Sin In Their Blood

SATURDAY

It was a lousy morning, cold, raining on and off. We stayed in bed till ten, when Joe rang the bell. He was in a good mood, didn't even look with disapproval at Mady and me running around in pajamas. His wife, Ruthie, was feeling fine, wanted us over for Sunday dinner. He had coffee with us, drove me downtown.

In his struggle-buggy he told me, “Matt, I'm sorry about the way I acted the other night... running away, crying. I was a jerk. I still don't like what we did but...”

“But when you play with crap some gets on your hands.”

“Yes. Guess we couldn't help it.”

I said, “We could have if you had a decent union, or whatever you postmen have, to go to bat for you, point out you didn't do anything wrong. That's the big IF. A shake racket is only successful when people are afraid to tell the blackmailer to hump off.”

“I still feel a little guilty about Harry's death, but I suppose that will wear off in time.”

I wanted to laugh. Joe was a comic, his “little guilty” was like being a “little pregnant.” We made small talk till I told him to let me off at the Grace Building and when he looked at me big-eyed, I said, “I'm going up to Harry's old office. See you and Ruthie tomorrow.”

“About one-thirty.”

Thatcher Austin came running out of the building, looking more crazy than usual. Soon as he hit the sidewalk he stopped, looked around wildly, then walked down the street as fast as he could. Joe said, “I know that guy—Mr. Austin.”

“How do you know him?”

“Lives on my route. A sort of Communist.”

“What?” I asked, laughing.

“What's the big joke? I shouldn't go around calling people's politics these days, but a postman can tell how and what a guy thinks—by the mail he receives. Austin now he gets lots of radical papers and magazines, even some from abroad. Along with a lot of jerky flag-waving rags. Always have a heavy load of mail for him.”

I told Joe about the creep and he was shocked. “Always thought he was a little nervous, but a quiet guy like that... behind this crummy stuff. Doesn't seem possible.”

“Just stay away from him,” I said, getting out of the car. As I took the elevator to Flo's office I had an idea to play for laughs—I'd accuse the creep of being Red on the basis of the mail he received. Of course he used the left publications for his files... but it was an amusing angle.

There was a new receptionist—a young redhead with a gay loose mouth and the wrong kind of clothes—lot of frilly stuff that made her look like a worn Christmas tree.

When she buzzed me into Flo's office I asked, “Why the welcome change out there?”

“Got fed up with that snippy-looking bitch. Glad you've come, Matt, I got troubles. Supposed to have the newsletter to the printers tomorrow and I don't know what to write. Had a run-in with Thatcher after you left yesterday. Fired him too. He got so mad he took some of the files with him. Said he burned them to spite me.”

“You can have him arrested,” I suggested.

“Hell with that. Little bastard just was in here,-all sorry, begging me to take him back... wants me to marry him. I told him off. Matt, I'll up your cut to...”

“I'm not your boy,” I said, thinking that in no time Flo would run this racket into the ground, which was where it belonged, deep underground.

“Please, Matt, for a favor. Take it for a few months—set me straight.

“Flo, I'm not giving you any straight-from-the-shoulder sermon, but this is a wrong racket. One of these days people are going to get sore at you... run you out of town... if they don't shoot you first.”

“What's a good racket?”

“I don't know, but you have to draw the line some place, and you're way over the line. You have a bundle put aside, get more when you sell Harry's stuff. Why don't you forget this dirt, forget this town? Start over in some other town? You can still have that house full of kids.”

She began to cry, spoiling her make-up, as she said, “You crummy bastard, what is this, a new kind of brush-off? A pat on the shoulder and sweet advice in my ear while you boot my can? I don't want your...”

“Slip MacCarthy will be out of the pen soon.”

She did a double-take that would have looked good on the screen, whispered, “What did you say?”

“Slip never died. And Harry knew it. Slip pulled an old gag to quiet the sucker—and jobbed you out of your cut—played dead with a sack of chicken blood in his mouth.”

“Harry, that louse!” Flo yelled. “You sure of this?”

“Ask Max. Slip is doing a stretch in a Federal pen. See, that's the kind of a rat Harry was, but it isn't for you. Get out while you can.”

“Stow the do-gooder act. There's a lot of easy dough floating around. I'm going to pick it up.”

“Have fun,” I said, heading for the door. “Send you the hundred I owe you soon as I can.”

She told me to tear it up into little pieces and shove it —up my sleeve. As I opened the door she said, “Matt, I won't ask you again. I'm offering you a swell set-up, for the taking.”

“Here's another piece of free advice—don't put any more dough into this—you'll fold soon.”

I left her cursing me.

Downstairs I wondered if Saxton worked Saturdays. I called his factory and when a girl asked who was calling, I hesitated, finally gave her my name. There wasn't any harm.

“Mr. Saxton is in his usual Saturday labor-management conference. Can you call later, or can he call you?”

“Can I reach him about three?”

“Oh yes, he'll be here all afternoon.”

“It's not important, a personal call. I'll phone later, or maybe Monday.”

I was out at Saxton's apartment by one. He lived in a modest four-story house, one apartment to a floor. Looked expensive. You had to buzz an apartment to open the hall door and I rang his first, several times, in case he had a maid. Then as I was wondering which apartment was the top floor, to buzz that to get into the house, a voice behind me said, “Mr. Ranzino!”

I jumped and spun around. But it wasn't Saxton. It was Doc Kent. He asked, “Looking for me?”

“Why... eh... no. You live here?”

“Have a room with some friends—on the third floor. How are you feeling?”

“Fine—I guess. Haven't given my health much thought recently. Fact is, should be taking a nap now,” I said, a little astonished to realize it was the truth.

“Glad to hear that,” he said, unlocking the door. I said, “People I was looking for are out. I'll leave a note in their mail box.”

I walked in with him as he said again he was pleased I felt all right. He went into the tiny self-service elevator and I stood by the mailboxes. Doc Kent living there could be a break—good or bad. I walked up the two nights to Saxton's apartment, tried my skeleton keys. His lock wasn't much. I was inside within five minutes.

He had four large rooms all furnished in strict magazine style, showing no imagination but lots of dough. His maid had been there, the place was clean, the bed made. I walked around and suddenly fell flat on my face, bruising my shin. I sat up and rubbed my leg, stuck my hand in my pocket to find my bottle of vitamin pills unbroken. Swallowing a pill, I saw what made Saxton so strong—he was a barbell man. I'd tripped over a big ugly barbell lying near the couch. There were a couple of smaller dumbbells around and as I stood up I almost felt sorry for Saxton: there was something pathetic about this middle-aged skull exercising like mad in the privacy of his lonely apartment. And what did he need the muscles for? Confidence?

I spent two hours going over the apartment, checking as thoroughly as I could. I didn't find the letter. I went over the place again to be sure everything looked as though it hadn't been touched, then left.

I took a bus to the center of town, then another out to the beach. It was muggy and hot now, the sun battling to come out. There were even a few sunbathers on the beach. Mady was sitting on the front steps like a kid. She said, “Waiting for you, so we can take a walk. Want to go fishing? Tide will be changing soon.”

“Let's walk.”

She locked the door and we started walking along the edge of the beach. Mady said, “Saxton sent me—us —another two bottles. How long do you think he'll keep this up?”

“I want you to call him—he's still at the factory. Tell him you must see him tonight... about nine. Say the cops have been questioning you about whether you might have been doped last Sunday night when he was with you. That should bring him running.”

“What do I do when he gets to the cottage—beside scream:

“I'll be outside, like last night. I'll stiffen him, search him before he comes to. I didn't find the letter in his apartment, so let's hope he's carrying it around.”

“And what happens after he comes to?”

“Depends on what I find. If the letter is... eh... I'll take him to Max, charge Saxton with the murders.” We passed a dress shop and I walked Mady across the boardwalk, stopped in front of the window. “Soon as I get my license, start working again, going to buy you some clothes. You're tall, should be able to wear any...”

“Isn't that sweet of my great big mans! Listen, I dress to please myself, not for you.”

“You dress like you were something tossed into the corner of the room. I'll buy you some dresses and you only wear them when I'm around.”

“Would you like me to buy you some shirts?”

“Sure.” I grinned at her, the dizzy kid.

She squeezed my hand. “I'll get myself some clothes —out of my own money, when I start working Monday. You want to buy me something to wear—make it a mink.”

“Maybe I will... one of these days.”

“And I'll throw it right in your face. Imagine walking around with two or three grand on your back. I'd be afraid to move or brush up against anything. What you can buy me right now is a soda.”

“My little child bride,” I said, walking her into a luncheonette. “You have the hips for it, but don't ever get fat on me—I hate sloppy women.”

“And I can't stand stout men.”

We had our sodas and then she called Saxton. He wanted her to tell him exactly what had happened— over the phone—but she told him to come to the cottage. Said I was going to town and she'd be alone.

Then she bought an ice-cream cone and we walked on. Any minute I expected her to start skipping or play jacks.

After supper I washed the dishes and she poured a drink out of one of the fifths Saxton had sent on Friday. Mady sat at the kitchen table, watching me, nibbling at the drink. I didn't say a word.

We sat around for a while, listened to the radio, and she had a second drink—a small one spiked with a lot of ginger-ale—and waited for me to say something. But I didn't pay her any mind.

At eight I put on my coat, told her, “I'm going outside. Look, if by any chance things go wrong, I mean if I should miss Saxton and he comes to the house... well... stall him. I'll look in on you every few minutes.”

“That's wonderful! Don't miss him, big-shoulders. Maybe I ought to have the bottle handy... so I can sock him?”

“Stop baiting me. And leave the bottle alone. Listen to the radio, or read the headlines and frighten yourself.”

“Make a better scene if he found me darning your socks.”

I kissed her, whispered, “Be good,” and left. I sat in the drugstore phone booth for a few minutes and the druggist looked at me as if asking, “What is this, a habit?”

At eight-twenty I walked back to the house. She still had the bottle out and a full glass. I didn't know if it was the same drink or not. I was a little annoyed and after circling the house, I stood by the side window, watching her. I stood there for several minutes... when I heard a soft step... behind me.

I didn't turn around or move... there was a gun in my back.

Saxton said, “Her phone call.... That was stupid on your part. Easy to figure.”

“Guess it was.”

“But we should have a talk—in my apartment. My car is around the corner. Start walking and don't try anything brave.”

He jabbed the gun in my back again and it felt like an automatic. There wasn't a chance of tapping on the window, and what good would that have done? Mady would have come to the window and then we'd both be in the soup. As it was, she didn't expect Saxton for another half hour and, with the bottle beside her, she'd probably be crocked by then.

I walked. Saxton was at my side, but a little behind me. He said, “You searched my apartment today.”

“I'm sure rusty.”

“I read a good deal, have my books in a certain order... you put them back wrong.”

When we reached his car he opened the door and I got in. He said, “Keep your hands up, on top of your head,” and he ran around the back and got in beside me. The street was empty and anyway it was too dark for people to notice us.

He held the gun on his lap, in his left hand, pointing at my side, started the car. He was cute—hadn't made any mistakes—yet.

He drove toward town, watching me in the windshield. I asked if I could put my hands down and he said, “Certainly. Place them flat on top of your thighs.”

“What do you read—detective stories?”

“And keep still.”

When we reached his place, he told me to open the door and step out, and pushed over in the seat and got out after me. I walked ahead of him and he held the gun in my back with his left hand and reached around me and unlocked the door. We walked up to his apartment. I suppose he was afraid we'd meet somebody in the elevator.

We didn't see a soul in the hallway.

He went through the same routine unlocking his door, then switched on the light, grunted for me to step inside.

He made his first mistake closing the door—he should have kicked it shut with his foot. Instead, he made a half turn to close it, leaving me at his side instead of in front of him. I pivoted on my left foot and slammed his chin with my right. It was a tough punch, I felt it right up to my shoulder.

Saxton pitched to the floor.

I picked up the gun, locked the door. His feet were trembling a little—a sign he was still out. I went through his pockets. The letter was in his wallet. I put the wallet back.

The letter was written in neat, dignified, thin strokes —like an old model used in a penmanship lesson. Old Doc Snell probably never saw a typewriter in his life. The Doc came right to the point... told Henry Wilson he'd recognized his picture as a baby he'd brought into the world, that he hadn't been paid for his services and needed the money, to “please send me via airmail, five hundred dollars ($500) in cash, at once, or I shall be forced to go to the courts and the papers.”

The Doc was a real amateur... five hundred bucks!

Saxton was starting to groan, but it would be a lot of seconds before he knew what was happening. I tore the letter into little pieces, ran to the bathroom and flushed them down the John.

When I came back, Saxton was sitting up, his eyes still glassy, rubbing the side of his jaw. There was some bloody spit at the ends of his mouth.

I told him to get up.

He got to his feet slowly, shook his head several times, then glared at me. I waved the gun. “Sweet little .38. Ever use it?”

“I have a permit.”

“Good for you. Now, as you said, we'll have a bit of talk. Sit down on the couch. And be careful, I'm lousy with marksman's medals.”

He sat down and I backed away toward a chair and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards—I'd tripped over one of his damn barbells again.

He was still too dizzy to be fast, but he came charging at me. I landed flat on my back and I pointed the gun at him through my legs and he stopped short. “Sit down and be smart,” I yelled, getting up. “You shouldn't be tossing weights around at your age—strain on the heart.”

“Ranzino, what's your game?” he asked. I sat down facing him, brushed off my trousers.

“My game is... I don't like you.”

“I don't give a fat damn what you like!”

“Saxton, your big mistake was in not minding your own business. Fact is, the world is in a mess because everybody is sticking their snoot in other people's business. I...”

“Then why don't you mind your own business?”

“I did. But you... well... you kept spoiling things for me. Like the way you treated Mady—that kept annoying me. Other little things. Of course I knew all along you killed your sister and Henry, and I didn't do a thing about it because it wasn't my...”

“That's a lie! The police know Henry killed poor Beatrice, then took his own miserable life,” Saxton boomed.

“Stop it. I'm the guy you hired to find the planted deed, the body, remember? It was so...”

“The police...”

“You'll get a chance to talk to the police soon—in a few minutes. The police haven't really dug into the Wilson case. There's that water you turned on while we were in the cabin, and if they really work at it, they can trace the rope to you, lot of other things. The odds are always against a perfect crime, because the more you plan, the more chances you have to make a mistake. Then too, you're only one man, while the cops can put twenty or thirty trained men on a case... they always find everything you've overlooked.”

He sneered. “You're angry because of Mady. Everybody in town knows I was fond of Henry, loved my sister.”

“Sure. They also knew Henry and Beatrice Wilson were a happy couple, swell people. Were you jealous of their happiness?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And Mady, were you jealous of her spirit? Is there some kind of crazy urge in you that makes you crush everything that's free and happy?”

“Really, Mr. Ranzino, you're talking like an ass.”

I laughed at him. “We're under control now, got the slick veneer and polish back on again, hey? I've done a lot of thinking about you, Willie, as to what makes you tick. Way I figure you with Mady is this: you were having what you call an illicit relationship with her. That's a sin, and therefore you had to see her unhappy, crushed, as a sort of punishment. Just as you probably felt uneasy about the affair, never really enjoyed it. The great god Willie Saxton the Third!”

“I think you'd better leave.”

“And be impolite? You brought me here—at the point of a gun. That will sound interesting on the witness stand.”

“Only your word against mine—the word of a busted cop.”

“I can also testify Mady sleeps soundly, when potted, so your alibi isn't worth repeating. And a little routine checking will probably show she was doped last Sunday night, too.”

“I thought you were so fond of her, yet you're willing to smear her name in the papers.”

“Can that slop—she's already been smeared by you as your alibi. And that good-name junk went out with your ideas. But let's get back to the Wilsons—you'll get the gas chamber for that. Although you might plead insanity and spend the rest of your life in a padded cell, which is where you belong. If I were...”

Saxton sat up. “Mr. Ranzino, I don't know what the hell you are talking about. If you're trying to scare me, I'm merely amused. And if this is a shakedown, you're wasting time. I shall protest to the police, have both you and Madeline arrested for blackmail.”

“Listen to you. How do you sound?” I asked softly, motioning toward the phone with the gun. “Call the cops.”

He sat there, staring at me for a moment. Then he relaxed, took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his mouth. He said, “You hit hard—for a tubercular. You see I've done a little checking too.”

I didn't say anything, but the very sound of the word made my heart pound. After a long moment he asked, “Let's get this over. What do you want?”

“To convict you—get you out of my hair for good. Too many of your kind in the world these days. Everywhere I turn I see the smug, self-righteous, self-appointed...” I stopped. There wasn't any point in making a speech. “About the Wilsons...”

“Good Lord, Ranzino, what possible motive could I have for killing them!” he said angrily. It nearly sounded real.

“A motive good enough for a jury is that you got full control of the factory by knocking off Henry. You killed Beatrice to make Henry's suicide stand up, look good, and also being her brother and only relation, you get her share of the factory and her money. Want to buy that?”

“That's ridiculous!”

“Sure, but it makes a little sense. A jury could understand it better than your real motive... you knew Henry Wilson had some Negro blood in him. That shocked the hell out of your bigoted mind. Why, here you had a Negro in your family, your brother-in-law was the guy you were telling the Rastus and change-your-luck jokes about!”

For a split second his fat face went white, then the color crept back and he said smoothly, “You must be crazy.”

“One of us sure is. Couple months ago a doctor tried to shake Henry down for five yards and you learned about it—probably by snooping around Henry's desk, you're the type. To your way of thinking Henry couldn't have committed a worse crime—a Negro daring to marry your sister. So you decided to do Beatrice a big favor, kill Henry. You took your time, went over all details. Had a lucky break with Mady—a ready-made lush, a ready-made alibi. You bought the cabin in Henry's name—and a little concentrated digging will prove that. You took two grand—petty stuff—to make it look like Henry was in some kind of mess. That was the only truly smart move you made, two grand wasn't big enough to make the cops suspicious, it fitted in. I suppose it wasn't much trouble getting Henry up to the cabin Friday, was it?”

Saxton smiled. “This is a fascinating story, do you take dope?”

“Wait, it gets better. There you tied Henry up, probably had a hard time resisting the urge to give him a going-over. But you had something better in mind, a personal lynching. There must have been a sweet one-way conversation between you two up in the cabin. But when you told Beatrice about the 'horrible thing' you'd learned—on Sunday night—she shocked hell out of you by saying she'd known all the time, didn't care. In fact she told you to mind your business, leave them alone. You were ready to explode with anger, you smashed her head in with the lamp.”

“Did I? Why you let your imagination run...?”

“You didn't plan to kill Beatrice, it was a crime of passion, of intense anger, as the books say. You drove back to the cabin, hung Henry, then raced out to White Beach. All told, less than five hours passed, and there you were, in bed, when Mady woke up.”

“I was in bed with that... all night,” Saxton said with a big forced smile. “Now if you're done raving, I'll...”

“Know something,” I said, calmly. “The druggist across the street forgot to turn off a gas burner, returned to his store in the middle of the night. He left at 4 a.m., says he saw you come back to the cottage then.”

“That's a damn lie! He couldn't have....” Saxton's face actually got waxy—like a corpse's.

I laughed. “Maybe it's a lie, maybe it isn't. Merely want to convince you how thin your story is, how nobody can cover all the angles—for sure. You'd have to be awfully lucky, even if you didn't make any mistakes. Once the cops start working, they'll dig up a hundred things you never counted on.”

He was silent for a few minutes, sitting back against the couch as though exhausted, then he asked in a hoarse whisper, “How much do you want?”

“Got much cash on you?”

“A few hundred. The banks are shut, but on Monday I'll give... ten thousand. Or do you,, want a check right now?”

“A check? Willie, do I look that simple?”

“I swear on Monday, soon as the banks open, I'll give you ten thousand dollars.”

“You hold your life cheap,” I said, torturing him like a bastard, but enjoying it.

“Fifteen—that's all I can raise.”

“No, it isn't. You got Henry's insurance, via Beatrice's death, and hers, if she had any.”

“That will take months. Look, I can raise twenty thousand, and that's my final offer.”

“You're not in any position to make a final offer. How you got that couple of hundred? And pull out your wallet slowly.”

“In twenties and tens and fives,” he said, taking out his wallet.

“Throw over a hundred and sixty bucks. Just drop—the dough on the floor—near me.”

He counted out five twenties, two fives, and five tens, leaned over and tossed them on the floor. The bills made dizzy circles till they hit. I picked them up with my left hand, looked to see if-they were marked, then shoved them in my pocket.

Saxton said, “I'll get the rest Monday. By noon I'll...”

“There isn't any rest.”

“I don't understand. You said...?”

“I'm not shaking you down, Willie. This represents about what I spent—getting the goods on you. I'm turning you in!”

His sullen mouth dropped open, and a stupid expression covered his face for a second, then he burst out laughing—real roaring laughter. When he finished, he snapped, “You idiot, you don't get a dime now! I detest scandal, but it won't ruin me, and I'd rather that than paying you off for the rest of my life. Have me arrested! There isn't a jury that will convict me for killing a nigger who tricked my sister. And there's nothing to pin poor Beatrice's killing on me. Why I can claim I killed Henry in revenge!” His voice grew more confident. “I'm a big man in this town, people will sympathize with me... important people. I killed a nigger who tricked my sister into marriage and then murdered her... it will be better than any unwritten law! You can't touch me. But to avoid the headlines, I'll give you five thousand to forget it.”

“Back on the pay-off kick, again? I don't want money.”

“Then call the police! Henry murdered Beatrice when she discovered he was a nigger, and I killed him when he told me that. I might even plead self-defense—he tried to kill me too.”

The odd part was, Saxton sounded as though he believed this hog-wash he was inventing. I said, “Know where that yarn will land you—in the loony bin, if you beat the death rap.”

“Why I'll be a hero, no jury would...”

“You just might get away with it, Willie, if you could prove Henry was colored, considering you'd get a blue-ribbon jury with all the trimmings. Only what makes you think Henry Wilson was colored?”

“Come, Ranzino, you just said...”

“I never said nothing. I never knew Henry—the only one time I saw him he was dead. But lots of people in town knew him well, played cards and golf with him, did business with him, liked him. They'll call you crazy when you say he was colored...”

He glanced at his wallet, opened it. I asked, “Looking for something?”

He tore at the wallet with frantic fingers, then looked at me and asked in a rasping whisper, “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Goddamn it, Ranzino... where is it?”

“In little pieces, floating in the sewer—with the other garbage. I took it when I flattened you at the door. Might as well tell you what I spent that hundred odd bucks for—you're paying for it. Doc Snell is dead. I was pretty sure of that since he only sent one letter, let the deal drop. He was a very old man and he died in a drunken sleep three days after he mailed the letter. Guess you know that, too, probably tried to get in touch with him. Henry Wilson was born 'out of wedlock,' to use a silly term, he hadn't any relations. Also, in the one-store-wide-spot-in-the-road where he was born, they never bothered with birth certificates for colored kids or poor whites. So it boils down to this, there's only one person in the world who knows about that letter— me. And if you call me to the witness stand, I'll act as astonished as anybody else. From here on in, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How much do you want?” Saxton asked shrilly.

“Not a cent. I only want to see your kind get the works—for once. Now we'll call the cops.” We both stood up and he said, “Please, Ranzino, I'll give you big money...” and lunged at me.

I was watching his pigeon-toed feet and I caught him with a left hook that knocked him down. It was a stupid move on his part. He sat on the floor for a moment, shaking his head, then got to his feet slowly. “You win,” he said.

He rubbed the side of his face, I'd hit him too high to do any real damage. I slipped the gun in my pocket. I was afraid he'd try to make me shoot him—then I'd be in a spot—and I could handle him easily with my fists.

He shook his head several times, muttered, “I can't think straight—everything is fuzzy. Before you call the police, can I douse my head under the shower?”

“Sure. Only don't try anything super-clever; this isn't your racket.”

I followed him into the bathroom. He brushed the shower curtains aside with one hand, turned on the cold water. It ran on his head and part of his collar. I stood several feet behind him, in case he tried yanking off the curtain, throwing it around me.

Bent over the tub, Saxton was a comical figure—his broad fleshy can facing me, water splashing on his head, over his clothes. He shut the water off, reached over toward the towel rack beside the tub, came up with a towel... and one of those old big .45s.

For a split second I had to admire him, he'd found a new place to park a gun. His eyes were cold and over-bright as he advanced toward me, his dripping wet face giving him an insane look. He growled, “Keep your hands up high. You Wop scum, thinking you could match your lousy brains with mine. Turn around!”

I turned, and there's always that horrible second of waiting when you know you're going to get conked... wondering if it will be the barrel of the gun or the butt... will your brains be splattered.... But I couldn't make a play—with a .45 even a slug in the shoulder will knock you flat, maybe take off your arm. He was too close to miss or.... I heard the faint swish the gun made through the air. A flash of terribly bright pain swept over me and then I was drowning in heavy mushy darkness.

I must have been out a long time. When I came to I thought I was still up in the clouds... I was naked and hanging from the doorway by my wrists, which were roped to pipes some place on the bathroom wall. I was standing on the floor but Saxton had pushed heavy barbells in front and in back of my ankles, anchoring my feet. I stood there, as though crucified while Saxton took off his coat and shirt, exposing his heavy muscle-bound arms. I pulled at my wrists and only succeeded in burning them with the ropes. Things were still fuzzy from the sock on the head and the entire back of my skull seemed miles away. I mumbled, “You must be a Scoutmaster, Willie, you're good at tying knots... and nooses. Bet you're a whiz at camping and...”

He stood in front of me and started slugging me in the stomach and chest.

Willie didn't know how to hit, thought muscles meant power. His blows weren't love-taps, but except for knocking the air out of me, he wasn't doing much damage. I forced myself to pee on his floor—a bladder full of urine can burst under a punch and then you're in real trouble.

The sight of me relieving myself seemed to drive him into a spurt of wild punching that left him puffing after a few seconds, and he stopped, dropped his hands and glared at me. I gasped, “What you doing, you crazy son of a bitch?”

“You're going to have a hemorrhage, and die, Ranzino. Look very natural, for a person suffering from T.B.,” he said, breathing hard”.

“Won't go, you'll never get away with this,” I said, the words sounding odd because my mouth was open like a fish's, eating air.

“I'll chance it. This is something else I planned... in advance. Even though you haven't much confidence in plans, I...”

“Don't be a fool, Saxton, Mady will miss me, call the cops, tell them...”

“Madeline is drunk right this moment. We both saw her at the bottle. I've arranged everything, you'll be found dead in the street... of natural causes.”

“But...”

“You must know as well I do, that I have to kill you, Ranzino. There's no choice, for me,” Saxton said, coming at me with his big arms out like a bear. He put them around my chest and began to squeeze.

The pressure on my ribs was unbearable, and all I could think about was the delicate X-ray pictures of my lung—the left one with the scar on it. I tried to wiggle out of his hold and almost wrenched my arms out of their sockets. I managed to pull a leg out from between the barbells, ripping my skin off my ankle. I brought my knee up but missed his groin. I caught him inside the thigh—high—up and he let go and staggered away, bent over.

I thrashed about wildly but couldn't get my spread-eagled arms loose, and finally I just hung there, exhausted. Saxton straightened, up, said coldly, “Unfortunately I can't hit your face, don't want you marked.”

“You've already marked me... with that clout on the head,” I mumbled wondering why I talked.

“When you had your hemorrhage, you fell and struck your head on the curb. I shall leave your body in the proper position.” Saxton suddenly grabbed my free leg with his left hand and hit me in the gut with his right. Without knowing it, he got in a lot of leverage, and I thought his fist would come through my back. I must have passed out. When I came to he had my foot anchored again and was beating a steady blow of clumsy punches on my chest and stomach.

He was sweating and huffing like a bull, and he stopped and got more rope and tied my feet down. Then he opened the bathroom window behind me, and all the living-room windows, and sat down to rest.

I suppose I could have yelled, maybe I tried, maybe I didn't, knowing he'd only put a gag in my mouth. I hung there limply and a draft of cool damp air went through the room, chilled my body.

Saxton gave me an evil grin and I knew the draft was on purpose.... Willie knew what he was doing! Back in the hospital they used to leave us in beds on the open roof in the middle of the winter, all bundled in blankets, woolen caps on our heads. Just our faces exposed. They had the blankets pinned down, in case we fell asleep and twisted out of the blankets. The orderly used to crack, “Keep under cover, fellows, in this cold you'll be a corpse within an hour and you'll keep so well... I wouldn't even know you're dead for two days.” The orderly thought his sense of humor was part of building up our morale. But we were careful to keep bundled up.

It wasn't that cold in Saxton's apartment, but I knew I couldn't last more than a couple of hours in this draft.

He rested for what seemed hours, then got up flexed his shoulders, and squeezed past me, through the doorway, and into the bathroom. As an afterthought he socked me in the kidneys and the pain made me scream. Only a cotton-dry sound came out of my lips.

Saxton untied one wrist, bent my arm behind my back and held me up as he untied the other... tied my arms together behind my back. My arms were numb, no longer a part of me, and I couldn't have lifted them if I wanted to... and I couldn't think clearly enough to want to do anything.

I heard a grunt, then a sort of whistle as Saxton took a deep breath and lifted my 200 pounds off the floor and let me slide into the clammy-cold tub. He turned on the shower and a stream of cold water cleared my head.... I could hear a funny sound and it took me a minute to realize it was my teeth chattering. He yanked the shower curtains off and that damn draft of air hit my wet body like a shroud.

Saxton sat on the John and lit a cigarette. He pulled his wristwatch out of his pocket, said, calmly, “Only ten-thirty. By three in the morning you'll be ready to dump in the street.”

I opened my mouth and told him to go to hell—but I'm not sure any words came out. He sat there, watching me, that satisfied gleam in his eyes. When he finished his butt, he thumbed it at me, I didn't feel it, I suppose the water put it out.

The room was beginning to swim before my eyes when he turned the water off, pulled me out of the tub and hung me up again. As from a great distance I felt his blows and I must have blacked out.

When I came to, I was back in the tub, under the water once more. I knew I was delirious and so numb I couldn't feel the cold water. I passed out again.

I remember being strung up once more... dimly aware of the blows... and then I was in the tub, the water beating down on me. Saxton was sitting on the commode looking at his watch.

Suddenly he jumped up, went to the bathroom door.

Through the fog I heard it... a knock on the door. I tried to yell, to get loose. As though gazing at the world through a hazy film, I saw Saxton get his gun. I made one last effort to scream, but only muffled inhuman sounds came out.

As Saxton stepped out of the bathroom, there was a flash at the window and the gun spun out of his hand. He grabbed the hand with his left hand and both were bloody. Then I saw Max coming through the window, gun in hand. The Marines to the rescue!

Things happened fast, or maybe I blacked out again. I opened my eyes to see the bathroom full of cops and Mady was bending over me, her face a strange mask, and somebody had untied my hands. I seemed to float through the air—I was being carried—and then I was on a bed and they were piling blankets on me.

The room grew foggy and then somebody was fooling with my lips and Mady's anxious face came into focus. I couldn't hear the words but her lips were forming, “Drink some brandy.”

The brandy roared down my guts like a welcome fire. I whispered, “I thought... you... you'd be crocked...”

She said, “Aw, Matt, I can control that. I waited for a while... then called your friend... Max...”

At least I thought she said that. I also wondered if I was dead and this was all a dream. I motioned for her to bend closer and when I tried to talk she put her fingers on my mouth. I wrenched my head away, worked my lips, asked... “You... tell him.... about... letter?”

She shook her head.

I kissed her fingers and she gave me more brandy and I rested for a moment, told her, “Get Max.” The brandy was doing great.

She faded from view and the room was very bright, then it went black. In the darkness I could hear Max saying, “Matt? Matt?”

I opened my eyes, and after a while I made out Max's ugly face, only at the moment he looked like Mr. America to me. I said, “There's a VA doctor... Kent... lives in the building.... Get him.”

“Don't worry. Got an ambulance coming...”

“Get... him.”

Talking was a great tiring effort. I dimly heard Max bark an order at a cop and Mady came into view again, her face wet with tears, her big lips working. She put her hands under the blankets, rubbed my cold body. I could just about feel them. I let myself go into the pillow, seemed to drift out of the room like a boat slipping its mooring. I came to hearing Doc Kent saying, “Far as I can tell, he's all right. Lucky he's so strong. I've given him penicillin. Keep him covered and let him sleep. Mustn't be moved.”

I felt much stronger, talking was easier. I said, “Hello, Doc. He was trying to get the bugs working again. Did he?” I could even hear my own words.

“Forget about the bugs. You've had a terrific beating, maybe a slight concussion, and a thorough chill. Rest for a few days and then we'll know for sure. But I feel certain the worst you'll have is a few stitches in your hard head.”

“Still the same old pep-throwing Doc.”

Max asked, “Can I talk to him, Dr. Kent?”

“Not too long.”

Max come into view, leading Saxton, who had a bandage around his right hand. Max must have smacked him, his nose was swollen and a little bloody too. Max asked, “What's this all about, Matt?”

I gathered my strength, said—with the energy running out of me like air from a balloon—“He told me he killed Henry and Beatrice Wilson... to get control of the business. Tried to make me... me... hemorrhage and die... when he found out I knew the... the truth about him...”

“That's a dirty lie!” Saxton yelled. “He was trying to blackmail me! You'll find money in his pockets!”

I was busy collecting my strength again as I heard Max say, “Only found a hundred and eighty bucks on him, that's not blackmail dough. You're in a jam, Saxton, better come clean.”

“I'd advise you to take care in talking to me, I have influence in this city, Captain,” Saxton said.

I managed to get my right hand out of the covers, let it hang down the side of the bed. I had all the strength I could summon—for then. I heard Max say, “Don't threaten me, Saxton. I can send you up for trying to kill Matt.”

“He got sick, I was trying to revive him under the shower when he took sick, fell in the tub and...”

I said, “Saxton,” and let my voice fall as I mumbled to myself. Again, I said, “Saxton,” pretty loud.

He looked at Max and took a step nearer me. Asked, “What is it, Matt, you want to tell the truth, tell them I didn't do any harm to you—or anybody else?”

I motioned with my head, and for a moment I was afraid I didn't have enough strength left.

“You want to confess, Ranzino?” Saxton asked, and the nut sounded like he meant it. As he put his face down near mine, I turned on the bed, bringing my right fist up from the floor. It wasn't much of a punch, it only cut his eye a little, and about kayoed me.

He started to club me with his fists, when Max jumped in and knocked Saxton down with an overhand right that must have broken his jaw. As I drifted off into the darkness I kept thinking, poor Max, never learn to hold his left higher.

I guess I was out for a few minutes, for when I opened my eyes again, Saxton was standing, blood streaming from both ends of his mouth, saying something—it's tough to understand a guy with a broken jaw.

I said, as loud as I could, “I'll swear on any witness stand he told me he killed the Wilsons... when he thought I was dying!”

“Wilson was a nigger! I had the right to kill him!” Saxton suddenly screamed. I don't know how he managed to open his mouth, but his voice sounded inhuman.

“A nigger!” he screamed again.

Max looked shocked, glanced at Doc Kent, who nodded. I couldn't hear what else Saxton was screaming, didn't want to hear that horrible sound. I said, “You haven't the right to kill anybody.”

Maybe I didn't say it, for all I could hear was Max's hoarse voice bellowing, “Tell 'em to bring up a strait jacket—we got a madman here!”

Keeping my eyes open was an effort. I finally got them open as they led Saxton away. I tried to sit up but couldn't make it. Saxton turned and glared at me with an expression of solid hate. His jaw was already out of shape, blood was running all over his shirt. He gave me an awful look. I didn't mind. I winked at him. I wanted to laugh in his bloody face, but Doc Kent was suddenly bending over me, pushing my shoulders back into the bed. “That's enough. Lie down and keep quiet. Want me to give you something to make you sleep?”

I tried to shake my head. Sleeping wouldn't be the slightest trouble. It was keeping awake that was rugged.

Closing my eyes I started to drift off. As from another room I heard Mady say, “I'll cover his shoulders. Aren't they wonderful, Doc? Hasn't he got the biggest shoulders you ever saw?”

I knew Doc Kent must be staring at Mady, thinking she was a dizzy kid with her talk about big shoulders, but then what did a Doc Kent know about a real woman? He probably wanted his women to be like tame little lapdogs.... Mady would frighten him straight through the ceiling.

I fell into a wonderful lazy sleep to the sound of her loud voice. Even if she was a dizzy kid, it was damn good knowing she'd be there when I awoke.

The End