The Falcon's Malteser

BUSTED!

Johnny Naples was lying on the bed. He wasn’t dead yet, but the big red splotch on his shirt told me that his time was running out about as quickly as his blood. I went over to the window and looked outside. But I was too late. Whoever had climbed out had jumped the short distance to the overpass and run for it. Maybe they’d had a car waiting for them. Anyway, they were gone.

The dwarf groaned and I looked back again. Johnny opened his mouth and tried to speak.

“The falcon . . .” he said. Then a nasty, bubbling sound.

Then: “The sun . . .” And that was it. His eyes closed. The mouth stayed open.

D for “dwarf.” D for “dead.”

Herbert had picked something up off the carpet.

“Nick . . .” he began.

It was a gun. And it was still smoking.

And he was still standing there, holding it, when the door crashed open. The man who had been drunk outside the Hotel Splendide was standing there and he had a gun, too. The Alsatian was with him, growling softly.

There were two more people behind him.

“Police!” he shouted.

Herbert fainted.

The man swung around to cover him. “You’re under arrest,” he said.