The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

W(illis) T(odhunter) Ballard (1903–1980) was born in Cleveland, Ohio, and, after college, briefly worked for his father’s electronics magazine, then for a newspaper, followed by less than a year each at two movie studios. He had written sporadically for several pulps before creating Bill Lennox, a motion picture troubleshooter, for Black Mask, successfully using his work background at First National and Columbia to lend authenticity to his stories, which soon rivaled Dashiell Hammett, Carroll John Daly, and Erle Stanley Gardner in popularity.

Over the course of a half century, Ballard became one of the most prodigiously productive writers in America, his credits including ninety-five novels, more than a thousand short stories and novellas, and about fifty movie and television scripts. In addition to selling to the pulps, Ballard was published in the top slick magazines, including The Saturday Evening Post, McCall’s, and Esquire. Lennox appeared in twenty-seven Black Mask stories between 1933 and 1942, five of which were collected in Hollywood Troubleshooter (1985), as well as four novels: Say Yes to Murder (1942), Murder Can’t Stop (1946), Dealing Out Death (1948), and Lights, Camera, Murder, as John Shepherd (1960). He also wrote as Neil MacNeil and P. D. Ballard, and was one of many writers to produce novels under the house names Nick Carter and Robert Wallace.

“A Little Different,” the first Bill Lennox story, was published in the September 1933 issue.

Bill Lennox, studio trouble-shooter, finds real trouble and the shooting not so good.

1

Bill Lennox nodded to the gateman and climbed on to the shine stand, just inside the General gate. The shine-boy grinned, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “When is you all gwine tuh star me, Mister Lennox?”

Bill said, absently: “Pretty soon, Sam. Lean on that brush, will you; I’m in a hurry.”

“I’se leaning.” The boy ducked his head and went to work briskly. A big beaming car came through the gate. Bill could see the woman on the rear seat, a dazzling blonde with dark eyebrows. He watched the car sourly until it halted before the star’s bungalow dressing-room. The blonde descended, assisted by her maid, and disappeared. Lennox said something under his breath, found a quarter, which he tossed to the boy, and climbed from his seat.

Sol Spurck, head of General-Consolidated Films, put his short fingers together and stared at Lennox as the latter came into his office. “Where was you yesterday?”

Lennox looked at him without visible emotion. “Out, Sol. Out doing your dirty work.”

The short figure behind the big desk shifted uncertainly. “I told you that you should watch out for that dumb cluck Wayborn. He’s in a jam.”

Lennox shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and sat down upon the corner of the desk. “What, again?”

Spurck seemed to explode. “Again — again! Always that guy—”

“Save it.” Lennox’s voice was very tired. “What’s he done now?”

“Am I a mind reader — am I?” Spurck had come to his feet and was bouncing about the office. “What is it that I pay you for — what is it? Must I do everything — everything? I tell you that Wayborn’s gone. Fifty thousand they want — fifty thousand for that—”

Lennox said: “Remember your arteries, Sol. Who wants fifty grand and for what?”

Spurck was wrenching open the drawer of his desk. He pulled forth a dirty scrap of paper and shoved it at Lennox. “Find him — find him quick. Are we half through shooting Dangerous Love? I ask you. Can we shoot without Wayborn? But fifty thousand for that schlemiel. I wouldn’t pay fifty thousand for Gable yet, and they ask it for a ham like Wayborn.”

Lennox said: “You wouldn’t pay fifty grand for your grandmother,” and stared at the piece of paper. On it were printed crude letters with a soft pencil. They said:

Lennox looked at his boss. “Where’d this come from?”

Spurck threw up his hands, appealing to the ceiling. “He asks me riddles yet. Mein Gott! He asks me riddles.”

Lennox said, roughly: “Cut it. Where’d this come from? Who’s seen it?”

His voice seemed to quiet the little man. Spurck returned to his chair and lit an enormous cigar with care. “No one has seen it,” he said in a surly tone. “I found it on the floor of my car this morning.”

“How long has Wayborn been gone?”

Spurck shrugged. “Yesterday, he was here. Today, he is not. Find him? Yes — but fifty thousand — no. Ten maybe. Not one cent over ten.”

Lennox said: “I suppose you know what this will mean? The picture is half in the can. If we don’t find Wayborn, we shoot it over and Price is three days behind schedule now.”

Spurck’s eyes were narrow. “Why did you let me use Wayborn? That ham — what is it I pay you for?”

Lennox said: “Because I’m a fool”; he said it bitterly. “Because I stick around this mad house and keep things going. Some day, Sol, I’ll quit this lousy outfit cold. I’ll sit back and watch it go to the devil.”

Spurck grinned. He’d heard the threat before, many times. “Find him, Bill.” He reached across and patted Lennox’s shoulder with a fat hand. “Find him, and I take you to Caliente. That’s a promise yet.”

2

Bill Lennox, trouble-shooter for General-Consolidated Studio, walked through the outer office. Trouble-shooter wasn’t his title. In fact, one of the things which Lennox lacked was an official title. Those in Hollywood who didn’t like him called him Spurck’s watch-dog. Ex-reporter, ex — publicity man, he had drifted into his present place through his inability to say yes and his decided ability in saying no.

His searching blue eyes swept about the large waiting-room. A world-famous writer bowed, half fearfully. A director whose last three pictures had hit the box-office paused for a moment to speak to him. Bill grunted and went on. As he walked down the line towards the row of dressing-rooms he was thinking quickly. Wayborn was gone. They needed him for Dangerous Love. No one seemed to know anything about him.

Lennox paused before the door of the third bungalow and knocked. A trim maid opened the door. Her eyes were uncertain when she saw who it was. Bill said: “Tell Miss Meyer that I want to see her.”

The maid’s eyes got more uncertain. “I don’t think—”

His voice rasped. “You aren’t paid to think. Tell Meyer that I want to see her at once.”

Elva Meyer’s eyes were cold, hostile beneath her dark brows as he walked through the door. She was seated before her dressing-table, but there was as yet no greasepaint on her face. “Well?” Her voice was colder than her eyes.

He was staring at her blond hair. “I’m not so hot,” he said, helping himself to a chair. “When did you see Wayborn last?”

The eyes flecked, glowed for an instant. “I told you some time ago that I was perfectly capable of looking after my affairs without your help.”

“Yeah?” He’d found a loose cigarette in his pocket and was rolling it back and forth between his strong fingers so that the tobacco spilled out at both ends. “Well, sweetheart, it so happens that I’m not sticking my schnozzle into your playhouse at the moment. You and Wayborn were at the Grove last night; then you turned up at the Brown Derby about one—”

She pushed back her chair, noisily. “I’m not going to stand this any longer — your jealous spying is driving me insane. I’m going to Mr. Spurck.”

He said, “Nerts! You’ll get damn little sympathy from Sol today, honey. He left it at home, wrapped in moth-balls — but you’re getting ideas under that peroxide-treated mat of yours. I’m not checking on you because I’m still interested. I’m washed up, baby, washed up. You’re not the first chiseling tramp that forgot my first name after I boosted them into lights, and I don’t suppose that you’ll be the last. I always was a sucker for a pretty face with nice hips for a background; but this is strictly business. Dangerous Love should be in the can by the last of the week. It won’t be unless Price can shoot.”

She said: “I’ve been here all morning, waiting.” She said it in the tone of one who does not like to wait.

Lennox grinned. For the first time in days he was enjoying himself. “You’re good, baby.” His voice mocked her. “You’re plenty good. You should be. I found you, trained you, but you aren’t good enough to play love scenes by yourself. Wayborn isn’t around. He’s been snatched.”

She made her eyes wide. “Snatched?” she said, slowly. “You mean—”

His voice rasped with impatience. “Quit acting. You read the papers. You know what snatched means. They want fifty grand and they won’t get it.”

She sank back into her chair as if her legs suddenly refused to support her. “This is terrible. When did it happen?”

His eyes were sardonic. “That’s what I’m asking you, sweetheart. You were with him last night. He hasn’t been seen this morning.”

Her eyes blazed and she made two small white hands into little fists. “You’re lousy, Bill Lennox. You can’t tie me into this.” Her voice threatened to break. “Ralph took me home at one-thirty. I haven’t seen him since.”

His eyes searched her face. “I guess you’re in the clear, kid.” He sounded almost regretful. “Wayborn’s boy says that he came in around two, but that he went out again, without his car.”

She gained assurance at his words. “But what will Spurck do? He’ll have to pay the fifty grand.”

“Will he? You don’t know Sol, sweetheart.”

“But he can’t junk the picture. Why, he’s spent more than that on publicity.”

Lennox shrugged. “We’ll reshoot it if Wayborn doesn’t turn up.” He was on his feet; the girl came out of her chair.

“But he can’t leave Ralph to... to... die. It isn’t human.”

Lennox’s voice grated. “Want to pay the fifty grand yourself?”

She stared at him. “I pay the fifty thousand? Don’t be absurd.”

“There’s your answer,” he told her. “That’s the way Sol feels, and Wayborn isn’t Sol’s boy-friend.”

She said, angrily: “You’re getting nasty again; but Sol will have to pay. I’ll go to the papers, to the police.”

“Do that,” he suggested, “and you and me will be going to one swell funeral; that is — if they find the body.”

3

Nancy Hobbs was eating in Al Levy’s when Lennox came through the door. She nodded to the empty chair, and he sank into it. “Hello, Brat.”

She smiled at him. “You look worried, Bill.”

He ordered before he answered. “And you look swell. Why don’t you go into pictures instead of writing about them?”

She said, “Because I know too much. You have to be dumb to get by, like Elva Meyer.”

He scowled. “Seems I saw an interview in a fan magazine where you said that she was just a home girl—”

Nancy laughed, not nicely. “She is. Anybody’s home girl. Look at the ones she’s wrecked.”

He said: “Lay off! I’m trying to think. I can’t when you chatter.”

She was silent with no sign of resentment. He broke a piece of bread savagely. “Wayborn’s been snatched.”

Her eyes were narrow. “What is it? A publicity gag?”

“I wish to — it was. The dumb cluck is gone; someone wants fifty grand.”

Her eyes were still suspicious. “I don’t trust you, Bill; not since you pulled that burning-yacht stunt.”

He didn’t grin. “I’m out of that racket, sweetheart. I’ve got to find Wayborn. The picture’s half in the can and the big slob looks like a million. Sol is howling his head off.”

She said: “Why don’t you chuck it Bill — pull loose? You used to be a decent pal; now you’re nothing but a two-timing mug. Get loose. Shove off to New York. Write that book. You’ve been writing it in your mind for ten years.”

His mouth twisted with a shade of bitterness. “What would I use for money, sweet?”

She stared at him. “You’re getting three fifty—”

He spread his hands. “It goes — I’m living on week-after-next now. Sol lets me draw ahead.”

“Sweet of him. He knows that he can hold you as long as you’re broke. Listen, Bill. I’ve got a few dollars that aren’t working their heads off. I’ll stake you. Get the Chief tomorrow and get the hell out of this town.”

For a moment he was silent, then he patted the back of her hand. “It won’t work, babe. I gotta find Wayborn. I gotta get that damn’ picture into the can; after that, we’ll talk about it.”

She sighed, knowing that she had lost. “This Wayborn thing? It’s on the level?”

He said: “So help me.”

She sat there, playing with her fork, thinking. Finally she looked up at him. “Better see Red Girkin.”

He stared at her. “Who’s Girkin? What is this?”

She said, in a tired voice: “I’m helping, pal. Helping as I always do. Go on. See Girkin. He’s got an apartment on Van Ness off Melrose.” She gave him the number.

He said, roughly: “What do you know, babe?”

She shook her head. “Just a hunch. Go see him. Stall.” She gathered her bag and gloves and rose. “You can pay my check, that is, if you have enough.”

He said, absently: “My credit’s good, but, Nance, what’s the—”

“For a smart guy, you ask plenty of questions. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She was gone, leaving him staring after her. Lennox said something under his breath, then went on with his dinner. Afterward he took a taxi.

The cab dropped him at the corner of Melrose and he walked to the apartment house. A row of brass-bound mail-boxes stared at him from the tiled lobby wall. One of them, number five, had the name W. C. Girkin. There was another name, but Lennox did not notice it. He pushed the bell viciously. The door at the bottom of the carpeted stairs buzzed as the catch was released from above. Lennox pulled it open and started up the steps. At their head a man in a light, close-fitting suit waited.

The man said: “What the hell?”

Lennox stared at him and said: “Hello, Charley.”

Charley took a thin hand out of his right coat pocket and wrapped the fingers around those of Lennox. “I’ll be a so-and-so. How are you, pally? How’d you know that I was in this burg?”

Lennox started to say that he hadn’t known, then stopped. “I know things.” He grinned. “What’s the matter? Cops in the big town get rough?”

The other shrugged. “Pal of mine had a doll out here. I drifted out with him. Jeeze. What a country!”

Lennox said: “Some of us like it. You ought to have blown in a year sooner. Could have used you in a gangster picture.”

Charley said, “Me?” and made his eyes very wide. “You’ve got me wrong, pally. I’m just a businessman with ideas. But come on. Red will think they’ve put the finger on me.” He turned and led the way towards the door of number five. The door was closed and he knocked, three knocks all together, another after a slight pause. The door came open and Charley said: “Okey, just a pal. Meet Red Girkin. This is Bill Lennox.”

The red-headed man said hello without evident pleasure. He was big, with heavy shoulders and a rather short neck. He sat down on a chair before the small built-in desk and went on with his game of solitaire. Once he swore to himself and turned over a pile of cards to reach an ace. Charley said: “What are you doing in Suckerville?”

Lennox laughed. “That’s one for the book. You’d make a swell gag man.”

The other nodded slowly. “There’s money in these hills, Pal. Like to cut you in.”

The red-headed man at the desk said: “Shut up.” He made it sound vicious.

Lennox looked at him with narrow eyes, then back at Charley. “Your friend doesn’t like me.”

The thin man grinned. “Don’t mind him; it’s just the bad booze. Lemme have your number. I might put you on to something swell.”

4

Bill Lennox said to Spurck, “I haven’t found the slob yet, but I know who’s got him.”

Spurck was excited. He came out of his chair and bounced around the corner of the big desk. “You know — you know, and you don’t go to the police yet?”

“Listen, Sol. Why don’t you try thinking once in a while before you open that mouth of yours? I know who’s got Wayborn, but I don’t know why and I don’t know where he is.”

“Who’s got him?”

“That’s one thing that it isn’t wise for you to know. These boys are tough, Sol. It don’t mean a thing to them that you’re the biggest shot in the industry. They’d as soon rub you out as look at you. In fact, they’d a little rather. You never won any beauty contests, you know.”

Spurck sat down at his desk again. “What do we do, then?”

“We pay fifty grand.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Sure, I got that way, working for you. We pay the fifty grand, finish the picture, and then I try to get it back. If I don’t, we spread the story all over the front page and charge the fifty grand to publicity. What the hell else can we do?”

Spurck swore. He raved. He almost cried, but Lennox paid no attention. “Take it and like it,” he said. “You’ve spent more than that on New York flops and kept nothing but the title. Have you heard from the gang?”

The little man pulled out his desk drawer and found an envelope which he handed to Lennox. “They want I should bring the money down to Redondo, in a suitcase. I should bring it myself, and I should not bring the cops; no one but me and my chauffeur.”

Lennox said: “Okey. Go to the bank and get the dough in small bills as they say. Don’t be a sap and mark them. Then take a ride to Redondo tonight.”

Spurck rolled his eyes. “It ain’t that I’m afraid, you understand; but I don’t like it, I’m telling you.”

Lennox grinned. “I’m your chauffeur, Sol. I wouldn’t miss this party for a lot.”

At seven o’clock Lennox swung the Lincoln town car out of the driveway of Spurck’s Beverly Hills home. Dressed in brown livery borrowed from the chauffeur, he was hardly recognizable as he cut across towards Inglewood and picked up Redondo Boulevard.

In the back seat Spurck, with a black bag clutched between his fat knees, was nervously watching the passing traffic. Lennox stepped the car up to sixty and watched the back road in the rear-view mirror. At Rosecrans Avenue a Chevrolet coupé swung in behind them and followed them through Manhattan and Hermosa. Lennox slowed down to twenty and the coupé slowed down also. As they reached Redondo city limits, the Chevrolet speeded up and ran them to the curb. Two men were in the coupé, hats drawn low over their eyes. Lennox saw that the one beside the driver carried a riot gun across his knees.

For a minute, the road was empty, no traffic coming either way. The man with the riot gun said: “Keep your hands on that wheel, mug.”

Lennox obeyed, a thin smile twisting his lips for a moment. He knew that voice, knew it well. The man with the gun said to Spurck: “Toss the bag over, quick!”

With trembling fingers, Spurck obeyed. The driver of the coupé opened the bag, inspected the contents. “If these are marked, guy, it’s curtains for you. Okey, Charley.”

The man with the gun nodded. “Keep driving through Redondo and up through Palos Verdes till you come to where the road ends and another road goes off to the left and into Pedro. Drive out in the field at the end of the road. You’ll find your ham along the top of the cliff, tied up. We were set to push him over if you didn’t show up.” The coupé’s motor speeded up and they jerked away, swinging left at the next street.

Spruck moaned: “Fifty thousand!” He sounded out of breath.

Lennox put the Lincoln in gear. They went through Redondo, climbed the hill beyond and skirted the ocean until they came to the road’s end. Five minutes later, with the aid of a flashlight from the tool-box, Lennox found Wayborn. The actor was tied securely, lying flat on his back so close to the cliff’s edge that had he made any effort to free his bonds, he might have rolled off. Aside from chafed wrists and stiff ankles, he appeared none the worse for his experience, nor was he even thankful. “You might have gotten here sooner,” he told them, in a peevish voice. “I assure you that it was far from comfortable lying here, bound hand and foot.”

Spurck exploded. For five minutes he called the actor everything that he could think of. Wayborn listened silently, then climbed into the car. Lennox grinned to himself as he turned the Lincoln towards town.

5

Stan Braun, Spurck’s nephew, walked back and forth across his uncle’s office. He was slight, with black curly hair and long eyelashes. He looked like an actor and wasn’t. He was production manager for the studio.

“It’s strange,” he said, “that Lennox advised you to pay that money. I wish that you’d have asked me about it.” He pouted as a small boy pouts when his feelings have been hurt.

Spurck threw his hands wide. “Ask you? What good does asking you get me? Does it bring back Wayborn? Does it catch Price up with his schedule? It was you that wanted Wayborn — that ham. It was you that held up the schedule three days, changing the story. Maybe you would have got him back and saved us fifty thousand — you—”

Braun said, harshly: “At least I’d have marked the money. You say Lennox wouldn’t let you do that?”

Spurck’s face became crafty. “Which shows what you know. Me, I got a list of them bills from the bank. Every number. A copy I have made which Lennox takes. If we had marked the bills, they might have killed Wayborn when the picture is only half shot, to say nothing of retakes. Such ideas you’ve got.”

Braun’s voice was stubborn. “You could have hired private detectives.”

“A swell idea, when the barn door is closed and the horse is—”

“Anyhow,” his nephew’s voice rasped, “I’ve hired some. They’re waiting outside now.”

Abe Rollins and Dan Grogan came in. Grogan was big with a flat Irish face. Rollins was small, dark, with shifty eyes and too white teeth. He said: “Please tuh met yuh, Mr. Spurck. Braun’s been telling us about your trouble. Don’t worry, we’ll turn these mugs up.” He examined the two notes from the kidnapers. “I’d like to talk to Lennox,” he said. Spurck hesitated, then pressed one of the buttons at the side of his desk.

Bill came through the door and nodded slightly to Braun. His blue eyes narrowed as they went over the two detectives; then he looked at Spurck. “What’s eating you now, Sol?”

Spurck explained. As Lennox listened, his eyes got narrower. Then he looked at Rollins. “Okey. What do you want me to tell you?”

The man cleared his throat with importance. “Did you recognize either of the men in the Chevy?”

Lennox hesitated, then said: “No. Their faces were shadowed by their hats. I couldn’t have recognized my grandmother.”

“Yet you told Mr. Spurck that you knew who had Wayborn?”

Lennox said: “Yeah, I also told him that I’d try to get the fifty grand back, if he let me work it my way. I didn’t figure that he’d run in a couple of lame brains to mess things up.”

Rollins’ face got red, Grogan shifted his feet. “Don’t be too smart, fella,” Rollins warned. “You’re not in the clear on this thing, not by a damn’ sight.”

Lennox said: “Now isn’t that just too swell? You’ll be telling me next that I framed the whole play and got the fifty grand myself.”

“That’s not such a bad idea,” Rollins snapped. “Maybe you did. As I remember it, you advised Mr. Spurck to pay the money.”

“That’s right, Bill, you did.” Spurck sounded excited.

Lennox looked at him. “So you got me tagged as a kidnaper, too. Okey, Sol, get your own fifty grand back. I’m quitting, washed up.” He swung towards the door. Rollins’ voice stopped him.

“Not so fast, punk.” The detective’s hand was in his coat pocket, shoving the gun forward against the cloth.

Lennox shrugged. “You seem to be running the set.” He turned back into the room.

Spurck said: “Just a few questions, Bill. Don’t get sore.”

Rollins said: “Isn’t it true that you are always broke?”

“Ask Sol,” Lennox advised. “He’s my banker.”

“And isn’t it true that you told Mr. Spurck that you knew who had Wayborn?”

“What of it?”

“You may be asked to explain that statement at the D.A. office.” Rollins’ voice was threatening.

“Nerts!” Lennox found himself a cigarette and lit it.

“And isn’t it also true that you offered to drive the car to Redondo? I should say that you insisted that you be allowed to drive; yet you made no effort to follow the kidnapers after the money had been passed?”

Lennox shrugged. “Go right ahead, bright boy. Wrap me up in cellophane and deliver me at San Quentin; but while you’re talking, the mugs are spending Sol’s dough.” Spurck groaned, and Lennox laughed.

6

Nancy Hobbs said: “So you finally quit.” She said it in the tone of one who hears about a miracle and does not believe.

Lennox nodded. “Can you feature that? After all I’ve put up with from that fat slob he accuses me of kidnaping. There’s one of his funny-looking dicks outside this joint now. I’m getting important.”

She said: “Now’s your chance to get out of this town. No,” as he started to speak. “I know you’re broke, but I’ve still got a stake.”

He was silent and she read refusal in his silence. “Too proud to borrow from a woman?” There was a jeer in her voice. “You’ve done worse.”

He said: “It isn’t that, Nance. You’re a pal. I could borrow from you, but I can’t scram with this hanging over my head. I’ll get Sol’s fifty grand back; then I’ll take a powder; but I can’t go until I do. I said that I’d find that dough and I will.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Her voice was hoarse. “These boys play rough. If they get the idea that you’re gumming their game, they’ll plant you in a ditch.”

He looked at her with narrow eyes. “What boys, Nance? You seem to know a lot about this play.”

“I know plenty about this town that I don’t print in fan magazines,” she told him. “I get around.”

“Words.” His voice was harsh. “Why not pass out some names.”

She said: “Girkin. I gave you that once.”

“Where’s he tie in? A cheap New York hood.”

“He used to hang around the New York club where Elva Meyer undressed,” she said, softly. “That wasn’t her name then, but she’s the same girl that you promoted into lights.”

“Is this straight?”

“Did I ever give you a wrong steer, Bill?”

Lennox was silent for a moment; then he shrugged. “That’s nothing to keep me awake nights. Girkin may be a big shot in New York, but he doesn’t rate out here.”

“Doesn’t he? I saw him on the boulevard yesterday with French and they didn’t act like strangers.”

Lennox swore softly. “French of the El Romano Club, huh? Nice people.”

The girl smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were serious. “Friend of yours, isn’t he?”

Lennox shrugged absently. “So long.” He rose. “I’ll be seeing you in New York.”

She rose also. “You’re not losing me, Bill Lennox. I’m in this if you are.” She followed him into the street. He grasped her thin wrist in strong fingers.

“Don’t play the sap, sweetheart. It would be just that much tougher, having you along.”

A cab cruised by. He let go of her wrist and jumped to the running-board. The next moment he was inside. “Go ahead fast,” he told the startled driver. The cab lurched forward. Lennox peered through the back window. He saw Grogan cross the pavement and wave wildly to an approaching taxi. Lennox found a five in his pocket and passed it to the driver. “There’s a guy following us. Lose him.”

The driver grinned and turned sharply into Vine, right on Sunset, left at Highland, crashing a signal. Finally, at the corner of Arlington and Pico, he pulled to the curb. “Where to?”

Lennox said: “Take me to Melrose and Van Ness.” The driver shrugged and turned towards Western.

Lennox got out at the corner and walked to the apartment house. He rang the bell of suite five, got no answer, tried nine and was answered by a buzz from the door. He jerked it open and started up the stairs. A woman’s voice called: “What is it, please?”

Lennox said: “I pushed the wrong bell. Sorry.” Her door slammed, and he paused before number five. He knocked without response, then tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He opened it cautiously and stepped into the small hall. For a moment he stood listening. There was no sound in the apartment. He closed the door softly and went along the hall to the living-room door. There he stopped and said something under his breath. The door was partly open. Through the crack he saw the figure of a man sprawled in the middle of the rug. His quick eyes went about the room; then he pushed the door wide and crossed to the body. The face, twisted with fear and pain, was that of Charley, and he was very dead.

7

Bill Lennox found nothing in the apartment that interested him. There were no papers in the desk, nothing, in fact, except a soiled deck of cards. He went into the bedroom and looked through the closets. Two suits hung there, flashy garments of extreme cut, nothing more. He walked back to the living-room and stopped just inside the door. There was a man looking at the body, a man with a gun in his hand, who said: “Now isn’t this swell?” The man was Grogan.

Lennox didn’t say anything and the private dick laughed.

“Imagine finding you here.” His voice held a note of gloating self-satisfaction. His gun came up so that it bore on the second button of Lennox’s vest. “Get the paws in the air, nice boy.”

Lennox obeyed, and Grogan picked up the phone. “Gimme Hollywood station, and make it snappy.” His eyes never left Lennox’s face, the gun did not move. “That you, Bert? Grogan of Rollins and Grogan. Yeah, listen. Is Lew there? Swell. Let me talk to him, will yuh? Hello, Lew, Grogan. Listen. There’s a stiff in an apartment on Van Ness.” He gave the number. “It’s close to Melrose, apartment five. Yeah, I got the mug. He’s standing against the wall with his hands in the air. Make it snappy.” He hung up and grinned at Lennox. “Nice weather we’re having.”

Lennox didn’t say anything. He stood there with his hands in the air. They stood there seven minutes, then a siren moaned below, heavy feet made noise on the stairs, and three men in plainclothes came in. The leader nodded to Grogan and looked at Lennox, then at the huddled body on the floor.

He said: “What’s going on here? Who’s the stiff?”

Grogan shrugged. “I don’t know who he is. I was trailing this bird. He came up here and I sneaked up after him. When I got here, he was searching the joint.”

The city detective’s eyes went to Lennox. “Well, what’s the story?” His voice sounded bored, uninterested.

Lennox shrugged. “When I got here, Charley was on the floor with a knife in his guts. That’s all I know.”

Grogan pursed his lips and made a funny sound of disbelief. The homicide man said: “Charley who?”

“Bartelli.”

“Where’s he from?”

“New York.”

Two other men came through the apartment door. One said: “What’s going on here, Lew?”

The other looked at Lennox and said: “Hello, Bill.” Lennox recognized Alder, of the Post.

The city detective said: “So you know this guy?”

Alder’s eyes widened. “Sure, everybody knows him. He’s Bill Lennox of General-Consolidated. What’s it all about, Lew?”

The city man looked hard at Grogan. “Thought you said that you were trailing this dude?”

Grogan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was, Sol Spurck’s orders.”

Both reporters looked interested. Lennox snapped: “Be careful, you fool.”

The city detective looked at him. “When I want to hear you talk, I’ll ask you. All right, Grogan. Go ahead with the story and don’t skip anything.”

Grogan said: “Well, yuh see, it’s this way. Ralph Wayborn was snatched—”

“Snatched?”

“Yeah.” He went on and told the whole story. The reporters looked at each other. “So I was trailing Lennox to find where he had the dough planted, and I walked in on this.”

The city detective said: “So we’ve got a kidnaping charge on you along with a murder rap.”

Lennox said, in a tired voice: “That man’s been dead hours. If you birds would think before you open your mouths, you’d know that. Grogan here is my alibi. He can swear that I wasn’t in this place five minutes before he walked in.” Lennox smiled sweetly at the now silent private detective.

8

Nancy Hobbs said: “So you wouldn’t listen to me and you get yourself into a worse jam.” They were seated before the Hollywood Station in her car. “Will you go to New York now?”

“Such ideas you have, Brat. I’m going to get that fifty grand.”

“You’ll probably get a knife about where Charley got his.”

“At least that would be a new experience. Who was it that said there is nothing new under the sun?”

She swore whole-heartedly and stepped on the starter. “Where do we go from here?”

“You don’t go anywhere,” he told her.

“I suppose I’m to hang around, ready to bail you out?” Her voice was sarcastic.

He grinned without mirth. “That’s a thought,” and unlatched the door at his side. “I’ll be seeing you.” He turned up the collar of his coat against the cold wind from the ocean and walked rapidly along. A block farther down he hailed a cab and climbed in.

“Know where the El Romano Club is?” The man didn’t and Lennox gave him the address. Fog was beginning to roll in from the southwest. The street lamps looked fuzzy and the auto lamps glowed with funny rings. Lennox lit a cigarette, snuggled his chin deeper into his coat collar, and stared at nothing.

The El Romano Club was located on the top of a storage building. The attendant looked at Lennox, nodded and motioned him to the elevator. They shot skyward, stepped out into a hallway with blank concrete walls. There were doors off this hall. Lennox knew that some of them opened into storage rooms. The door at the end seemed to open automatically as he stepped before it. He said: “Hello, chiseler,” to the man that stood aside for him to enter.

The man grinned in what he thought was a pleasant manner. “Evening, Mr. Lennox. How are you?”

Bill said: “Pretty lousy, Bert. Big crowd tonight?”

The man shrugged expressive shoulders. “Fair. What can you expect with the studios on half-pay?”

Lennox nodded and tossed his hat and coat to the hat-check girl, “ ’lo, gorgeous.”

She gave him a dimpled smile. “Hello, Bill. You look like the devil.”

“Sure, that’s because I’ve been working for him so long.”

He went down the short, carpeted hall and into the main room. The room was large, high-ceilinged and comfortably filled. Three roulette wheels, set in line, occupied the center. In the far corner was a group of men and one woman about the crap table. Chuck-a-luck and the half-moon blackjack tables were ranged against the wall. Lennox crossed the room, conscious that people were turning to look at him. A blonde who a week ago would have rushed across the room to attract his attention presented a pair of too prominent shoulder blades for his inspection.

Lennox’s lips thinned. “Just a friendly town,” he thought. “When the knife falls, everyone helps you down into the gutter.” He paused before the grilled window of the cashier’s cage and, picking up a pad of blank checks, filled one in for five hundred.

The man behind the grille took it in his soft white fingers and pretended to study it. Lennox watched him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you read English?”

The cashier said: “You’re sure that this is good, Mr. Lennox?”

Lennox said: “Hell, no; it isn’t good, and you know it, but you’ve cashed a hundred like it. I’ve never failed to pick them up, have I?”

The man shrugged. “Sorry. My orders are not to cash any more checks.”

“You mean any more of mine?”

Again the shrug, as he pushed the check towards Lennox. Someone behind him snickered. A voice said: “Did you hear that Sol was getting himself a new office boy?” Several people laughed.

Lennox apparently had not heard. He said: “Is French here?”

The cashier shrugged for the third time. Lennox picked up the check, folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket as he crossed one corner of the room, went around the end of the metal bar and through a curtained doorway. Before him was a wide hallway with a door at the end. A young man with too black hair was seated on a chair in the bare hall, reading a confession magazine. He dropped the magazine and came to his feet with cat-like grace. “You can’t come in here, you.”

Lennox said softly: “I’m coming in, lousy. Out of the way.”

For the space of a half-minute neither moved. The black-haired one’s hand was in his pocket. He said, slowly, distinctly: “You don’t rate around here any more, Lennox. Take a tip and get out.”

Bill’s smile was very thin. “That’s where you have your cues mixed, handsome. I still rate, plenty. I’m seeing French, and he’s going to like seeing me.”

The other’s voice was confidential. “Why don’t you get wise? When you’re through in this town, you’re through. Go out easy, pal. I wouldn’t like to throw you out.”

Lennox hesitated, shrugged, and half turned. The other relaxed slightly. Suddenly Lennox’s right shoulder sagged, his left came up, and his right fist crossed to the gunman’s jaw. The black-haired one went down with a look of surprise and pain. Lennox caught him, eased him to the floor, knelt on his chest, pulled the gun from the side pocket and got another from the shoulder-harness. There hadn’t been much noise.

“Now I’ll give you a tip,” he said, in a low, grim tone. “This town isn’t healthy for you. Remember that killing at San Clemente? The D.A.’s office might hear something about that if you aren’t out of the village before morning.”

He straightened his coat, pocketed the two guns, and went on down the hall to the door. Looking back, he saw the gunman get slowly to his feet. Lennox stuck a hand into his pocket. The man looked at him once, then disappeared into the gambling room.

There were voices in the room beyond the door. One that Lennox knew said: “But, French. How was I to know they had a list of the numbers?”

“You fool! That’s what you should have found out. A hell of a help you are. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I couldn’t get away sooner. My uncle kept me at the studio until late. He’s half-crazy.”

“Yeah.” French’s voice had a biting quality. “Now get out of here and don’t let anyone see you go. I’ll call you when I want you.”

A door closed somewhere within the room, and Lennox retreated down the passage towards the gambling room. His eyes were narrow, but there was a thin, half-mocking smile about his lips. The voice he had heard belonged to Stan Braun, Sol Spurck’s nephew.

He came back along the passage, taking pains to walk heavily.

“Hello, handsome,” he said to the empty hall. He didn’t shout, but his voice was loud enough to carry to the room beyond. “The boss in? Yeah, well, don’t move, rat. This thing in my hand isn’t an ornament.”

He covered the remaining distance to the door in quick strides. It wasn’t locked and he pushed it inward, only far enough to slip through. A man was just stepping around the flat-topped desk, a man with a young, cold face, and gray hair. He stopped when he saw Bill, his face showing no emotion, his eyes very narrow.

“Hello, Lennox! Didn’t Toni tell you that you weren’t wanted?”

Lennox’s smile was almost child-like. “He did mention something like that, but I didn’t believe him.”

The gambler took a step backwards and sat down in the desk chair. “Maybe you’ll believe me?” The direct, prominent eyes measured Lennox carefully.

Bill walked slowly towards the desk. He took his hand from his coat pocket, calling attention to the fact by doing so very slowly. “The cashier turned down my check. I got the idea that it was your orders.”

The man at the desk shifted his weight slightly. “We’ve had plenty of trouble with your paper, Bill. That bank account of yours is like a sieve, a rubber one.”

Lennox said: “You never howled about my paper before. It’s always been covered.”

The other shrugged expressively. “Spurck always took care of that. I hear that he isn’t taking care of it any longer.”

“Meaning?”

“Just that. You’re off the gold standard as far as Spurck is concerned. Sorry, Bill. If ten will help you?” He drew a large roll from his pocket and hunted through the big bills slowly, insultingly.

Lennox grinned. “Thanks, French, but I’ll eat tomorrow.” He turned towards the door, then said, across his shoulder: “Don’t mind if I hang around a while? I always did like raids.”

The man at the desk laughed. “So you’ll have me raided. Your mind’s getting twisted. You’ve got yourself mixed with someone important. There isn’t a cop in town that would dare touch this joint.”

“Like that?” Lennox’s voice sounded interested.

“Like that,” French told him, blandly.

9

Lennox went back into the main room. Toni, the slick-haired gunman, was not in sight. Lennox stopped before the bar and spun a half dollar on the polished surface. The white-coated bartender shoved across a scotch and soda, with a twisted bit of lemon peel in the bottom. Lennox tasted his drink; then, hooking his elbows on the edge of the bar, he considered his next move. The blonde, who had given him her back when he first came in, swept past with a black-haired youth in tow. She turned her head.

“Why, it’s Mr. Lennox. My dear, I didn’t recognize you.”

He said, sourly: “It’s your age, sweetheart. Age dulls the eyes.”

Her face reddened beneath the rouge and she moved hastily away. Someone tugged at Bill’s arm. He turned to see Frank Howe. He’d gotten Howe a job in the publicity department six months before. Howe was a little drunk, but it affected neither his speech nor actions.

“Listen, Bill.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard that lousy cashier hand you the runaround. This is my lucky night. Beat the wheel, I did.” His hand disappeared into his pants pocket and came out with a crumpled stack of bills. “Money’s no use to me. Never had any, don’t know how to handle it — hey, bartender, a drink. I’m burning up.”

Lennox said: “Thanks, kid.” He was genuinely touched. Out of a hundred people in the room that he had helped at one time or another, Howe was the only one who seemed to remember. “No can do. Get you in trouble with Spurck.”

Howe said: “To hell with Spurck. To hell with the whole lousy industry. Swell job. You take some tramp from behind a lunch counter and build her up until she’s writing autographs instead of orders.”

He shoved the bills into Lennox’s hand and went away from the bar, his drink forgotten. Lennox watched him go. The bartender brought the glasses. Lennox drew a crumpled bill from the wad in his hand and started to hand it over. Then he stopped, stared for an instant at the number on the bill and put it into his pocket. He found some loose silver, paid for the drinks and drank both of them.

That done, he crossed the room and disappeared into the men’s lounge. There was a shine stand in the wash-room. He crawled onto the stand and watched the kinky head bob as the boy applied the brush. After a moment, he drew a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and compared the numbers on the bills with those on his list. Five of them tallied. He put the five bills into his breast coat pocket, and shoved his white silk handkerchief on top of them, then thumbed through the rest of the roll.

As he counted them he whistled softly. There were four hundred dollars left. Certainly Howe had been lucky. Lennox knew him well enough to know that the ex-reporter seldom had four dollars at any one time. He paid the shine-boy and climbed from the stand. As he emerged into the main room a newspaperman with two girls walked past.

Lennox said: “Know Frank Howe?”

The man nodded.

“Didn’t notice which table he was playing at a little while ago?”

The man nodded again. “Yeah, the center one. He was on thirteen and it came up. He let the money ride and she repeated.”

Lennox said: “Thanks,” and looked about.

A man came out of the passage which led to French’s room. Play stopped at the first table while the man exchanged cases of money with the croupier. This was repeated at the other tables. Lennox frowned. He started forward, then stopped. For perhaps a minute, he stood, undecided, then moved towards the center table. He had the idea French was withdrawing the bills which bore numbers that were on Lennox’s list.

As he stepped to the table, the rat-eyed croupier glanced at him sharply. Lennox apparently did not notice. He watched for several minutes, then bet twenty dollars on black. Red came up and he bet forty, only to be rewarded by double-O. He switched and played the middle group of numbers, won and let it ride. He won again, and shoved the whole pile onto black. Black appeared. He gathered up his winnings and moved towards the crap table.

The lone woman had the dice when he reached the table. He put twenty on the line and watched the green cubes dance across the cloth to turn up a five and six. He picked up his winnings and transferred them to no-pass. She threw snake-eyes.

French came through the curtained door at the end of the bar. He stood for a moment just inside the door, a striking figure, his shirtfront gleaming, his gray hair carefully brushed; then he walked across to the crap layout, just as Lennox picked up the dice.

“You’re through, Bill.”

Lennox turned slowly, deliberately to face him. The room was suddenly quiet. Everyone was watching, breathlessly. Lennox said: “Meaning?”

“Just that.” French’s voice held a flat quality which was almost metallic. “We don’t want your play here. We don’t even want you.”

The dice rattled in Lennox’s hand. He shoved the whole pile of currency onto the line and sent the green cubes dancing across the table with a twist of his wrist. They turned up six and one. Lennox’s eyes met the croupier’s. “Pay off, mister.”

The man hesitated, his eyes went to French. The owner nodded imperceptibly and the man counted out bills beside those which Lennox had laid on the board. Bill gathered them up slowly, stripped two tens from the pile and tossed them to the croupier, then folded the rest and slipped them into his pocket.

“Okey, French. I thought that you were yellow.” His voice carried across the silent room. “Now I know.”

He walked calmly towards the door. No one said anything, no one moved. He got his hat from the check girl, slipped into his overcoat and tossed her a folded bill, then he rode down in the elevator. The elevator man said:

“Take it easy, Mr. Lennox.” There was a gun in his hand.

Lennox grinned, “You, too, Mac?”

The man shrugged. “Orders.” He stopped the car at the second floor and opened the door. Two men stepped in, one of them was Toni. He smiled when he saw Lennox. “If it isn’t my little boy-friend.” He ran quick hands over the other’s coat and removed the guns. “Come on, mug. This is where you get off.”

Lennox obeyed. They went along a poorly lighted passage and down a flight of stairs. Lennox said: “I never knew how French got rid of people he doesn’t like.”

Toni grinned. “There’s lots of things you don’t know. One of them is how to keep your mouth buttoned. In there.” He pushed open a steel door and shoved Lennox into a curtained touring car. “Hey, Frank!” he called to the driver. Lennox turned his head a little and the gunman brought the barrel of his automatic crashing down on Lennox’s skull. “That’s for clipping me on the jaw,” he muttered, as he shoved his way into the car.

10

Consciousness came back slowly. Lennox groaned, moved slightly, then lay still for several minutes, his eyes open, staring about the dark room. To the right, a window gave an oblong of lighter sky. Morning could not be far away. He raised a hand to the side of his aching head, felt the knob there, the hair, matted with dry blood. Sounds from another room reached him indistinctly. A cry, a thump as if a heavy object had been thrown against the wall, then the door opened. Instinctively, Lennox closed his eyes. Light showed against his lids.

French’s voice said, from a distance. “Take the — in there and let him think it over.”

Heavy feet made noise in the room. There was a groan, a hoarse laugh, and the door slammed. The groans continued. Lennox opened his eyes. The room was again in darkness. Cautiously he swung his feet from the couch and sat for a moment, his head in his hands. Then he rose, swayed and looked about. There was a huddled shape in the chair beside the window. Lennox blinked at it and said, cautiously:

“Who’re you?”

The groans ceased. The room was quiet except for the labored breathing from the chair. Lennox moved closer. His head was clearing.

“Come on!” His voice was louder than he intended. “Who are you?”

His hand fumbled in his pocket and found a box of matches. He struck one with fingers that shook. The match flared, and Lennox stared at the battered features of Red Girkin. He said: “My—!” and let the match drop to the floor. “They don’t play nice, do they?”

Girkin swore heavily, tonelessly. “Let me alone.”

Lennox’s voice got sharp. “Your playmates will be back in a few minutes to give you another dose. What do you want?”

The gangster said: “Go to hell!” He said it indistinctly, as if his lip got in the way.

Lennox managed a laugh. “Boy, you love punishment. Come on! Who decorated Charley with the chiv?”

“Charley?” There was a new note in Girkin’s voice. “What about Charley?”

“Only that he’s dead.”

“Say, who are you?”

“A pal of Charley’s. Don’t you remember? Bill Lennox. I was up at your place the other day.”

The man in the chair said slowly: “Yeah, I remember, and Charley’s dead. You sure?”

“I found him on the rug with the chiv in his side.”

“That damned French.”

“So it was French?”

“I’m not talking.”

Lennox got mad. “Listen, sucker! Why don’t you get next to yourself? Do you think that they’ve been pounding your pan because they love you? It’s a wonder that you aren’t in a ditch by now.”

The man in the chair found a laugh somewhere and managed to turn it on. It was a poor effort. “They’ll keep me until they find out what I did with the ten grand, the dirty— They can beat me, but I don’t talk.”

Lennox tried a shot in the dark. “Still figuring that Meyer will help you?”

The gangster started to swear again. “That tramp! She got me into this; then she tied a can to me.”

It seemed that the floodgates had opened. He talked and talked; finally he got to repeating himself. Lennox turned away and walked towards the window, his lips very thin, his eyes bright.

Suddenly the door opened, a light switch clicked, and Lennox swung about to see Toni. The gunman said, with surprise: “Look who’s come to. Hey, chief! The boy scout’s awake.”

French’s voice growled: “Bring him in.”

Lennox took a quick step towards the window. Toni seized his shoulder, forcing him towards the door. With a shrug, Lennox relaxed. “Okey! You win.”

Toni said: “We win every time, mug. Start walking.”

French sat in a leather chair. His coat was off and the gray hair mussed. There were pouches under his eyes and he looked very tired.

“Well, Bill—”

Lennox said: “Not so hot. Your boy-friend here swings a mean gun.”

French said: “Little boys who play outside their own yards get hurt sometimes. Why the hell can’t you keep your nose clean?”

Lennox shrugged. “Mind if I sit down?” He moved towards a chair.

The gambler’s voice cracked. “Stand still.”

Lennox let his eyes widen slowly. “What is this?”

French said: “It’s your show-down.” He came out of his chair, and they faced each other. Toni shifted his feet, grinning loosely. “What did you tell Frank Howe?”

Lennox hid his start of surprise. “What did I tell Howe? When?”

The gambler growled: “Don’t stall, Lennox. You and Howe talked it over last night at the bar. You gave him something and he went away fast. The boys didn’t tell me about it until later. They haven’t found him yet, but they will. Come on! What did you tell him?”

Lennox grinned. He was beginning to understand why he was still alive. French thought that he had told Howe something at the club, something about the money, perhaps. Lennox said: “I gave him some dough to take home for me, some dough to put in a safe place.”

“You—” The gambler took a step forward, his hands clenching at his sides. “Where is he?”

“That’s a little mystery you can solve for yourself.” Lennox grinned carelessly, much more carelessly than he felt. There was a desk in the corner of the room. He stepped sidewise towards it. French said:

“Stand still, you.”

Lennox nodded. “Okey, French, I wouldn’t try anything with you.” He took another step. “I’m in a jam; I know it. I’ve been around long enough to know when my number is coming up. What’s it worth to you for me to get Howe on the phone and call him off? Does it buy me a ticket to New York?”

French said: “Yes,” quickly. He said it too quickly. Lennox knew that New York meant a wash in San Fernando Valley, but—

“Okey! Gimme the phone.”

French’s eyes searched his. “Don’t try any funny stuff,” he warned.

“Would I try any funny stuff when Toni has his gun on me.”

He crossed to the desk and, picking up the phone, called the first number that came into his head. As he waited, his hand toyed with a heavy glass inkwell hidden by his body from the other men. Toni still stood beside the door. He had his gun, but he let it hang carelessly at his side.

“That you, Howe?” Lennox demanded, as a sleepy voice asked what the hell he wanted. The voice protested that it wasn’t Howe, that he had never heard of Howe, and that if he did now, it would be too soon. Lennox paid no attention.

“Listen, boy!” he said, making his voice sound serious. “That money I gave you, you know, those—”

He picked up the inkwell and half turned so that he could see both French and Toni. “What’ll I have him do with them?” he asked the gambler.

Toni’s eyes switched from Lennox to his chief’s face for an instant and in that instant, Lennox dropped the phone and threw the glass inkwell. He threw it underhanded, threw it with all the force that he had.

It caught the gunman just above the temple and he went over onto the rug without a sound. Lennox sprang at French. The gambler was tugging at his coat pocket. He had his gun half free as Lennox’s fingers closed about his wrist. French tried to jerk free, couldn’t and struck Lennox in the face with his free hand. Lennox grabbed his throat and tried to force the gambler’s head back. French was too strong.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand came from the pocket, bringing his gun with it. Desperately, Lennox clung to the man. French hit him again, squarely on the nose. Tears started from Lennox’s eyes; his fingers sank deeper into French’s throat. The gambler swung about, carrying Lennox with him, and then across French’s shoulder, Bill saw something which almost caused him to relax his grip.

The door into the other room had opened. Girkin, on hands and knees, was crawling towards the gun which lay on the carpet at Toni’s side. Even as Lennox saw him, Girkin’s hand reached the gun, closed over it, and he reeled to his feet, his eyes burning with hate, staring at French.

The gun came up slowly. Lennox cried out. He was never sure afterwards exactly what he said.

“French!” Girkin’s voice cut across the room.

Lennox’s fingers slipped from the gambler’s throat. Girkin’s gun flamed and French stiffened. Lennox threw himself sidewise, out of the line of fire. French paid no attention to him. It was as if the gambler had forgotten his existence. He turned slowly and, as he turned, Girkin fired again. French staggered, went to his knees.

His gun came up, and Lennox saw a hole suddenly appear between Girkin’s eyes. The gunman pitched forward without a sound.

French stared at him, coughed twice, bent over on his hands, and then settled to the floor. For a minute there was silence in the room, then Lennox bent above Toni, and noted that he was still breathing, but unconscious.

Lennox rose, found a handkerchief, and dabbed at his bleeding nose; then he looked around the room. Behind the desk, a wall safe, its door half open, attracted him. He crossed to the safe and drew out bundles of currency. In all, there were thirty-five thousand dollars. He found a newspaper, wrapped up the money and moved towards the door. Everything was quiet. Evidently there was no one in the house. He wondered vaguely why the shots had not attracted attention.

Outside, it was broad daylight. The house, he saw, was set far up on one of the hillsides north of Beverly. He walked down the long, curving roadway without seeing anyone. He walked for a long time, his head aching dully, the sun growing warmer on his back. Finally he reached a drug-store and called a cab.

11

The shine-boy looked up as Lennox came through the General gate.

“Morning, Mr. Lennox.”

“Hello, Sam.” He went on across the lot towards the executive offices. Steps sounded on the concrete behind him. Nancy Hobbs’ voice called.

“Oh, Bill!”

He turned and managed a grin. “How ’r’ you, Nance?”

She said: “I’ve been hunting for you since I heard you were out of here, looking every — Your face! What’s the matter? What happened?”

“I’ve been playing house with the boys.” He grinned. “Come in while I see Sol, if you want some fun. Then you can drive me to the station.”

She followed him towards Spurck’s office. “So you’re really going to pull out?”

“You said it. Just as soon as I see Sol.”

“I’ll wait out here,” she said, stopping in the reception room. “And, Bill, don’t let him talk you into anything.”

He stopped also, and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweet, I’m washed up.” He went through into Spurck’s office. Spurck’s secretary was beside the big desk taking dictation. Spurck came to his feet.

“Bill?”

“Mr. Lennox to you,” Bill told him. “Get Elva Meyer and that precious nephew of yours in here. I want to see them.”

Spurck said, “But — your nose!”

“Never mind my nose. Get them.”

Spurck swung on the secretary. “What is it you’re standing there for? Get them — can’t you? Must I do everything about this plant yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Spurck.” The secretary bobbed, and disappeared.

Spurck said: “Where have you been? All night, I don’t sleep, wondering.”

Lennox clipped: “Save it until Braun gets here.” He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on Spurck’s desk and stood, rolling it between his fingers so that the tobacco spilled out a little at each end. The door opened and Elva Meyer came in. “You wanted—” She stopped when she saw Lennox.

Bill said: “Sit down.”

“I... er—”

His voice snapped: “Sit down!”

She sank into a chair. Spurck looked at her, then at Lennox, started to speak, then changed his mind. Again the door came open and Braun entered the room. His face changed when he saw Lennox, losing its color; his lips grew almost pallid. “Hello, Bill?” he managed.

Lennox nodded. He crossed to the desk and tore the newspaper wrapping from the package. Money spilled out upon the desk. Spurck made a glad sound, deep in his throat. Braun and the girl exchanged quick, startled glances.

Lennox said: “There’s thirty-five grand there, Sol. You’ll have to take the rest out of Braun’s salary.”

Spurck, who had been fingering the money, looked up quickly. Braun made a strangled noise. “You can’t—”

Lennox said: “Shut up! Listen, Sol! This relative of yours has been bucking the wheel. He dropped plenty to French. French had his paper for fifty grand and was threatening to come to you. Someone got the bright idea of snatching Wayborn and soaking you fifty grand to get him back. They figured that you’d call Braun in and let him handle it, but you didn’t. You showed the letter to me.” He stopped and lit the cigarette.

“Meyer here has been playing around with Braun when people weren’t watching. He told her about his jam and the Wayborn idea and she put him in touch with Girkin. Girkin and Charley did the dirty work—”

“It’s a lie!” Braun was on his feet.

Lennox said, coldly: “See this nose?” He touched it with his finger. “The man that gave me that is dead. Shut up!”

Braun sank back in his chair with a sick look.

Lennox went on:

“Girkin thought that Meyer was still his moll. He didn’t know that he was washed up there. When he found out, he held up ten grand. I don’t know where it is. Neither did French. They grabbed Girkin and tried to make him talk. They searched his apartment and stuck a chiv into Charley’s ribs when he walked in on them. That’s about all.”

Braun said: “You can’t prove it, you can’t prove it.”

Lennox looked at him. “For the first time in your life, you’re right. French and Girkin are dead, but I don’t have to prove it. Sol knows.”

Spurck was looking at his nephew. “Loafer!” he shouted. “Loafer! Get out!” He waved his arms wildly. Braun tried to say something. Spurck moved around the desk towards him. Braun went out fast.

Lennox said: “That will be about all, Sol. I’m washed up here. It’s New York and some rest for me.”

Spurck said: “But listen once, will you? I—”

Nancy Hobbs had been waiting a long time. She looked at her watch again, just as the door opened and Lennox came out. She told him: “You’ll have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m not going today, Nance.”

“Bill!” She was facing him, her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “You’ve let Spurck—”

He shrugged wearily. “Sol’s got a new idea for a picture. All about an actress who has her leading man kidnaped to raise money for her boy-friend so that he won’t have to go to the big-house. Sol says that it’s the best idea in years. That it is ‘superb, stupendous, colossal.’ That’s just the usual bunk talk, of course, but I think that I’ll hang around and see how it turns out. A few weeks won’t matter, and this picture may be a little different.”