” he said.

Channing nodded. The uncovered parts of his face were greasy with sweat. It had soaked loose the corners of the adhesive. The man said, “You knew I’d catch up with you some day.”

The man struck him, deliberately and with force, twice across the face with his open palms.

“I’m sorry you lost your guts, Channing. This makes me feel like I’m shooting a kitten. Why didn’t you do the Dutch years ago, like your brother?”

Channing brought his bound fists up, slammed them into the man’s face, striking at the sound of his voice. The man grunted and fell, making a heavy soft thump in the sand. Somebody yelled, “Hey!” and the man with the quiet lisping voice said, “Shut up. Let him alone.”

Channing heard him scramble up and the voice came near again. “Do that again.”

Channing did.

The man avoided his blow this time. He laughed softly. “So you still have insides, Chan. That makes it better. Much better.”

Joe said, “Look, somebody may come along—”

“Shut up.” The man brought something from his pocket, held his hand close to Channing’s ear, and shook it. “You know what that is?”

Channing stiffened. He nodded.

There was a light thin rattling sound, and then a scratching of emery and the quick spitting of a match-head rubbed to flame.

The man said softly, “How are your guts now?”

The little sharp tongue of heat touched Channing’s chin. He drew his head back. His mouth worked under the adhesive. Cords stood out in his throat. The flame followed. Channing began to shake. His knees gave. He braced them, braced his body against the post. Sweat ran down his face and the scar on his neck turned dark and livid.

The man laughed. He threw the match down and stepped away. He said, “Okay, Joe.”

Somebody said, sharply, “There’s a car coming. Two cars.”

The man swore. “Bunch of sailors up from Long Beach. Okay, we’ll get out of here. Back in the car, Joe. Can’t use the chopper, they’d hear it.” Joe cursed unhappily. Feet scruffed hurriedly in the sand. Leather squeaked, the small familiar sound of metal clearing a shoulder clip. The safety snicked open.

The man said, “So long, Channing.”

Channing was already falling sideways when the shot came. There was a second one close behind it. Channing dropped into the ditch and lay perfectly still, hidden from the road. The car roared off. Presently the two other cars shot by, loaded with sailors. They were singing and shouting and not worrying about what somebody might have left at the side of the road.

Sometime later Channing began to move, at first in uncoordinated jerks and then with reasonable steadiness. He was conscious that he had been hit in two places. The right side of his head was stiff and numb clear down to his neck. Somebody had shoved a redhot spike through the flesh over his heart-ribs and forgotten to take it out. He could feel blood oozing, sticky with sand.

He rolled over slowly and started to peel the adhesive from his face, fumbling awkwardly with his bound hands. When that was done he used his teeth on his wrist bonds. It took a long time. After that the ankles were easy.

It was no use trying to see how much damage had been done. He decided it couldn’t be as bad as it felt. He smiled, a crooked and humorless grimace, and swore and laughed shortly. He wadded the clean handkerchief from his hip pocket into the gash under his arm and tightened the holster strap to hold it there. The display handkerchief in his breast pocket went around his head. He found that after he got started he could walk quite well. His gun had not been removed. Channing laughed again, quietly. He did not touch nor in any way notice the burn on his chin.

It took him nearly three hours to get back to Surfside, crouching in the ditch twice to let cars go by.

He passed Gandara’s street, and the one beyond where Marge and Rudy Krist lived. He came to the ocean front and the dark loom of the pier and the vacant house from behind which the men had come. He found Budge Hanna doubled up under a clump of Monterey cypress. The cold spring wind blew sand into Hanna’s wide-open eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind it. He had bled from the nose and ears—not much.

Channing went through Hanna’s pockets, examining things swiftly by the light of a tiny pocket flash shielded in his hand. There was just the usual clutter of articles. Channing took the key ring. Then, tucked into the watch pocket, he found a receipt from Flavin’s Men’s Shop for three pairs of socks. The date was April 22. Channing frowned. April 21 was the day on which Hank Channing’s death had been declared a suicide. April 21 was a Saturday.

Channing rose slowly and walked on down the front to Surfside Avenue. It was hours past midnight. The bars were closed. The only lights on the street were those of the police station and the lobby of the Surfside Hotel, which was locked and deserted. Channing let himself in with Budge Hanna’s key and walked up dirty marble steps to the second floor and found Budge Hanna’s number. He leaned against the jamb, his knees sagging, managed to force the key around and get inside. He switched on the lights, locked the door again, and braced his back against it. The first thing he saw was a bottle on the bedside table.

He drank straight from the neck. It was scotch, good scotch. In a few minutes he felt much better. He stared at the label, turning the bottle around in his hands, frowning at it. Then, very quietly, he began to search the room.

He found nothing until, in the bottom drawer of the dresser, he discovered a brand new shirt wrapped in cheap green paper. The receipt was from Flavin’s Men’s Shop. Channing looked at the date. It was for the day which had just begun, Monday.

Channing studied the shirt, poking his fingers into the folds. Between the tail and the cardboard he found an envelope. It was unaddressed, unsealed, and contained six one hundred—dollar bills.

Channing’s mouth twisted. He replaced the money and the shirt and sat down on the bed. He scowled at the wall, not seeing it, and drank some more of Budge Hanna’s scotch. He thought Budge wouldn’t mind. It would take more even than good scotch to warm him now.

A picture on the wall impressed itself gradually upon Channing’s mind.

He looked at it more closely. It was a professional photograph of a beautiful woman in a white evening gown. She had a magnificent figure and a strong, provocative, heart-shaped face. Her gown and hairdress were of the late twenties. The picture was autographed in faded ink, Lots of Luck, Skinny, from your pal Dorothy Balf.

Skinny had been crossed out and Budge written above.

Channing took the frame down and slid the picture out. It had been wiped off, but both frame and picture showed the ravages of time, dust and stains and faded places, as though they had hung a long time with only each other for company. On the back of the picture was stamped:

SKINNY CRAIL’S

Surfside at Culver

“Between the Devil and the Deep”

Memories came back to Channing. Skinny Crail, that badluck boy of Hollywood, plunging his last dime on a nightclub that flurried into success and then faded gradually to a pathetically mediocre doom, a white elephant rotting hugely in the empty flats between Culver City and the beach. Dorothy Balf had been the leading feminine star of that day, and Budge Hanna’s idol. Channing glanced again at the scrawled Budge. He sighed and replaced the picture carefully. Then he turned out the lights and sat a long while in the dark, thinking.

Presently he sighed again and ran his hand over his face, wincing. He rose and went out, locking the door carefully behind him. He moved slowly, his limp accentuated by weakness and a slight unsteadiness from the scotch. His expression was that of a man who hopes for nothing and is therefore immune to blows.

There was a phone booth in the lobby. Channing called Max Gandara. He talked for a long time. When he came out his face was chalk-colored and damp, utterly without expression. He left the hotel and walked slowly down the beach.

The shapeless, colorless little house was dark and silent, with two empty lots to seaward and a cheap brick apartment house on its right. No lights showed anywhere. Channing set his finger on the rusted bell.

He could hear it buzzing somewhere inside. After a long time lights went on behind heavy crash draperies, drawn close. Channing turned suddenly sick. Sweat came out on his wrists and his ears rang. Through the ringing he heard Marge Krist’s clear voice asking who was there.

He told her. “I’m hurt,” he said. “Let me in.”

The door opened. Channing walked through it. He seemed to be walking through dark water that swirled around him, very cold, very heavy. He decided not to fight it.

When he opened his eyes again he was stretched out on a studio couch. Apparently he had been out only a moment or two. Marge and Rudy Krist were arguing fiercely.

“I tell you he’s got to have a doctor!”

“All right, tell him to go get one. You don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Trouble? Why would I get in trouble?”

“The guy’s been shot. That means cops. They’ll be trampling all over, asking you why he should have come here. How do you know what the little rat’s been doing? If he’s square, why didn’t he go to the cops himself? Maybe it’s a frame, or maybe he shot himself.”

“Maybe,” said Marge slowly, “you’re afraid to be questioned.”

Rudy swore. He looked almost as white and hollow as Channing felt. Channing laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

He said, “Sure he’s scared. Start an investigation now and that messes up everything for tonight.”

Marge and Rudy both started at the sound of his voice. Rudy’s face went hard and blank as a pine slab. He walked over toward the couch.

“What does that crack mean?”

“It means you better call Flavin quick and tell him to get his new shirt out of Budge Hanna’s room. Budge Hanna won’t be needing it now, and the cops are going to be very interested in the accessories.”

Rudy’s lips had a curious stiffness. “What’s wrong with Hanna?”

“Nothing much. Only one of Dave’s boys hit him a little too hard. He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Rudy shaped the word carefully and studied it as though he had never heard it before. Then he said, “Who’s Dave? What are you talking about?”

Channing studied him. “Flavin’s still keeping you in the nursery, is he?”

“That kind of talk don’t go with me, Channing.”

“That’s tough, because it’ll go with the cops. You’ll sound kind of silly, won’t you, bleating how you didn’t know what was going on because Papa never told you.”

Rudy moved toward Channing. Marge yelled and caught him. Channing grinned and drew his gun. His head was propped fairly high on pillows, so he could see what he was doing without making any disastrous attempt to sit up.

“Fine hood you are, Rudy. Didn’t even frisk me. Listen, punk. Budge Hanna’s dead, murdered. His Millie is dead, too, by now. I’m supposed to be dead, in a ditch above Hyperion, but Dave Padway always was a lousy shot. Where do you think you come in on this?”

Rudy’s skin had a sickly greenish tinge, but his jaw was hard. “You’re a liar, Channing. I never heard of Dave Padway. I don’t know anything about Budge Hanna or that dame. I don’t know anything about you. Now get the hell out.”

“You make a good Charlie McCarthy, Rudy. Maybe Flavin will hold you on his knee in the death-chair at San Quentin.”

Marge stopped Rudy again. She said quietly, “What happened, Mr. Channing?”

Channing told her, keeping his eyes on Rudy. “Flavin’s heading a racket,” he said finally. “His store is just a front, useful for background and a way to make pay-offs and pass on information. He doesn’t keep the store open on Sunday, does he, Rudy?”

Rudy didn’t answer. Marge said, “No.”

“Okay. Budge Hanna worked for Flavin. I’ll make a guess. I’ll say Flavin is engineering liquor robberies, hijacking, and so forth. Budge Hanna was a well-known lush. He could go into any bar and make a deal for bootleg whiskey, and nobody would suspect him. Trouble with Budge was, he couldn’t handle his women. Millie got sore, and suspicious, and began to yell out loud. I guess Dave Padway’s boys overheard her. Dave never did trust women and drunks.”

Channing stared narrow-eyed at Rudy. His blood-caked face was twisted into a cruel grin. “Dave never liked punks, either. There’s going to be trouble between Dave and your pal Flavin, and I don’t see where you’re going to come in, except maybe on a morgue slab, like the others. Like Hank.”

“Oh, cripes,” said Rudy, “we’re back to Hank again.”

“Yeah. Always back to Hank. You know what happened, Rudy. You kind of liked Hank. You’re a smart kid, Rudy. You’ve probably got a better brain than Flavin, and if you’re going to be a successful crook these days you need brains. So Flavin pushed Hank off the pier and called it suicide, so you’d think he was yellow.”

Rudy laughed. “That’s good. That’s very good. Marge was out with Jack Flavin that night.” His green eyes were dangerous.

Marge nodded, dropping her gaze. “I was.”

Channing shrugged. “So what? He hired it done. Just like he hired this tonight. Only Dave Padway isn’t a boy you can hire for long. He used to be big time, and ten years in clink won’t slow him up too much. You better call Flavin, Rudy. They’re liable to find Budge Hanna any time and start searching his room.” He laughed. “Flavin wasn’t so smart to pay off on Saturday, too late for the banks.”

Marge said, “Why haven’t you called the police?”

“With what I have to tell them I’d only scare off the birds. Let ’em find out for themselves.”

She looked at him with level, calculating eyes. “Then you’re planning to do it all by yourself?”

“I’ve got the whip hand right now. Only you two know I’m alive. But I know about Budge Hanna’s shirt, and the cops will too, pretty soon. Somebody’s got to get busy, and the minute he does I’ll know for sure who’s who in this little tinpot crime combine.”

Marge rose. “That’s ridiculous. You’re in no condition to handle anyone. And even if you were—” She left that hanging and crossed to the telephone.

Channing said, “Even if I were, I’m still yellow, is that it? Sure. Stand still, Rudy. I’m not too yellow or too weak to shoot your ankle off.” His face was gray, gaunt, infinitely tired. He touched the burn on his chin. His cheek muscles tightened.

He lay still and listened to Marge Krist talking to Max Gandara.

When she was through she went out into the kitchen. Rudy sat down, glowering sullenly at Channing. He began to tremble, a shallow nervous vibration. Channing laughed.

“How do you like crime now, kiddie? Fun, isn’t it?”

Rudy gave him a lurid and prophetic direction.

Marge came back with hot water and a clean cloth. She wiped Channing’s face, not touching the handkerchief. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the gash in his side was still oozing. The pad had slipped. Marge took his coat off, waiting while he changed hands with the gun, and then his shoulder clip and shirt. When she saw his body she let the shirt drop and put her hand to her mouth. Channing, sitting up now on the couch, glanced from her to Rudy’s slack pale face, and said quietly, “You see why I don’t like fire.”

Marge was working gently on his side when the bell rang. “That’s the police,” she said, and went to the front door. Channing held Rudy with the gun.

He heard nothing behind him, but quite suddenly there was a cold object pressing the back of his neck and a voice said quietly, “Drop it, bud.”

It was Joe’s voice. He had come in through the kitchen. Channing dropped his gun. The men coming in the front door were not policemen. They were Dave Padway and Jack Flavin.

Flavin closed the door and locked it. Channing nodded, smiling faintly. Dave Padway nodded back. He was a tall, shambling man with white eyes and a long face, like a pinto horse.

“I see I’m still a bum shot,” he said.

“Ten years in the can doesn’t help your eye, Dave.” Channing seemed relaxed and unemotional. “Well, now we’re all here we can talk. We can talk about murder.”

Marge and Ruby were both staring at Padway. Flavin grinned. “My new business partner, Dave Padway. Dave, meet Marge Krist and Rudy.”

Padway glanced at them briefly. His pale eyes were empty of expression. He said, in his soft way, “It’s Channing that interests me right now. How much has he told, and who has he told it to?”

Channing laughed, with insolent mockery.

“Fine time to worry about that,” Flavin grunted. “Who was it messed up the kill in the first place?”

Padway’s eyelids drooped. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jack,” he said mildly. Flavin struck a match. The flame trembled slightly.

Rudy said, “Jack. Listen, Jack, this guy says Budge Hanna and his girl were killed. Did you—”

“No. That was Dave’s idea.”

Padway said, “Any objections to it?”

“Hanna was a good man. He was my contact with all the bars.”

“He was a bum. Him and that floozie between them were laying the whole thing in Channing’s lap. I heard ’em.”

“Okay, okay! I’m just sorry, that’s all.”

Rudy said, “Jack, honest to God, I don’t want to be messed up in killing. I don’t mind slugging a watchman, that’s okay, and if you had to shoot it out with the cops, well, that’s okay too, I guess. But murder, Jack!” He glanced at Channing’s scarred body. “Murder, and things like that—” He shook.

Padway muttered, “My God, he’s still in diapers.”

“Take it easy, kid,” Flavin said. “You’re in big time now. It’s worth getting sick at your stomach a couple times.” He looked at Channing, grinning his hard white grin. “You were right when you said Surfside was either an end or a beginning. Dave and I both needed a place to begin again. Start small and grow, like any other business.”

Channing nodded. He looked at Rudy. “Hank told you it would be like this, didn’t he? You believe him now?”

Rudy repeated his suggestion. His skin was greenish. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. Marge leaned against the wall, watching with bright, narrow-lidded eyes. She was pale. She had said nothing.

Channing said, “Flavin, you were out with Marge the night Hank was killed.”

“So what?”

“Did you leave her at all?”

“A couple of times. Not long enough to get out on the pier to kill your brother.”

Marge said quietly, “He’s right, Mr. Channing.”

Channing said, “Where did you go?”

“Ship Cafe, a bunch of bars, dancing. So what?” Flavin gestured impatiently.

Channing said, “How about you, Dave? Did you kill Hank to pay for your brother, and then wait for me to come?”

“If I had,” Padway said, “I’d have told you. I’d have made sure you’d come.” He stepped closer, looking down. “You don’t seem very surprised to see us.”

“I’m not surprised at anything anymore.”

“Yeah.” Padway’s gun came smoothly into his hand. “At this range I ought to be able to hit you, Chan.” Marge Krist caught her breath sharply. Padway said, “No, not here, unless he makes me. Go ahead, Joe.”

Joe got busy with the adhesive tape again. This time he did a better job. They wrapped his trussed body in a blanket. Joe picked up the feet. Flavin motioned Rudy to take hold. Rudy hesitated. Padway flicked the muzzle of his gun. Rudy picked up Channing’s shoulders. They turned out the lights and carried Channing out to a waiting car. Marge and Rudy Krist walked ahead of Padway, who had forgotten to put away his gun.

3

“I Feel Bad Killin’ You …”

The room was enormous in the flashlight beams. There were still recognizable signs of its former occupation—dust-blackened, tawdry bunting dangling ragged from the ceiling, a floor worn by the scraping of many feet, a few forgotten tables and chairs, the curling fly-specked photographs of bygone celebrities autographed to Dear Skinny, an empty, dusty band platform.

One of Padway’s men lighted a coal-oil lamp. The boarded windows were carefully reinforced with tarpaper. In one end of the ballroom were stacks of liquor cases built into a huge square mountain. Doors opened into other rooms, black and disused. The place was utterly silent, odorous with the dust and rot of years.

Padway said, “Put him over there.” He indicated a camp cot beside a table and a group of chairs. The men carrying Channing dropped him there. The rest straggled in and sat down, lighting cigarettes. Padway said, “Joe, take the Thompson and go upstairs. Yell if anybody looks this way.”

Jack Flavin swore briefly. “I told you we weren’t tailed, Dave. Cripes, we’ve driven all over this goddam town to make sure. Can’t you relax?”

“Sure, when I’m ready to. You may have hair on your chest, Jack, but it’s no bulletproof vest.” He went over to the cot and pulled the blanket off Channing. Channing looked up at him, his eyes sunk deep under hooded lids. He was naked to the waist. Padway inspected the two gashes.

“I didn’t miss you by much, Chan,” he said slowly.

“Enough.”

“Yeah.” Padway pulled a cigarette slowly out of the pack. “Who did you talk to, Chan, besides Marge Krist? What did you say?”

Channing bared his teeth. It might have been meant for a smile. It was undoubtedly malicious.

Padway put the cigarette in his mouth and got a match out. It was a large kitchen match with a blue head. “You got me puzzled, Chan. You sure have. And it worries me. I can smell copper, but I can’t see any. I don’t like that, Channing.”

“That’s tough,” Channing said.

“Yeah. It may be.” Padway struck the match.

Rudy Krist rose abruptly and went off into the shadows. No one else moved. Marge Krist was hunched up on a blanket near Flavin. Her eyes were brilliant green under her tumbled red hair.

Dave Padway held the match low over Channing’s eyes. There was no draft, no tremor in his hand. The flame was a perfect triangle, gold and blue. Padway said somberly, “I don’t trust you, Chan. You were a good cop. You were good enough to take me once, and you were good enough to take my brother, and he was a better man than me. I don’t trust this setup, Chan. I don’t trust you.”

Flavin said impatiently, “Why didn’t you for godsake kill him the first time? You’re to blame for this mess, Dave. If you hadn’t loused it up—okay, okay! The guy’s crazy afraid of fire. Look at him now. Put it to him, Dave. He’ll talk.”

“Will he?” said Padway. “Will he?” He lowered the match. Channing screamed. Padway lighted his cigarette and blew out the match. “Will you talk, Chan?”

Channing said hoarsely, “Offer me the right coin, Dave. Give me the man who killed my brother, and I’ll tell you where you stand.”

Padway stared at him with blank light eyes, and then he began to laugh, quietly, with a terrible humor.

“Tie him down, Mack,” he said, “and bring the matches over here.”

The room was quiet, except for Channing’s breathing. Rudy Krist sat apart from the others, smoking steadily, his hands never still. The three gunsels bent with scowling concentration over a game of blackjack. Marge Krist had not moved since she sat down. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed. Channing’s corded body was spotted with small vicious marks.

Dave Padway dropped the empty matchbox. He sighed and leaned over, slapping Channing lightly on the cheek. Channing opened his eyes.

“You going to talk, Chan?”

Channing’s head moved, not much, from right to left.

Jack Flavin swore. “Dave, the guy’s crazy afraid of fire. If he’d had anything to tell he’d have told it.” His shirt was open, the space around his feet littered with cigarette ends. His harsh terrier face had no laughter in it now. He watched Padway obliquely, his lids hooded.

“Maybe,” said Padway. “Maybe not. We got a big deal on tonight, Jack. It’s our first step toward the top. Channing read your receipt, remember. He knows about that. He knows a lot of people out here. Maybe he has a deal on, and maybe it isn’t with the cops. Maybe it isn’t supposed to break until tonight. Maybe it’ll break us when it does.”

Channing laughed, a dry husky mockery.

Flavin got up, scraping his chair angrily. “Listen, Dave, you getting chicken or something? Looks to me like you’ve got a fixation on this bird.”

“Look to me, Jack, like nobody ever taught you manners.”

The room became perfectly still. The men at the table put their cards down slowly, like men playing cards in a dream. Marge Krist rose silently and moved toward the cot.

Channing whispered, “Take it easy, boys. There’s no percentage in a shroud.” He watched them, his eyes holding a deep, cruel glint. It was something new, something born within the last quarter of an hour. It changed, subtly, his whole face, the lines of it, the shape of it. “You’ve got a business here, a going concern. Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe you’re bait for the meat wagon. I talked, boys, oh yes, I talked. Give me Hank’s killer, and I’ll tell you who.”

Flavin said, “Can’t you forget that? The guy jumped.”

Channing shook his head.

Padway said softly, “Suppose you’re right, Chan. Suppose you get the killer. What good does that do you?”

“I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t care how much booze you run. All I want is the guy that killed Hank.”

Jack Flavin laughed. It was not a nice sound.

“Dave knows I keep a promise. Besides, you can always shoot me in the back.”

Flavin said, “This is crazy. You haven’t really hurt the guy, Dave. Put it to him. He’ll talk.”

“His heart would quit first.” Padway smiled almost fondly at Channing. “He’s got his guts back in. That’s good to know, huh, Chan?”

“Yeah.”

“But bad, too. For both of us.”

“Go ahead and kill me, Dave, if you think it would help any.”

Flavin said, with elaborate patience, “Dave, the man is crazy. Maybe he wants publicity. Maybe he’s trying to chisel himself back on the force. Maybe he’s a masochist. But he’s nuts. I don’t believe he talked to anybody. Either make him talk, or shoot him. Or I will.”

“Will you, now?” Padway asked.

Channing said, “What are you so scared of, Flavin?”

Flavin snarled and swung his hand. Padway caught it, pulling Flavin around. He said, “Seems to me whoever killed Hank has made us all a lot of trouble. He’s maybe busted us wide open. I’d kind of like to know who did it, and why. We were working together then, Jack, remember? And nobody told me about any cop named Channing.”

Flavin shook him off. “The kid committed suicide. And don’t try manhandling me, Dave. It was my racket, remember. I let you in.”

“Why,” said Padway mildly, “that’s so, ain’t it?” He hit Flavin in the mouth so quickly that his fist made a blur in the air. Flavin fell, clawing automatically at his armpit. Padway’s men rose from the table and covered him. Flavin dropped his hand. He lay still, his eyes slitted and deadly.

Marge Krist slid down silently beside Channing’s cot. She might have been fainting, leaning forward against it, her hands out of sight. She was not fainting. Channing felt her working at his wrists.

Flavin said, “Rudy. Come here.”

Rudy Krist came into the circle of lamplight. He looked like a small boy dreaming a nightmare and knowing he can’t wake up.

Flavin said, “All right, Dave. You’re boss. Go ahead and give Channing his killer.” He looked at Rudy, and everybody else looked, too, except the men covering Flavin.

Rudy Krist’s eyes widened, until white showed all around the green. He stopped, staring at the hard, impassive faces turned toward him.

Flavin said contemptuously, “He turned you soft, Rudy. You spilled over and then you didn’t have the nerve to go through with it. You knew what would happen to you. So you shoved Hank off the pier to save your own hide.”

Rudy made a stifled, catlike noise. He leaped suddenly down onto Flavin. Padway motioned to his boys to hold it. Channing cried out desperately, “Don’t do anything. Wait! Dave, drag him off.”

Rudy had Flavin by the throat. He was frothing slightly. Flavin writhed, jerking his heels against the floor. Suddenly there was a sharp slamming noise from underneath Rudy’s body. Rudy bent his back, as though he were trying to double over backwards. He let go of Flavin. He relaxed, his head falling sleepily against Flavin’s shoulder.

Channing rolled off the cot, scrambling toward Flavin.

Flavin fired again, twice, so rapidly the shots sounded like one. One of Padway’s boys knelt down and bowed forward over his knees like a praying Jap. Another of Padway’s men fell. The second shot clipped Padway, tearing the shoulder pad of his suit.

Channing grabbed Flavin’s wrist from behind.

“Okay,” said Padway grimly. “Hold it, everybody.”

Before he got the words out a small sharp crack came from behind the cot. Flavin relaxed. He lay looking up into Channing’s face with an expression of great surprise, as though the third eye just opened in his forehead gave him a completely new perspective.

Marge Krist stood green-eyed and deadly with a little pearl-handled revolver smoking in her hand.

Padway turned toward her slowly. Channing’s mouth twitched dourly. He hardly glanced at the girl, but rolled the boy’s body over carefully.

Channing said, “Did you kill Hank?”

Rudy whispered, “Honest to God, no.”

“Did Flavin kill him?”

“I don’t know …” Tears came in Rudy’s eyes. “Hank,” he whispered, “I wish …” The tears kept running out of his eyes for several seconds after he was dead.

By that time the police had come into the room, from the dark disused doorways, from behind the stacked liquor. Max Gandara said, “Everybody hold still.”

Dave Padway put his hands up slowly, his eyes at first wide with surprise and then narrow and ice-hard. His gunboy did the same, first dropping his rod with a heavy clatter on the bare floor.

Padway said, “They’ve been here all the time.”

Channing sat up stiffly. “I hope they were. I didn’t know whether Max would play with me or not.”

“You dirty double-crossing louse.”

“I feel bad, crossing up an ape like you, Dave. You treated me so square, up there by Hyperion.” Channing raised his voice. “Max, look out for the boy with the chopper.”

Gandara said, “I had three men up there. They took him when he went up, real quiet.”

Marge Krist had come like a sleepwalker around the cot. She was close to Padway. Quite suddenly she fainted. Padway caught her, so that she shielded his body, and his gun snapped into his hand.

Max Gandara said, “Don’t shoot. Don’t anybody shoot.”

“That’s sensible,” said Padway softly.

Channing’s hand, on the floor, slid over the gun Flavin wasn’t using anymore. Then, very quickly, he threw himself forward into the table with the lamp on it.

A bullet slammed into the wood, through it, and past his ear, and then Channing fired twice, deliberately, through the flames.

Channing rose and walked past the fire. He moved stiffly, limping, but there was a difference in him. Padway was down on one knee, eyes shut and teeth clenched against the pain of a shattered wrist. Marge Krist was still standing. She was staring with stricken eyes at the hole in her white forearm and the pattern of brilliant red threads spreading from it.

Max Gandara caught Channing. “You crazy—”

Channing hit him, hard and square. His face didn’t change expression. “I owe you that one, Max. And before you start preaching the sanctity of womanhood, you better pry out a couple of those slugs that just missed me. You’ll find they came from Miss Krist’s pretty little popgun—the same one that killed her boyfriend, Jack Flavin.” He went over and tilted Marge Krist’s face to his, quite gently. “You came out of your faint in a hurry, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

She brought up her good hand and tried to claw his eye out.

Channing laughed. He pushed her into the arms of a policeman. “It’ll all come out in the wash. Meantime, there are the bullets from Marge’s gun. The fact that she had a gun at all proves she was in on the gang. They’d have searched her, if all that pious stuff about poor Rudy’s evil ways had been on the level. She was a little surprised about Padway and sore because Flavin had kept it from her. But she knew which was the better man, all right. She was going along with Padway, and she shot Flavin to keep his mouth shut about Hank, and to make sure he didn’t get Padway by accident. Flavin was a gutty little guy, and he came close to doing just that. Marge untied me because she hoped I’d get shot in the confusion, or start trouble on my own account. If you hadn’t come in, Max, she’d probably have shot me herself. She didn’t want any more fussing about Hank Channing, and with me and Flavin dead she was in the clear.”

Gandara said with ugly stubbornness, “Sounded to me like Flavin made a pretty good case against Rudy.”

“Sure, sure. He was down on the ground with half his teeth out and three guys holding guns on him.”

Marge Krist was sitting now on the cot, while somebody worked over her with a first aid kit. Channing stood in front of her.

“You’ve done a good night’s work, Marge. You killed Rudy just as much as you did Flavin, or Hank. Rudy had decent stuff in him. You forced him into the game, but Hank was turning him soft. You killed Hank.”

Channing moved closer to her. She looked up at him, her green eyes meeting his dark ones, both of them passionate and cruel.

“You’re a smart girl, Marge. You and your mealy-mouthed hypocrisy. I know now what you meant when you accused Rudy of being afraid to be questioned. Flavin couldn’t kill Hank by himself. He wasn’t big enough, and Hank wasn’t that dumb. He didn’t trust Flavin. But you, Marge, sure, he trusted you. He’d stand on a dark pier at midnight and talk to you, and never notice who was sneaking up behind with a blackjack.” He bent over her. “A smart girl, Marge, and a pretty one. I don’t think I’ll want to stand outside the window while you die.”

“I wish I’d killed you too,” she whispered. “By God, I wish I’d killed you too!”

Channing nodded. He went over and sat down wearily. He looked exhausted and weak, but his eyes were alive.

“Somebody give me a cigarette,” he said. He struck the match himself. The smoke tasted good.

It was his first smoke in ten years.