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STRICTLY FOR CASH

JAMES HADLEY CHASE

James Hadley Chase

Strictly for Cash

PANTHER

GRANDA PUBLISHING

London Toronto Sydney New York

PART ONE

DOUBLE-CROSS

WE hit Pelotta around nine-thirty at night, after a four-hour run from Kern City.

Packed with stores, souvenir stands, cafes and filling-stations, it was like any of the other

small towns along the Florida coast.

The trucker, whose name was Sam Williams, pointed out the places of interest as we drove

along the main street.

“That’s the Ocean Hotel,” he said, jerking his thumb at a gaudy affair of chromium, neon

lights and bottle-green awnings that stood at the intersection that led across the town and to

the sea. “Petelli owns every brick of it. Come to that, he owns pretty well the whole town. He

owns the stadium too. That’s it up there.”

I peered through the windshield of the truck. Aloof on a hill, overlooking the town, was a

circular concrete building, open to the sky in the centre, and roofed in on the rear stands.

Above the roof were vast batteries of lights strung together on big steel frames, and which

could be focused down on the ring.

“There must be a pile of jack coming out of that joint,” Williams went on. He wiped his

red, fleshy face with the back of his hand and spat out of the window. “Petelli promotes a

fight programme there every Saturday night.”

He swung the truck to the right, away from the bright lights of the main street, and drove

down a narrow road, flanked on either side by wooden buildings. At the far end I could see

the waterfront: the ocean glittered in the moonlight like a sheet of silver paper.

“Tom Roche’s place is on the corner, facing the sea,” Williams said, slowing down. “I’m

behind schedule or I’d come in with you. Tell him I sent you. He’ll fix you a ride to Miami. If

he won’t play, talk to his wife: she’s a good kid.”

He pulled up, the nose of the truck facing the dimly lit waterfront. I opened the cabin door

and slid to the ground.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” I said. “I hope we meet again.”

“I’ll look for you. So long, pal, and good luck.”

I stepped back and watched the truck move off along the waterfront, then I turned and

walked over to Roche’s Cafe.

It was a two-storey building made of salvaged lumber and painted white. The double

swing-doors stood open, and music from a juke-box ground out into the night.

I mounted the three wooden steps and paused to look in. There were tables dotted around a

fair-sized room, a counter on which stood three steaming urns, half a dozen wooden stools up

at the counter, and a big electric fan in the ceiling that churned up the hot air.

Two men in singlets and dirty canvas trousers sat at a table by the door. Near the juke-box

to the right of the counter at another table was a big, heavily built man in a white tropical suit

and a yellow and red hand-painted tie. Seated opposite him a short, fat man in a brown suit

and a panama hat gazed emptily into space. A truck driver, in a leather wind-breaker and

breeches, sat on a stool at the counter, his head in his hands. Behind the counter a slim, white-faced girl, I guessed was Alice Roche, was putting two cups of coffee on a tray. At the far

end of the counter, polishing an um, was Tom Roche, a dark, skinny little guy with a hard,

bitter mouth and a shock of wiry black hair.

For a few seconds I stood in the darkness, watching. No one noticed me.

I watched the girl take the cups of coffee across the room to the big man and his fat

companion. She put the cups on the table, and as she did so the big man grinned up at her and

his hand gripped her leg below the knee.

She stiffened, nearly dropped the cup, and tried to back away, but his thick fingers retained

their grip while he continued to grin up at her. I expected her to slap him or scream, but she

didn’t do either. Instead, she looked hurriedly over her shoulder at Tom Roche who was

concentrating on the urn and not noticing what was going on. The look on her face told me

she was scared to make a scene because she’d be pulling Roche into something he wasn’t big

enough to handle, and I felt a sudden cold knot form inside my chest. But I didn’t move. It

would have been simple to have walked in there and socked the big fellow, but that wouldn’t

have taken care of Tom Roche’s pride. No man likes another to protect his wife when he’s

there to do it himself.

She leaned down and tried to prise the big fellow’s fingers off her leg, but she hadn’t the

strength.

His companion, the fat man in the brown suit, tapped him on the arm and whispered to him

imploringly, nodding at Roche who was standing back to admire the shine on the urn.

The big fellow gave the fat man a shove with his free hand; the kind of shove you’d get

from a steam-roller if you walked into it without looking where you were going. It left the fat

man gasping.

The hand slid up above the knee, and the girl in a kind of desperate frenzy hit the big fellow

on the bridge of his nose with her clenched fist.

The big fellow cursed her. Then Roche looked their way, and his pale face went the colour

of mutton fat. He took four lopsided strides that brought him out from behind the counter. He

had on a surgical boot that built up his shortened right leg, but it still gave him a limp like he

had stepped into a hole every time he took a stride with his right foot.

The big fellow let go of the girl and shoved her aside, sending her reeling across the room

into the arms of the trucker who had slid off his stool and was gaping, without making any

move to help.

Roche reached the table. The big fellow didn’t bother to get up. He was grinning. Roche’s

right fist swung up and round towards the big fellow’s head. The big fellow weaved inside

the swing and Roche’s fist hit space. He lost balance and came forward, and the big fellow

gave him a dig in the belly. Roche was flung across the room and thudded into the counter.

He slid to the floor, and lay gasping.

The big fellow stood up.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to the fat man. “I’m sick of this joint.”

He walked over to where Roche was struggling to get up.

“Take a swing at me again, you little rat, and I’ll smash you,” he said, and drew back his

foot to kick Roche.

I was across the room in three strides and pulled him away from Roche. I spun him around

and smacked his face, hard enough for the smack to sound like a .22 going off at close range.

That smack hurt, as I meant it to hurt, and water spurted out of his eyes as he staggered

back.

“If you must kick someone,” I said, “kick me. I’m a better target.”

If he hadn’t been half crazy with rage he wouldn’t have thrown the punch he did. It was a

round house swing that started from his ankles and telegraphed itself all the way. The kind of

punch you’d throw at someone who didn’t know the first thing about fighting. The kind of

punch that would have flattened an elephant if it had landed, but it didn’t land.

I moved inside it and socked him with my special right hook that travelled about four

inches and had my whole weight behind it. It exploded on his jaw with a devastating impact

and he went down as if he’d been pole-axed. I didn’t wait to see if he were going to get up. I

knew he wouldn’t. When they go down like that, they stay down.

I stepped back and looked at the fat man.

“Get this hunk of garbage out of here before I really go to town on him.”

The fat man was staring at the big fellow, spread out on the floor, as if he couldn’t believe

his eyes. As he knelt beside him I went over to Roche and helped him to his feet. He was

breathless, but he could stand, and he had still a lot of fight left in him. He made a move

towards the big fellow as if he were set on hitting him again, but I held him back.

“He’s had enough,” I said. “You don’t want to break your hands on a lump like him. Take

it easy.”

The girl came over and put her arms round him. I left him to her and joined the two men in

singlets and the trucker who were staring down at the big fellow.

The fat man was trying to bring him round without much success.

“Bust his jaw,” the trucker said, and drew in an excited hiss of breath. “I’ve never seen a

punch like it! Didn’t travel an inch–and socko! Well, the bum certainly asked for it.”

“Get him out of here,” I said. “Come on, boys, hoist him up and get him outside.”

The fat man looked up. He had eyes like pools of beer, and from his expression I thought

he was going to burst into tears.

“You’ve broken my boy’s jaw,” he said, “and he’s righting on Saturday.”

“I should have broken his neck,” I said. “Get him out of here before I change my mind and

finish the job.”

The big fellow opened his eyes, groaned and sat up. The lower part of his jaw sagged

hideously, and an ugly red patch showed on his right cheek where I had slapped him.

The two guys in singlets hauled him to his feet and supported him. He went with them

without looking at me, his head on his chest, his eyes glazed and his legs like rubber. The fat

man brought up the rear. He looked as if he were following behind his mother’s hearse.

The trucker turned to gape at me as if I were the miracle boy come down from the sky on a

cloud of fire.

“Well, for crying out loud!” he exclaimed. “Do you know who that was - the guy you

socked? That’s Joe MacCready, the local champ. He’s fighting the Miami Kid on Saturday,

and there’s a load of dough spread on the fight. Take my tip, brother, and get out of town.

When Petelli hears what you’ve done to MacCready, he’ll blow his top. I’m not kidding.

Petelli’s as dangerous as a rattlesnake. Get your skates on and beat it!”

I pushed back my chair and reached for a cigarette, but Roche beat me to it. Everything was

on the house this night. I had just climbed outside the best meal I had eaten in years, and

while I ate Roche and his wife, Alice, kept me company. I liked them. They were the kind of

folk I could get along with, and we were on first-name terms before I had finished the meal.

They had done most of the talking while I was eating, and now I knew it was my turn.

“Maybe you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” I began, when Roche had lit my cigarette.

“Well, I’m from Pittsburgh. My old man ran a cafe bang opposite the Carnegie Steelworks.

You’d have thought a cafe situated outside the biggest steelworks in the world would have

paid off, wouldn’t you? But it didn’t. Don’t ask me why. I never got around to figuring it out

myself. There was damn-all when he died. A good thing or I might be still there. As it is I had

to sell up to pay what he owed, and that left me without a home. So I thought I’d take a look

at Florida, and boy! am I glad I did.”

Roche scratched the side of his jaw and squinted at me.

“What’s so special about Florida?”

“Ever been to Pittsburgh? Soot, dirt, noise and fog - that’s Pittsburgh. That’s what’s so

special about Florida.”

“Maybe you’re right. I’ve lived here all my life. I get sick of the sum sometimes.”

“Brother, you don’t know when you’re well off! I’ve had the finest three weeks of my life

riding trucks this far. This country’s terrific.” I leaned forward. “And that reminds me. I got a

ride off a guy named Williams. He told me to come here. You know him ?”

“Yeah: known him years.”

“He said you could fix me a ride to Miami. Can you do it?”

“That’s easy. Josh Bates is on the Miami run. I keep his mail for him. He’ll be in tomorrow

morning. I’ll fix it for you. So you’re going to Miami?”

“You bet.”

“Hey, Alice, Roche said, “how about some more beer? Can’t you see this fella’s dying of

thirst?” While she was in the kitchen getting the beer, he went on, “That’s the finest hook I’ve

seen outside anything Dempsey threw. You in the game? I guess you must be. That late shift

of yours and the way …”

“I’ve been in it, but I’m through now. It’s too much of a racket.”

He eyed me over.

“With that build and that hook you could be sensational. Who have you fought ?”

“I had three rounds with Joe Louis when he ran out of sparring partners during his Army

exhibition tour. Nice guy, Joe. He said I had a good right hand.”

“Joe said that?” Roche seemed impressed.

“The best scrap I ever had was when I deputized for Abe Linsky. I put Jack Weiner away in

the second.”

Roche gaped at me.

“You mean - Jack Weiner? The Californian champ?”

“That’s the fella. He wasn’t champ then, but he was quite a scrapper. I was lucky to hang

one on his jaw. I guess he was a shade too confident.”

“Jeepers!” Roche said. “Well, that’s something. What made you quit?”

“I guess I like to keep my face the shape it is, besides, I’ve got other ideas.”

“Sounds like a waste of talent to me,” Roche said, shaking his head. “If you could take

Weiner …”

“That trucker told me to get out of town. He said Petelli would have something to say about

MacCready.”

“You don’t have to worry about Petelli. Solly Brant will tell him what happened. Besides,

the Miami Kid is getting Petelli’s backing. If it had been the Kid you hit, then you would

have had to get out fast, but Petelli hasn’t any time for MacCready.”

“This Solly Brant you just mentioned. Is he the fat guy with MacCready?”

“That’s right. He owns MacCready, and I bet he wishes he didn’t. He’s not a bad fella, but

what can you do with a bum like MacCready?”

Alice returned with two pints of beer.

Roche had insisted that I should stay the night at the cafe, and I welcomed the suggestion.

For the past three weeks I had been sleeping rough, and the thought of a night in a bed was

tempting.

After we had talked a while, I pushed back my chair.

“If it’s okay with you I’d like to turn in now. I’ve been truck riding for eight h6urs, and I’m

about asleep on my feet.”

“Go ahead. Alice’ll show you the room,” Roche said, and stood up. He offered his hand.

“And thanks again for what you did.”

“Forget it,” I said, shaking hands. “Thanks for the meal. It was great.”

Alice took me upstairs to a small room that looked on to the waterfront.

“If there’s anything you want …”

“Not a thing. That bed sure looks good.”

“You can take a bath if you want to. It’s right next door.”

“I’ll do that. You know this is pretty nice of you.”

“We’re very grateful for what you did, Johnny. That brute might have hurt Tom badly.

He’s not very strong.”

“But he’s got a lot of guts. I guess you’re pretty proud of him.”

“Oh, I am.” She put her hand on my arm, and her eyes were shining. “He’s been through

some bad times, but he’s always been good to me. But if you hadn’t come in when you did

…”

“Forget it. I was glad I was around.”

“I just want you to know I think you’re splendid,” she said, and went away, leaving me a

little hot and flustered.

I took a bath, lying in the hot water for half an hour or so. I could hear them talking

downstairs, and when I got into bed, Roche came up and put his head round the door.

“All set?” he asked, edged his way in and stood at the foot of the bed looking at me.

I grinned at him.

“You bet.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, rubbed the end of his nose with the back of his hand

while he stared seriously at me.

“Anything on your mind?” I asked, seeing he wanted to say something but seemed at a loss

for words.

“I guess so. Me and Alice have been talking about you. I have a proposition to make you.

How would you like to come in with us? We’re doing pretty well, but we could do better.

With you to help us, we could expand. I don’t say there’s a fortune to be picked up, but if it

interests you I can show you the figures. I don’t mean I’m offering you a job. I’m offering

you a third share in the business. It could be a nice living. What do you say? Alice and me

would like to have you.”

I stared at him, scarcely believing I had heard aright.

“Why, you’re crazy!” I exclaimed, sitting up. “You don’t know a thing about me. You can’t

go offering me a third of your business just because I punched a fella in the jaw. What’s the

matter with you?”

Roche sat on the edge of the bed.

“We need help, Johnny. We need a guy like you. You know the trade, for one thing. Then

you’re big and can scrap -I can’t. We get some tough characters in here, and there’s not a lot I

can do about it. We like you. We reckon you’d be worth every nickel you take out of the

business.”

He was probably right, but the job was no good to me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but

I had to tell him.

“Look, Tom, let’s get this straightened out,” I said. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the

offer. I am, but it can’t be done. Don’t get me wrong about this, but frankly I’ve been in

smalltime too long. All my life I’ve wanted money: not a few paltry dollars - my old man had

that and they got him nowhere - but a roll of money you could choke a horse with. Maybe it’s

because my old man kept me so short when I was a kid. The only thing he ever paid for was

my food. My clothes, movies, candy and all the other things kids spend dimes on I had to

earn, and it meant earning them the hard way: working after school, running errands,

delivering newspapers, cleaning windows, and never having any time to play. My old man

reckoned it would make me value money, but he was wrong. It made me determined to get a

pile somehow and have a glorious blow with it. I’ve got to make money. It’s become a thing

with me, and when I’ve got it I’m going on the biggest bender ever. I thought my chance had

come when my old man died. I figured I’d be able to sell the caf6 and go a bust on the

proceeds, but there were debts and there weren’t any proceeds. Right now all I’ve got are the

clothes I stand up in and forty dollars from my army gratuity. So I’m going to Miami where

the dough is, and some of it’s going to stick to me. Big dough, Tom, not little stuff. I have a

feeling in my bones if I can get to Miami I’ll hit the jackpot.”

Roche sat listening, his face expressionless.

“Why Miami, Johnny? Why not New York or any big city?”

“Something I heard,” I said. “I know it sounds cockeyed, but I met a guy who’s been to

Miami. He reckoned there was no place like it on earth. He said there were more millionaires

to the square inch out there than any other place in the world, and they go there for a

vacation, and they throw their money around like drunken sailors. If you’re smart you can

catch some of it. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t intend to work any racket or get into

trouble. I’m going to collect this pile legitimate. There’re all kinds of jobs going in Miami

where you can pick up big dough. Know what this guy told me? He said lifeguards make up

to two hundred bucks a week. He knew one of them who saved the life of a movie star, and

they gave him a thousand bucks and a job in Hollywood. This guy himself was a chauffeur,

and his boss kicked off and left him five grand. He’d only worked for him for three years.

Think of that! I don’t see why I shouldn’t muscle in on that kind of luck. That’s all it is. The

money’s there. It’s just a matter of being on the spot when these guys throw it around.”

Roche rubbed his knee while he looked thoughtfully at me.

“Your pal didn’t tell you about the con men, the gamblers, the grafters, the whores and the

mobsters who are all in there like a wolf-pack trying to separate your millionaires from their

rolls, did he?” he asked quietly. “He didn’t mention the cops who hound a guy unless he’s

well dressed and keep him on the move? I’ve been to Miami, Johnny. Before I bust my leg I

used to drive a truck from Pelotta to Miami every week. It’s a fine town for millionaires, but

if you’re short of dough, it’s tougher than a jungle full of wild animals. Take my tip and

forget Miami. You’re living in a pipe-dream. Stay with us and you have a chance to make a

reasonable living and you’ll keep out of trouble. When a guy goes after the kind of dough

you’re talking about, sooner or later he’s going to get into trouble. Use your head, Johnny.

The only way you could break into big money is by fighting. I don’t know how good you are,

but if that punch is a sample, then I’d say …”

“Don’t say it,” I broke in. “I’ve quit fighting. I’m not finishing up half blind and my brains

leaking blood. That’s out. You say Miami is tough. This guy says it’s a soft touch. I guess I’ll

go and find out for myself. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m going. Sorry, Tom, but that’s the way it

is. And don’t think I’m ungrateful.” Roche lifted his thin shoulders.

“Okay, if that’s how you feel about it, then go to Miami. Have a look around. Then come

back here. I can do with you. I’ll give you three months before I look for someone else. Think

about it, Johnny. A third share and a free hand, and only Alice and me to bother you. Think

about it.”

I didn’t have to think about it.

“Don’t wait for me, Tom,” I said. “You fix yourself up. I won’t be coming back.”

III

I had just finished breakfast when Roche put his head round the door.

“Solly Brant’s outside. He’s asking for you. Want to see him?”

“Why not, or shouldn’t I?”

Roche shrugged.

“Please yourself. He wouldn’t say what he wants.”

“Well, shoot him in.”

I pushed back my plate, and, as I reached for a cigarette, Brant came in. His panama hat

was pushed to the back of his head. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he looked as if

he hadn’t slept for days.

“I’m sorry your boy can’t fight,” I said before he could open his mouth, “but he got what he

deserved. It’s no use coming moaning to me. It’s something I can’t do anything about.”

“Yeah, don’t tell me, I know,” Brant said, and pulled up a chair. He sat down. “He’s a bum,

always was; always will be.” He rubbed his face with his hand and groaned. “That punk’s put

years on my life. The trouble I’ve had with him.” He leaned forward and poked a fat ringer at

me. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”

“I’ve done a little fighting. If I’d known he had a glass jaw I’d have hit him some other

place.”

“He ain’t got a glass jaw. Guys have been hanging punches on his jaw for years, and up to

now he’s liked it. I’ve never seen a punch like that. It would have dented a tank.” He absently

picked up a piece of toast and began to nibble at it. “But never mind him. If I’d some other

boy to fight the Kid I’d be waving flags to be rid of him. But I haven’t another boy, and this

is the first major fight I’ve collared in years. The take’s seven-fifty, and that’s a lot of beer to

a guy like me.” He gnawed at the toast, then asked, “Who have you fought?”

“Oh, no, not me,” I said. “Never mind who I’ve fought. You’re not getting me to fight for

you. I quit the game years ago, and I’m not going back to it.”

The small brown eyes roved hungrily over me.

“With that build and that hook you’re a natural. How long have you been out of the game?”

“Too long. I’m not interested. If that’s all you’ve got to talk about let’s part while we’re

still friends.”

“Now wait a minute. Roche tells me you put Weiner away in the second. Is that right?”

“It’s no dollars in your pocket if I did.”

“Heading for Miami, aren’t you?” He put down the toast and hitched forward his chair.

“Now, listen, soon as I saw you I knew you were a killer. Use your head, Farrar. What do you

think you’re going to do in Miami dressed like that? How far do you think you’ll get before

some bull tosses you in the can? Even if you keep to the back streets you won’t last ten

minutes. If you haven’t a good front, you’re out in Miami.”

“That’s my funeral: not yours.”

“I know.” He took off his hat and peered inside it as if looking for something he had lost.

“But I’m not talking because I like the sound of my voice. How would you like to arrive in

Miami in a tropical suit and all the trimmings and driving your own car? Okay, it’s not much

of a car, but it goes. And how would you like to have five hundred bucks in your pocket to

give you a start?”

He was dangling a nice fat worm on a sharp hook before me, and I knew it, but I listened

just the same. I knew I shouldn’t make much of a showing in Miami in the clothes I had on,

and this had been worrying me. A tropical suit, five hundred bucks and a car sounded about

right to me.

“Go on talking,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to listen.”

“That’s a fact,” he said, and grinned, showing six gold-capped teeth. “That’s my

proposition. Deputize for MacCready, and that’s what you’ll get. How does it strike you?”

“Not bad. What makes you think I rate that high?”

“I don’t know you do. If you’ve got anything beside that hook, then you can’t be so bad.

Suppose you come down to the gym and show me just what you can do?”

I hesitated. In a couple of hours Josh Bates would be pulling out of Pelotta for Miami. I

could either go with him and travel as a bum or stick around here for four more days and then

travel in my own car with money in my pocket. But before I got the car and the money I had

to fight a heavyweight I’d never seen or heard of, and I wasn’t in anything like strict training.

I might even land up with a broken jaw myself.

“Just how useful is this guy you want me to fight?”

“Not bad,” Brant said. “He’s fast and pins his faith on a right cross.” He stood up. “But you

don’t have to worry about him. I don’t expect you to beat him. All I want you to do is to stay

with him for a few rounds and make a show. The dough’s all on him. But if he gets too hot

for you you can always do an el foldo”

“That’s something I’ve never done, and don’t intend to do.”

“Just a suggestion,” he said blandly. “Suppose we go over to the gym. We can talk better

after I’ve seen the way you shape.”

We went over to the gym. It lay at the end of a dark, evil-smelling alley off Pelotta’s main

street. It wasn’t much of a place: one big room, equipped with two training rings, punching

bags, some dirty mats scattered over the floor, a row of changing booths and a few shower

cabinets, most of which didn’t work.

The place was deserted when we got there.

“Waller, Joe’s sparring partner, will be along any minute now,” Brant said. “He’s a good

trial horse and you can hit him as hard as you like. If you don’t he’ll hit you. Let’s have three

rounds with all the action you can cram into them.”

He went over to a locker and handed out some kit. While I was changing Waller came in.

He was a big, battered Negro with sullen, bloodshot eyes. He nodded briefly to Brant, gave

me an indifferent glance and went into one of the booths to change.

When I had stripped off. Brant looked me over critically, and whistled.

“Well, you ain’t carrying any fat. You look in pretty good shape to me.”

“I’m all right,” I said, and ducked under the ropes. “But if I’d known this was going to

happen I’d have laid off smoking. It’s my wind I’ve got to watch.”

Waller climbed into the ring. He was built like a gorilla, but in spite of his size I noticed he

was eyeing me thoughtfully.

“Listen, Henry,” Brant said to him, “let’s have a fight. I want to see how good this guy is.

Don’t pull your punches and keep after him.”

The Negro grunted.

“And that goes for you, too, Farrar,” Brant went on. “Well, if you’re ready. Okay? Then

come out fighting and make a meal of it.” He touched the bell.

Waller came forward like a gigantic crab, his head hunched down into his heavy shoulders.

We moved around the ring, feeling each other out. I got in a couple of quick jabs and swayed

away from a vicious looping right he threw at me. I managed to pin him with another left.

None of my punches had any steam in them. I wanted to test my timing. I knew it wasn’t

sharp. Every now and then Waller caught me with a dig that hurt. He kept shuffling away

from me, making me come to him, and countering every time I landed on him. Suddenly he

stopped in his tracks and let fly a right that landed high up on the side of my head. I was

rolling by the time it landed, but it was a good solid punch, and it shook me.

As he rushed in I let go a left: the first punch I’d thrown with any steam in it. He went back

as if he had run into a brick wall. I could see the surprise on his face.

We moved around. He was more cautious now. That left had startled him. I got in two jabs

and collected a dig in the body that made me grunt.

I was now having trouble with my breathing. You’ve got to be in strict training to take the

heavy bangs I was taking and not worry about them. If I was going to keep out of trouble I’d

have to stop him, and stop him quick.

He saw my wind was going and began to pile on the pressure. He was a difficult target to

hit, and for the moment all I could do was to jab away at his face and head and hope for an

opening. I smothered most of the punches he was throwing, but some of them landed and

they hurt. I was glad when the bell went and I could flop on the stool and take a breather.

Brant sponged the blood from my nose, his fat face thoughtful.

“You’ve been out of training too long,” he said. “You’re not timing your punches right.

Better take it easy in the next round. Box him this time and keep away from him.”

I didn’t say anything. I had my own ideas what to do. I’d have to finish him in this round or

I wasn’t going to last.

Waller hadn’t bothered to sit down. He lolled against the ropes, looking bored.

“Okay?” Brant asked as he reached for the gong-string.

“Yeah,” I said, and came out slowly.

Waller moved in, set to nail me. He slung a left. I shifted so it slid over my shoulder and hit

him three rimes to the body. I heard him gasp as he went into a clinch. His weight sagged on

me. I tried to shove him off, but I couldn’t do it. He hung on desperately, and didn’t pay any

attention to Brant’s yells to break. He was hurt and worried. We wrestled around, and finally

I got clear of his hugging arms. I caught him with a right upper-cut as we broke. Snarling, he

fought back, and for a second or so we slung lefts and rights at each other. He was flustered

now. I was timing them better, and they were sinking into him. A left prepared the way. His

guard dropped, and I whipped over the right hook. It caught him flush on the jaw and down

he went. I moved away, wiping the blood from my nose and breathing heavily. I wasn’t

worried. He wasn’t going to get up in a hurry.

Brant climbed into the ring, beaming from ear to ear. Together we dragged Waller to his

corner and propped him up on his stool. We were working on him when a voice said, “I like

this boy. Where did you find him, Brant?”

Brant started as if someone had goosed him with a red-hot poker.

Three men had appeared from nowhere and were standing near the ring. The one who had

spoken was short and square-shouldered. His face was as uncompromising as a hatchet and as

thin, and his black eyes were deep-set, still and glittering. He had on a bottle-green linen suit,

a white slouch hat, and his pencil-lined moustache looked starkly black against his olive skin.

The other two were the kind of muscle-men you can see in a Hollywood movie any day of

the week. Two Wops, pale imitations of their boss, tough, dangerous, and more at home with

a gun or a knife than with their fists.

I didn’t like the look of any of them.

“Hello, Mr. Petelli,” Brant said, his grin fixed and his eyes scared. “I didn’t see you come

in.”

Petelli let his eyes slide over me. I had a feeling there wasn’t a muscle, mole or freckle

missed in that one searching glance.

“Where did you find him?”

“He’s the guy who bust MacCready’s jaw,” Brant said, and nervously took out his

handkerchief and mopped his face.

“I heard about that. Is it your idea to match this boy against the Kid?”

“I was coming to see you about it, Mr. Petelli. But first I wanted to find out how he

shaped.”

“The nigger seems to think he shapes all right,” Petelli said with a thin smile.

“He’s a little out of training …” Brant began, but Petelli cut him short.

“Come down to my office in an hour. We’ll go into it.” He looked at me. “What do you call

yourself?”

“The name’s Farrar,” I said curtly, and ducked under the ropes.

“You look a good boy to me,” Petelli said. “I can give you some fights. Have you signed

with Brant?”

“I haven’t signed with anyone,” I said, “and I’m not signing with anyone. This is strictly

my one and only appearance.”

“You’d better come down with Brant, and we’ll talk this over,” Petelli said. “I can give you

a fight a month.”

“I’m not interested,” I said, and walked across the gym to the changing booths in a sudden

silence you could hang your hat on.

I got back to Roche’s Cafe in time to see Josh Bates driving his six-wheel truck along the

waterfront towards the Miami highway. I watched him go with mixed feelings. I had a

sneaking idea I should have been on that truck.

Roche was polishing an urn when I walked in.

“So you changed your mind,” he said. “Josh waited around for you. What happened?”

“Sorry, Tom. I got hung up.” I told him of Brant’s offer. “With a car and five hundred

bucks I’ll be set. It means hanging around for four days, but when I go I’ll move on my own

steam.”

I went on to tell him about Petelli.

“You want to keep an eye on that baby,” Roche said. “He’s got a bad reputation.”

“I can believe it, and I intend to keep out of his way. I’ve got to do a little training. There’s

not much time, but I figure I can get into some sort of shape before Saturday.”

“You’ll stay with us, Johnny. Don’t argue. We’ll be glad to have you.”

I didn’t argue. I was glad to be with them.

Later, Solly Brant came into the cafe. He slumped down at a corner table as if he had

completed a ten-mile run.

I went over and joined him.

“Well, it’s all fixed,” he said heavily. “It took all my time to convince Petelli this was your

last fight. I think you’re making a mistake, Farrar. Petelli could make you a sack of dough.”

“I’m not interested.”

“That’s what I told him, and I finally convinced him, but you’ve still time to change your

mind.”

“I’m not changing it.”

Brant shifted uneasily.

“It’ll make a difference.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, look, if this is going to be your last fight, you can’t expect Petelli to take much

interest in you, can you?”

“I don’t want him to. The less I have to do with him the better I’ll like it.”

“But he’s got his money on the Kid, so the Kid’s got to win.”

“Well, all right, if the Kid’s all that good, he probably will win.”

“He’s got to win,” Brant said huskily. “It’s orders.”

I stared at him.

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve arranged for me to take a dive?”

“That’s it. Petelli’s giving you a big build-up. The betting will switch, and he’s spreading

his dough on the Kid. My instructions are for you to take a dive in the third.”

“I told you: I’ve never taken a dive, and I don’t intend to take one now.”

Brant mopped his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief.

“Look, Farrar, you’re getting five hundred bucks and a car out of this. For the love of Mike

don’t make it difficult.”

“If the Kid can’t win by beating me, then it’s his funeral. I’m not taking a dive!”

“You haven’t any choice,” Brant said, beginning to sweat. “When Petelli says a thing it

sticks.”

“Well, let’s take that a step further. Suppose I don’t take orders from him - what then?”

“You’re up to your neck in trouble. I’m not kidding. Petelli’s poison. There was a boy who

lost him a lot of money a couple of years back, not doing what he was told. They laid for him

and smashed his hands so he never fought again. They bashed his knuckles with a steel rod

until they were pulp, and that’s what’ll happen to you if you don’t do what he tells you.”

“They’ll have to catch me first.”

“They’ll catch you. The other boy thought he was smart. He ducked out of town, but they

caught up with him. It took them six months to find him, but they found him. He was picked

up with a cracked skull and broken mitts, and he’s never been any good since.”

“You don’t scare me,” I said, getting angry. “This is going to be a straight fight or I quit!”

“Use your head, Farrar,” Brant pleaded. “If Petelli says you take a dive, then goddamn it,

you’ll take a dive. Ask anyone. Ask Roche. You just don’t fool with Petelli. What he says

goes.”

“Not with me, it doesn’t.” I stood up. “This is my last fight, and I’m not getting mixed up in

a dive. Tell Petelli that from me.”

“You tell him,” Brant said hurriedly. “It’s your baby now.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t. You fixed this: you unfix it. I’m going over to the gym to loosen up.”

He must have rushed around to Petelli the moment I had left the cafe, for I was just getting

warmed up in the gym under Waller’s supervision when Petelli’s two muscle-men came in.

Later I was to learn their names were Pepi and Benno. Pepi was a slick-looking Wop,

wearing a pencil-lined moustache like his boss, while Benno was fat and blue-chinned and

vicious.

They marched in like they owned the place, and Waller froze at the sight of them. All right,

I admit it, there was something about those two that made my flesh creep.

“Come on,” Pepi said, jerking his thumb at me, “get your clothes on. The boss wants you.”

“I’m busy,” I said. “He’ll find me here if he wants me that badly.”

I heard Waller catch his breath. He was looking at me as if he thought I was crazy.

“Don’t give me that stuff,” Pepi snarled, his pinched face vicious. “Get your clothes on and

come!”

He was a head shorter than I was, and I didn’t want to hit him, but hit he was going to be if

he didn’t change his tone.

“Get out of here!” I said. “Both of you, before I toss you out.”

“Toss us out,” Benno said, and a blue-nosed automatic jumped into his hand. “You heard

us the first time. Get your clothes on or you’ll stop a slug with your belly!”

His still glittering eyes warned me he wasn’t bluffing.

Without moving his lips, Waller mumbled, “Don’t be a fool, Farrar. Go with them. I know

these two.”

Pepi smiled.

“Wise guy. Sure he knows us. He knows Benno’s been mixed up in three shooting

accidents already this year. Better not make a fourth.”

I got dressed while they stood around and watched me, then we went down the alley to

where a big Cadillac was parked. Benno kept the gun in his hand. There was a cop standing

on the edge of the kerb right by the car. He looked at Benno, looked at the gun, then hurriedly

walked away. That told me faster than anything that had yet happened just what kind of a jam

I was in. I got into the car and sat beside Pepi who drove. Benno sat at the back and breathed

down my neck. It took less than a minute to reach the Ocean Hotel. We went in by a side

entrance and rode up in a gilt-painted elevator. Neither Benno nor Pepi said anything, but

Benno kept the gun pointing at me. We walked down a long corridor to a polished mahogany

door marked Private. Pepi tapped, turned the handle and walked in.

The room was small, oak-panelled, and fitted up like an office.

A blonde sat pounding a typewriter, and chewing gum. She glanced up, gave me a swift,

indifferent stare, seemed to think nothing of the gun in Benno’s hand, and jerked her blonde

head to the door behind her.

“Go on in,” she said to Pepi. “He’s waiting.”

Pepi scratched on the door panel with his fingernails, opened the door and glanced in.

Then he stood aside.

“In on your own steam,” he said to me, “and behave.”

I walked past him into one of those vast rooms you rarely see outside a movie set. The

enormous expanse of bottle-green carpet was thick enough to cut with a lawn-mower. A

couple of dozen lounging chairs, two big chesterfields, a number of lamp standards and an

odd table or two scarcely dented the space they were supposed to fill. Around the walls hung

gilt-framed mirrors that caught my reflection as I moved forward, and reminded me how

shabby I looked.

At a desk, big enough to play ping-pong on, sat Petelli. He was smoking a cigar, and the

white slouch hat he had worn when he had come to the gym still rested at the back of his

head. He waited, sitting forward, his elbows on the desk, until I was within a yard of him,

then he stopped me by pointing his cigar at me.

“I’ll do the talking; you do the listening,” he said, his voice curt and cold. “You’re a good

fighter, Farrar, and I could have used you, but Brant tells me you want to stay out of the

game. Right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“The Kid is a good boy, too, but I don’t think he’s got the punch you carry. Well, if I can’t

have you, I’ll have to make do with him. This will be his first fight as far north as Pelotta. It

wouldn’t look good for him to get licked, so he’s got to win. I’ve ten grand spread on the

fight, and I don’t intend to lose it. I told Brant you’re to take a dive in the third round. Now

I’m telling you. Brant says you don’t like the idea. Well, that’s your own private grief, not

mine. You’ve had your chance to come in with me and you’ve passed it up,” He paused to tap

ash on the carpet. “This happens to be my town. I run it, see? What I say goes. I have an

organization that takes care of guys who don’t do what I tell them. We’ll take care of you,

too, if we have to. From now on you’ll be watched. You’re not to leave town. On Saturday

night you’ll fight the Kid and you’ll put up a convincing show. In the third round the Kid’ll

catch you, and you’ll go down and stay down. Those are my orders, and you’ll obey them. If

you don’t you’ll be wiped out. I mean that. I don’t intend to lose ten grand because some bum

fighter is too proud to take a dive. Double-cross me and it’s the last double-cross you pull.

And don’t bother about police protection. The police do what I tell them. Now you know the

set-up, you can please yourself what you do. I’m not arguing about it. I’m telling you. Take a

dive in the third or a slug in the back. Now get out!”

He wasn’t bluffing. I knew unless I obeyed orders he’d wipe me out with no more

hesitation than he would have squashed a fly.

There wasn’t anything I could think of to say. He had put the cards on the table. It was now

up to me. Come to think of it, there wasn’t anything to say. I turned and went out of the room,

closing the door gently behind me.

The blonde still pounded the typewriter. Pepi and Benno had gone. Without pausing or

looking up, she said, “Sweet type, isn’t he? Can you wonder he hasn’t any friends?”

Even to her I hadn’t anything to say. I went on out, down the long corridor to the elevator.

When I reached the street I spotted Benno across the way. He strolled after me as I made my

way back to the gym.

For the next four days and nights Benno or Pepi followed me wherever I went, not letting

me out of their sight for a moment. I played with the idea of slipping out of town and making

my way to Miami as best I could, but I soon discovered there was no safe way of doing it.

Those two stuck to me like an adhesive bandage.

I kept the set-up to myself. It was only when Tom Roche told me he was going to bet his

shin on me that I gave him a hint of what was in the wind.

“Don’t do it, and don’t ask questions,” I said. “Don’t bet either way.”

He stared at me, saw I meant it, started to say something, but changed his mind. He was no

fool, and must have guessed what was brewing, but he didn’t press me.

I didn’t tell Brant that I had seen Petelli, but he knew all right. He avoided me as much as

he could, and when we did run into each other he seemed nervous, and didn’t appear to like

the way I was working to get into some kind of shape.

Waller didn’t ask questions either, but he did everything he could to get me fit. By the

evening of the third day I was picking my punches, and my breathing no longer bothered me.

I could see both Waller and Brant were impressed by my speed and hitting power.

Petelli certainly made a swell job of the advance publicity. He had the local papers working

on it, and a string of loud-mouthed guys going around the bars shouting my praise. This

concentrated drive soon began to influence the betting, and by the morning of the fight I was

a four to one on favourite. With ten thousand on the Kid, Petelli stood to pick up a bundle of

money.

Neither he nor his muscle-men had anything further to say to me. Our little talk in his office

seemed to them to be enough. Well, it was. I had to dive in the third round or it’d be curtains,

and I had made up my mind to dive. An outfit like Petelli’s was too big and tough to buck. If

I obeyed orders I was set to make a good start in Miami, and that was what I really cared

about. Anyway, that’s the way I tried to kid myself, but below the surface I was seething with

rage. I was thinking of the little mugs who were putting their shirts on me. I was thinking that

after Saturday night I’d be just another crooked fighter, but what really bit deep was taking

orders from a rat like Petelli.

On the morning of the fight, Brant and I went down to the gym for the weigh-in. There was

a big crowd to welcome me, but I didn’t get any kick out of the excited cheers as I pushed my

way through the double swing-doors. I spotted Tom Roche and Sam Williams, and gave them

a feeble grin as they waved to me.

Petelli stood near the scales, smoking a cigar. Pepi stood just behind him. Near by a fat,

hard-faced man in a fawn suit propped up the wall and grinned at anyone who looked at him.

He turned out to be the Miami Kid’s manager.

I ducked the back-slappers and went into one of the changing booths. By the time I had

stripped off the Kid was on show. I looked curiously at him. He was big and powerful, but I

was quick to spot he was a little thick around the middle. As I joined him he looked me over

with a sneering little grin.

I was four pounds heavier than he, and had the advantage of three inches in reach.

“So what?” he said in a loud voice to his manager. “The bigger they come the harder they

bounce.”

The crowd seemed to think that was the most original and witty thing they had ever heard,

to judge by the laugh it got.

As I stepped off the scales, the Kid, still with his sneering grin, reached out and grabbed my

arm.

“Hey! I thought you said this guy was a puncher,” he cried. “Call these muscles, chummy?”

“Take your hands off me!” I said, and the look I gave him made him take two big, quick

steps back. “You’ll know whether I’ve got muscles or not by tonight.”

There was a sudden silence, then as I walked away, a babble of voices broke out.

Brant came running after me, and as I went into the changing booth, he said excitedly,

“Don’t let him rattle you. He’s a great kidder.”

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he meant. He was scared the Kid had

opened his mouth too wide and I’d sock him for it when we got into the ring. He wasn’t far

from the truth, either.

“Is he?” I said. “Well, so am I.”

The first instalment of Brant’s pay-off arrived in the afternoon. He brought it himself.

“Thought you’d better look smart, Farrar,” he said, looking anywhere but at me. He took

off the lid of a box and showed me a white linen suit, a cream silk shirt, a green and white tie,

and white buckskin shoes. “You’ll knock them dead in this outfit,” he went on, trying to be at

ease. “Better see if it fits.”

“Shove them back in the box and get out,” I said.

I was lying on the bed in the little room Roche had lent me. The curtains were half drawn,

and the light was dim. I had seven hours before I entered the ring: seven hours that stretched

ahead of me like a prison sentence without parole.

“What’s the matter with you?” Brant demanded, flushing. “Isn’t this what you want?” and

he shook the suit at me.

“Get out before I throw you out!”

When he had gone I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of Petelli. I

thought, too, of all the little mugs who were betting on me. I tried to convince myself there

was nothing I could do about it, but I knew I had walked into this with my eyes open. I had

kicked around in the fight racket long enough to know just how crooked it was. That was why

I had quit, and yet the first offer that came along had tempted me back. If I hadn’t had big

ideas about getting to Miami in a car with money in my pocket this wouldn’t have happened.

Suppose I double-crossed Petelli? What chance had I of avoiding a bullet? Petelli wasn’t

bluffing. He couldn’t afford to let me double-cross him and get away with it. If he did, his

grip on the other fighters would be weakened, and, besides, he wasn’t the type to allow

himself to be gypped out of forty thousand dollars without settling the score.

I was hooked, and I knew it, and I cursed myself. I lay on the bed in the half light and

sweated it out, and the hands of the clock crawled on and on. I couldn’t make up my mind

what I was going to do. I was still at it when Roche put his head around my door.

“Seven-thirty, Johnny; time to be up and doing. Are you okay?”

I got off the bed. “I guess so. Will I get a taxi?”

“I’ll drive you there myself. I’m just going to have a wash. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Fine.”

I splashed water on my face, combed my hair and then put on the clothes Brant had

brought. They fitted me all right, but I didn’t get a kick out of them. If my own clothes hadn’t

been so shabby I wouldn’t have worn this outfit. A tap came on the door, and Alice looked in.

“Why, Johnny, how smart you look.”

“I guess that’s right.”

I wondered what she would have said if she knew the price I was paying for this rig-out.

“Tom’s getting the car. Good luck, Johnny.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you won’t be there.”

“Tom wanted me to go, but I don’t like fights. I’ll have my fingers crossed for you.”

“You do that. Well, so long. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“But you’ll be coming back, won’t you?”

Would I? I wished I knew.

“Why, sure, but thanks all the same.”

“Put this in your pocket. It’s brought me luck, and I want it to bring you luck, too.”

I looked at the sliver medallion she placed in my hand. It showed the head of some saint,

and I looked at her, surprised.

“Thanks, Alice, but maybe I’d better not have it. I might lose it.”

“Put it in your pocket and forget about it. It’ll bring you luck.”

And that’s what I did. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. As I ran down the steps to

the street, Petelli’s big Cadillac pulled up. Benno was at the wheel, and Brant was sitting at

the back.

“Thought we’d pick you up,” Brant said, leaning out of the window. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I’m driving up in Roche’s car.”

“You’re driving up in this one,” Pepi snarled, coming up behind me. “We’re not losing

sight of you until the fight’s over.”

Roche hadn’t appeared. There was no point in making trouble.

“Tell Tom I’ve gone with the boys,” I called to Alice, who was watching from the cafe

door.

I got in beside Brant. We drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Practically the whole

of Pelotta’s population had turned out for the fight. As we neared the blazing lights of the

stadium, Pepi said without looking round, “The third, Farrar, or it’s curtains.”

“Save your breath,” I said. “I heard it the first time.”

We drove up the broad concrete drive-in. It was already packed with cars, but Benno

weaved his way through without reducing speed.

Brant said in an undertone, “As soon as it’s over I’ll have the dough for you in cash. The

car’s parked at the back. It’s full of petrol and rearing to go. Okay?”

I grunted.

Benno swung the Cadillac into the vast parking-lot, and we all got out. We walked quickly

across the tarmac to a side door. As Pepi pushed it open, a blast of hot, sweat-stinking air

came out to meet us.

“It’s packed solid in there,” Brant said. “Not a seat to be had.”

We climbed a flight of concrete steps, meeting people as they moved to their seats. Some of

the guys recognized me and slapped me on the back, wishing me luck. At a gangway I paused

to look into the arena. One of the preliminary fights was on. The ring, under the dazzling

white lights, looked a mile away, and the roar of the crowd seemed to shake the whole

building.

“Some house,” Brant said. “Better get changed, Farrar.”

There was the usual mob of pressmen and hangers-on waiting outside my dressing-room,

but Brant wouldn’t let them in. He got the door shut with difficulty, leaving Pepi outside to

talk to them.

Waller was waiting to take charge of me.

“Don’t wait,” I said to Brant. “Henry can do it all.”

“Now, look …” Brant began, but I cut him short.

“I don’t want you around, and I don’t want you in my corner. Henry can do all that’s

necessary.”

Brant shrugged his fat shoulders. His face turned crimson.

“Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel. But there’s no need to get sore at me. I can’t help

it.”

“Maybe you can’t, but you got me into this, and I don’t want you in my comer.”

As he turned to the door, he said, “Don’t pull anything smart, Farrar. You’re in this now up

to your ears, and there’s no out for you.”

“Dust!”

When he had gone I began to strip off. Waller stood around, a worried expression on his

ebony face.

“You relax, Mr. Farrar,” he said. “This ain’t no way to go into the ring.”

“Okay, okay, don’t bother me, Henry,” I said, and stretched out on the rubbing-table. “Lock

the door. I don’t want anyone in here.”

He locked the door, then came over and began to work on me.

“Are you going to win this fight?” he asked presently.

“How do I know? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I don’t think so.” He went on kneading my muscles for a while, then he said, “Mr.

Petelli’s been around too long. I reckon he’s done a lot of harm to the game in this town. Is

this another fixed fight?”

“You know it is. I should have thought the whole damned town knows it by now. What else

can you expect when Petelli lays ten grand on the Kid? I’ve been told to go in the third.”

Waller grunted. We didn’t look at each other.

“You shouldn’t get sore with Mr. Brant,” he said. “He’s a good guy. What can he do

against Mr. Petelli? If Mr. Petelli says for you to dive in the third, what can Mr. Brant say? If

he says no, those two gunmen will fix him. Mr. Brant’s got a wife and kids to think of.”

“Lay off, Henry. Maybe Brant can’t help it, but I’d just as soon not have him around. You

can take care of me, can’t you?”

“If you’re going in the third, you don’t need taking care of,” Waller said sadly.

There was some truth in that.

“Suppose I don’t take a dive?” I said. “Suppose I fight the Kid and lick him? What chance

have I got of getting out of here alive?”

Waller looked uneasily around the room as if he feared someone might be listening.

“That’s crazy talk,” he said, his eyes rolling. “Get that idea, out of your head.”

“No harm in wondering. Where’s that window lead to?”

“You relax. There’s no sense talking this way.”

I slid off the table, crossed the room and looked out of the window. A good thirty feet

below me was the car-park. I leaned out. A narrow ledge ran below the window to a stack

pipe, leading to the ground. It wouldn’t be difficult to get down to the car park, but that didn’t

mean I could get away.

Waller pulled me from the window;

“Get back on the table. This ain’t the way to act just before a fight.”

I got on to the table again.

“Think those Wops would shoot me, Henry, or is it bluff?”

“I know they would. They shot Boy O’Brien for pulling a double-cross a couple of years

back. They bust Bennie Mason’s hands when he got himself knocked out after Mr. Petelli had

bet he’d go the distance. They threw acid in Tiger Freeman’s face for winning in the seventh.

Sure, they’d shoot you if that’s what Mr. Petelli wants them to do.”

I was still churning it over in my mind when Brant yelled through the door it was time to

get down to the ring.

Henry helped me into the scarlet and blue dressing-gown Petelli had sent over for me to

wear. It was a gaudy affair, with Johnny Farrar stitched in big white letters across the

shoulders. At one time I would have been proud and happy to have worn it, but right now it

made me feel bad.

As I reached the top of the ramp leading into the arena, they played the Kid in with a

fanfare of trumpets. The crowd was giving him a big hand, and when he vaulted over the

ropes into the ring, they howled their appreciation.

Brant joined me. He was sweating and worried.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said. “You first; the rest of us behind you.”

The rest of us consisted of Brant, Waller, Pepi and Benno. I walked down the ramp towards

the ring. It was a long walk, and the crowd stood up and yelled ail the way. I wondered

bleakly what kind of noise they’d be making on my return trip.

I reached the ring, ducked under the ropes and went to my corner. The Kid, in a yellow

dressing-gown, was clowning in his corner, making out he was bow-legged, and then

pretending to throw punches at his handlers. The crowd enjoyed it more than his handlers did.

I sat down, and Henry began putting on the tapes. The Kid’s fat manager stood over me,

watching, and breathing whisky and cigar fumes in my face. It was because of his vile breath

that I turned my head and looked at the crowd just below me, and it was then that I saw her.

The announcer, a bald-headed little runt in a white suit a little too big for him, was bawling

into a hand mike, but I didn’t hear what he was saying. Even when he introduced me Waller

had to prod me before I stood up to acknowledge the yells of the crowd.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off the woman who was sitting just below my corner: near enough,

if we both stretched out our arms, for us to touch fingers. Even as I waved to the crowd, I

continued to stare at her, and she was worth staring at.

I’ve seen a good many beautiful women in my time, on the movies and off, but never one

like this. Her hair was jet black and glossy, parted in the centre, a thin white line as exact as if

it had been drawn with a sharp-edged tool and a ruler in marble. Her eyes were big and black

and glittering. Her skin was like alabaster, and her mouth wide and scarlet. She was lean and

lovely and hungry-looking.

Unlike the other women sitting at the ringside, she wasn’t wearing an evening gown. She

had on an apple-green linen suit, a white silk blouse and no hat. Her shoulders were broad,

and to judge from her long, slim legs, she would be above the average height when she stood

up. Under that smart, cool and provocative outfit was a shape that drove the fight, Petelli and

the rest of the set-up clean out of my mind.

She was looking up at me, her eyes wide and excited, and we exchanged glances. The look

she gave me turned my mouth dry and sent my pulse racing. Even a Trappist monk would

have known what that look was saying, and I wasn’t a Trappist monk.

“What’s the matter with you?” Waller mumbled as he laced my gloves. “You look like

someone’s already socked you.”

“Could have,” I said, and smiled at her, and she smiled back: an intimate, we-could-have-fun-together kind of smile that hit me where I lived.

I turned to see who she was with: an expensive-looking item in a fawn seersucker suit. He

was handsome enough with his dark, wavy hair, his olive complexion and his regular

features, but his good looks were marred by his thin, hard mouth and the viciously angry

expression in his eyes as he returned my curious stare.

“Get out there,” Waller said, and shoved me to my feet. “The ref’s waiting. What’s the

matter with you?”

And the referee was waiting, and the Kid was waiting too. I joined them in the middle of

the ring.

“It’s all right, chummy,” the Kid sneered. “You don’t have to hue your corner that long. I

ain’t going to hit you just yet.”

“All right, boys,” the referee said sharply, “let’s cut out the funny stuff and get down to

business. Now, listen to me …”

He started on the old routine I had heard so often before. While he was talking, I asked

myself why she had looked at me like that. I don’t claim to know much about women, but I

knew that smile was an open invitation.

“Okay, boys,” the referee said when he was through with the routine stuff, “back to your

corners, and come out fighting.”

“And, chummy, you’ll know you’ve been in a fight when you leave feet first,” the Kid said,

slapping me on the back.

And so would he, I thought, as I returned to my corner.

Waller took off my dressing-gown and I turned to get a last look at her.

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.

“Knock that smug smile off his face, handsome,” she called. “It’s time someone did.”

Her escort put his hand on her arm, scowling, but she shook it off impatiently.

“And good luck …”

“Thanks,” I said.

Outraged, Waller got between her and me.

“Keep your mind on this fight,” he said as the bell went.

The Kid came out fast, his chin tucked down into his left shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.

He led with a left that was a foot short, weaved away and tossed over a right. That was short

too. I moved around him looking for an opening. I wanted to land one hard jolt that would

slow him down. I could see he was a lot faster on his feet than I was.

He caught me with a left to the face: not a hard punch. I countered with a left and right to

the body. His left jumped into my face again, and he tried a right cross, but I ducked under it

and socked him in the body. He got in close and began hammering away at my ribs, but I tied

him up, and the referee had to pull us apart. I got in a good left jab to his face as we broke,

and he didn’t like it. He moved away fast, snorting, then came in again, throwing rights and

lefts. I smothered everything he handed out, stepped in and nailed him with a block-buster

that sent him down on his hands and knees.

The crowd went mad. A knock-down in the first two minutes of the fight was something

they hadn’t expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the

Kid.

I had gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I

hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the

referee’s arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately

started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my

punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd.

They were pleased all right. Every now and then I landed with an open glove, and the slap it

made sounded as if I were killing him.

He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could

tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was

thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn’t

want another.

The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other’s ribs. At close

quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt.

The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in

her direction.

She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the

matter with her. She hadn’t been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the

crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who

was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.

Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.

“What are you playing at?” he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and

strained. “Why did you hit him like that?”

“Why not? He’s in here for a fight, isn’t he?”

“Petelli says …”

“Oh, the hell with Petelli!”

The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my-corner. The Kid came out

cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to

keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him

high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam

in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the

crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.

I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was

swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept

covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It

must have dawned on him he wasn’t going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and

desperation he suddenly cut loose.

He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch,

and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me

in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he

knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of

them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain

to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the

ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at

the knees.

Before the referee could start a count, the bell went. The Kid’s handlers rushed into the ring

and dragged him to his corner.

I went slowly back to my stool and sat down. Pepi was waiting for me.

“Next round, you fixer,” he snarled in my ear. “That’s orders.”

“Get away from me!” I said, and greatly daring, Waller shoved him off the apron of the

ring and began to sponge my face. Waller was breathing heavily and grinned excitedly at me

as he worked over me.

“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Watch his right. He can still punch.”

I looked across the ring. They were working like madmen on the Kid, flapping towels at

him, holding smelling-salts under his nose and massaging the back of his neck.

“Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “Last round coming up.”

“Yeah,” Waller said. “Anyway, he’s been in a fight. You ain’t cheated anyone.”

I looked over my shoulder at her. She was smiling again, and waved to me.

The bell went, and I moved out. The Kid started to back-pedal. He had a gash down the

side of his nose, a cut under his right eye, and there were great red patches on his ribs where I

had socked him.

I trapped him in a corner and nailed him bang on his damaged nose. Blood spurted from his

face as if I’d slammed a rotten tomato against a wall. The crowd screamed itself hoarse as he

wilted and fell into a clinch. I had to hold him up or he would have gone down. I wrestled

him around, trying to make it look good until he got a grip on himself.

“Okay, playboy,” I said in his ear. “Throw your best punch.”

I broke and stepped back. He shoved out a left that wouldn’t have dented a rice pudding. I

ducked under it and came in, wide open. Somehow he managed to screw up enough strength

to let go with an upper-cut. I went down on one knee. I wasn’t hurt but if I were going to take

a dive I had to prepare the way for it.

I bet the yell that went up from the crowd could have been heard as far south as Miami.

The referee stood over me and began his count. I looked over at the Kid. The relief on his

face was comic. He leaned against the ropes, blood dripping from his cuts, his knees

buckling.

I shook my head as if I were dazed, and at six I got up. The Kid’s face was a study. He had

been sure I was going to stay down. Instead of coming in, he began to back away, and that

got a jeering laugh from the crowd. His seconds yelled for him to go in and finish me, and

with pitiful reluctance he changed direction and came at me. I made out I was wobbly, but I

slipped the left he threw at me and landed another jab on his gashed face. At least he was

going to earn his victory. Gasping with pain and fury, he lashed out as I dropped my guard.

He caught me on the side of the jaw. Down I went.

I had walked right into it, intending to catch it, and I caught it.

For the first three seconds I was out, then I opened my eyes and found myself flat on my

face, looking right down at her. She was standing up, her eyes like twin explosions, and as

our eyes met, she screamed furiously, “Get up and fight! Get up, you quitter!”

She was so close she could have touched me. Half the ringside; customers were on their

feet, yelling at me, but I had ears only for her voice.

“Get up, Johnny!” she screamed at me. “You can’t quit now!”

The anger, contempt and disappointment on her face electrified me. It was all I needed. It

flashed through my mind I had never intended to obey Petelli’s orders anyway, and that

scornful, screaming voice and the black, furious eyes clinched it.

I heard the referee call “… seven … eight …”

I got lip somehow, beating his down-sweeping arm by a split second, and as the Kid rushed

in, I grabbed his arms and hun on like grim death. I knew by the desperate way he struggled

to get free he realized I was going to double-cross Petelli, and he was going to lose the fight

unless he could nail me before I had shaken off the effects of his punch.

I hung on in spite of all he did, and in spite of the referee trying to tear us apart. I only

needed four or five seconds to get my head clear, and when I did decide it was safe to break, I

stabbed my left into the Kid’s cut-up face before he could get set to throw a finishing punch.

Panting and wild he came at me, but I weaved away, back-pedalled, and left him

floundering. He was as wild as a rogue elephant now, and kept rushing at me while I dodged

and retreated until I was good and ready to take him. Then as he came in for the fourth time I

stopped in my tracks and brought over the right book. It smashed against his jaw and down he

went in a flurry of blood, rolled over and stiffened out.

It was a waste of time to count him out, but the referee went through the motions. When he

reached ten, the Kid was still lying on his back as motionless as a corpse. White and scared

looking, the referee moved over to me and lifted my glove as if it was loaded with dynamite.

“Farrar’s the winner!”

I looked at her. She was standing up, flushed and excited, and she blew me a kiss. Then the

ring became crammed with pressmen and photographers, and I lost sight of her.

Petelli appeared out of the crowd. He was smiling, but his eyes were hot and intent.

“Okay, Farrar,” he said. “Well, you know what to expect.”

He moved away to speak to the Kid’s manager, and Waller, his face grey and his eyes

rolling, came over to me and dropped my dressing-gown across my shoulders.

As I climbed out of the ring I caught sight of Pepi, a tight little grin on his face, waiting at

the top of the ramp.

VII

I felt safe enough so long as the dressing-room was crowded with pressmen and fans who

had come to shake hands with me and to tell me what a fine fighter I was, but when they

began to drift away I knew trouble was creeping up on me.

Waller had returned to the dressing-room with me. He was scared all right, and as soon as

he had finished rubbing me down, he began to cast nervous and longing glances at the door.

Tom Roche had been in, but I got rid of him quickly. I didn’t want him mixed up in any

trouble.

There were now only a couple of pressmen and three fans left, and they were arguing in a

corner about who had the heaviest punch among the old heavyweights, and they weren’t

paying any attention to me.

“Okay, Henry,” I said, as I fixed my tie. “Don’t wait. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“There ain’t anything I can do for you,” Waller said. “You’d better get out fast. Don’t let

them catch you alone.” He wiped his shiny face with the back of his hand. “You shouldn’t

have done it.”

“Shouldn’t have done - what?”

A creepy sensation ran up my spine as I turned. There she was in her apple-green linen suit,

her big black eyes looking into mine, a cigarette between her white-gloved fingers. “What

shouldn’t you have done, Johnny?”

Waller edged away and slid out of the room, leaving me staring at her like a paralysed deaf

mute. The little group in the corner stopped talking and eyed her hungrily.

One of the pressmen said, “Let’s go, boys: this is the one time a fighter really likes to lose

his friends.”

They all laughed as if he had cracked the best joke in the world, but they went. The little

room seemed suddenly vast and empty as the last of them drifted through the doorway.

“Hello,” I said, and reached for my coat. “Did you win any money?”

She smiled. Her teeth were small and even and sharply white against her scarlet lips.

“A thousand, but you gave me a heart attack when you went down. I had to lay out four and

I thought I was going to lose it.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t concentrating. There was a girl at the ringside who took

my mind right off my business.”

“Oh!” She looked at me from under her eyelashes. “How did she do that?”

“She happened to be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“You should tell her that. Girls like being told things like that.”

“I am telling her.”

“I see.” She continued to smile, but her eyes hardened. “That’s very flattering, but I don’t

believe it. It looked like a dive to me.”

My face reddened.

“What do you know about dives?”

“All the signs were on the wall. The funny little men whispering in your ear, the way you

left yourself open. I go to all the fights. It happens every now and then. What made you

change your mind?” -

“The girl,” I said, “and the thought of all the little mugs who were betting on me.”

“This girl seems to have had quite an influence on you,” she said, studying me, then she

went on, “I think you’re handsome, Johnny.”

I leaned against the wall, aware I was wasting precious time. I shouldn’t be talking to this

girl. I should be getting out of here before the crowd left. That was my only chance of giving

Pepi and Benno the slip. But not even Petelli himself could have got me out of this room at

this moment.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Why did you come up here?”

Her face was serious now, but there was still that look in her eyes that kept sending tingles

up my spine.

“Never mind who I am. Call me Della if you must call me something,” she said. “I’m here

because you’re in trouble, and I guess it’s partly my fault. You are in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing you can do anything about.”

“How bad is the trouble?”

“Two Wops are laying for me. If they catch up with me, it’s probably curtains.”

“You double-crossed Petelli?”

That startled me.

“You know him?”

“That little thug! I know of him, but I wouldn’t know him if he were the last man on earth.

We’re wasting time. I’ll get you out of here.” She went to the window and looked out. “You

can reach the car-park by climbing down that pipe.”

I joined her at the window. There weren’t many cars left in the park by now.

“There’s my car: the first one on the right in the second row. If you can reach it without

being seen, you’ll be safe.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, looking at the low-slung Bentley coupe she was pointing at. “I

can’t drag you into this. These Wops are dangerous.”

“Don’t be a fool. They won’t know a thing about it.”

“Let’s be sensible about this …”

“Oh, don’t argue! I’m going down to the car now. Lock the door after me. As soon as you

see me down there, come on after me. I’ll drive over to you. Get in the front seat and leave

the rest tome.”

Glancing at the Bentley again, I spotted the expensive-looking item in the seersucker suit.

He was standing by the car, looking to right and left.

“Your friend won’t like this,” I said. “He’s waiting for you now.”

She laughed, a hard, humourless little sound that made me stare at her.

“He’s not a friend: he’s my husband,” she said, and moved quickly to the door. “I won’t be

five minutes. Don’t let anyone in.” She was gone before I could stop her.

I crossed the room and shot the bolt. Now I was alone the room seemed horribly empty. I

returned to the window. Her husband was pacing up and down beside the car. As I watched

him he took out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. By the way he threw the match on the

ground I could see he was exasperated.

A faint sound behind me made me turn quickly, my eyes going to the door. I saw the door

handle begin to turn. Someone the other side of the door pushed gently against the panels.

The bolt held, and the handle slowly reversed.

Well, they were out there now. I guessed they thought it was safe to call on me now the

stadium was nearly cleared. Over the loud-speaker system dance music was blaring: loud

enough to drown the sound of a shot.

I tiptoed across the room and examined the bolt. It wasn’t too strong. I heard someone

whispering outside. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the sound made the hair on the nape of

my neck bristle.

I caught hold of the rubbing-table and pulled it across to the door and wedged one end

under the handle. I was thinking fast now: a little scared, but not in a panic. They knew the

lay-out of the stadium a lot better than I did. They’d know the climb down from my window

wasn’t difficult, and as soon as they found they couldn’t break in they’d guess it would be by

the window I’d try to escape, and Pepi would be there to pick me off.

It wouldn’t take him three or four minutes to get down the concrete steps, around to the

side door and out to the parking-lot. He was probably on his way now. I had to get going at

once.

As I swung my legs over the window-sill someone drove his shoulder against the door. The

table held the door solid. I didn’t look back, but climbed out of the window on to the ledge.

In my hurry to get to the drain-pipe I took a false step and my foot shot off into space. I

managed to dig my fingers into the chinks of the uneven concrete wall, and hold myself

steady. It was a pretty nasty moment. If I hadn’t had strong fingers I would have fallen.

Somehow I managed to regain my balance. I slowly drew up my foot and found the ledge

again. With my heart hammering I kept on, reached the drain-pipe and began to climb down.

Ten feet from the ground I let go and dropped.

I heard a car start up. I heard, too, the sound of running feet. For a moment I was tempted

to bolt towards the car, but decided it would be safer to remain in the shadow of the wall

rather than go out into the brightly lit car-park.

The Bentley swung towards me. She hadn’t turned on the car lights. Beyond, and away to

the left, I spotted Pepi. He was about a hundred yards from me, standing still, looking

towards the window of the dressing-room as if waiting for me to appear, and I realized he

didn’t know I was already down. Then I heard a loud crash and knew the door of the

dressing-room had been forced open.

The Bentley slowed down as it reached me, and the door swung open.

“Get in - quick!” Della cried, keeping the car on the move.

I scrambled in beside her and she shot the car forward. I managed to get the door shut as

the car raced down the broad drive-in.

As she leaned forward to snap on the lights, she said, “Did they spot you?”

“I’m not sure.”

I swung around in my seat to look through the rear window. The dark, curly haired man

who she said was her husband was sitting at the back. It was too dark to see his face. I

couldn’t see any following car’s headlights.

“Doesn’t look like it,” I said. “Anyway, they’re not coming after us.”

“You must be crazy to get us mixed up in this, Della!” the man at the back exploded. “Stop

the car and let this fella out!”

She laughed.

“Oh, shut up, Paul. They were going to shoot him. I couldn’t let them do that after he’d

won me a grand.”

“You little fool! You’re always getting into trouble.” Again she laughed. “I’m loving every

minute of this,”

He gave a grunt of disgust and slumped down in his seat.

“Well, let’s get out of here. As soon as we’re away from the stadium, stop and let him out.”

“Don’t take any notice of him,” she said to me. “We’re going to Lincoln Beach. Want to

come?”

“Yes,” I said.

We were approaching the main gates of the stadium now, and it suddenly occurred to me

that Petelli might have got word down there to stop us. I told Della.

“Squat on the floor. You may be right.”

There were a number of cars ahead of us now, moving slowly through the big gates, and

she had to slow to a crawl.

“There’re two guards looking into each car as it passes,” she whispered to me. “I’m going

to stop and let the other cars get on ahead.”

“There’s a car behind us and coming fast,” Paul said, a rasp in his voice.

“You’d better let me out,” I said, but she put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me

lower.

“Be quiet!”

She swung around to look through the rear window. From where I crouched I had a good

view of one long, shapely leg and a small foot in a white buckskin shoe. I could also see the

glare of headlights coming through the rear window showing how close the other car was. A

horn blared as she slowed down.

“Better not stop,” Paul said. “Keep in the centre of the road so they can’t pass, but keep

moving.”

The car continued to crawl forward.

“It’s clearing ahead,” she told me. “We’re coming up to the gates.”

I looked up. The car was moving a little faster now. Through the window I caught a

glimpse of a man in a peak cap looking right at me.

“Hey! You! Just a minute …” he said excitedly, and wrenched open the door.

I grabbed the inside handle, slammed the door shut as Della trod down on the accelerator.

The Bentley surged forward as the guard yelled again. I was sitting up now. Ahead of us was

a car, blocking the way out. She swung the wheel and we bumped up on to the grass verge,

missing the other car’s fenders by inches, then we shot out on to the highway.

“Now …” she said, and increased speed.

“They’re right on our tail,” Paul cried furiously. “Goddamn it! I told you not to fool with

this!”

Her reply was to push the accelerator to the boards. The needle of the speedometer began to

flicker up to ninety. It hesitated, then crept up to ninety-two … three and hovered at ninety-four.

The glare of the following headlights receded.

“Losing them now,” she cried, her eyes fixed on the pool of light that rushed before us from

the Bentley’s headlamps. “They can’t catch us now.”

“Watch the road or you’ll have us over!” Paul shouted, and sat forward to look over her

shoulder through the windshield. “The road curves ahead. You’ll have to slow down before

long.”

“Don’t pester me!” she snapped. “I know this road as well as you do!”

I looked behind. The pursuing car wasn’t all that far in the rear: not more than two hundred

yards, and as Della was forced to reduce speed as the road began to curve around the

palmetto thickets that lay on either side, the big Cadillac began to creep up on us.

Della held the car in the middle of the road. The speedometer showed seventy-six now: too

fast on a road like this.

“Watch out! Car ahead!” I exclaimed as I spotted the distant glare of approaching

headlights.

Della dipped her lights and her foot eased off the accelerator.

The approaching car was coming like a bat out of hell. It flashed into view. I heard a high,

squealing sound of tyres biting into tarmac behind us, and looking round saw the Cadillac

was stopping. I felt the Bentley swerve to the right. I swung round. The car coming towards

us sat right in the middle of the road, and its huge blinding lights hit us as it roared down on

us.

Della pulled more to the right. The offside wheels banged and jumped along the grass

verge. I saw her struggling frantically with the wheel, trying to keep the car straight. The

driver of the approaching car just didn’t seem to see us. I heard Paul yell. The car was on us

now. It side-swiped us as it went past. Della screamed. There came a crunching, ripping

noise. The car that had hit us slewed across the road, then crashed into the thickets. I grabbed

hold of the dashboard as I felt the Bentley lift. The windshield suddenly turned into a spider’s

web of cracks and lines. There was a grinding noise of splintering wood, then a hell of a jolt,

and a scorching white light burst before my eyes. Above the grinding, tearing sounds, I heard

Della scream again, then the white light snuffed out and darkness came down on me.

PART TWO

FOG PATCH

THE smell of iodoform and ether told me I was in hospital. I made an effort and

rolled back eyelids that weighed a ton. A tall, thin guy in a white coat was standing over me.

Behind him could see a fat nurse. There was a bored, harassed expression on her face.

“How do you feel?” the thin guy asked, leaning over me. “Do you feel better?”

He seemed so anxious I hadn’t the heart to tell him I felt like hell. I screwed up a grin and

closed my eyes.

Lights flickered behind my eyelids. I felt myself swimming off into misty darkness. I let

myself go. Why bother? I thought, you can only die once.

The darkness crept down on me. Time stood still. I slipped off the edge of the world into

mists, fog and silence.

It seemed to me I was down in the darkness for a very lone time, but after a while lights

began to flicker again and I became aware of the bed in which I was lying and the tightness of

the sheets. A little later I became aware of the screens. There were tail white screens around

the bed, and they worried me. I seemed to remember they only put screens around a bed when

the patient was going to croak.

I also became aware that a thick-set man was sitting beside me. His hat rested on the back

of his head, and he chewed a tooth pick, a bored, tired expression on his fleshy, unshaven

face. He had copper written all over him.

After a while he noticed my eyes were open, and he shifted forward to peer at me.

“I wouldn’t win a dime with a double-headed coin,” he said in disgust. “Talk about luck!

So you have to come to the surface just when I’m signing off.”

A nurse appeared from behind the screen. She also peered at me: not the fat nurse. This one

was blonde and pretty.

“Hello,” I said, and my voice sounded miles away.

“You mustn’t talk,” she said severely. “Just lie still and try to sleep.”

“Sleep — hell!” the copper said. “He’s gotta talk. Keep out of this, nurse. He wants to talk,

don’t you, pal?”

“Hello, copper,” I said, and closed my eyes. When I opened them again the thin guy in

white was standing over me.

“How am I doing, doc?” I asked.

“You’re doing fine,” he told me. “You’re a miracle.”

I blinked him into focus. He was young and eager and interested. I liked him.

“Where am I?” I asked, and tried to lift my head, but it was too heavy.

“You’ve had an accident. Just take it easy. You’re coming along fine.”

The copper appeared from behind him.

“Can I talk to him?” he asked, an exasperated note in his voice. “Just one or two questions.

That can’t hurt him.”

“Make it short,” the doctor said. “He has a bad concussion.”

He stood aside and the copper took his place. He had a notebook in his hand and an inch of

blunt pencil in his thick fingers.

“What’s your name, pal?” he asked. “Don’t bear down on it. We just want to get things

straightened out.”

“John Farrar,” I told him.

“Address?”

“I haven’t one.”

“You gotta sleep somewhere, haven’t you?”

“I was hitch-hiking.”

He blew out his fat cheeks and looked up at the ceiling as if he were praying.

“Well, okay, you were hitch-hiking. Got a father or a mother or a wife or someone?”

“No.”

He turned and looked at the doctor.

“Now do you believe I never have any luck? Of all the guys who get snarled up in a car

smash I have to pick me an orphan.”

“You’d better cut this short,” the doctor said, his fingers on my pulse. “He’s not fit to talk

yet.”

“Wait a minute; wait a minute,” the copper said, licking his pencil. “I’ve got to get this

straightened out.” He turned to me again. “Okay, pal. So there’s no one to claim you. Well,

how about the dame you was with? Who was she?”

A picture of her floated into my mind with her jet-black hair, her hungry look and the shape

she had on her.

“I don’t know. ‘Call me Della if you must call me something That’s what she said.’ She

didn’t tell me her other name.”

The copper groaned.

“How is she?” I went on. “Is she badly hurt?”

“She’s all right,” the doctor said. “Don’t worry about her.”

“And her husband?” I asked.

“What husband?” the copper said, staring at me.

“The guy who was sitting at the back of the car. She said his name was Paul. Is he all

right?”

“You don’t have to worry about him, either,” the doctor said

The copper passed his hand over his face and shook his head. He seemed to be the one who

was worrying.

“How did it happen? Maybe you can tell me that,” he said but there was no hope in his

voice.

I couldn’t be bothered to explain about Petelli. That would have taken too long. I wanted to

close my eyes and forget about the car smash.

“Another car was coming towards us,” I said. “He was coming fast. He didn’t seem to see

us. She tried to get out of his way, but he caught us. What happened to him?”

The copper drew in a deep breath.

“I’ll say it this time,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. “You don’t have to worry about him.

Now look, pal, let’s get all this down the mat and work at it. If you were hitch-hiking how

come you were driving this Buick?”

It was my turn to stare at him now.

“It was a Bentley, and she was driving. I was sitting at her side, and her husband, Paul, was

at the back.”

“Well, smother my old father in a feather bed!” the copper exclaimed. He took off his hat

and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he put his hat on again and pulled

aggressively at the brim. “You were driving! She was at the back! And there was no goddamn

husband.” He leaned forward and wagged his finger at me as he bawled, “And the

sonofabitch of car was a Buick!”

I got excited.

“You’ve got it wrong!” I said, clutching hold of the sheet. I tell you she was driving. The

car was a black Bentley coupe. This other car hit us. Ask the driver. He’ll tell you.”

The copper waved his notebook in my face.

“There was no other car! What’s the matter with you? What have you got to lie about?”

“That’s enough,” the doctor said, his voice sharp. “He’s nor in a fit state to be shouted at.

You must leave him alone, sergeant.”

“I’m not lying!” I said, and tried to sit up. That finished me. A light exploded inside my

head, and I took a nosedive into darkness.

It was daylight when I opened my eyes again. The screen at the foot of the bed had been

removed, but the screens on either side were still there. I could see another bed facing me.

From the sounds going on around me I guessed I was in a ward.

I looked to see if the copper was there, but he wasn’t. I lay still, aware I was feeling a lot

better, that my head didn’t ache, although it was still sore, and when I moved my arms I could

do so without effort.

After a while I got around to thinking about what that copper had said. It began to worry

me. No other car, no husband, it was a Buick and not a Bentley, and I was driving. What did

he mean ?

Maybe I had dreamed the copper. Maybe he was part of the mists and the fog and the

darkness. He must be unless he was confusing me with someone else.

Then the doctor came around from behind the screen. He grinned cheerfully at me.

“You don’t have to tell me you’re better,” he said. “I can see that for myself.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How long have I been here?”

He glanced at my papers at the foot of the bed.

“You were admitted at eleven-thirty on the night of September 6th. Today is September

12th. So you’ve been here six days.”

“September?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean July, don’t you? It can’t be September. We hit that car on July 29th: the night I

fought the Miami Kid.”

“I don’t know about that. You were admitted on September 6th.”

“That can’t be right. I couldn’t have remained unconscious for snore than a month before I

was found.”

The doctor smiled.

“Of course you couldn’t. As a matter of fact you were found almost at once. A speed-cop

heard the crash, although he didn’t see it happen. He arrived on the scene five minutes after

the smash. You were brought here an hour later.”

I licked my lips. My mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“You wouldn’t be fooling about the date, doc?”

He shook his head.

“No. I wouldn’t be fooling about the date.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, you

mustn’t worry about this. It’ll work out all right. At the moment you’re showing typical signs

of concussion. You’ve had a severe head injury. You’re lucky to be alive. For some time you

must expect to be confused. Dates, details of who was in the car and who wasn’t, even your

past may not make sense, but they will sort themselves out in a little while. At the moment

you are convinced the car crash happened on July 29th. You’ll find it impossible to believe it

happened on September 6th, but don’t let that worry you. In a week or so your memory will

function normally again. And another thing, don’t let the police rattle you. I’ve explained the

position to them, and they understand. They want you to help them if you can, bur they know

now that if you make mistakes you’re not doing it intentionally. All you have to do is to take

it easy and rest all you can. It’s just a matter of time.”

He was a nice guy, and he was doing his best for me, and I was grateful, but that didn’t stop

me worrying. I knew I had fought the Kid on July 29th, and the crash had happened on the

same night. Nothing he could say would alter that fact.

“I don’t want to argue about it, doc,” I said, “but do me a favour, will you?”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“Della - the girl I was with. She’s here, too, isn’t she? Ask her. She’ll tell you it was July

29th. Ask her husband. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

The cheerful, bedside manner slipped a little.

“Now, here is a case in point,” he said. “This business about a husband. You must expect it,

you know. Only she and you were found in the car. There was no husband.”

My heart began to pound.

“Well, all right, there was no husband,” I said, trying to control the shake in my voice.

“Then ask her. She’ll tell you. You’re not going to say she wasn’t there, are you? Go and ask

her!”

He ran his hand over his sleek, dark hair. The smile had gone for good.

“A couple of days ago you weren’t well enough to be told,” he said gently. “I can tell you

now. She broke her back. She was dead when they found you.”

In the afternoon Police Lieutenant Bill Riskin came to see me. If the nurse hadn’t told me

he was a police lieutenant I wouldn’t have believed it. He was a little guy, around fifty, with a

sad, wrinkled face and bright little eyes that peered at me through a pair of horn spectacles.

He carried his hat in his hand, and he walked on tiptoe, and when he spoke, his voice was soft

and gentle. By this time I was as jumpy as a nervous horse. I was ready to go into a flat spin

at the drop of a hat. Maybe that’s why they picked Riskin. If they had unleashed that fat

sergeant on me again I’d have flipped my lid.

He pulled up a chair beside me and crossed his short legs. I saw he was wearing boots and

white socks, and his ankles were as thin as match-sticks.

“Well, boy, how’s the head?” he asked.

I said the head was fine. I was clutching on to the sheet, and sweating, suspicious of him,

suspicious of everyone. At the back of my mind I was beginning to wonder if they weren’t

going to tell me I was crazy.

“Doc said you were upset,” he went on. “You’ve got nothing to be upset about. You’re not

the first fella who had a crack on his head and has got confused. You want to take it easy, and

let us boys do the worrying. All we want to do is to get this straightened out. The girl died. If

someone hit you, they didn’t stop, and that makes it a hit-and-run job. It’s our business to find

the fella and teach him not to do it again. We’ll find him more quickly if you can help us.

You want us to find him, don’t you?”

That sounded reasonable enough, but he wasn’t kidding me. I’d seen that guy’s car turn

over and smash into a tree before I had blacked out. If they had found me five minutes after

the crash, as the doctor had said, they would have found him, too.

I said I wanted them to find him,

Riskin nodded and peered at me.

“Is it right you were hitch-hiking?”

“Yeah.”

“And the girl let you drive the car?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t understand why they were so anxious for me to admit

driving the car, unless they wanted to pin Della’s death on me. I began to get the jumps again.

He repeated his question in his mild voice, and even gave me an encouraging smile.

“I was not driving!” I exclaimed, raising my voice. “She was driving. I was sitting at her

side, and her husband was sitting at the back! How many more times do I have to tell you

guys?”

I expected him to start yelling at me, but he didn’t. He just nodded his head and looked a

little sadder.

“I’m sorry, boy. You want to take it easy. You don’t want to get worked up. I guess there’s

been a misunderstanding about who was driving.”

“There damn well has!” I said. “That sergeant of yours …”

“Never mind about the sergeant. He’s been taught to bawl people out. It’s the system. I

never could cotton on to it myself,” and he grinned at me.

I was still a little suspicious of him, but in spite of that, I was beginning to like him.

“Where did she pick you up, boy?” he went on. “You were walking along some road and

she overtook you and you showed her your thumb. Is that what happened?”

“No; you’ve got it all wrong. Look, will you let me tell you what did happen: right from the

start?”

“That’s just what I want you to do,” he said, and took out a notebook. “Mind if I make a

few notes? I’m not as young as I could be, and my memory ain’t what it was,” and he winked

to show me he was kidding.

I gave him the whole works. I told him about Pittsburgh, how I wanted to get into the big

money, how I’d hitch-hiked to Pelotta, how I had busted MacCready’s jaw and double-crossed Petelli. I went on to tell him how Della had offered to help me, how Pepi and Benno

had chased us, and how the other car had crashed into us.

It took time, and I had scarcely a whisper left in me by the time I was through, but I was so

glad to get it all off my chest that I didn’t care how I felt.

Riskin never said a word all the time I talked. He made notes, scratched his ear from time

to time, but he didn’t interrupt.

“That’s a very comprehensive story,” he said when he was sure I hadn’t anything more to

tell him. “Now you take it easy, boy. You’ve nothing to worry about. Maybe you’d better

take a nap. You look tired: like me. I’m always tired, but the Chief never gives me any time

for naps.” He stood up. “Well, so long. I’ll be in again in a day or two. If there’s anything else

you remember, just let me know.”

“There isn’t anything else to remember,” I said. “You’ve got the lot.”

“That’s fine. Well, you take a nap. So long for now.”

I watched him tiptoe out of the ward. Up to now I hadn’t had any use for a cop, but that

little guy was different. I decided he was the nicest cop of them all.

Two days went by. I was making progress. The doctor was pretty pleased with me.

“You keep on like this,” he told me, “and we’ll have you up in a couple of days. You have

a constitution of an elephant, and a head like granite.”

I grinned at him, but I wasn’t all that easy. I was wondering what Riskin was up to, and if

he were going to show up.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the town,” I said. “I’ve heard enough about Lincoln Beach,

but I’ve never had a chance of looking it over.”

He looked surprised.

“This isn’t Lincoln Beach. What gave you that idea? This is Miami.”

“Miami?” I stared at him. “But they have a hospital at Lincoln Beach, haven’t they?”

“Of course. It’s a wonderful hospital.” He smiled. “Almost as good as this one.”

“Then why didn’t they take me there? What was the idea of driving me over two hundred

miles to Miami ?”

“It wasn’t two hundred miles,” he said patiently. “It was more like seventy. As you were

nearer to Miami than Lincoln Beach, they brought you here.”

I began to get excited again.

“But I hadn’t even reached Lincoln Beach before the crash,” I said. “We were only a few

miles outside Pelotta, on our way to Lincoln Beach, when that car hit us!”

“Don’t bother your brains about it,” he said, getting his bedside smile hitched to his face.

“It’ll straighten out in a few days.”

And when he left me, I lay there, feeling cold, wondering if the bang on the head had

affected my brain, wondering if I were going crazy. I began to long for Riskin to come and

see me. Every time anyone came into the ward, I raised my head and looked eagerly to see if

it were him. I got so my heart pounded every time that door opened.

The next morning they moved me out of the ward.

“What’s the idea?” I asked the nurses as they pushed the bed along a corridor. “Where are

you taking me?”

“Doctor thought you’d like to have a room to yourself,” the fat nurse said. “He wants you

to rest more than you’re doing.”

That wasn’t the reason, I told myself. Maybe they thought I was nuts and wouldn’t be safe

with the others. I began to get excited.

“I don’t want to be alone!” I said. “Take me back! I’m fine as I am. I don’t want a room to

myself!”

The doctor appeared from nowhere.

“There’s nothing to get excited about,” he said. “You’ll like this room. It’s got a wonderful

view.”

I thought if I made too much commotion they’d put me in a strait-jacket: that’s the kind of

state I had worked myself into.

It was a nice room, and the view was swell, but I hated it. I had a feeling I had been put in

there for a purpose, and I wanted to know what that purpose was.

In the evening, around six, when I was lying there alone, looking out of the window at the

ocean and the pleasure boats and people surf-riding, the door pushed open and Riskin came

in.

“Hello, boy,” he said, easing the door shut, “how are you coming?”

“Why have they put me in here?” I said, trying to sit up. “What’s the idea?”

He tiptoed across the room to the bed.

“Hey, hey, what’s biting you? Don’t you know a room like this costs dough?”

“Then what’s the idea?”

He reached for a chair and sat down.

“I don’t think that doc likes his other patients to see me coming in here,” he said. “Maybe

it’s that. He’s a nice guy, that doc. Maybe it occurred to him it might be embarrassing for you

to have policemen asking questions with everyone in the ward trying to listen in. That might

be an idea, too.”

I looked at him for a long moment, then I drew in a deep breath, and ran my fingers over

my face, feeling it was damp and hot.

“That angle didn’t strike me. Know what? I was beginning to think I was going nuts, and

that’s why they had taken me out of the ward.”

He produced a packet of cigarettes.

“Like a smoke, boy?” he said. “You don’t want to get those ideas into your head.” He

struck a match and lit the cigarette for me. Then he lit one for himself. “I bet if the nurse

catches us she’ll raise blue murder,” he went on. “Still, that’s what nurses are for, aren’t

they?”

I grinned at him. I was feeling much, much better.

“I wish you had come before. I was getting worried.”

“I’ve been busy.” He examined the end of his cigarette, then his pale, sharp eyes looked

right into mine. “I’ve got a little shock for you. Think you can take it?”

I drew on the cigarette, aware my heart was beginning to pound.

“I guess so. What is it?”

“That car wasn’t a Bentley; it was a Buick convertible: a black job, with red-leather

upholstery, disc wheels and built-in head and fog lamps. You were found in the driving seat.

She was found wedged down in the back seat. They had to cut the front seats away to get her

out. There was no third person found. There was no other car, either. I’ve been over the

ground myself. I’ve seen all the photographs. I’ve seen the Buick. I’ve talked to the cop who

found you.”

I lay still and stared at him. I wanted to tell him he was lying, but the words wouldn’t come.

I felt the blood leave my face. The cigarette slipped out of my fingers and dropped on to the

floor.

He bent and picked it up.

“Take it easy, boy,” he said. “I warned you it’d be a shock. There’s nothing to worry about.

You don’t have to look so scared.”

“You’re lying!” I said in a voice I didn’t know was my own.

“Here, take your cigarette,” he said. “Relax. Let’s go over this thing together and see if we

can make some sense of it.”

I wouldn’t take the cigarette. I was feeling sick. I had a sudden urge to jump out of bed and

run before they could put me in a padded cell. I didn’t believe he was lying: and yet I had to

believe it.

“You told “me this car hit you on the night of July 29th,” he went on mildly. “The smash

you were in took place on the night of September 6th. I’ve seen the cop’s notebook. The

hospital records say the same thing. Well, now, what do you make of that ?”

“I don’t make anything of it. All I know is we hit that car after my fight with the Miami

Kid, and that was on July 29th. I’m telling you the truth!”

“You think you are. I’m sure of that, but it didn’t happen that way. I told you I’ve been

busy. I have. I think I’ve got the key to this business. I’ve talked it over with the doc. He

thinks I’m on the right track. Maybe it’s going to be difficult for you to accept the

explanation, but let me put it to you. The doc says it may take weeks for you to get your

memory back. You’ve had a brain injury, and until things settle down you are likely to get all

kinds of odd ideas into your head. You mustn’t worry about them. The doc says so, and he

knows what he’s talking about. Now will you try to accept what I’m going to tell you? Get

your mind in a receptive mood if you can. It’ll make things easier for us both. Think you

can?”

I licked my dry lips.

“Go ahead and tell me.”

“There was a car smash on the night of July 29th, a few miles outside Pelotta. Two cars

going in opposite directions and travelling at high speed nudged each other and both turned

over. One of them was a black Bentley which caught fire. The driver of this car was a guy

named Johnny Farrar, a boxer. He was killed.”

That really got me going. I struggled up.

“Are you crazy?” I shouted. “I’m Farrar! I’m Johnny Farrar! What are you trying to do?

Send me nuts or something?”

He parted my arm.

“Take it easy, boy. You and me have got to work this out together. Give me a chance, will

you? You’ll see where I’m heading if you’ll let me tell you without getting excited.”

I dropped back on the pillow. I was sweating and scared and shaking.

“The accident was fully reported in the local papers,” he went on. “They gave every detail.

You can see the report in a moment. It’s obvious to me you must have read about that smash

in the paper. It made an impression on your mind. Five weeks later you get into a smash

yourself. You get concussion. You have a brain injury. Unconsciously you have identified

yourself with Farrar. When you recovered consciousness you are sure you are Farrar. You’re

sure it was you who had the smash on July 29th. Do you get the idea? It’ll take a few weeks

for you to get over this delusion, but you will. The doc says so, and he ought to know. All

you’ve got to do is to take it easy and rest. It’ll come back the way it happened if you don’t

worry about it. But what you’ve got to get out of your mind is you’re Farrar. You aren’t. You

weren’t in that smash with the other car on July 29th. You’re not a boxer, and you never

fought the Miami Kid. Get that through your head and you’re three-quarters home.”

“Do you think for one moment I believe a yam like that?” I said through clenched teeth. “I

know I’m Farrar! I did fight the Kid! I’ve got friends who can prove it! There is a guy in

Pelotta who knows me. Bring him here and let him identify me. His name is Tom Roche. He

owns a cafe.”

“That’s right,” Riskin said. “I’ve talked to him. His name was in the paper. He and his wife,

Alice, and a guy named Solly Brant, identified the body. Because you read about them,

you’re imagining they are your friends.”

I clutched hold of his arm.

“Identified what body?”

“Farrar’s body. Here, take a look at this. You’ll find it all there, just as I told you.”

He took a newspaper out of his pocket and gave it to me. It was all there, just as he had told

me, but there was one thing he had missed out. It said in the paper that I had stolen the

Bentley, and the owner hadn’t come forward to claim it.

I threw the paper on the floor. I felt I was suffocating.

“I’ve tried to trace the Bentley,” he went on, “but the licence plates are phoney. I have

traced the Buick.”

“You have! Who does it belong to?” I asked in a strangled , voice.

“To you, boy. Your name is John Ricca, and your address is 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin

Boulevard, Lincoln Beach.”

“You’re lying!”

“I wish you’d take it easy,” he said. “I told you it’d take a little time for you to accept what

I’m telling you. You’ve been identified.”

It only needed that.

“Who identified me?”

“Your cousin. That’s why you’re in this private room. As soon as he found out who you

were, he arranged for you to have the very best treatment.”

“I haven’t a cousin, and my name’s not Ricca!” I cried, pounding the sheet with my fist. “I

don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“He’s your cousin all right. He took a look at you last night when you were asleep. He

identified you right away. The car’s registration clinches it.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” I was shouting at him. “I haven’t a cousin, I tell you! Do you

hear me! I’m Farrar!”

He scratched his ear while he looked at me. There was that exasperated but kindly

expression on his face people get when they are talking to lunatics.

“Well, look, boy, try to take it easy. Maybe you’d better see him. Maybe you’ll know him

when you see him.”

My heart skipped a beat, then began to race.

“Him? Who do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“Your cousin, Ricca. He’s waiting outside.”

III

He came into the room as silently as a ghost: a short, fat man with a pot belly and short,

thick legs. His face was round and fat, and small, purple veins made an unsightly network

over his skin. He had snake’s eyes, flat and glittering and as lifeless as glass. He was going

bald, and had taken pains to spread his thinning black hair over the bald patches without

much success. His thick, red lips were set in a meaningless, perpetual smile.

One thing I was certain of: I’d never seen him before in my life.

Everything about him shrieked of money: his clothes, his linen, his personal jewellery were

the best money could buy. He had a diamond ring on his little finger: the stone was as big as a

pigeon’s egg.

He came silently across the room: his feet making no sound on the parquet floor. In his

right hand he carried a large bunch of blood-red carnations, carefully wrapped in tissue paper.

He came to the foot of the bed and stood looking at me. Riskin stepped aside; a benign

expression on his wrinkled face.

“Hello, Johnny,” the fat man said. He had a soft, fruity voice as if it came from a throat

well cushioned with fat.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. It was as if I had been pitchforked into a horrible

nightmare.

“He looks fine, doesn’t he?” the fat man went on, smiling at Riskin. “Jeepers, Johnny, you

gave me a scare. I’ve been looking all over for you. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know you,” I said, and my voice was husky. “Get out of here!”

“Take it easy, boy,” Riskin said mildly. “Give him a chance to talk to you. You want to get

well, don’t you? We’ve got to get this mind of yours working again.”

“I tell you I don’t know him!”

The fat man put the carnations down on the bedside table.

“You’ve taken a pretty bad knock, Johnny,” he said. “The doc thinks I can help you. I want

to help you. You know that.”

I was scared of him. In spite of his smile there was something about his eyes that warned

me he was as dangerous as a rattlesnake.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He puffed breath at me, and his diamond flashed in the sunlight coming through the open

window.

“Come on, Johnny, let’s try to get on top of this thing,” he said. “There’s Ginny to think of.

You haven’t forgotten Ginny? You can imagine how she is feeling. She wants to see you,

Johnny.”

Was there no end to this? I found myself clutching hold of the sheet again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t want you in here. Get out!”

“You don’t remember Ginny - the girl you’re going to marry ?” He looked over at Riskin,

raising his fat shoulders. “I can’t believe that. Would you like to see her? Is that what you’d

like?”

I just lay there, staring at him while a cold wind blew through my mind.

“You two get together,” Riskin said. “I gotta go. Take it easy, boy. It’s going to work out

all right, only you’ve got to be receptive.”

I wanted to tell him to stay. I wanted to tell him to take this fat horror out of here, but no

words came. He went off, scratching his ear and shaking his head.

There was a long pause after he had gone. The fat man puffed gently, his smile remained

fixed, and his snake’s eyes watched me.

“You get out, too,” I said.

Instead, he reached for a chair and sat down.

“Know what they call that guy on the Force ?” he asked. “They call him Foxy Riskin. He’s

made a hit with you, hasn’t he, with his ‘boy’ this and his ‘boy’ that? You think he’s trying to

help you, don’t you? Well, he isn’t. All he wants to do is to get your confidence, and when

he’s got that, when he’s softened you up and got your guard down, he’s going to slap a

murder rap on you, and he’s going to make it stick.”

I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. I turned hot, then cold.

“If it wasn’t for me,” the fat man went on, resting his pudgy hands on his fat knees and

staring at me, “you’d be in jail now. All he wants is the motive, and I could tell him that, but

I’ve kept my mouth shut because you and I are going to make a deal.”

“I won’t listen to you,” I said. “Get out of here!”

“They don’t know who she is. I could tell them, and once they know, you’re sunk,” the fat

man went on. “It doesn’t suit me for them to find out, but if it has to come out, I’ll handle it

as I handle most things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not my cousin! I’ve never seen you before

in my life!”

His smile widened.

“Of course I’m not your cousin, but do you want me to tell Riskin that? Do you want three

murder raps pinned on you? Isn’t one enough?”

I got hold of myself. I had to, or I’d have blown my top.

“You’re mixing me up with someone else,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m

John Farrar. I’m not Ricca, and I’m not your cousin. Now will you please get out!”

“I know you’re Farrar. You’re the guy who killed Wertharn and Reisner. Sure, I know you,

and you killed her, too. If it hadn’t been for the gun they might have thought it was an accident, but they found the gun. It had her prints on it.”

“You know I’m Farrar?” I said, leaning forward to stare at him. “Then all this talk about me

being Ricca is a lie?”

“He thinks you’re Ricca,” the fat man said, “and so long as he thinks so I can swing it.

Once he finds out you’re Farrar, you’re done for.”

I put my head in my hands. I felt I was going crazy.

“Suppose we skip the comedy,” the fat man went on, and his smile oozed off his face like a

fish sliding off a fishmonger’s slab. “You play with me and I’ll play with you. I’ll show you

how to out-fox Riskin. With me behind you, you can beat this rap.” He thrust his head

forward: he looked like a tortoise sitting there, his hands on his knees, his head forward, his

eyes hooded. “Where’ve you hidden the money?”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t look at him. I went on holding my head in my hands. But I

was getting my second wind. I was getting the hang of this set-up.

“Now, look,” he said, “you’re in a corner, and there’s no way out for you unless you play

along with me, I can fix it. I’ll get Hame to handle it. He’ll talk to Riskin. Tell me where the

money is, and there’ll be no blowback. You can walk out of here as free as the air. What do

you say?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and was surprised how steady my voice

was now.

He studied me.

“Use your head, Farrar. You can’t expect to get away with all that money, I tell you what

I’ll do. I’ll stake you. I’ll give you five grand, and I’ll fix Riskin. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“If you think Riskin can pin anything on me, go ahead and let him do it. You’re mixing me

up with someone else. I don’t know anything about any money.”

“Don’t get excited,” he said, his fat fingers knees drumming on my knees. “You don’t trust

me, do you? But ask yourself: why should I bother about you? You can walk out of here and

do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. I don’t. Give

me the dough and I’ll see you right. Now come on. Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “And if I did know I wouldn’t tell you. Now get out!”

His fat face turned into a mask of snarling fury. He looked like a demon.

“You fool!” he exclaimed, and his voice shook. “Do you think I’m taken in by this loss of

memory stunt of yours? Where have you hidden it? If you don’t tell me you’ll wish you’d

never been born. Where is it?”

“Get out!”

He got control of himself. The meaningless smile came back as he stood up.

“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it,” he said. “Suit yourself. I’ll talk to Riskin. In a

couple of hours from now you’ll be in jail. Maybe you think you can talk yourself out of one

murder rap, but I’m damned sure you won’t talk yourself out of three.”

He walked silently to the door.

“Want to change your mind?” he asked, pausing to look back at me.

“Get out!” I said.

He went out quietly the way he had come in: like a ghost without a house to haunt.

Before I could even start to think what all this meant a nurse came in.

“Did you enjoy your visitor?” she asked, smiling at me. “Imagine him being your cousin.

You’re not a bit alike.”

“Cousins don’t have to be,” I said, surprised I could say anything.

“I guess that’s right. Did he leave these?” She picked up the carnations. “Aren’t they

wonderful!”

“You have them. I don’t care about flowers. I’ll be glad if you’ll take them away.”

“Well, if you really mean that. Why, thanks. I think they’re wonderful.” She picked them

up and sniffed at them. “Your cousin must have a lot of money. That diamond he was

wearing and his car!”

“Yeah, he doesn’t starve.”

“I’m beginning to suspect you’re someone very important.”

“Who me? I’m nobody. What gave you that idea?”

“Well, those two policemen outside. They told me they were guarding you, I guess you

must be important.”

I kept a dead pan expression, but it was an effort.

“My cousin imagines someone’s going to kidnap me. He’s nuts, but there it is. I didn’t

know about the cops. How long have they been here?”

“Oh, they’ve just arrived.”

I was beginning to get the shakes again.

“Tell me, nurse, what happened to my clothes ?”

“They’re in that closet; over there. Did you want something?”

“No, it’s okay. I just wondered. The doc said something about me leaving at the end of the

week. I just wondered what had happened to them.”

“Well, they’re right in that closet. Is there anything I can get you?”

“I guess not, thanks. I think I’ll take a nap. Those two guys made me feel tired.”

“Thanks for the flowers. They really are something.”

“You’re welcome.”

I watched her leave the room, then as soon as I was sure she had gone, I sat up.

I had to get out of here. I had to go somewhere away from Riskin and Ricca and work this

thing out for myself. The way I figured it there could be only two explanations: this was

either a case of mistaken identity or one of them or even both of them were trying to frame

me.

It was now twenty minutes past six. The nurse brought me supper at seven-fifteen sharp.

That gave me fifty minutes to dress and get out of the hospital before I was missed.

I lowered my feet to the floor and stood up. I felt weak in the legs and wobbly, but not

anything like so wobbly as I thought I was going to feel. I went over to the closet and opened

the door. I was expecting to find the white tropical suit Brant had given me, but instead there

was a dark-blue flannel suit on a hanger, a white silk shirt, a pair of black leather shoes, and a

wide-brimmed hat on a shelf.

I stared at the clothes, knowing they weren’t mine. But that wasn’t going to stop me. If my

clothes weren’t to hand I’d take someone else’s.

I pulled on the pair of blue and white check socks I found stuck in the shoes. I put the shoes

on: they fitted me as if they were made for me. The shirt was a fit, too, and so was the suit.

It took me over ten minutes to get dressed, and I was feeling pretty bad by the time I was

through. I had to sit on the bed until my heart stopped racing. I was panting like a worn-out

horse.

I nearly forgot the hat, but that was important. I had to have something to hide the bandages

around my head. I got it on. It was right, and it made my head ache, but I had to wear it.

Then I crept over to the door, eased it open and glanced into the passage.

At the far end standing at the head of the stairs, were two cops; their backs to me. They

stood with their hands behind them, and every now and then they flexed their knees the way

cops do on the movies.

I looked to my right, but the corridor ended in big double windows. My only way out was

down the stairs, and I wouldn’t get far with those cops waiting there to stop me.

I closed the door and sneaked over to the window. Apart from being on the sixth floor, the

ground below was packed with patients sun bathing. If I tried going out that way I’d be

spotted in seconds.

While I was trying to figure a way out, I heard voices in the corridor. Creeping over to the

door I opened it a crack and peered out, ready to make a dive for the bed.

There was a nurse and a guy in a white coat out there. They were manoeuvring a wheeled

trolley into the room opposite mine.

I waited, my eyes on the clock on the overmantel. It was now ten minutes to seven. Time

was running out. I had only twenty minutes before the nurse arrived with my supper. If I were

going to get out I’d have to do something fast.

I was still at the door, trying to make up my mind what to do when the nurse and the

attendant reappeared.

“I’ll take her down after I’ve seen the doc,” he said. “I’ve forgotten the mortician’s

certificate.”

“One of these days you’ll forget your head, not that it would be a great loss,” the nurse said

tartly, and turned away.

The attendant made a pass at her, but she anticipated it and whisked her rear out of reach.

“And if you don’t keep your paws …”

“I know. I know,” the attendant said wearily. “You’ll tell the matron. Why don’t you relax

sometime?”

The nurse walked off down the corridor, and the attendant followed her. The two cops

obligingly stood aside to let them go down the stairs.

I stood hesitating, then I eased open the door. The cops were leaning over the banisters;

probably watching the nurse out of sight. Their backs were to me.

The attendant had given me the clue, and I sneaked across the corridor, turned the handle of

the door opposite eased it open and stepped inside. I was ready to jump out of my skin, and

very nearly did when I saw a body under a sheet on the trolley.

I took hold of the corner of the sheet and lifted it. I was shaking now from head to foot. The

dead woman looked as if she were asleep. What I was about to do horrified me, but I knew if

I didn’t go through with it I wasn’t going to get away. I looked frantically around the room

for a place to hide her, but there was nowhere. Close by was another door. I opened it an inch

and peered into a luxuriously fitted bathroom.

I ran back to the trolley and wheeled it into the bathroom. Then I stripped off the sheet and

keeping my eyes averted I lifted the body and staggered with it to the bath. It was as much as

I could do to lower it into the bath, but I did it somehow. Then I pulled the shower curtains

and shoved the trolley back into the bedroom.

By that time I was all in. I flopped down on the bed. I thought I was going to pass out. I

was shaking like a leaf, and there was an awful swirling going on inside my head. I fought

against it. It went away after a moment or so. I got a grip on myself. I didn’t dare waste a

moment. I got on the trolley and covered myself with the sheet. Then I took off my hat and

lay down, pulling the sheet over my head.

I lay there, waiting. My head was beginning to ache now, and every now and then a shiver

ran through me. I began to think I would be spotted before they even got me out of the room.

I was in two minds whether to get up and hide in the bathroom when I heard the door open.

I turned to stone, holding my breath, trying to control the hammering of my heart. The

trolley began to move. The guy pushing it was whistling under his breath. He sounded as if he

hadn’t a care in the world.

That short ride down the corridor was the worst experience I’ve ever been through. Even

lying in a fox-hole with the scream of falling bombs in my ears was nothing to this.

“What have you got there, chum?” a voice asked.

I felt my blood congeal. I knew by the voice it could only be one of the cops.”

“This is just up your street,” the attendant said. “It’s a corpse.”

“Aw, hell. Don’t you cure ‘em in this hospital?”

“Not often. I guess the head doc draws a commission from the undertaker. He certainly

keeps him busy.”

“What is this? A man or woman?”

“A woman. She died of peritonitis. I guess the doc left his glove in her or something. I’ve

never known a guy as absent-minded as he is.”

The cop laughed and the trolley began to move again. It bumped over a step, and then I

heard the faint swish of closing doors. A moment later I felt a downward movement and

guessed we were in an elevator.

The attendant continued to whistle under his breath. The elevator bumped to a gentle

standstill, the doors swished open and the trolley began to move again.

“Hi, Joe,” a girl’s voice said.

“Hi, sugar, how’s it coming?”

The trolley stopped.

“Who’s that?”

“Mrs. Ennismore. Room 44,” the attendant said. “You’re looking cute this evening.”

“That’s opposite Ricca’s room, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. There’re two cops up there, keeping an eye on him.”

“There are ? I bet the matron had a fit, didn’t she ?”

“Riskin handled her. That guy’s smart. I wouldn’t want him after me. He’s got Ricca

fooled. Ricca imagines he’s getting away with this loss of memory stuff, but he isn’t. I heard

Foxy tell Doc Summers he’ll be good and ready to slap a murder charge on him tomorrow.

I’d like to see his face when they march in and pinch him.”

“Who did he murder?”

“Some dame. He must have been nuts. He nearly killed himself as well. Listen, sugar, how

about going for a ride with me in the elevator? It might break down between floors if we’re

lucky.”

“If you’re lucky, you mean.”

“Lemme get rid of this stiff and let’s try it.” The trolley began to move again. “You wait

right here, sugar. This is going to be something to put in your diary.”

The foot of the trolley bumped against swing-doors. The attendant gave it a hard push and

sent it forward to cannon against a wall.

I heard him say, “The guy who invented elevators was a public benefactor. Hop in, and I’ll

show you for why.”

Then there was silence. I lay there for a moment or so until I heard the elevator doors swish

to, then I pulled off the sheet and sat up.

The room was windowless, and in darkness, but the light from the passage, coming through

the crack in the swing-doors, was enough for me to get a vague idea of the set-up. There were

a number of trolleys covered with sheets standing against the walls. An overpowering smell

of formaldehyde filled the air, and it was cold.

I slid off the trolley, again nearly forgetting my hat. I put it on. As my eyes became used to

the semi-darkness, I spotted a door across the far end of the room. Faint daylight came from

under it.

I went over to it, turned the handle and opened it a couple of inches. I looked into a narrow

alley. Two big white motor ambulances were parked out there. The light was beginning to

fade now, but it was still too light to be safe.

I opened the door and looked up the alley. Iron gates stood open at the far end. Beyond

them I could see a main street. There was no one guarding the gates.

I started off down the alley towards the street. I had no idea where I was going or what I

was going to do. I hadn’t any money. There was nothing in my pockets, not even a handkerchief. But I didn’t care. At least I was getting away from Riskin, the hospital and Ricca. That

would do to get on with.

A big yellow moon threw amber light over the sea. There was a car parked on the sand, its

lights out. The man and the girl, on either side of the car, began to undress. I was near enough

to hear their voices, but not what they were saying.

This part of the beach was lonely and deserted but for these two and the car. I had lain

hidden in the mangroves for the past three hours, then suddenly the car had arrived. It came

just when I was giving up hope.

I watched the two of them run down to the sea and splash in. As soon as they were

swimming I moved out of my hiding-place and headed for the car. I found his coat. My

fingers closed around a wallet in his inside pocket. I hauled it out, and went around to the

back of the car where they couldn’t see me if they looked this way. The wallet was stuffed

with money. I could scarcely believe my luck. I took a hundred and fifty dollars in small bills.

That still left him enough to buy her a slap-up supper. I slid the wallet into the pocket and

tossed the coat into the car, then I ran back to the darkness of the mangroves.

During the three hours I had remained hidden I had made a plan. Riskin would expect me

to clear out of Miami as fast as I could. I had told him I had a talent for hitch-hiking. He’d

probably cover every truck and car going out of town, and watch every road. I had decided

my safest bet was to remain in Miami, and hole up somewhere. I had to find myself a quiet

hotel, spin them a yarn I was waiting for my baggage, and hope they’d give me a room.

There should be dozens of suitable hotels if I could only find them. I’d have to be careful.

My description was bound to be out now, and every patrolman would be looking for me:

Ricca would probably be looking for me too.

I started off towards the bright lights of the waterfront. I moved slowly. I was tired. I had

walked miles since I had left the hospital. My head ached too. While I had been hiding I had

taken off the bandages. They had shaved my head, but from the feel of it the wound was

healed.

At least my hat fitted me now, and didn’t bother me.

Ahead I could see the waterfront and the harbour, the shops and cafe and saloons.

As I walked along the congested sidewalk I kept my eyes open for a patrolman, but I

needn’t have bothered. No patrolman could have spotted me in that teeming crowd.

A few minutes’ walking brought me to an hotel. It seemed the kind of place I was looking

for. It was dingy and quiet, and looking through the double swing-doors I saw the lounge was

deserted.

I pushed open the doors and walked in.

Ahead of me was the reception desk. A little guy in a black alpaca coat was propping

himself up against the desk. He was bald and wrinkled, and his deep-set eyes were bored. “I’d

like a room,” I said.

“Ten bucks deposit,” he said briefly, “For how long?”

“A couple of days, if I like it, maybe a week.” He scratched the top of his head with one

finger. “Don’t see your baggage.”

“It’s at the station.”

“We like baggage, mister. We could collect it for you.”

I fished out two tens and dropped them on the desk.

“I’ll get it in the morning. Let’s have a room.”

He reached for a key from the rack behind him, shoved the register at me and a pen.

I wrote John Crosby on the line he indicated with a dirty finger. My slight hesitation didn’t

fool him.

“Any relation to Bing?” he asked with a small sneer.

“Why, yes,” I said. “I’m his sister. Where do I find the room?”

He gave me a cold, hostile look, stuck his thumb into a bell-push and turned his back on

me.

After a while a middle-aged bell-hop materialized and took the key. He was a rat-faced guy

with close-set eyes and a thin, hard mouth. His blue uniform and pill-box hat shone like a

nickel plate.

“Second floor,” he said. “No baggage?”

“No baggage,” I said.

I tramped up the stairs after him. Eventually we came to a door which he unlocked and

pushed open. He reached inside and turned on the light.

“The bathroom’s at the end of the corridor. Don’t use the shower. It don’t work.”

I went past him into a box of a room with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a strip of

worn carpet.

“Just like Buckingham Palace,” I said.

“A little more roomy, if anything.”

He put the key on the chest of drawers and looked me over expectantly. I gave him a dollar.

He nearly dropped in his tracks.

“Anything you want mister?” he said eagerly. “How about a little company? I have a list of

telephone numbers as long as my arm.”

“Dust,” I said.

“If you change your mind, call the desk and ask for me. My name’s Maddux.”

“Beat it!”

When he had gone I sat on the bed and took off my hat. I was so tired I could scarcely keep

my eyes open. The bed felt as if it had been stuffed with golf-balls, but that didn’t worry me.

I could have slept right then on a bed of nails.

I sat there, yarning and turning the hat around in my hand, my mind empty. As far back as I

could remember I had kept a ten-dollar bill behind the sweat-band of any hat I happened to

own. I’d stick it there and forget about it. Then when I was broke I had something to fall back

on. I wondered idly if the owner of this hat had the same idea. I turned down the sweat-band

and looked inside.

My fingers hooked out a thin ribbon of paper, and as I unfolded it I realized I wasn’t

surprised to find it there. It was almost as if I had known it would be there before I looked for

it.

I smoothed it out. It was a left-luggage receipt, and written in pencil across the top were the

words:

John Farrar,

Seaboard Air-Line Railway

Greater Miami.

Under the heading, Description of Articles, was written One suitcase.

I was fully awake now, the longing for sleep washed right out of my mind. Then this hat,

and obviously the clothes, did belong to me! I looked for the date on the receipt. There it was;

September 6th! The time the suitcase was handed in was also there: 6.5 p.m.

For some minutes I sat staring down at the threadbare carpet, I felt like a sceptic in a

haunted house who suddenly sees a horrifying apparition. There could be no doubt now. I

must have lost my memory for forty-five days, and during that time, if I was to believe Ricca,

I had murdered two men and a woman.

Ricca might be lying. If I were to remain sane I’d have to find out what had happened

during those forty-five days. It started with the smash, five miles outside Pelotta. I would go

to the scene of the accident and with any luck I might be able to trace my movements from

there. I had been thrown out of the Bentley and had injured my head. From that moment until

I had recovered consciousness in the hospital I had been going around with a blacked-out

mind.

I flicked the receipt with my fingernail. Maybe this suitcase contained the key to those

missing forty-five days. According to the receipt the suitcase belonged to me, and I must have

checked it in. I had no idea where the Seaboard Air-Line Railway was, but I had to get the

suitcase tonight. I wouldn’t sleep or rest until I had if.

I reached for the telephone.

“Send Maddux up here,” I said to the reception clerk. “I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell

him to hurry.”

As he began to grumble, I hung up.

A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of

stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.

“Changed your mind?” he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. “What do you

fancy …?”

I held out my hand.

“Cigarettes?”

He gave me a packet.

“There’s a little blonde …”

“Forget it,” I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between

my fingers.

“How would you like to earn these?”

His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.

“Try me,” he said.

I handed him the left-luggage receipt.

“Get that case and bring it back here.”

“What - now?”

“If you want to make twenty bucks.”

He looked at the receipt.

“I thought your name was Crosby,” he said, and gave me a quick, suspicious look.

I didn’t say anything. I folded the two bills and slid them into my pocket.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said hurriedly. “That wasn’t me talking.”

“Get that case and make it snappy.”

He went off as if fired from a gun.

While I waited I went over my meagre stock of information.

On the night of September 6th I had been driving a Buick convertible, registered in the

name of John Ricca, along a road seventy-five miles from Miami. With me was a girl:

whether it had been Della or not I couldn’t say, Ricca knew who she was, but Riskin didn’t.

There had been a smash. Apparently I had lost control of the car, for there was no other car

involved. The girl had been killed, and I had been found unconscious five minutes later by a

speed-cop. There was some talk about a gun. It had her fingerprints on it, and for some reason

or other Riskin seemed to think the smash had been deliberate, making it murder.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I had to find out who the girl was and why she

had a gun. I had to find out why I had lost control of the car.

Riskin had said I had an apartment on Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach. I remembered

Della had said she and her husband were going to Lincoln Beach, and did I want to go with

them. It seemed in those forty-five missing days I had not only lived in Lincoln Beach, but I

had even set up a home there.

To judge by the suit I was wearing, and the fact I had owned a Buick, I must have got hold

of a lot of money. How had I done that in so short a time?

I switched my mind to the fat man, Ricca. He had given me a lot of obscure information.

According to him I was engaged to a girl called Ginny. Where had I met her and where was

she now?

I recalled what he had said. You’re the guy who killed Wertham and Reisner. Who were

they? Where have you hidden the money? he had asked. What money? You can walk out of

here and do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. Who

was she? Why did she care?

I stretched out on the bed and smoked, staring up at the ceiling. There seemed no end to the

questions, but how was I to find the answers? I realized I wasn’t going to get far unless I had

money to help me. At the moment I had only a little over a hundred dollars. I couldn’t hope to

make a thorough investigation without a substantial sum of money. I was suddenly up against

a blank wall. Without money I was sunk. There could be no investigation. All I could do was

to sneak out of Miami as soon as my hundred dollars ran out and get somewhere where I

could lose myself.

I was still battering my brains out, trying to find a solution, when I heard Maddux coming

pounding down the passage. I just had time to slap on my hat to cover my shaven head when

he came in and dumped a big black pigskin suitcase on the bed.

“There you are, mister,” he said. “Jeepers! That weighs a ton.”

I was looking at the suitcase. As far as I knew I had never seen it before. There was a tie-on

label hanging from the handle. It had my name on it, and it was written in my handwriting.

I tried the locks, but they didn’t budge. They were good, strong locks, and they’d need a lot

of breaking open.

“That’s a nice-looking case,” Maddux said, watching me closely.

“Yeah, but I’ve lost the key. Got a screw-driver handy?”

I saw his look of suspicion, but I ignored it.

“You don’t want to bust the locks,” he said. “I’ve got a hicky that’ll open it.”

“Get it,” I said.

He went off as if he were jet-propelled.

I stood looking at the suitcase, fighting down a feeling of fear and excitement. Would this

case contain the key to the missing forty-five days? Had I bought it or had I stolen it?

Maddux returned in six minutes. They seemed like six hours to me.

He bent over the case, screwed a bit of metal into the lock, twisted it and the lock flew up.

He did the same to the other lock, then stood back.

“Easy, once you know how,” he said.

I gave him the twenty I’d promised him.

“See you tomorrow,” I said, anxious to get rid of him.

He looked longingly at the case, backed to the door, then hesitated.

“Well, if that’s all, I guess I’ll get downstairs.”

“That’s all.”

The moment he closed the door I shot the bolt. Then I turned to the bed. I took hold of the

lid of the case and threw it open.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but certainly not what I did see. The case was

crammed with money: thousands and thousands of dollars; more money than I had ever seen

in my life.

For a long moment of time I stood staring. Then very carefully and with shaking hands I

lifted the fat, neat packages on to the bed until the case was empty. There was nothing else in

the case - just the money. A quarter of a million in hundred-dollar bills!

I understood then why Ricca had been so anxious to find the money. A quarter of a million!

How did it get into the case? Where had it come from?

I suddenly felt horribly faint, and I put my hand on the bed-rail to steady myself. My knees

sagged, and I flopped down on the floor. But not for one moment did I take my eyes off that

money.

A quarter of a million dollars!

A motive for murder! Had I really murdered two men and a woman for this? Was that what

I had done?

If I hadn’t been suspected of murder I wouldn’t have touched that money. I would have

taken the suitcase to Riskin and let him handle it, but what had I to lose? If I did hand over

the suitcase to Riskin I might be handing him the motive he was hunting for to pin the murder

rap on me. If I were caught with it, it wouldn’t make much difference, if any. I was wanted

for murder, nothing else mattered.

I wanted money to make an investigation. Well, I had a quarter of a million dollars and I

was going to use it.

Once I had made up my mind to use it, everything became simple. I bought Maddux, and I

bought the bald-headed reception clerk. Maddux cost me a hundred bucks. The clerk became

co-operative for a mere fifty. Both of them found out who I was when they read the morning

papers. The papers gave my name and an accurate description of me.

“This man is wanted for questioning concerning the murder of an unknown woman,” said

the account. “Anyone recognizing him from the description given above should communicate

immediately with Lieutenant Bill Riskin of the Homicide Bureau.”

But they didn’t offer a reward, so the clerk and Maddux weren’t interested. They were only

interested in my welfare and my dollars.

I remained in the hotel bedroom for two weeks: time for my hair to grow over the scar and

for me to raise a moustache. A moustache and a pair of horn spectacles changed my

appearance considerably. Only a trained observer like Riskin could have spotted me. I was

sure I had nothing to fear from the man in the street who might have read the police

description.

I told Maddux I wanted a car and a gun. He got me a secondhand black Plymouth: just the

car for the job I had on hand. He produced also a .38 automatic and a .22 in case I wanted

something smaller, and a box of slugs to go with both guns. He made a big profit out of the

purchases, but I didn’t care. I had all the money in the world, and I was buying secrecy.

After sixteen days in the bedroom, I decided the heat had cooled off enough for me to

leave. I drove away from the hotel on a moonless night a little after ten o’clock. On the bench

seat beside me was the .38. I had the .22 in my hip pocket. I was ready for trouble. If anyone

shot at me, I was going to shoot at them. I was in that kind of mood.

I drove along Bay Shore Drive, up the long, crowded Biscayne Boulevard towards the State

Highway. I drove carefully, stopping at every red light, taking care no speed-cop could find

an excuse to bawl me out. I saw a number of prowl cars and a number of speed-cops, but

none of them took any notice of me.

After a six-hour drive I spotted the bright lights of Lincoln Beach. The town was laid out in

a semicircle, facing the sea and sheltered by rising ground. It seemed to be a blaze of lights

even at three o’clock in the morning. I had no intention of driving through the town. My first

call was to be the scene of the accident where the Bentley had crashed. I’d be coming back to

Lincoln Beach later on.

I remembered where the car had hit us. There was a hill and palmetto thickets on either

side. Fifty miles past Lincoln Beach I reduced speed. Somewhere here, I told myself. There

was a hill ahead of me, and I could see the shadowy outlines of the palmetto thickets. I

slowed to a crawl. By now it was close on five o’clock, and the sun was coming up

reluctantly above the skyline. In another ten minutes it would be daylight.

I switched off the headlights and cruised to a standstill, drawing to the side of the road. I lit

a cigarette, aware of the feeling of rising excitement, but I waited. I wanted plenty of light to

do what I had come to do.

After a while I decided it was light enough, and I drove on. A mile farther up the road I

came to the place. I knew it was the place by the uprooted tree, the torn grass and the skid

marks that even sixty days hadn’t yet blotted out.

I kept on driving until I was a quarter of a mile past the scene of the smash, then I ran the

car off the road and into the shrubbery. I wasn’t taking any risks. A parked car at the actual

place of the smash might arouse the curiosity of any passing cop.

I walked back, my gun shoved down the waistband of my trousers, my eyes and ears alert

for trouble. I saw no one and heard nothing.

After examining the ground for half an hour, I gave up. Apart from the skid marks, the

churned»up grass and the uprooted tree, I found nothing. I knew the police had been here. If

there had been anything to find they would have found it. I didn’t expect to find anything. I

hoped if I returned to the scene of the smash something there might jog my memory to life,

but it didn’t.

During those sixteen days at the hotel I had groped into the past, trying to push aside the

blanket of fog that hid the happenings of those forty-five days. Every now and then I felt I

was getting somewhere. I remembered a few things, but they were so disjointed they didn’t

make sense.

An enormous fat woman with blonde hair floated into my mind, and then before I could

concentrate on her she turned into a sleek, ferocious lion that came rushing towards me with a

coughing, snarling roar. That mind picture brought me out of an uneasy doze, sweating and

scared. Had I been dreaming or had this fat woman and the lion actually played a part in those

missing days?

Then later I had a very clear mind picture of myself on the verandah of a beach cabin. I was

sitting in an armchair listening to the radio. I could hear the music distinctly, and although I

never listened to classical music, I somehow knew this was a symphony concert, and it was

by Beethoven. There was a blonde girl in a yellow swimsuit in the room. She kept coming

on to the verandah, wanting me to turn off the radio, but I wouldn’t let her. She said if the

music stopped she would take off her swimsuit. Wouldn’t I like that better than the music,

and I said no. She got angry and slapped my face. This picture appeared again and again in

my mind, but it didn’t mean anything to me.

I sat down on the uprooted tree and lit a cigarette. I tried to concentrate while I absorbed the

atmosphere of the thicket-I remembered the other car coming at us like a bat out of hell. I

remembered Della’s scream and the smash. I remembered grabbing hold of the dashboard as

the Bentley began to turn over. I closed my eyes. There had been a blinding white light, and

then darkness.

After a while I remembered a small wooden cabin, facing the sea. I could see it clearly in

my mind. It had a tin roof, and the front window was cracked. There was a split panel in the

front door.

This was new. This had happened after the smash II was sure of that. Excited by this

discovery, I jumped to my feet and looked around. There was a path through the palmettos,

leading to the beach. I set off, walking quickly, aware that the path seemed vaguely familiar. I

was pretty sure I had been this way before.

I came out of the thicket on to the sand dunes. The sea was in front of me. I stood looking

to right and left. There was no sign of any cabin. I was turning to walk to the right when I

changed my mind and walked instead to the left. I was like a blind man in a familiar room.

All I had to do was to obey my instincts, and I knew I should arrive at the cabin.

I walked for ten minutes along the beach before I saw it. It was exactly as I had pictured it

in my mind, with its tin roof and cracked window-pane.

There was an elderly man in the doorway, smoking. He had on a pair of dirty dungarees and

he was looking in my direction. There was a stiff alertness about him that told me I had

startled him.

“Morning,” I said as I drew near. “A lonely spot you’ve got here.”

He stared at me, his lined, weather-beaten face uneasy.

“Where did you spring from, mister?”

“I’ve been driving all night. I wanted to stretch my legs. Could I buy a cup of coffee off

you?”

“You can have a cup of coffee. I’ve just made some. I’ll bring it to you.” I sat down on a

wooden box and waited, I had an idea I had seen him before. He came out with two pint mugs

of steaming coffee. He kept staring at me while I drank.

“It’s a funny thing,” he said slowly, “but I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“You’ve seen my brother,” I said, deciding this might be the best way to get the information

out of him. “He had a car smash not far from here on July 29th. Remember?”

He hurriedly shifted his eyes.

“I don’t know anything about a car smash.”

I knew at once he was lying.

“My brother was hurt,” I said, watching him. “He lost his memory. We don’t know what

happened. I’m trying to find out.”

“I tell you I don’t know anything about it,” he said curtly. “If you’ve finished your coffee, I

gotta get on.”

I took out a roll of bills; peeled off a hundred in twenties and spread them out on my knee.

“I don’t want to waste your time. I pay for information,” I said.

“She said I wasn’t to talk about it,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “but as you’re his brother .

. .”

I gave him the money. My heart was beginning to pound, and my hand was unsteady.

“What happened?”

“She and your brother came here. She said he had been hit on the head and the car stolen,

but I found out later she was lying. There had been a smash and the car caught fire. They

found a body in it.”

“That’s right. What was this woman like?”

“Dark and pretty, but as hard as nails. She wore a green dress. From the look of her she had

plenty of money.”

Della!

“Go on,” I said.

“Your brother made out he was pretty bad, but he wasn’t. He was trying to fool me. She

wanted me to call some fella, and she gave me a phone number. The phone’s about half a mile

down the road. I called this guy. He said he’d come over. When I got back to the cabin I

looked through the window. Your brother was talking to the girl, but when I went in he made

out he was still unconscious.”

I didn’t know what to make of all this.

“Do you remember the phone number?”

“Lincoln Beach 4444. It’s an easy one to remember.”

“Who was this fella you called?”

“Nick Reisner. That’s what she said his name was.”

I felt spider’s legs run up my spine.

“What exactly did she say?”

He thought for a long moment, scratching his head, his eyebrows drawn down in a frown.

“She said Ricca had met with an accident, and this Reisner fella was to come and pick them

up.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah,”

“Did you see him?”

He shook his head.

“No. I was asleep when he arrived.”

I went on asking him questions, but there was nothing else of importance he could tell me.

But I hadn’t wasted my time. I bad established that after the car crash Della and I had gone to

the cabin. That meant her husband, Paul, and not me, as Riskin had thought, had been left in

the burning car. Who Reisner was was something I had to find out. At least I had his telephone

number. Why had Della called me Ricca? Had she been the girl who had died in the second car

smash or was it someone else?

Before I could make sense of any of this, I had to get a bit more information. I thanked the

old man for his help, and went back to where I had parked the car.

Around eight o’clock I drove into Lincoln Beach. At that hour in the morning the streets

were almost deserted. I could tell at a glance this town was a millionaire’s playground. The

shops, buildings, the flowers growing along the sidewalks and the neat-ness all pointed to

money. I found an hotel in one of the side streets.

Two bell-hops and the head porter who looked like an Admiral of the Fleet helped me out

of the car and carried the black pigskin case and two other cases into the reception lobby.

They gave me a room big enough to garage three four-ton trucks, and a bathroom that was so

luxurious I was scared to use it.

I lay on the bed and slept for three hours. After that all-night run I was dead beat. Around

eleven-thirty I took the black pigskin suitcase down to the car. I wasn’t going to be parted

from that for a moment. I locked it in the boot, then drove to Roosevelt Boulevard, the main

shopping centre.

There were a lot of cars drifting up and down the broad street and quite a crowd of people

on the sidewalks. Most of them were in beach dress; some of the girls were practically naked,

but no one paid them any attention. I parked behind a big Packard and went into a drug store.

There was one thing I had to find out. I shut myself in a phone booth and dialled Lincoln

Beach 4444.I listened to the burr-burr-burr of the ringing tone, and my heart skipped a beat

when a girl’s voice said, “Good morning. This is the Lincoln Beach Casino at your service.”

“Connect me with Nick Reisner,” I said, and my voice croaked.

“What was that again, please?”

“I said connect me with Nick Reisner.”

“Mr. Reisner is no longer with us. Who is that calling?”

I ran a dry tongue over dryer lips.

“I’m a friend of his. I’ve just hit town. Where can I find him?”

“I’m sorry.” She sounded embarrassed. “Mr. Reisner died.”

“He did?” I tried to make my voice surprised. “I didn’t know. When was that?”

“July 30th.”

The day after he had come to the cabin and had taken Della and me away. I was getting the

shakes again.

“What happened to him?”

“Will you hold it a moment, please?”

“Hey! Don’t go off the line …”

There was a long pause. Sweat began to run down my face. Then there was a click, and a

voice asked, “Who is calling?” A voice that came from a fat throat: Ricca’s voice, I didn’t say

anything. I held the receiver against my ear, listening to his heavy breathing, aware of a cold

chill creeping up my spine.

“Who is that?” he repeated. “Is it you, Johnny?”

I still said nothing. I wanted to put down the receiver, but that heavy breathing and that fat,

oily voice hypnotized me.

Then suddenly another voice chipped in: a harsh, shouting voice.

“This is Police Captain Hame talking. Trace this call, miss!”

I hung up then and walked rapidly out of the store to my car. I had learned little, and I had

risked much. It had been a bad move to have let them know I was in town.

I sat in the car, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my fingers on the gun butt, and waited. I

didn’t have to wait long. Their organization was pretty efficient. I was expecting cops, but it

wasn’t a police car I saw shooting along the boulevard. It was a big, black Cadillac. It pulled

up outside the drug store, within fifty feet of me.

Two short, square-shouldered men got out, crossed the sidewalk and entered the drug store.

The last two men I expected to see again on this earth: Pepi and Benno.

VII

I lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand. Where had these two sprung from ? The obvious

explanation was they had teamed up with Ricca. I remembered then that Waller, the Negro,

had said they would keep after me until they had cornered me. I had completely forgotten

them, but apparently they hadn’t forgotten me.

I remained in the car, waiting. After a minute or so they came out of the drug store and

paused on the sidewalk to look to right and left. Then they got into the Cadillac and drove

away.

It seemed I was now up against stiff opposition. I had been ready to tackle Ricca on his

own, but I wasn’t too sure of my chances when it came to a combination of Ricca, Pepi and

Benno. Those two lengthened the odds against me.

But no matter what happened to me, they were not going to get their hooks into that money.

Now they knew I was in town I would be crazy to carry all that money around with me. I had

to find a safe place to stash it.

I drove back to my hotel. The head porter sprang forward to open the car door.

“I’m not getting out,” I said. “Is there a safe deposit around here?”

“First on your left, sir,” he told me. “You can’t miss it. The best there is.” He was right

about not missing it. It was about twenty storeys high and occupied half the block. There

were five uniformed guards on the sidewalk, armed to the teeth* and tough enough to scare

any Chi hood out of his skin.

I pulled up and got out of the car.

One of the guards came over. The others watched me.

“I want to leave a suitcase,” I said. “What do I do?”

“You have it with you, sir?”

I unlocked the boot and hauled out the case. He made to take it, but I waved him back.

“I’m not as weak as I look. Just tell me where to go.”

“If you’ll follow me, sir.”

He took me into a vast reception lobby, surrounded by a wall of steel bars as thick as my

wrist. On a low balcony surrounding the lobby, guards patrolled, automatic rifles cradled in

their arms. There’d be no smash-and-grab raid in this place.

He led me to a pale young man who could have been a foreign prince, but obviously

wasn’t, as he stood up and bowed.

“Mr. Evesham will look after you, sir,” the guard said, and went away.

“I want to deposit this suitcase,” I said. “Can you fix it?”

Mr. Evesham, with another bow, said he would be happy to be of service.

“Do you wish to rent one of our strong rooms?”

I said I did.

“Will you come with me?”

We took the elevator to the fifth floor, walked along a corridor to a steel-mesh gate. A

guard opened it and saluted.

“Let me have the key to room 46,” Evesham said. He sounded like a prince when he was

giving orders.

The guard produced a key, and a door was unlocked and opened. We entered a small room,

steel lined, about the size of a prison cell, and furnished with two easy chairs, a table and a

fitted grey carpet. Facing us was a wall safe, “Good enough to sleep in,” I said.

“Some of our clients like to consult their papers without taking them away,” Evesham

explained. “We try to make them as comfortable as possible.” He turned to the safe. “The

letters of the combination make up the word ‘economic’. Will you remember that?”

I said I would remember it.

“Perhaps you would care to open the safe yourself? All you have to do …”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’ve handled a job like this before.”

I spun the knob, pausing at each letter. When I had spelt out the complete word, there was a

click and the door swung open.

“When you shut the door, the combination is automatically scrambled,” Evesham went on.

“And the safe is self locking.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“The key to-this vault is kept with the guard. Our clients are not allowed to take keys off

the premises. Have you any special instructions for us? Do you wish anyone to come here, or

only yourself?”

“No one is to touch the safe unless I’m with them,” I said. “Will your guard know me?”

He allowed himself a princely smile.

“When you opened the safe your photograph was automatically taken. It will be lodged in

the guard-house and checked when you apply for the key.”

“You certainly have thought this thing out.”

“Perhaps you will come downstairs now and complete the formalities, sir?”

“I’d like to get the hang of the safe and check through the contents of my bag before I

leave,” I said. “Would it be all right if I joined you in a few minutes?”

“Certainly. You know where to find me. The guard will direct you to the elevator.”

When he had gone I opened the suitcase and took from it ten one-hundred-dollar bills. That

amount would hold me for a few days. As I tucked the roll into my hip pocket I felt the bun

of the .22. I had the .38 in my coat pocket, and I didn’t figure I’d need two guns, so I dropped

the 22 into the suitcase. Then I put the case into the safe and shut the door.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way to 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin Boulevard.

I hummed under my breath as I drove. For the first time since the suitcase had come into

my possession I was relaxed and at ease. The money was safe. Neither Ricca nor Benno nor

Pepi could possibly get their hands on it.

A mile or so along Franklin Boulevard I spotted the house: a big place set in its own

grounds: a little run to seed, unpretentious and far from gaudy. I kept straight on.

At the next intersection I saw a filling-station. I swung the car into the circular drive-in and

pulled up.

An attendant came over.

“Okay for me to leave this heap for a while?”

“As long as you like.”

I walked back along the boulevard and paused at the double gates of 3945. There was a

short drive leading directly to the house. No one appeared to be watching at the windows or

hiding in the shrubbery, I knew I was taking a risk coming here, but if I could get into the

apartment I was hoping I’d find something that would jog my memory to life again. There

might be letters, a photograph or even a diary. I figured it was worth the risk.

I walked up the steps into the lobby. The stairs faced me. On the fourth floor I found

Apartment 4.

I pulled out the .38 and held it down by my side, then sank my thumb into the bell-push.

There was a long silence. I stood waiting, not expecting anyone to answer the door, but

ready if they did. I rang again. I could hear the bell. Then I heard something else that brought

me to a stiff, alert attention. I heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

I waited, the gun ready. The door opened.

A girl stood in the doorway: a girl with thick, short hair like burnished copper, whose big,

startled eyes were as blue as the sky on a hot summer’s day.

It was Ginny!

I stood there, transfixed, staring at her. The sight of her ripped away the blanket of fog that

had hung over my mind. It was like a blind man suddenly being able to see.

“Oh, Johnny,” she cried. “You’ve come back!”

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Terror jumped into her eyes. Her mouth opened

to scream. I heard the swish of a descending cosh, and then a dazzling white light exploded

inside my head. I groped wildly for her as I began to fall, but she was no longer there. I went

on falling, down and down, out of the present into the past.

PART THREE

FLASH-BACK

A WOMAN screamed, but it wasn’t Ginny.

I lifted a hand that felt as heavy as lead and groped into space, but found nothing. I tried to

sit up, but the effort was too much for me.

The woman suddenly stopped screaming. The only sound I now heard was my own

breathing. Each breath came very lightly as if it were going to be the last.

“Johnny!”

I knew that voice: a voice out of the past; Della’s voice.

My mind groped to remember. I felt again the crushing punch the Kid had given me. I saw

Della again, her black eyes twin explosions as she screamed: “Get up and fight, you quitter!”

Somehow I got my eyes open. The darkness bothered me. There should have been blazing

lights coming down on me from the stadium batteries. I found myself thinking the Kid must

have hit me with a hammer; that maybe he had blinded me. I struggled up in a sitting

position.

“Johnny! Say something! Are you badly hurt?”

Della was bending over me. Beyond her I could see the outlines of trees against the night

sky. Then I remembered the car coming at us like a bat out of hell, heard again the grinding,

crunching noise as it side-swiped us, and felt again the sensation of flying through space.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Let me alone.” I put my hand to my face. It felt wet and sticky.

“What happened?”

“You must get up and help me,” she said, her voice urgent. “I think he’s dead.”

“Dead? Who?”

“Paul! Come on, Johnny, don’t just sit there. Help me!”

“Okay, okay; give me a minute.”

My head began to pound and ache as I struggled to my knees. I waited a moment or so,

then got to my feet. If she hadn’t steadied me I would have fallen flat on my face.

“Pull yourself together!” she exclaimed, and the hard, impatient note in her voice startled

me. “He’s lying over there. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.”

I staggered over the sandy ground. Each step I took sent a stab of pain through my head,

but I kept on until I reached him. He was lying on his side by the smashed Bentley, his head

resting on his arm, one leg drawn up almost to his chin.

I knelt by his side. It was too dark to see much of him, but when I turned him and he

flopped over on his back, his head remained on his arm. That told me his neck was broken. I

touched his hand, felt his pulse, but it was a waste of time.

She dropped down on her knees beside me, her hand on my arm. I could feel her trembling.

“He’s dead,” I told her. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers closed on my arm, her nails

digging into my flesh.

“Stay here,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll see if I can get someone to help us.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Her voice sounded hard and cold. “He’s dead all right. His

neck’s broken.”

She stood up and moved away from me and leaned against a twisted palmetto tree. Her

sleek black hair was dishevelled; there was a six-inch rip in her skirt, and one stocking was

down to her ankle. The moonlight, coming through the tangle of overhead branches, fell on

her face. There was a smear of blood down the side of her nose. Her eyes seemed to have

sunk deep into her head, and she was staring sightlessly at me as if her mind were furiously

preoccupied with some urgent decision.

“The other car’s across the road, Johnny,” she said. “See what’s happened to the driver.”

“And Pepi’s car?”

“No sign of it. Maybe they thought we were killed. But go and find out what’s happened to

the other car.”

Moving slowly, still dazed, I made my way on to the highway. Away from the palmetto

thicket the moonlight lit up the white road brilliantly, but even in that light it took me several

minutes before I found the car. It had crashed into the thicket on the other side of the road,

and lay on its side: a big Packard, now fit only for the scrap-heap.

I peered through the shattered window. The driver still sat behind the wheel: a young

fellow with a set, fixed grin on his face and horror in his wide, staring eyes. The steering-column had been driven into his body like a grotesque spear: from his neck to his waist he

was pulp.

I stepped back. There was no one else in the car, and there was nothing I could do for him. I

crossed the road again and went back to the thicket where she was waiting.

“Well?” she asked, her eyes searching my face.

“He’s dead.”

“Anyone else in the car?”

“No.”

“You’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

She gave a funny little strangled gulp.

“What a marvellously lucky break!”

I stared at her. It suddenly occurred to me that the smash, the death of her husband and the

death of the other driver were utterly remote to her. She wasn’t thinking of them at all. There

was something else occupying her mind: something so urgent and important to her that even

the shock of being thrown out of a car at over sixty miles an hour had made no impression on

her.

“What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.

“I want my handbag, Johnny.”

“To hell with your handbag! Are yon all right?”

“Yes.” She moved unsteadily towards the smashed Bentley. “Help me find my handbag.”

“There are more important things to do than look for your bag,” I said sharply. “I’ve got to

fetch the police.”

“The police?” She paused, turned and stared at me. “What good will they do?”

“We’ve got to get them here,” I said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you?” My head

was pounding, my nerves were flayed and I was shouting at her. “We’ve got two bodies on

our hands! We’ve got to report this …”

“I must have my bag, Johnny,” she said with an obstinacy that infuriated me. “There’s

something very valuable in it. I must find it before we worry about the police.”

“All right! All right! We’ll find it!” I said, and went over to the Bentley and wrenched

opened the door.

“Let me look,” she said, pushing me aside, and began groping about on the floor of the car.

I went around to the offside, but the door was jammed and wouldn’t open.

“I can’t see a thing!” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you a match?”

I struck a match and held the flame through the shattered window. She found the bag

wedged between the brake and clutch pedals.

“Okay, now you have it, you’d better sit down and take it easy,” I said, stepping away from

the car. “I’ll hunt up a phone.”

She came around the car to where I was standing.

“No, Johnny. We won’t bother about the police. No one must know he’s dead.”

“They’ll find him sooner or later. They’ll identify the car…” I stopped and stared at her.

“What is all this? Why shouldn’t they know he’s dead?”

“I can’t explain now; later, Johnny. Don’t look so worried. It’s all right. I’ll tell you later.”

“You’re suffering from shock,” I said sharply. “Sit down. I’m going for the police.”

She dipped her hand into the bag and brought out a .38 automatic.

“You’ll stay where you are,” she said softly, and pointed the gun at me.

The headlights of an approaching car lit up the sky as it climbed the long, sloping hill from

Pelotta. A moment or so later the car swept into sight; headlamps blazing. It was going fast,

and roared past us with a snarl and a rush of wind.

Neither she nor I moved. The moonlight fell directly on the glittering barrel of the

automatic: the gun looked menacing and large in her hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said, and her voice was as hard and as cold as a chunk of

ice.

“Have you gone crazy?” I said, not moving. “Put it down!”

“I believe this is the most important moment in my life,” she said. “You and I are the only

two who know Paul is dead. You don’t realize yet how essential it is that no one else should

know. Now listen, Johnny, you can either come in with me or I’m going to kill you. There’s

no other way I can be certain you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but that didn’t alter the fact that she meant what

she was saying. I felt a little prickle run up my spine.

“There isn’t time to tell you what it’s all about,” she went on. “But if you come in with me

you’ll make money: big money, Johnny. What’s it to be?”

“What do you want me to do?” I said, and my voice was husky as yours would have been if

you had seen those glittering eyes and the hard, ruthless line of her mouth.

“Take his clothes off and put yours on him,” she said.

“They’ve got to think it was you who died in the car.”

“Me? They know me in Pelotta. They’ll identify me.”

“No, they won’t. You’re going to put him back in the car and set fire to it.”

“I can’t do that! Now wait …”

“You’ll do it or I’ll have to get rid of you, Johnny. There’s no other alternative.”

The bang I had taken on my head when I was thrown out of the car made clear thinking

impossible. If I hadn’t been so punch-drunk I might have tried to get the gun from her. As it

was, I knew I hadn’t a chance to reach her before she fired, and she would fire, the look in her

eyes told me that.

“Get going,” she said softly. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“But tell me why!”

“Later. Are you going to change clothes with him ?” There was a fixed, awful little smile

on her lips now, and her knuckle showed white as she took in the slack of the trigger. I was

one heart-beat away from being shot. I knew it, and she could see I knew it.

“Yes.”

She relaxed, and the smile went away.

“Hurry, Johnny.”

With cold sweat on my face I walked over to where he was lying and began to strip him.

Apart from his broken neck he wasn’t hurt and hadn’t bled. I changed into his clothes while

she watched me, the gun covering me. Then I got my clothes on him. It was a gruesome job,

but I did it. But when I came to put my shoes on his feet, I gave up.

“I can’t do it.”

“Throw them in the car,” she said, and her voice was as unsteady as mine. “It’s all right.

They’ll think they came off in the crash. Get him in and put him behind the steering-wheel.”

I dragged him over to the car. He was no light weight, and it was all I could do to get him

into the car. I propped him up against the driver’s door. He fell forward across the wheel.

“Loosen the carburettor pipe,” she said, “then tie your handkerchief over the leak and touch

it off with a match.”

“They could send us to jail for this,” I said, breathing heavily. “Get on with it! The tool

case is clipped inside the hood. You want a spanner … hurry!”

I loosened the carburettor pipe, burning my hand against the cylinder head as I did so. I was

working in a trance. My head kept expanding and contracting, and my legs felt as if they were

made of rubber. I did exactly what she told me to do. I tied one end of my handkerchief

around the leaking pipe.

“Now set fire to it.”

I struck a match. A moment later a long tongue of flame shot out of the car’s engine, and

spread in a hot, glaring mass to the coachwork.

I jumped back just in time.

She came running towards me.

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