The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Raoul (Faucconier) Whitfield (1896–1945) was born in New York City and traveled with his family extensively, spending much of his youth in the Philippines. During World War I, he served with the U.S. Army Air Corps in France as a pilot. When he returned to the United States, he went to learn the steel business (he was related to Andrew Carnegie), then worked as a newspaper reporter and began to write fiction for pulp magazines. He used his flying background to write aviation stories for the pulps in the early 1920s, then sold his first mystery to Black Mask for the March 1926 issue. He went on, in a serious burst of prolificity, to write nearly ninety stories, under his own name and as Ramon Decolta, for Black Mask between that first effort and his last one, only eight years later, for the February 1934 issue. During that time, he also wrote five mystery novels: three under his own name, Green Ice (1930), Death in a Bowl (1931), and The Virgin Kills (1932); and two under the pseudonym Temple Field, Five (1931) and Killer’s Carnival (1932). As Whitfield, he wrote four juveniles, all with aviation backgrounds: Wings of Gold (1930), Silver Wings (1930), Danger Zone (1931), and Danger Circus (1933). His Black Mask story “Man Killer,” which was published in the April 1932 issue, was filmed as Private Detective 62 by Paramount in 1933; Michael Curtiz was the director, and the comic crime story starred William Powell and Margaret Lindsay.

“Murder in the Ring” was published in the December 1930 issue.

A fighter with promise of the big money and a gang that wants the split.

Chapter I

Gus Monkly watched Pardo crowd the blond slugger into a neutral corner, work his huge arms like battering rams. The Garden crowd was on its feet — the arena was shrill with sound. Across the ring Gus saw Eddie Feese, his white face twisted as he shouted at his blond fighter. There was a sudden silence from the crowd — Gus got his eyes on Pardo again. The seven-foot giant was stepping back. He was grinning. Mike Connell sagged forward as Pardo backed away. He went to his knees.

The crowd roared again. Pardo lowered his guard and glanced towards Gus. The manager’s face twisted with fear. Connell pitched upward and forward. The referee had his back turned to the blond fighter; he was waving Pardo to a neutral corner.

Connell ripped up a short right arm, and then the referee was between the two men. Pardo muttered something as the referee stepped away. The dark-haired fighter shoved a huge right glove in Connell’s face, stepped around to the right. Connell was trying to weave, but he was groggy. He led with a left that was short, threw over a hard right. The right glanced off Pardo’s left shoulder. The giant shot his own right, straight for the chin.

It landed with a sound that could be heard all over the Garden. Connell went down like a slaughtered steer. Resin dust rose from the canvas. The referee waved Pardo back. Once again the big, black-haired fighter glanced towards Gus Monkly. The manager swore at him, but his curses were lost in the roar of the crowd.

Pardo backed into the wrong corner, and the referee pointed to a neutral one. Pardo stared stupidly at the man in white. Then he went across the ring to the neutral corner. The referee stood beside Connell, picked up the pounded count from Snyder. At “ten” he straightened, raised his arms high, pointed towards Pardo. The crowd yelled wildly.

Gus Monkly stood up and frowned at Jerry Gold. Gold grinned and said in a husky voice:

“He’s put you in line, Gus — the next shot will do the trick. Good for — a half million if he gets by Bolley.”

Gus kept on frowning towards the winner of the final go. Pardo stood in the center of the ring, grinned sheepishly, and tapped his gloves together, above his head. The crowd cheered and jeered. Seconds dragged the unconscious figure of Mike Connell from the resin, towards his corner. The radio announcer stood at the edge of the ring and shouted at Pardo.

Gus muttered grimly: “What the hell — that palooka’s too dumb to talk at a mike! Hey, Berry!”

Lou Berryman stood inside the ropes and grinned at Pardo’s manager. Gus kept on frowning.

“Get him out of there!” he shouted at Berryman. “Get him downstairs, Berry. Stay along with him — get him out of there!”

Berryman nodded and went over near the towering Pardo. He grabbed him by a wrist and pointed towards the exit corner of the ring. The radio announcer started to rave at Berryman. Gus Monkly fought his way to a spot close to the mike. He leaned down, and the announcer grinned at him. He lifted the mike high.

Gus breathed heavily through his nose. “This is Giant Pardo—” he announced thickly. “I just — wanna say — he give me — a sweet scrap, he did! Mike’s a good boy — but I guess I was — better! I’m gonna be — fightin’ the champ yet — s’long folks!”

Gus stepped away from the microphone. The announcer glared at him.

“What the hell’s the idea?” he muttered. “You can’t get away with that stuff!”

Monkly narrowed his beady little eyes. “No?” he questioned. “Lay off, boy. Didn’t you get what you wanted? They won’t know the difference. Pardo — he can’t talk. He’s a scrapper.”

He turned away, with the announcer muttering at him. A short, red-faced individual gripped him by the arm.

“What do you mean — that bum’s a scrapper?” he asked. “Better take him out in the sticks for a while, Gus. It’ll be healthier.”

Gus grinned at the short one. “Want a piece of him?” he asked. “Like hell you don’t. I’ll cut you forty percent of him — for fifty grand.”

Charlie Russel threw back his red face and laughed. Then suddenly he stopped laughing.

“If he gets by Bolley — come and see me, Gus.”

The manager swore. “Do I look that way?” he snapped. “If he gets by Bolley come and try to see me. The line forms on the right.”

He fought his way towards the aisle that led to the dressing rooms. The Garden crowd was using the exits. Mike Connell was being carried through the ropes. Eddie Feese caught Gus’s eye and called over to him.

“It was — just a lucky one.”

Gus Monkly chuckled hoarsely. “Sure,” he yelled back. “Lucky Pardo didn’t hit him real hard!”

He went along the aisle, grinned at the big Garden copper who kept the crowd moving in another direction. As he went past the officer, Riley said:

“You got a money fighter, Gus. All yours?”

Gus nodded. “All mine, Irish,” he replied. “I’m going to clean up on him.”

The copper grunted. “If he gets by Bolley,” he corrected.

The manager chuckled again. “They can’t stop that right, Irish,” he stated hoarsely. “It’s worse than that dynamite Cotti serves over the bar. They can’t stop him, Irish.”

The Garden copper shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of ’em stopped in here, Gus,” he said. “But I hope you’re right. It’s a sweet spot for a clean-up.”

Gus Monkly went along the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Humans spoke to him, patted him, grinned at him. Gus grinned back. He used words in reply. But he wasn’t caring much. He was thinking about Pardo. A palooka with a punch. A big guy he’d grabbed at the right time. He tapped on the door of Pardo’s dressing room — Berryman opened it. Gus went inside and Berryman slammed the door in the faces of the three or four guys.

Pardo sat on the edge of the training table and grinned at the manager.

“Not so rotten, eh?” he said in a voice that was husky and flat. “He ain’t dead?”

Gus Monkly frowned at his fighter. “He damn’ near finished you,” he snapped. “You got to cut out looking at me every time you knock a guy off his feet, see?”

Pardo looked hurt. He held huge, taped hands close together and looked down stupidly at them. He weighed two hundred and sixty-four — and towered above the handlers crowded into the dressing room. He had thick lips and dumb, dark eyes.

Gus looked at Berryman and said: “Get him fixed up right — and let him feed the way he likes. There’ll be a crowd hanging around the lobby to see him come out. Go out that way and stroll around a little. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten, at the hotel.”

He turned his back on the men in the room, moved towards the door. Before he reached it he faced Pardo and grinned at the fighter.

“That wasn’t so rotten, Big Boy,” he said. “But remember — Bolley won’t let you get him on the ropes like Mike did.”

Pardo made a hoarse sound with his lips. He swung the upper part of his huge body from side to side, showed broken teeth, grinned. He flicked his broken nose with the back of a huge hand.

“I’ll make a bum outa Bolley,” he muttered.

Gus said: “Yeah? Well, ain’t that nice! We ain’t got him yet, Big Boy.”

Pardo grinned. “That’s your job,” he said. “You get him — I’ll kill him.”

Gus whistled softly. “Sure, sure,” he agreed, and went from the dressing room.

When he got in the corridor again he moved slowly towards a Forty-ninth Street exit. He lighted a cigar and swore softly.

“I get him — and the Big Boy kills him!” he breathed to himself. “Now, that ain’t just what I’d call dumb.”

Chapter II

Berryman ran stubby fingers over his bald head and watched the swinging doors of the speakeasy nervously. The doors separated a narrow hallway from the bar and the few tables along the side wall. Berryman took the fingers away from his head and tapped the surface of the table. Gus Monkly sipped his beer and shoved a cigar around between his narrow lips. The half-moon scar on his right cheek twitched a little more than usual, and his beady eyes were a little brighter than at most times.

Berryman said: “Bolley’ll lick him, sure as hell. Jeez — but I hate to see that coin get away from us, Gus.”

The manager grinned at Pardo’s chief second. He said in his husky, flat voice:

“Yeah — away from us? How do you cut in, Berry?”

The second showed yellow teeth in a swift grin. He said very softly:

“Be wise, Gus — hand over a piece to me. It’ll be easier.”

Monkly sat up a little in his chair and moved his head forward. He stopped sipping the beer. His beady eyes got narrow.

“Let’s get it over with, Berry,” he said in a hard tone. “You’ve got somethin’ on your mind. It’s been there a week or so. Spill it loose.”

The second kept tapping on the dirty table surface and watching the swinging doors. Gus leaned forward a little more.

“Get it out, Berry!” he advised. “You’re a pretty expensive second for me to carry.”

A little red went out of Berryman’s face. He got very quiet.

“I’m pretty cheap, Gus,” he corrected. “I’m cheap as hell.”

The swinging doors opened; a short, plump blonde came in. She spoke to the bartender, waved her left hand towards the table at which Gus and Berryman sat. Her right arm was held close to her side. She walked over, and Gus kicked out a chair. He didn’t speak.

Berryman said: “Hello, Edna — where’s Hurry?”

The blonde looked at Gus and didn’t answer the second. She leaned towards the manager and said cheerfully:

“That was a nice scrap your wop put up last night. Maybe he’s a champ, eh?”

She laughed without looking happy. There was too much color on her face skin and the wrong shade on her lips. She had dull gray eyes, and they were too black underneath.

Gus said: “Maybe, yeah.”

The girl made the laughing sound again. She looked at Berryman and answered his question.

“Hurry’ll be along pretty quick. He had to make a trip to Philly, after the scrap.”

Gus Monkly sucked in his breath and reached for the beer. The girl said:

“Yeah, I’ll have something. Damn’ nice of you two chiselers to think of it!”

Berryman called the waiter. The girl ordered whiskey and White Rock. Gus said in a tone that was too soft:

“What do you mean — chiselers?”

The blonde smiled without parting her rouged lips.

“I figured maybe you might not sell Hurry the hunk he’s counting on,” she said slowly.

Gus Monkly frowned at her and stretched his arms. He stopped frowning, grinned.

“You talk too damn’ much, Edna,” he said. “I’m out of beer, anyway.”

She nodded. “How much have you made on that wop, Gus?” she said softly.

Gus looked at his fingernails and said that he’d taken a bad trimming on the World Series games. Berryman watched the swinging doors and said nothing. The girl kept her eyes on Monkly and smiled. Her smile wasn’t too pretty.

“Well, you get the idea,” she said. “When Hurry parks himself close to you — don’t stall. What he’s looking for is the answer.”

Gus said disagreeably: “I don’t know what you’re gabbing about, Edna. If Hurry’s got the hunch that—”

He stopped. The swinging doors moved and a man came through. He came through slowly. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and a moon face. He looked a lot like Paul Whiteman. Berryman got up and pulled over a chair from another table. Gus straightened up and got a smile on his face. The blonde said:

“Gus has been worried about you, Hurry.”

The big man moved towards the table. He didn’t move his arms as he walked, and his pace was slow. He smiled gently.

“Well, ain’t that nice,” he stated in a homey tone. “I don’t like having people worried about me.”

He sat down, and when the waiter brought the blonde her whiskey and White Rock he ordered the same. He turned his small eyes on Gus and chuckled. He chuckled like a traveling salesman about to tell a story.

“Maybe that guy can fight, Gus,” he said. “Maybe he can get past Bolley.”

Gus widened his eyes and looked surprised. “Don’t be that way, Hurry,” he said softly. “Giant Pardo — fight? Quit kiddin’ — Bolley’ll kill him.”

Hurry smiled almost gently and took his eyes away from the beady ones of Monkly. He looked down at the rigid right arm of the girl.

“How’s the arm, Kid?” he asked.

Edna Harms shook her head. She sipped whiskey and said slowly:

“I hate gettin’ that slug from a guy that was quittin’ you, Hurry. Maybe I’ll be able to swing it again sometime. The doc ain’t sure.”

Hurry stopped smiling and said to Gus: “Remember the afternoon the Kid took that slug, Gus?”

Gus Monkly’s narrow lips twitched. He remembered the afternoon well enough. There had been a lot of times he would have liked to forget it. He said to Hurry:

“Listen — I picked the wop up when I worked loose from Chi. He’s dumb, Hurry. He’s just a little too dumb. Mike almost came back and finished him tonight. The referee happened to be in the way.”

Hurry Lassen tapped the leather of his right shoe on the wood beneath the table. He let his moon face grin but he talked hard.

“I happen to be in the way — right now, Gus.”

The manager wet his lips with his tongue, looked at Lou Berryman. He said in a voice that was a little strained:

“I’ve only got forty percent of him, Hurry. Berry’s got forty. A guy named Langdon’s got the rest. He greased me so that I could get the Big Boy away from the little lake town where I found him. He runs a small club there.”

Hurry sat back in his chair and looked at the drink the waiter had brought. He whistled a little. The girl looked at him.

“He’s lyin’, Hurry,” she said in a tone that had a lot of hate in it.

Gus turned his head towards her and said in a nasty voice:

“Now you keep out of this, Edna. It ain’t healthy to lie to Hurry, and I know it.”

Lassen raised his eyebrows and looked at Lou Berryman. He said in a voice that was half amused:

“So you’ve got a forty percent cut in this Giant Pardo, eh?”

Berryman nodded. He tried to smile. Gus spoke softly.

“Berry’s been pretty nice with me, Hurry. I gave him the cut cheap. But we didn’t figure the Big Boy would even scrap in the Garden ropes.”

The girl laughed bitterly. “They’re both lyin’, Hurry,” she said. “They blundered into a money fighter — that big bozo will slam Bolley down. The next scrap will mean half a million. It’ll be with the champ — and the champ’s making a come-back. An outdoor shot, Hurry.”

Hurry’s moon-like face stopped smiling. He nodded his head slowly.

“Want to sell your forty percent, Berryman?” he asked in a cold tone.

The second glanced towards Gus. Hurry followed the glance with contempt in his eyes. Gus yawned and reached for a cigarette. Berryman shook his head.

“It’s a gamble,” he said shakily. “He might take Bolley — then my cut would be worth plenty. Or he might get licked and go hitting the sticks again. It’s a gamble.”

“Once in a while,” Hurry said slowly, “I like to gamble. Twenty-five grand for your forty.”

Berryman looked at Gus again. The moon-faced one stopped tapping his foot on the wood of the floor, leaned across the table and got big fingers around the gray-striped tie that the second wore. He jerked Berryman’s shoulder and head towards him.

“You dirty liar!” he snapped coldly. “You don’t hold a cut on that slugger!”

Berryman’s face got white. Gus Monkly got to his feet, shoving back his chair. The blond girl swung around and kept her left arm low.

“You be good!” she warned. “I’ll give you the works quicker than hell—”

Hurry Lassen raised his right hand and closed the fingers. He struck without much effort, but the blow sounded as though Berryman’s jaw was broken. The second slipped off the right side of his chair and hit the wood of the speakeasy heavily. Beyond the swinging doors someone swore loudly; there was the metallic sound of a bar dropping against steel.

Gus kept his beady eyes on the girl. He didn’t speak. Hurry got up from his chair and wiped his right-hand knuckles with the fingers of his other hand. On the floor, Berryman groaned.

The girl said: “He had that comin’, Hurry. How about Gus?”

A man with a mop of black hair swung open the doors and started to talk. Hurry turned around and the man stopped talking. He said, after a few seconds’ silence:

“Hell — I didn’t figure you were in, Hurry. I was in back when you—”

Lassen nodded his head and smiled. “Keep that bar on the door until I get through,” he said.

The waiter stood back of the polished wood and kept his eyes on Hurry. Gus looked at the girl.

“Take that rod off me, Edna,” he breathed. “I don’t get this slamming down—”

Lou Berryman pulled himself to his feet, and kept his hands over his face. Hurry said sharply:

“Burke!”

A medium-sized man with gray hair and a brown-skinned face came in through the swinging doors. Hurry smiled at him, but kept his eyes on Berryman.

“Get Berry’s rod,” he ordered. “Take him in back and stay with him. Let him wash his face, but don’t let him use brains. That is, if he has any.”

Burke elbowed the second away from the table. Hurry Lassen said pleasantly to Gus Monkly:

“Sit down — put your hands out where I can see them. Keep that rod in your lap, Edna. I got a question you didn’t hear the first time. You didn’t hear it — and Berry didn’t have the right answer.”

Gus Monkly lifted an empty beer glass with fingers that didn’t shake, and tried to moisten his thin lips. He set it down and smiled at Hurry.

“You can’t get a cut in on Pardo — not by slugging,” he said.

Hurry leaned his broad shoulders and big head across the table surface. He said coldly:

“The beer racket got too tough for you, Gus. And when you pulled out you left me holding the bag. We needed guts and guns — and you took a little of each with you. You cost me money. I figured on getting some of it back. I’ll gamble for it. Twenty grand for a forty percent cut-in on Pardo.”

Gus swore. “You just offered Berry twenty-five grand,” he stated grimly.

The round-faced one grinned. “He didn’t have it to sell,” he replied. “And it was different — five minutes ago.”

The manager shrugged. “If Pardo loses to Bolley, he won’t be worth twenty grand to you. I don’t get it all, Hurry. The big boy gets his share.”

The girl laughed. Hurry kept on grinning.

“I’ll bet you treat him square,” he said mockingly. “You get sixty percent of what’s left after you settle with him, Gus — I get forty. That guy you said got twenty — he don’t. I’ve got a good shyster we can get tonight — he’ll fix the papers.”

Gus narrowed his little eyes on Lassen’s. He shook his head.

“What I’ve got of that palooka — I’m keeping,” he said slowly. “I don’t owe you anything, Hurry. I played with you — and I quit clean. I dug up Pardo. He’s dumb as hell. What he knows, I taught him.”

The blonde chuckled. “And he’s still dumb as hell!” she muttered.

Hurry nodded agreeably. “Just the same,” he said quietly, “I’ve got a hunch he’s going to take Bolley.”

Gus shook his head. “We may pick up a few grand in the sticks, after Bolley takes him,” he said. “But you’d be making a bad buy-in, Hurry.”

Hurry lighted a cigarette, and started tapping the floor with a foot again. Gus was getting nervous. The girl said:

“Take him in back and give him the works, Hurry. He’s lyin’ — and he’s yellow. He got me this slug in the arm—”

The moon-faced one shook his head. He smiled at the manager.

“You were slow shiftin’, Kid,” he said. “Gus used to be real fast at the wheel. We got out of places in a hurry — when Gus was workin’ with us.”

There was a little silence. The blonde shifted around and swore.

“Giant Pardo looks good,” she said. “I’ve seen a flock of big boys. Get your cut, Hurry. Gus is a rat.”

The manager swung on the blonde. “The next slug won’t get you in the arm, Edna,” he stated coldly. “You hate out loud. Not so good.”

Lassen frowned. “Gus is all right, Kid,” he told the girl. “It would be just too bad if his big boy didn’t get inside the ropes with Bolley.”

The manager sat back in his chair and kept his eyes on Hurry’s. His hands were on the surface of the table, near the beer glass.

“If anything happens to Pardo — I’ll know who made it happen,” he said slowly.

Hurry tilted his chair away from the table and looked pleased with himself.

“Sure — but will you be able to prove it?” he mocked.

Gus sucked in his breath sharply, leaned forward and spoke in a hard, low voice.

“You keep off, Hurry. I’m square with you. I’m gamblin’ on the Giant — and I’m playin’ it alone. You stay outside, see?”

The big man leaned back and nodded. He spoke in a pleasant voice.

“You got a week to fix me up, Gus. I’m staying near here, and Callahan can tell you where. I’ll see that he does. I’m paying twenty grand for a forty percent share of your take on Giant Pardo. I don’t care how much your take is. It’s plenty, I know that. I’ll gamble that your boy gets the big shot with the champ. If you don’t see it my way—”

He shrugged. Gus’s voice got a little high.

“You lay off Pardo!” he said. “If you fix him so he can’t—”

He stopped as Hurry shoved back his chair slowly and got to his feet. The blonde threw a neck piece over her left arm and hand, got up. She said softly:

“Better be good, Gus. You might be takin’ the count yourself. It ain’t so easy to get over the ropes—”

Gus Monkly spoke through lips that were pressed together.

“I ain’t inside the ropes—”

Hurry Lassen said from a spot beside the swinging doors:

“No? Well, do some thinking, Gus.”

He went outside. The girl followed him. The waiter came around and looked at Gus.

“How about the drinks?” he asked.

The manager paid for them, got up and went into the back room. Burke was gone; Berryman was holding a wet rag to his jaw. He said thickly:

“That dirty — killer—”

Gus swore softly. He said: “You stay here — I’ll get you a drink. We’ve got to watch ourselves, Berry. It don’t look so good.”

Lou Berryman cursed thickly. Gus Monkly went back along the bar and ordered two drinks. The waiter frowned at him when he set them down, glanced towards the table at which the four of them had been seated.

“They come tough in Chi,” he observed. “That Lassen — he don’t feel good tonight.”

Gus lifted the drinks and smiled with his beady eyes on the yellow-red liquid:

“He might be feelin’ worse,” he said slowly, “some night!”

Chapter III

Little Andy came into Bryant’s gym and stood near the mats piled along the wall. He watched Giant Pardo swinging lazily at a punching bag, moved his eyes towards the figure of Gus Monkly. Pardo’s manager stood alone, a short distance from a group of sports writers who were watching the big fighter.

Little Andy was small; he had red hair and blue, watery eyes. They went to the slightly crouched form of Pardo. He smiled.

“Big brute,” he breathed. “But the slugs fix ’em all.”

He leaned against a mat standing on end, half rolled. After a few minutes Gus Monkly called to his fighter.

“All right, Giant — that’ll do. Get a shower and rub. I’ll see you around here. Make it fast.”

Pardo stopped his slow-motion punching and turned towards his manager. He grinned. Gus looked towards the wall and the mats. He saw Little Andy; his body stiffened. The little fellow made a motion with his head. Gus stared at him. Little Andy leaned against the mat and waited. He smiled pleasantly.

Pardo went away from the punching bag, towards the dressing rooms. A few of the sports writers went with him. Gus moved over and stood looking at Little Andy. They were some distance from the nearest humans.

“You got guts — comin’ up here,” Gus said tightly.

Little Andy continued to smile. It was a lip smile; his eyes held a vacant expression.

“Boss sent me,” he replied. “He told me not to get hurt. He gave me a message for you.”

Gus said: “Yeah?”

The little fellow nodded. “That’s right,” he replied. “He said to tell you that if he didn’t get a cut of that prize hunk of beef — there was a jingle you had better read.”

The manager frowned. “Yes?” he said. “What jingle?”

Little Andy scratched his head and smiled with his eyes, this time.

“Something about ‘the kid’s last fight,’ ” he said very slowly.

Gus Monkly stood close to the little fellow and swayed a bit. He sunk his head down on his shoulders. The half-moon scar on his cheek twitched. He said softly and not too steadily:

“Listen, Andy — this is a money scrap. The big ones are getting aboard. If Hurry does anything that ain’t just nice—”

The little fellow looked blank. “That was the message, Gus,” he said. “That was my job. No use talkin’ to me.”

The manager straightened. He stared at the blue eyes of Little Andy. There had been a time when Andy had been sitting right alongside of Hurry Lassen. Gus had the idea he was still sitting there.

“All right — all right,” he replied. “Tell the boss I listened to you, but I didn’t get the idea.”

The little fellow widened his blue eyes, swore softly.

“Jeez!” he breathed. “I figured you was just as green in the fight game as the paper boys have been sayin’. But I didn’t figure you was green in other things, Gus.”

The manager smiled. “Bolley’ll take the big boy,” he said. “What coin I make — that’ll be made in the sticks, after Pardo is flattened. It won’t be too much, and I ain’t going to split it up any.”

Little Andy whistled softly. “For a guy who figures his scrapper is going to lose, refusing a twenty-grand buy-in — that looks dumb, eh?”

Gus shook his head. “I don’t want to get in a jam,” he said. “I don’t want to be worried about things. I’m saving the boss coin. And I ain’t runnin’ with the mob, anyway.”

Little Andy shrugged. “You’re pickin’ the spots,” he said carelessly. “Well — s’long.”

He went out and down the stairs that led from Bryant’s gym. Gus stared after him, swearing to himself. When he turned towards the dressing rooms Lou Berryman came up to him. He was scowling. In his right hand he held a yellow slip of paper.

“Hell, Gus,” he said, “I got to get back to Chi. My sister got hit by a truck — she’s dying.”

The manager narrowed his eyes on those of the chief second. He said softly:

“Yeah? Say — that’s tough.”

Berryman nodded, keeping his eyes away from Monkly’s. He raised the telegram a little.

“It sure is,” he said slowly. “With the big scrap on tomorrow night.”

Gus reached for the wire, read it. He handed it back.

“That’s tough, Berry,” he repeated. “Yeah — I’m sorry. But you might get back in time — there might be a mistake.”

The second nodded, scowling down at the yellow sheet of paper.

“The big boy’s right, anyway,” he said. “And if I can get back — you know I will, Gus.”

The manager looked beyond Berryman and nodded his head.

“Sure, I know you will,” he said quietly, but his voice held a peculiar tone.

Berryman said: “I’d better get going right away.”

Gus Monkly nodded. He reached into a pocket and drew out a roll of bills. He handed the chief second several of them. They were new and crisp.

“I’m sorry, Berry,” he said. “That enough?”

The second nodded. “Connors can handle Giant — if I don’t get back,” he said. “He knows what the big boy needs. But I’ll try to make it.”

The manager nodded. Berryman met his gaze with half-closed eyes, turned away. He went from the gymnasium. Gus went into the dressing room and found Connors standing near a locker and humming to himself. Connors was a big man, with Irish features and a flat nose. He was an ex-pug.

“Berry’s gone to Chicago,” Gus said slowly, and smiled a little. He touched the half-moon scar with his fingertips, lightly. “His sister’s dying.”

Connors swore softly. “Sick — or was it something sudden?” he asked.

Gus smiled more broadly. “Sudden — she got hit by a truck,” he said. “You’ll be handling the big boy, unless he gets back in time.”

Connors nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “You know, Gus — the palooka’s got a chance, maybe. Bolley’s a sucker for a straight right. Bell made a bad match, the way I see it. We got a chance to take that guy.”

Gus nodded. “I’m puttin’ coin on it,” he said. “Got any relatives in Chi, Connors?”

The handler narrowed his eyes, shook his head. Gus reached into his pocket and slipped the man several bills. He said in a low tone:

“Keep it quiet — that you’re going to be boss in Pardo’s corner. Don’t even tell him — not yet. I’ll do that stuff. And don’t talk much, Connors.”

The handler nodded. “Maybe Berry’ll get back,” he said slowly.

“Yeah,” the manager replied. “He might.”

He went around to the table on which Giant Pardo was being rubbed down. The fighter grinned at him.

“I’m gonna take — this guy, Gus,” he said hoarsely.

The manager nodded. “Sure you are, Big Boy,” he replied. “Like Sherman took Rome. Sure you are. But you got to quit lookin’ for me, after you knock him down, see?”

The big slugger nodded with his head flat on the table surface. The rubbers were working on his legs.

“Me — I go to a neutral corner,” Pardo said thickly.

Gus Monkly nodded. “The right’ll do it,” he said. “And we’ll both be sittin’ pretty and waitin’ for a crack at the champ. We won’t wait too long, at that. He’ll be coming. How do you feel?”

The slugger grinned. “I feel swell,” he returned. “How are they bettin’?”

Gus grunted. “Three to one — with you on the short end. But that’s because Bolley took the nigger. You’ll get him, Big Boy.”

Pardo nodded again. “I feel swell,” he said.

Gus grinned. “You stick with Connors and Eddie — all the time until tomorrow night,” he said slowly. “We don’t want no accidents.”

The Giant sat up and blinked at his manager. He asked hoarsely:

“What kind of accidents?”

Gus slapped him playfully across the back of his big head.

“You might meet up with a blonde,” he kidded. “You stick with Connors and Eddie.”

The big slugger chuckled. He rubbed his broken nose with big knuckles.

“Hell,” he breathed, “with the blondes!”

Gus nodded and went away from the dressing room. In the gym he spotted Connors, went to his side.

“Stay close to the big boy,” he ordered. “Keep him here, or at the hotel — or at a picture show.”

Connors nodded. “I’ll watch him,” he said. “I’m layin’ coin on him.”

Gus went down the stairs and into the street. It had started to snow. He turned towards Ninth Avenue. What he wanted was a drink. And he didn’t want it at Cotti’s place. If he could keep clear of Hurry Lassen, until after tomorrow night—

He smiled a little. It would be easy, after that. He’d get Pardo out of sight, out of the city. They could lay low. He knew a few tricks that would throw Hurry off the track, if he tried to trace them. And then they’d sign the big contract, the money contract. Or maybe, if things got too tough, he’d sell Pardo. With the big shot in sight he might get two hundred grand. Two hundred grand! Gus wet his thin lips with the tip of his tongue. That was money — big money.

He reached Eighth Avenue, walked northward a square, turned westward again. Halfway between Ninth and Tenth he stopped and lighted a cigarette. When he got near the corner of Tenth he looked across the street and saw the cheap hotel run by the brother of Lou Berryman. He smiled grimly.

He crossed back of a cab that was going speedily towards the Hudson. There was a lot of noise in the street, which was in the lower fifties. The hotel had signs in front, but no names on them. It was an old building with a dingy entrance. Gus went inside and walked towards a small desk. There was no one behind it. He heard footfalls on the stairs that rose from the rear of the small lobby.

There was a wash-room near the stairs — he stepped into it. The footfalls grew louder; human weight on the steps made them creak. A voice said:

“You won’t be back for the fight, Lou?”

Gus swore softly. He recognized the voice of Al Berryman, Lou’s brother. It had a peculiar grating quality.

Lou replied thickly: “Hell, no! And if you’re wise—”

The words died. Gus got his body flat against a wall of the wash-room and waited. The footfalls were growing fainter now; they died away completely. Gus stepped into the poorly lighted lobby and saw the back of his chief second. A small bag dangled from Berryman’s right hand. He moved away and his brother came back into the hotel. Gus slipped into the wash-room again. He could hear Al moving around behind the desk.

He waited almost ten minutes, then went down the stairs which he had descended before, and moved over damp concrete towards the basement steps. They led up to the street level, not far from the entrance.

He was almost beside the grilled gate at the front basement entrance, when he heard the sound behind him. It was a faint sound, a swishing sound. There was the brief noise of breath sucked in quickly.

Gus Monkly bent his head forward, dropped to his knees. His body was pivoting; his right hand was reaching for his automatic, when the crashes sounded. There were two of them. They filled the basement with their roar.

The manager swore brokenly, got hands before his eyes, pitched to one side. He lay motionlessly, with his body huddled. A figure came close to him, breathing quickly. There was the faint odor of cheap perfume. Then the figure was gone.

He heard shouts from the top of the steps, near the wash-room. A car door slammed, in the street. There was the sound of an engine running at high speed through the gears. Al Berryman’s grating voice sounded again:

“What’s wrong — down there?”

Gus Monkly got slowly to his feet. He went outside, went up the stairs that led to the street level. A tan taxi was speeding towards Ninth Avenue. A small boy stared at him with wide eyes.

Across the street were two men; they had stopped and were looking at him. Gus narrowed his eyes on them for several seconds. He said to the boy:

“Who got in — that cab, Kid?”

The boy looked cold. The two men across the street walked on towards the Hudson. Gus handed the boy a quarter and brushed off his brown coat.

“See who got in — the cab?” he asked again.

The boy spoke in a high-pitched voice.

“A lady,” he said. “She was nice.”

Gus straightened up and swore softly. “Yeah?” he muttered. “A lady, eh?”

The boy narrowed dark eyes on Gus’s small ones. He nodded his head.

“Guess you don’t know that,” he said with sarcasm. “Guess you didn’t hurt her.”

The manager stared at the boy. “Hurt her?” he repeated.

The boy scowled at him. “She had a hurt arm,” he said, raising his voice a little. “She was holding it, an’ she didn’t move it any.”

Gus Monkly looked towards Ninth Avenue and muttered something beneath his breath. The boy said:

“There was a lot of noise—”

The manager grinned at the boy. He spoke in a cheerful tone.

“She didn’t want to be kissed, Kid — some gals are like that. She got away — and maybe she bumped her arm against the door.”

He went towards the entrance of the hotel, and met Al Berryman on the way in. Al was taller than his brother, and thinner.

“What happened?” he asked in his grating voice. “You use that gun?”

Gus stared at him stupidly. “What’s wrong with you — drinking again?” he asked. “What gun?”

Al looked up and down Gus’s overcoat. He narrowed bloodshot eyes.

“You’re all dirty,” he said. “I heard two shots.”

Gus brushed at his coat with both hands. “The damn taxis,” he said. “They never clean ’em.”

Al Berryman went past Gus and reached the street. He looked east and west, stood with a hand in his right pocket. Then he moved out of sight. Gus looked through the opened door at the snow, went a few feet and closed it. He moved to the desk and thought about the blonde, Edna. It had been dark down below. She had fired two shots. Had they been meant for Lou Berryman — or himself? Or had the slugs been intended for some other person?

Gus listened to Al coming up the stairs. When the hotel owner came up to him his face was white. He said shakily:

“Look at — this!”

There was a piece of lead in the palm of his right hand. It had flattened out against something that had left a rusty color on it. Gus said slowly:

“What is it, Al?”

Al Berryman swore fiercely at him. “You don’t know!” he sneered.

Gus said in a calm voice: “Where’s Lou — I want to see him. Right away.”

Al Berryman walked back a few feet towards the counter, but he kept his face turned towards Gus. His right hand moved inside the pocket.

“You don’t know where Lou is, eh?” he said mockingly.

Gus shook his head. “He said he might have to go to Chi in a hurry,” he replied. “Said your sister got hit by a truck. I was tryin’ to find out if he went.”

Al Berryman smiled without moving his eyes away from Monkly’s. Over on Tenth Avenue there was the sharp sound of a back-fire. Al jerked his body nervously. He stopped smiling.

“Think you’d find out — down in the basement, Gus?” he snapped.

The manager said: “What basement — what the hell are you talking about, Al? You’ve been hitting the stuff hard.”

Al Berryman smiled again. His face was very white.

“I ain’t drinking — not these days,” he said slowly. “This yours?”

He took his left hand from the pocket of his soiled suit. In the fingers he held a leather case. There was still one long cigar in it.

Gus whistled softly. “Sure it is,” he said. “Where’d you get that? I’ve been looking for it since that stud game up here the other night.”

Al Berryman’s voice pitched higher. “You’re not coming through, Gus,” he said. “This wallet wasn’t down there an hour ago.”

Gus Monkly reached out and took the wallet. He started to put it back in the upper pocket of his coat, checked himself. There was a dirty mark beneath the pocket. Al’s bloodshot eyes were on his.

“You were down there!” he stated. “If you get me in bad, Gus—”

The manager shoved the wallet in his pocket. He put the cigar in his mouth, lighted it. It was crushed and didn’t draw well. He said slowly:

“I’m not taking any orders from you, Al. I’m asking you about Lou. Did he leave for Chi?”

Berryman nodded. His eyes were frowning into those of Monkly.

“He just left,” he said in a surly tone.

Gus sighed heavily. He turned a little. Al Berryman took his right hand out of the suit pocket. Gus moved like a cat. He got fingers over Al’s right wrist, lifted his arm. His right hand went into Berryman’s pocket, pulled loose the gun. Gus backed away, smiling.

“Where did Lou go — and why did he go?” he said slowly. “Don’t hold back, Al.”

Al Berryman’s eyes were staring at him, wide with fear. Gus said:

“Better be careful, Al. I’ve got a big money shot just ahead of me. You know that. It means a lot. Lou’s been living here with you — and you know things. You always knew things in Chi. You two may have a sister in that burg — but she wasn’t hit by any truck. Come on — what’s Lou’s game?”

Al Berryman stood motionless near the desk and shook his head from side to side. From the floor above there came the faint sound of whistling. A door slammed. Gus moved his head forward a little and said in a very hard tone:

“Hurry Lassen hates my guts. He hates Lou’s too. But he could slam Lou down, where he had to go easy with me. And maybe Lou would see things different like, see? That’s what I want to know.”

He moved the gun a little. Al Berryman swallowed hard. He shook his head again.

“Lou went — to Chi. A truck hit—”

“Shut up!” Gus snapped. “I’ll put a slug in you, sure as hell — if you lie! Lou did one thing — or another. He got yellow — and ran like a rat. He’s looking for a crawl spot. Or he went over — to Hurry!”

Al Berryman said in his grating voice:

“Ella — got hit by a truck—”

He checked his words as Gus walked up close to him and shoved the muzzle of the gun against his stomach. He spoke softly.

“You’re going out. I think you’re riding with Hurry, and you’ve got to go out. You should have had the dose before. Walk to the stairs in back — go down. If you’ve got anything to think about—”

Berryman’s eyes stared into the beady ones of the fight manager. He said slowly, shakenly:

“For God’s sake, Gus — don’t do it—”

The whistling up above grew louder. Gus Monkly shoved the gun forward a little. Berryman’s body stiffened. Gus said:

“Get moving—”

Al Berryman made a choking sound. He said weakly:

“It’s — Pardo, Gus. They’re going to—”

His face was ghastly. His voice was a little whisper.

“Lou — made a duck — Hurry was coming right after—”

Al Berryman’s body jerked, relaxed. It slumped towards the floor. Gus got an arm around the man, dragged him back of the desk to a battered chair. He touched Al’s right wrist — there was no pulse beat.

The fight manager swore softly. He wiped the gun off with his handkerchief, wiped it carefully. He slipped it into a pocket of Al’s faded suit. Then he went around to the front of the desk, looked towards the door that led to the street. It was still closed.

Upstairs he heard the wavering voice of the hotel porter, Conlon. The porter was calling Al’s name. Gus smiled grimly and went towards the rear stairs again. As he went down he heard Conlon call in a louder, shriller voice:

“Hey, Al! How about them chips in number eight?”

Gus went along the concrete floor of the basement, reached the street. It was snowing hard. He walked towards the river, watching the cabs. A man on horseback, riding ahead of a huge locomotive, appeared faintly through the snow. Gus turned southward, hailed a cab at the next square.

“The Manger,” he told the driver. “And take it easy — I’ve got a bad heart.”

The driver grinned, nodded. Gus Monkly settled back in the seat and shook the snow from his soft hat. He said, half aloud:

“That’s a hell of a lot better — than no heart — at all.”

Chapter IV

Giant Pardo was playing pinochle with Eddie Leach, one of the handlers, when Gus got inside the room. He grinned at the manager.

“It’s snowin’ out, Gus,” he said.

Gus grunted. “You’ve been peeking,” he replied. “Feel all right?”

The big slugger nodded. “I feel swell,” he replied. “I like it cold.”

Gus swore. “Not too cold, big boy,” he reminded. “That’s the way we want Bolley to like it — cold.”

The big slugger blinked stupidly. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, Gus.”

The manager said: “Where’s Connors?”

Eddie Leach gestured towards one of the connecting rooms.

“Readin’ about how good Bolley is,” he stated. “Or maybe he’s washin’ his neck. It’s the right month.”

The Giant threw back his big head and roared with laughter. Things rattled in the room. Gus frowned at his fighter, then grinned.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “The right month, eh?”

Pardo rocked from side to side with laughter. Gus grinned at the fighter until he turned his head away. Then he frowned. He went across the room and met Connors at the doorway.

“What’s goin’ on?” the second muttered.

Gus forced a grin. “Eddie told a joke,” he stated. He walked past Connors, said in a low voice: “Come on in and shut the door — I’ll tell another one, not so funny.”

Connors closed the door. Gus took off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair. He threw his hat on top of it, went over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Listen, Connors,” he said in a low tone, “you stickin’ with me?”

Connors narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he replied. “Why not?”

Gus lighted a cigarette and shrugged. He kept his small eyes on the blue ones of Connors, and didn’t reply for several seconds. When he spoke his voice was toneless.

“Lou Berryman isn’t heading for Chi because his sister got hit by a truck, Connors. Maybe he isn’t heading that way at all. He ran out on me. He got yellow.”

Connors whistled softly. “Say, Gus,” he said slowly, “is this fight on the level?”

Gus Monkly looked hurt. “You’re damn right it is,” he stated. “This ain’t the sticks — this is the Garden. The fight’s on the square. But that don’t mean—”

He checked himself. He narrowed his eyes to little slits.

“I got to have you — with me, Connors,” he said. “You don’t run with the mob. You stickin’?”

The handler swore. “Come on,” he muttered. “Give it to me. What was Lou’s game?”

Gus said slowly: “Hurry Lassen slammed him down, a few nights ago. He got worried. Lou was in Hurry’s mob, working beer, in Chi. He and I — we quit. Things were getting tough, and Hurry was playing around. He’s got a blonde now. She comes close to running things. And she figures Hurry should have a slice of the Giant. Forty percent cut-in.”

Connors said: “Yeah?” very slowly.

Gus said: “Lou figured he should have a hunk of Pardo, too. But he wasn’t coming after me too hard. We meet up with Hurry, and I hand him the line that the boy’s all sliced up. Lou admits he’s got a share — and Hurry knows he’s lying. He slams him down. The blonde sits there and thinks a little for him. Hurry tries to throw a scare my way. He wants forty percent of my take on the Giant — and he sent Little Andy around to tell me that if he don’t get it before the scrap with Bolley — it’ll be Pardo’s last fight.”

Connors sat down in a chair and shook his head from side to side. He swore huskily. Gus said: “Then Lou comes along with a fake wire — and makes a duck. He got yellow. He’s been staying at his brother’s hotel. I went over to see if he was really walking out — and the blonde tried to rub me out, down in the basement. I put a gun on Al Berryman — he was getting set to spill something, and his pumper went bad. He’s dead.”

Connors got up and walked around. Gus said slowly:

“I’ve got to have help, Connors — that’s why I’m giving it to you straight. If Pardo gets the nod over Bolley — he’ll get the works!”

Connors said grimly: “We got to hide him out. He’s got a chance to win, Gus.”

The manager grunted. “Chance, hell!” he breathed. “Bell made a rotten match. He needs the coin. Bolley’s a sucker for a right — and Pardo’s got the right. I’ve been stallin’ around, Connors. The big boy’s in right now. But the hell of it is—”

Gus got up and went over to the window. The handler said softly:

“You could sell him the cut, Gus.”

The fight manager swung around, his beady eyes glittering.

“I’m not yellow,” he said harshly. “I dug up this palooka. He was opening oysters in a lousy town. He was so dumb he’d been fired from one fish joint because he couldn’t count up to six. He was giving the customers five shells. I taught him something. I ain’t letting Hurry come in. If the boy gets over — he’s worth big money. If Hurry gets in on big money — the other guy gets sick. Sometimes he don’t get well again.”

Connors nodded slowly. “Pardo’ll take Bolley,” he muttered. “We can fix up a way of gettin’ him out of the Garden without being seen. We can hide him out—”

The fight manager smiled grimly. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, that’s what I’m looking for. Hurry’s a killer — and he hates my guts. That means he hates anything I touch — except maybe the dirt he’d like to shove me into. We got to be careful.”

Connors said slowly: “Or it’s no coin for you, eh? And the long count — for Pardo.”

The manager said tonelessly: “See what you can dope out. If Hurry gets Pardo — I’ll get him. Jeeze — I’ll get him for it, Connors!”

The handler closed his eyes and said slowly:

“We’re safe — while we’ve got the Giant in the Garden. If we can sneak him out—”

Gus Monkly spoke softly. “Pardo’s going to kayo Bolley, Connors. He’ll give him the count. And I know Hurry. He’ll go through hell to square it with me for—”

Connors said quietly: “Why don’t he gun you out, Gus?”

The manager’s half-moon scar jerked a little. He laughed harshly.

“That’s easy,” he said. “He wants me to walk around and remember. To think about the coin I almost got my fingers on, see? He wants to let me know he can still boss jobs, see? He’s a killer — and he’s a cold killer.”

Connors didn’t say anything. Gus got to his feet, started towards the door. He turned suddenly.

“Don’t get talking, Connors. You’re sitting in now. Keep your face tight. I’ll fix you so it’ll be worthwhile.”

Connors nodded. “We’ll lick ’em, Gus,” he said grimly. “But we’ve got to use brains.”

The fight manager took the cigarette from between his thin lips and looked at the ash.

“Brains — and maybe some other things,” he said softly, and went into the other room.

Eddie Leach grinned at him. “Is he usin’ soap?” he asked.

Giant Pardo chuckled. He stood up and put his big arms out. He swung at the air. Gus said grimly: “You look great, big boy. I’m feelin’ sorry for Bolley.”

Eddie lighted a cigarette. “He’ll murder him,” he said.

The scar on Gus’s face twitched. He stiffened a little. Then he grinned.

“Sure,” he said. “And say, Giant — Lou’s sister got sick in Chi. He had a wire. If he don’t get back for the fight, Connors will be in your corner.”

Pardo grinned. “To hell with seconds,” he announced. “I’ll kill this guy.”

“Yeah,” Gus stated. “But you got to quit grinnin’ at me, after you knock a guy down.”

The big slugger chuckled. “I go to a — neutral corner,” he said thickly in singsong fashion. “I won’t look at you, Gus.”

The manager nodded. Eddie Leach pulled on his cigarette and said softly:

“At three to one — it’s nice, Gus — it’s — a killing!”

Chapter V

The Garden was packed; they were standing three deep in the rear of the mezzanine and balcony. The ringside was filled; there was a buzz of voices as Joe Humphrey climbed through the ropes. The buzz became a roar as the big form of Chuck Bolley came along the aisle from the dressing rooms.

Bolley was almost as tall as Pardo; he had reddish hair and a pale face. He’d been fighting for five years and had spoiled the chances of more potential champs than any other scrapper in the heavyweight division. He raised his long arms above his head, tapped his gloves together. He towered above his handlers. Schenck, his brown-faced manager, was dwarfed as he stood beside him.

There was another roar as Giant Pardo came into the ring. Pardo was grinning; he leaned down suddenly and spoke to Connors at his side.

“It’s a — good crowd, Connors.”

The second grinned up at him. “You got a punch and they know it,” he replied. “And Bolley’ll know it, too!”

Pardo nodded. “Sure,” he agreed.

Joe Humphrey was introducing fighters who had climbed inside the ropes. The crowd was impatient; they shouted above the announcer’s clear voice. They drowned him out. Humphrey raised both hands as the gong clanged again and again. He pointed towards Giant Pardo seated on the stool in his corner.

“...the big boy from the Great Lakes, Giant Pardo!”

Pardo stood up and tapped leather at the crowd, turning slowly. Bolley sat across the ring and glared at him. The crowd cheered wildly. Pardo sat down as Humphrey faced his opponent.

“... that slugger from the Northwest, Red Bolley!”

The cheers were greater in volume as Bolley got up and went towards the center of the ring. He moved more gracefully than Pardo, swung more rapidly as he tapped his gloves above his head. Johnny Parks, the referee, went to the center of the ring. The fighters moved out to his side. Schenk was with Bolley, but Gus Monkly was not inside the ropes. Connors and Eddie Leach stood beside the big boy.

The referee gave instructions that both sluggers knew by heart. And Gus Monkly sat in an aisle chair, just back of Pardo’s stool, staring towards the ring — and thinking about Hurry Lassen.

The referee turned away. The fighters went to their corners. Gus Monkly stared across the ring, turned his eyes on the chairs. He didn’t see the blonde girl or Hurry. He didn’t see any of the mob. And that bothered him. His nerves were jumpy. The stools were being swung through the ropes; the handlers were climbing out of the ring. The gong clanged.

Bolley came out fast and swung a left that missed the Giant’s chin by inches. Pardo was short with a choppy right to the body. Bolley tried another right that Pardo smothered with his glove. They went into a clinch. Pardo seemed stronger than Bolley, though he weighed only two pounds more. He shoved the red-haired fighter away from him and shot out a straight right. It caught Bolley over the left eye and knocked him off balance. The crowd roared.

Gus leaned forward in his chair and shouted hoarsely:

“Get in there! Watch yourself—”

Pardo moved forward and shot another right. Bolley twisted to one side. He was hurt and holding his guard high. Gus shouted:

“To his belly, Giant — to his belly!”

Pardo tried a short left to the head. He missed. Bolley got in close and hung on. There was red over his left eye. Gus glanced towards Connors and saw the Irishman signaling Pardo to shove the red-haired fighter away, and work on his stomach. But Giant didn’t seem to see Connors. Gus muttered:

“He’s too — dumb—”

The referee broke them. Bolley backed away and brushed his left eye with the back of his right glove. Pardo followed him up and shot two lefts to the head, neither of which landed.

Bolley stepped in and landed a hard left to the body. Pardo lowered his guard and Bolley feinted with his right, shot a hard left to the mouth. Pardo shook his head and started to back away. Bolley came in fast and brought up an uppercut that just missed Pardo’s chin.

Gus leaned forward and shouted hoarsely. His words were drowned in the roar of the crowd.

“Get inside — get in close, Big Boy!”

Bolley landed two lefts to the body and missed a hard right to the head. Pardo crouched and shot out a straight right. It caught Bolley high on the forehead, knocked him back, off balance. The red-haired slugger’s face was streaked with red from his cut eye. He covered up and backed away as Pardo went after him slowly. The gong clanged.

Gus muttered to himself: “The palooka’s slow — but Red’s gettin’ tired already. If Pardo can get in a right—”

He watched Bolley drop to his stool. The Giant was standing in his corner and grinning at Gus. The manager swore at him as Connors jerked him down. A voice at Gus’s side said:

“Got a winner, Gus?”

The manager stiffened, turned. The blonde was across the aisle now. She was going to her seat. Beside her was Burke. He didn’t look at Gus. Edna looked pale, but there was a smile on her thin face.

On the opposite side of the ring a man was sliding past people to his seat. He was a small man. Little Andy.

Gus Monkly smiled with his thin lips. Three of the mob were present. But Hurry wasn’t in sight. The semifinal had been a good scrap; most of the crowd had come in time to see it. But this mob was arriving late. Why?

The bell clanged for the second round. Pardo was out before Bolley had left his stool. There was a white line over the red-haired slugger’s bad eye. Bolley came out in a crouch, and started weaving almost immediately. The crowd jeered. Pardo shot a swinging left, and Bolley got his head underneath it. He came in close and pawed at the Giant with both hands. Pardo shot a short right. His mouth was bleeding slightly; there was a half grin on his face. Bolley tried a right and left, fell into a clinch. Pardo broke away, and Bolley caught him on the head with a light left.

Pardo walked in and started throwing rights and lefts to the body. The crowd roared; Gus leaned forward in his chair. Bolley tried to get into a clinch but the Giant shoved him away. He drove a hard left to the body, and when Bolley sagged forward he stepped back and landed a heavy left to the face. Bolley was on the ropes now, crowded against them by Pardo. The crowd was howling fiercely, remembering the way the Giant had finished Mike Connell.

Bolley bent forward and tried to clinch. Suddenly he shoved Pardo away from him and snapped out a hard left. It caught Pardo with his arms out, knocked him back. Bolley leaped forward and brought one up from the floor. It missed Pardo’s chin by an inch.

Gus Monkly saw the expression on his slugger’s face — saw the grin fade, the eyes narrow. Pardo was facing the ropes almost directly in front of his manager. Gus caught one flashing glimpse of Pardo’s eyes — sensing the kill punch. And then the Giant shot the right. It had everything behind it — straight from the shoulder.

The gloved fist caught Bolley flush on the jaw, off balance. There was a screaming roar from the crowd — then silence. Bolley slumped forward. He hit resin heavily — there was no movement to his body. Pardo backed away, looked towards Gus. He started to grin, then turned towards his corner. Connors waved him off — he went to a neutral corner. The referee started the count.

Gus stood up and shouted hoarsely. At ten Bolley had not moved a muscle. He was out cold. The Garden was filled with sound as Johnny Parks pointed towards Giant Pardo. Gus caught a glimpse of Connors waving his arms wildly. Men were climbing into the ring — handlers of the fighters. Pardo came out from the neutral corner as Bolley’s seconds lifted him from the resin. He raised his gloved hands — the crowd shouted wildly. Gus stared at the ring — there were a half dozen humans inside the ropes now. More were climbing in. He saw Humphrey swing a leg over the ropes. A photographer climbed inside. Connors turned and grinned broadly at Gus.

“What a right!” he shouted hoarsely. “What a—”

His voice was drowned by the shouts of the crowd. A hand gripped Gus’s left shoulder. He swung around. Burke was standing back of him. There was a faint smile on his face.

“You win, Gus,” he said. “But it’s — like this—”

A flashlight boomed; the din of the crowd was dying. From the balcony there came a sudden hush. Gus kept his eyes on Burke.

“It’s like this, Burke,” he said, “you’d better be careful—”

Burke grinned and turned away. Gus looked across the aisle, failed to see the blonde Edna. He turned his face towards the ring. There was a crowd in the center of it, but the figure of Giant Pardo did not tower above the other humans. He saw the referee bending down. Connors swung towards the ropes, his face white and twisted.

“Gus!” he shouted. “Come — up here!”

Gus Monkly reached the corner that had been his fighter’s. He swung through the ropes. A uniformed cop stared at him. He saw Doc Bailey bending down, shoved his way to the doctor’s side.

Giant Pardo lay on his back. His eyes were wide open. His great arms were flung wide. There was a half smile on his face. His chest was soaked with water — his dark hair wet with it. Over his heart was a small reddish brown spot. A thin stream of blood had streaked down from it, towards his trunks.

Bailey looked at Gus. He shook his head slowly. There was a darker color around the skin of the heart. Bailey said quietly:

“He’s dead, Monkly. Shot through the heart.”

Gus Monkly stared at the wide eyes of Pardo. He straightened a little. He said slowly:

“Through the heart — but that would mean a sweet piece—”

Bailey said: “Powder burns on the skin. The murderer was in the ring, Monkly. He was inside — the ropes!”

Gus straightened; his eyes met the blue, staring ones of Connors. The second said fiercely:

“They got him—”

Gus reached out strong fingers and gripped Connors’s right wrist. He said in a hard, low voice:

“Take it easy. Don’t talk—”

There were several officers in the ring now. They were moving about, questioning seconds, officials, photographers. A handsome man in evening dress, with a black mustache he touched nervously, came close to Gus.

“You were — Pardo’s manager?” he asked. “I’m Watterman, police commissioner. Your man — was he ever threatened?”

Gus shook his head. His eyes held little expression. He looked at the immaculate police commissioner, but did not see him. Watterman said:

“Keep everybody inside the ropes, you officers. Monkly — recognize anyone here that might have reason for murdering your fighter?”

Gus shook his head and said: “No. But how could he have been shot—”

Bailey spoke up. “There was a lot of confusion. Eight or ten persons — perhaps a dozen were in the ring. There was a flashlight explosion—”

Colter, in charge of the Garden, was standing beside Bailey. He said in a grim tone:

“We don’t allow photographers in the ring, unless it’s a championship fight. There was no permission given for a photographer—”

Watterman said grimly: “Where’s that picture man?”

He turned away from Gus. The manager went over to the ropes and leaned against them. He looked towards the spot where he had seen Little Andy. The man wasn’t there now. He hadn’t seen Hurry Lassen at all. Connors came to his side and swore bitterly.

“Poor damn kid!” he muttered. “He might have been — champ—”

Gus said in a hard voice: “He wouldn’t have been. Rawlton would have kayoed him. But he was in a sweet spot—”

He checked himself, turned his back to the crowd milling around in the seats. Those in the mezzanine and balcony were not making for the exits. They were staring down at the ring. Humphrey’s voice sounded above the buzz in the Garden.

“The winner — Pardo — one minute and ten seconds — in the second round—”

A voice boomed down from the balcony: “What’s the matter — with Pardo?”

Bailey came to Gus’s side. “The camera’s still there — but there’s no photographer,” he said grimly. “It was a frame-up. They used the flash to kill the gun color, if there was any. And the sound to kill the sound. Maxim-silencer. Thirty-eight, probably. The murderer stepped close to him — let him have it. Got clear in the confusion. Probably two of them. You sure you don’t know anything about—”

Gus Monkly narrowed his beady eyes and looked beyond Bailey, towards the figure of the dead fighter. He said in a dull, low voice:

“Me — I don’t know — a thing. Not a damn thing, Bailey!”

Chapter VI

They sat in the room at the Manger. It was almost dawn; they had been released by the police an hour ago. There had been many questions — but the answers had been unimportant. Gus Monkly smoked a cigarette, and kept his eyes half closed. Connors lay on the bed and swore softly at intervals. It was raining outside; the drops beat against the window.

Gus said slowly and in a voice that showed no emotion:

“He did what he said — he’d do. Only he did it quicker — than we figured. He got the big boy, but that don’t count so much. I made that kid what he was. The champ would have dropped him — he’d have worked the sticks for a while — and then some doll would have grabbed what coin he had left. He’d have ended up opening oysters, where I found him. That don’t count. But something else — does count—”

Connors said bitterly: “He was a good kid. Dumb but good. I hate the guys that finished him. If you’re going after them—”

Gus nodded his head slowly. “I ain’t yellow,” he said. “I’m going after them — just once. It’ll be that way. Just once.”

“He was dumb — but he was tryin’,” Connors said fiercely. “God — I hate ’em for that.”

The manager nodded his head again. “Two hundred grand—” he breathed. “They took it away from me, Connors. They killed to do it. Because I wouldn’t let ’em cut in. Two hundred grand!”

Connors sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“That blonde — she tried to get you, in the basement of Berryman’s hotel. That might have given them a chance — with you out of the way. But why didn’t they try again — for you?”

Gus said slowly: “Maybe Hurry didn’t know about that. He’s got plenty of coin. He wants to hurt me, break me. I was square with him. But I walked out too soon. He needed me. He wanted to get even, get square. And he did.”

The manager stood up and looked down at Connors. The Irish handler’s blue eyes were narrowed on his. There was hatred in them. Gus said steadily:

“I guess you’re right, Connors — Pardo was tryin’. He was a good kid. We got to square things up. He was a scrapper, but they didn’t give him a chance. We’ve got to take one — to square things.”

Connors said nothing. The manager went over to the window.

“Maybe the mob made a break for it — maybe they didn’t. I’ve got a hunch they’re sittin’ tight — and waiting for me to come to them. Figuring I’ll come to them. Or maybe they think I’m yellow — like Lou Berryman.”

“He didn’t have a chance!” Connors breathed bitterly. “The dirty rats—”

Gus shook his head slowly. “You’ve got to take it easy, Connors,” he warned. “They’re killers. And they’re cold. You’ve got to be the same way.”

Connors said in a calmer voice: “You could turn ’em up — tell the bulls what you know.”

Gus Monkly laughed harshly. “Where’s the proof?” he asked. “Hurry’s got enough coin to beat a dozen charges like this one. Burke was talking to me when Pardo got the dose. The blonde had been sitting right across from me. Little Andy was on the other side of the ring. They’d all have alibis. And I didn’t see Hurry. He’d have one — and it would be air-tight. Turn ’em up? Not a chance.”

Connors swore. “And they might remember something on you,” he said.

Gus nodded. “They would,” he replied. “No, that ain’t the way, Connors. The thing is to just walk in on ’em. Maybe we can walk out — maybe not. Maybe we can do the job right.”

The phone bell rang. Gus looked towards the table on which it rested. He said grimly:

“The bulls — pretty sure.”

He went over and lifted the receiver. He made his voice sound sleepy.

“Yeah,” he said. “Monkly.”

His body got straight — he sucked in his breath sharply. Then he relaxed. He listened for a few seconds. Once he said: “No,” in a husky voice. After a half minute he said: “Yeah — I know the spot. In thirty minutes. But if you’re lying, Edna—” He hung up abruptly.

When he faced Connors there was a twisted smile on his thin lips. He touched the half-moon scar gently.

“The blonde — Edna,” he said. “She’s waitin’ for me, downtown. She’s alone — and she’s got something big to say. She swears to God it’s all right. Hurry’s crossed her up. What she’s got to say will mean a lot to me. If I don’t come down — I’m on the spot. If I do come down, she’s got a line that’ll help me beat it. That’s all.”

Connors said in a half whisper: “It’s a plant. They’ll gun you out. They’re getting yellow.”

“Just the same — I’m going down.” Gus’s voice was steady. “I knew a moll once that lied all her life — and then told one truth. It helped. Edna’s tricky as hell. Maybe she’s got that way with Hurry. It’s a gambling chance.”

“You’re on the short end,” Connors muttered. “I’m riding down with you.”

Gus smiled a little with his eyes. “You’re twenty-one,” he said. “It might help.”

Connors read a morning paper as the cab moved eastward towards the Hudson. He said grimly:

“Its all over the paper — the kill story. The bulls are running around in circles. Watterman was at the ringside, and he’s raising hell. They haven’t picked up anyone who remembers what the man that climbed into the ring with the camera looked like. A handler named Lester, workin’ with Bolley — he thinks he saw a flash. Another guy says he saw a short, thickset bird standing close to Pardo, just before the flash went off.”

“The coppers won’t get anywhere,” Gus said softly. “There was too much excitement. Maybe even the big boy didn’t see the killer. There wouldn’t be much flash — and with that flashlight racket and the cheering — the sound of the gun—”

Connors tossed the paper on the floor of the cab. It had stopped raining, and was getting colder. Gus looked down at the large-sized picture of Pardo, posed in his fighting togs.

“Two hundred grand — maybe more!” he breathed fiercely.

Connors said slowly: “How do we — work this, Gus?”

The fight manager shrugged. “It’s a small hotel,” he said. “Edna’s aunt runs it. She wouldn’t let any of the mob hang out there, six months ago. But she may have changed her mind. There’s one entrance — one exit. I’ve used ’em both — the place was raided for booze once, when I was inside. There’s a small bar in the back room. The aunt isn’t inside much of the time. A fat bird named Lippe keeps things going. He’s dumb, and handy with a blackjack.”

Connors said slowly: “A rod can beat a blackjack, any time.”

Gus shook his head. “That isn’t our line,” he stated. “Let me do the gabbing. I’ve got a hunch that Edna’s on the level this time. Give her a chance — it may help.”

Connors kept his left hand inside the pocket of his brown coat and swore softly.

“We’re both going to get finished, maybe,” he said in a peculiarly dull voice.

Gus said: “Yeah — maybe. We ain’t there yet. You can drop out, Connors. You ain’t mixed up in this too much. You can ease out.”

The handler swore again. “Giant was a good kid,” he repeated. “They never gave him a break. The bulls won’t do anything. I want this chance.”

The cab turned southward on Tenth Avenue. When it turned westward again, a few squares distant, Gus tapped on the glass that separated the driver from the rear of the cab.

“Pull in,” he ordered. “This is right.”

When the cab was a half block distant Gus led the way across the street. There was slush under-foot; Connors slipped once and swore grimly. Gus said with irony in his voice:

“Careful — don’t get hurt!”

He turned in abruptly at the entrance, narrow and dark, of a three-story brown house. The brick was dirty and in need of repair. There was a bell at one side of the entrance — he pressed it.

There was the sound of a lock snapping. The door opened a little. Gus said quietly, steadily:

“It’s Gus, Lips. Edna called me.”

There was a muttered sound from beyond the door. It opened a little more. Gus sighed and squeezed through the opening. The fat one started to close the door, but Gus said slowly:

“Wait — I got one good guy with me.”

The fat man muttered again. Connors slid inside. Gus took his Colt from a coat pocket and pressed it against the fat man’s side. The hallway was almost dark.

“You go first, Lips,” he said. “I hate to see you get quiet. Take us to Edna.”

Lippe said huskily. “This is — a hell of a note. Pullin’ a rod on me!”

Gus said: “I ain’t using it, Lips. It’s just — for fun.”

The fat man led the way towards the back room. He went inside with Gus close behind him. Connors stayed near Monkly. The room was small, lighted by one hanging bulb. There was a small bar. At one end of it was a dirty tray, with two empty, tall glasses on it. There were two tables in the room — they had white surfaces that glistened in the light.

Edna sat beside one of the tables. Her back was to the door that led to the narrow passage going towards the rear. One arm rested on the table, the other rigidly at her side. She looked shorter, heavier than ever. Her face was strangely thin — there was a bluish bruise over her right eye. She wore a dark suit, and her face seemed very pale. She smiled a little.

“Hello, Gus,” she said. “Come on over. Sit down.”

Gus smiled with his thin lips. “Take a look back of the bar, Connors,” he said. “Lips — you go over there and sit down. Keep your hands in sight.”

He pointed towards the other table. The bartender swore and did as he was told. The girl narrowed her eyes on Connors. She said bitterly:

“Hell — there’s no one here. Just Lips and myself. And Lips is wise to everything.”

Gus said: “Sure, Edna.”

He went close to her, pulled out a chair and placed it so that it faced the doorway through which they had come. He could see the rear exit without turning his head. He put the gun in his right coat pocket and said to Connors: “All right?”

Connors said: “All right, Gus. I’ll stick here by the bar.”

Gus nodded. He smiled at the girl. Lippe was making a heavy noise as he breathed. Gus said:

“Well — get started whining, Edna.”

She shook her head. There was an empty glass in front of her.

“How about a drink?” she asked in a shaken voice, and moved her left arm a little.

Gus shook his head. “Not doing it — right now,” he stated. “Pretty rotten with your left hand, eh?”

She widened her eyes a little. There wasn’t as much rouge on her lips as usual. They looked gray. She said:

“I don’t get you, Gus.”

He smiled. “You didn’t get me,” he corrected. “But you made too much noise, in that basement. You tried damn’ hard.”

She looked puzzled. Her right arm moved a little, above the elbow.

“I don’t get you, Gus,” she said again.

The fight manager said nothing. His eyes were narrowed on hers. She shrugged, said slowly:

“Something went wrong, Gus. I got the dirty end. No man can kick me around.”

She raised her left-hand fingers and touched the bruise on her forehead. She said bitterly:

“Damn Hurry — I’d see him burn for what—”

She stopped. Gus smiled and said: “You could almost play the Palace, Kid. You can almost act.”

She stiffened in the chair. Her voice dropped; she looked beyond Gus, towards Connors.

“I told you to come — alone,” she said.

Gus Monkly nodded. “And I didn’t,” he replied. “What about it?”

She shivered a little. His tone was hard, and his eyes were hard.

“It’s all — right,” she replied. “Something slipped up, Gus. Hurry didn’t — get your man.”

The fight manager smiled a little. “No?” he said. “You got me down here to tell me that.”

She nodded. “That — and something else,” she said. “God knows I’m not trying to make it easy for Hurry.” She leaned towards him and said fiercely: “I hate him, Gus. I swear I do — I hate his insides!”

Gus nodded. He kept on smiling coldly. “Sure you do — and you got me down here to tell me that.”

She relaxed a little. “I’m sick,” she said slowly. “I’m terrible sick, Gus. I want to get away — to get out of here.”

The fight manager stopped smiling. “Yeah?” he said. He got up from the chair suddenly, and moved back a little. Lippe straightened at the table, staring at the manager.

Gus said: “All right, Kid — I’ll see that you go away. I’ve got your ticket—”

He took his gun from the pocket. The girl’s eyes were filled with fear. She cried shrilly:

“No — no! For God’s sake. Gus — I got you here to tell you — who finished — Pardo!”

The fight manager let his small eyes open a little. He held the Colt low.

“All right,” he said. “Spill it!”

The girl’s face was twisted, white. The bluish bruise stood out clearly in the white light from the unshaded bulb. Lippe was breathing heavily in the silence before she spoke. She said hoarsely:

“There he is — Connors!”

Gus Monkly turned his head slightly. Connors’s eyes were on the girl, blue pinpoints in the white light. His lips moved very little.

“You dirty liar!” he said.

The girl rose suddenly from her chair. She faced Connors. Her body was tense. She extended her right arm, pointed a finger at him. Her left arm was close against the dark cloth of her suit.

“Don’t crawl, Connors!” she said harshly. “You got Lou Berryman in the clear, when we were right on top of him. Hurry fixed it with you. And you got Giant Pardo. I saw you!”

Gus Monkly turned his body a little towards the second. He swayed a bit, from side to side. But he kept the muzzle of his gun on the girl’s figure. Connors said again:

“You dirty, yellow liar!”

The girl dropped her right arm. “You were in the ring!” she said. “Gus had to have someone with him. You weren’t in the mob in Chi. He thought you were all right, I suppose. You can play pretty white, I guess. After the kayo — you went towards Giant with a towel in your hands. You gave Pardo the works!”

Gus drew in his breath slowly. Lippe swore hoarsely, across the room. Gus said slowly:

“How about it — Connors?”

The second laughed throatily. He gestured towards the blonde in a careless manner, using his right hand. The left was still out of sight.

“She’s tryin’ to frame me,” he said grimly. “She’s a rat, Gus. We’d better let her have—”

The girl broke in. “I’m givin’ it to you straight, Gus. Connors is workin’ for Hurry. Don’t I know? Hurry was afraid you’d hide Pardo out. You had a winner. He was down the aisle, near the dressing room. He was waiting — in case Connors lost his nerve. But he didn’t lose it. He did for Pardo, I’m tellin’ you!”

Her voice had risen shrilly. Connors’s eyes had ceased to be pinpoints now. They were wider. He chuckled huskily.

“What’s her game, Gus?” he asked. “Why’s she trying to put it on me?”

Gus said in a cold tone: “Take your hand away from the rod, Connors.”

The handler stared at him. His left-hand pocket was away from the fight manager. He didn’t move. Gus spoke very quietly:

“Show me your left, Connors.”

Connors took his left hand from the pocket of his coat. He said bitterly:

“Hell, Gus — you ain’t falling for her line? It’s a frame — she’s trying to get us spilling lead at each other. She’s sitting in with Hurry — and this is a try for an easy out.”

Gus said with a faint smile in his eyes:

“All right, Connors — but it won’t work. We won’t spill lead — not at each other.”

The blonde stared at Monkly. “He did it, Gus!” she said. “I’m tellin’ you — I saw him go for Pardo, with the towel. They used the flashlight to drown the sound—”

Gus said: “Sure, I know, Kid. Now you sit down. Connors — move over and sit down next to her. Face me—”

He watched Connors go over and sit down next to the blonde. There was a sound something like a door shutting, somewhere in the hotel. Gus looked at Lippe and said quietly:

“If anyone comes in here — you’ll get it first, Lips. Remember that!”

The fat man wet his lips and started to speak. But he said nothing. Gus looked at the girl. There was terror in her eyes.

“You damn’ near got me, at Berryman’s place,” he said. “What’s the answer?”

She shook her head. “I was after Lou,” she said thickly. “I thought he came downstairs. I squeezed lead twice — and got clear in a cab. Hurry wanted Lou out of the way. He knew he was yellow — and he was afraid he’d run out, or play with you. Lou was supposed to do the job on Pardo.”

Gus said: “Yeah?”

The blonde nodded. “It was a hate kill, Gus. You quit the racket in Chi. They needed you. You ran into something nice, and wouldn’t give Hurry a piece. He’d staked you. He didn’t need the coin, but he got hating you — for not coming through. When Lou started to go yellow — he picked me to stop him.”

Gus said: “Why?”

She shrugged. “He figured I could do it with my left — and no one on the inside would be wise. I can’t move the right arm. He figured I’d be safe.”

Gus said in a low tone: “And Connors did the job on Pardo, with a Maxim-silenced gun under a towel — inside the ropes?”

The girl looked at Connors and replied in a hard voice:

“He did it, Gus.”

Connors ran the back of his left hand across his broken nose. He smiled nastily.

“She’s a lyin’ moll,” he said calmly. “Get it right, Gus.”

Gus Monkly nodded. “It’ll be that way,” he said. “Listen, Edna — if Connors was working for Hurry — why did they pull the job in the ring? Why didn’t they wait? I’d have sent Pardo with Connors—”

He stopped, smiling grimly. Edna Harms swore softly.

“You know that answer — you ain’t that dumb,” she said. “You’d know who did the job — if they waited. They wanted to work it smooth — and when it would hurt most. And they didn’t want you to know about Connors.”

Gus said in a soft tone: “With Connors workin’ for Hurry they could have fixed it so that Giant would lose the scrap.”

The girl smiled bitterly. “Hurry was betting on Giant,” she said. “At three to one he cleaned up plenty. And then he put the job over—”

“She’s lying, Gus.” Connors’s voice held a shaken note. “You know she’s lying.”

Gus looked at the girl and said in a tone that was low and smooth:

“You’re spilling the works, Edna — why?”

Her voice held a lot of hate. She looked beyond Gus, towards the dirty mirror back of the bar.

“There’s a guy named — never mind that, Gus. I wanted to slide out of the mob, three months ago. I’ve been good to Hurry — he ain’t been so damn’ good to me. I wanted to quit, like you did. This guy that made me want to quit — he ain’t so good. But he ain’t rotten, like Hurry. I couldn’t get clear — Hurry wouldn’t let me go. I kept trying. Hurry said if I helped with this deal he’d let me out. I played along. Tonight he squealed on me.”

Gus said slowly: “To this — guy — you wanted to quit for?”

The girl nodded. Lippe spoke in a husky voice.

“That’s straight, Gus. That’s straight.”

Connors’s eyes were little blue points of fire. He said sharply:

“It’s a... damn’ lie! It’s a frame.”

The girl shook her head. “You didn’t know how much I knew,” she said. “You came along to help Gus — and you came along to get me out of things. You didn’t think I’d have guts enough to tell him — the truth.”

Gus moved his right hand a little. “Hurry threw you over,” he said. “He got me fixed — and threw you over. He squealed about you — to the guy you wanted to quit the racket for.”

Edna said: “Damn him — I just wanted — to quit. It’s a rotten racket.”

Gus said slowly: “I think you — told the one truth, Kid.”

Connors stiffened his body; he stared up at the fight manager. He said fiercely:

“You ain’t falling for the line, Gus. For God’s sake — you don’t think—”

Gus smiled just a little. “Yeah,” he said in a soft tone. “You did the job, Connors. You talked about Giant being a good guy — but you did the job. Sure as hell — you did it.”

The girl started to cry. Gus said sharply:

“Don’t do that, Kid! Where’s Hurry — and Little Andy—”

The blonde stopped crying and looked at Gus. Her voice was broken when she spoke.

“They split up — after the kill — got out of the burg. They had coin — they didn’t leave me any—”

Connors turned his head towards the fight manager, shook it from side to side.

“Jeeze, Gus,” he breathed, “I’m tellin’ you it’s a fix! If you don’t—”

“All right,” the manager cut in softly. “All right, Connors. It’s a fix.”

The girl said: “Burke went — with them. They cleaned up plenty — and they got your—”

She stopped, said softly: “And he squealed on me. He hit me, Gus. He went to—”

Connors’s eyes were looking down towards the white surface of the table. The manager spoke in a steady tone.

“Don’t get careless, Connors. Keep your hands where I can see them. We’re just — talkin’.”

Connors swore. “She’s just — lying!” he said huskily. “She’s killing time, maybe. If we stick here they’ll walk in on—”

Gus Monkly smiled. “Edna and me — we’ve got plenty of time,” he said. “You — maybe you ain’t got so much.”

Connors’s eyes widened. His lips parted — he stared at Gus. He said:

“Now listen, Gus — I’m telling you—”

The fight manager said slowly: “Never mind, Connors. You slipped that gun to the guy working with you, in the ring. But you hung on to the towel. I got a look at it. The gas burned it a little. I couldn’t be sure about that, so I played along. I treated you like you were a white guy, Connors.”

His voice got suddenly hard. “But that’s done now. You killed, Connors — and you won’t get free. Maybe the others won’t, either. You can’t tell. I don’t know about that. But I know about you!”

Connors relaxed in the chair and stared at the fight manager. He shook his head slowly. An amazed smile showed in his eyes.

“You’re falling for her line!” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t falling for—”

His body moved forward — the table came up from the floor. The girl screamed as the white surface battered against her head. Gus Monkly stepped to one side and squeezed the gun trigger.

The bullet ricocheted from the iron leg nearest him. Connors’s gun crashed. Gus felt a hot pain over his left thigh. He squeezed the trigger a second time. Connors cried out. But his gun crashed again.

Gus Monkly felt as though he had been lifted away for a little while — hot waves ran through his body. He saw the body of Connors roll clear of the fallen table. He leveled the muzzle and squeezed the trigger until the gun was silent. He looked at the girl. She was sprawled on the floor, her face white.

He said to Lippe, very weakly: “She’s just — knocked cold — fix her up.”

He went over and looked down at Connors. The handler’s eyes were half closed — already they had a stare in them.

Gus said in a whisper: “You can’t fix him up—”

Lippe was muttering words Gus couldn’t understand. He walked slowly past the fat man, went into the hallway. It took him time to get the lock turned. When he reached the street the air felt good. There was a bluish light down near the docks — he moved in that direction. His body felt like something that didn’t belong to him. There was a moving coldness down his thighs. He walked a little like a drunken man.

When he reached the bluish light there was a lunch-wagon below it. It took him time to climb the three steps and get inside. A lean-faced man looked at him and grinned. Gus said weakly:

“Pack of — Camels — light me one — will you?”

The lean-faced man stared at him. Gus got his right hand inside a pocket, and tossed a half dollar on the counter. He said hoarsely:

“Make it — fast—”

There was a pounding in his ears that sounded a lot like the knockdown timekeeper’s mallet, hitting the wood, in the Garden. The lunch-wagon proprietor was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. It was cold inside the place.

Gus thought of Giant Pardo and said very softly:

“Don’t look — at me — go to — a neutral corner—”

When the proprietor of the lunch-wagon heard Gus’s body fall, he came around from behind the counter and swore. He put the lighted cigarette between his own lips. When he leaned over Gus’s body he saw the red stain on the floor. Gus had been dead ten minutes when the first cop reached the place. It was a cold dawn, and they weren’t easy to find.