The Fredric Brown Collection

Introduction

The pulps, those gaudy-covered, cheap-paper, jack-of-all-fiction magazines that flourished during the first half of this century, provided a training ground for dozens of writers who eventually went on to bigger and better literary endeavors. William E. Barrett, Theodore Dreiser, Sinclair Lewis, Horace McCoy, and Tennessee Williams wrote for them. So did Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Max Brand, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Zane Grey, Robert Heinlein, John Jakes, Louis L’Amour. And so did John Dickson Carr, Raymond Chandler, Erie Stanley Gardner, Dashiell Hammett, John D. MacDonald, Rex Stout, Cornell Woolrich—and Fredric Brown.

Brown was working as a proofreader for the Milwaukee Journal when he sold his first pulp story, “The Moon for a Nickel,” to Street & Smith’s Detective Story Magazine in 1938. This first taste of success was all the impetus he needed; before long he was selling regularly to a wide variety of pulp markets—crime stories to Clues, Detective Fiction Weekly, Detective Tales, Dime Mystery, Phantom Detective, Popular Detective, The Shadow, Strange Detective Mysteries, Ten Detective Aces, Thrilling Mystery; science fiction and fantasy stories in Astounding, Captain Future, Planet Stories, Thrilling Wonder Stories, Unknown, Weird Tales; even a couple of westerns to Western Short Stories. By 1948, his success in the pulp marketplace—coupled with the novels he had begun to publish in 1947 with The Fabulous Clipjoint, winner of the Mystery Writers of America Edgar as Best First Novel of that year—allowed him to devote his full time to writing.

He continued to sell to the pulps until their paperback original-and TV-induced demise in the early 50s—in all, publishing more than 150 stories in that voracious medium. Although fantasy and science fiction were his professed first love, the bulk of his output was in the mystery and detective field: upward of 100 stories. Some three-score of these were reprinted in his two hardcover mystery collections, Mostly Murder (1953) and The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders (1963). Several others—novelettes and novellas, for the most part—were later expanded or combined into novels. For instance, “The Santa Claus Murders” (Detective Story, October 1942) became Murder Can Be Fun (1948); “The Gibbering Night” (Detective Tales, July 1944) and “The Jabberwocky Murders” (Thrilling Mystery, Summer 1944) were combined into Night of the Jabberwock (1950); “Compliments of a Fiend” (Thrilling Detective, July 1945) was developed into 1949’s The Bloody Moonlight (not into the 1950 novel also called Compliments of a Fiend, as some people suppose); and “Obit for Obie” (Mystery Book, October 1946) became The Deep End (1952).

But there are still more than 60 of Fredric Brown’s pulp stories that have never been reprinted anywhere since their original magazine publications, or have only appeared in obscure anthologies or in digest crime magazines in the 50s and 60s. To be sure, some of these stories are badly dated; and others, written hurriedly for money and under deadline pressure, are of mediocre or poor quality. Still, more than a few have merit, some considerably so. Minor Brown they may be, but they are nonetheless deserving of disinterment from their crumbling pulp tombs for the enjoyment of modern readers. Seven of these comprise this long-overdue book—the first but not, Dennis McMillan and I both hope, the last such collection.

My personal favorite here is “The Spherical Ghoul” (Thrilling Mystery, January 1943), which has a typically wild and wonderful Brown plot—its ingredients include a morgue at night, a horribly disfigured corpse, mayhem aplenty, and a classic locked-room mystery—and one of the cleverest (if outrageous) central gimmicks you’re likely to come across anywhere. It puzzles me why Brown failed to include it in either of his own collections. And why no one (except The Saint Magazine in 1962, and yours truly in a 1981 horror anthology called The Arbor House Necropolis) has ever bothered to reprint it.

The lead story, “Red-Hot and Hunted” (Detective Tales, November 1948), is also very good Brown. It utilizes one of his favorite themes: the madness, or apparent madness, of either the protagonist or another main character—in this case, a stage actor named Wayne Dixon who may or may not have murdered his wife. The hallmark of any Brown story, aside from its unusual plot, is the maintenance of a high level of suspense; “Red-Hot and Hunted” has this quality in abundance.

“The Cat from Siam” (Popular Detective, September 1949) is another variation on the madness theme, with that same quality of suspense and a beautifully eerie tone. What Brown does with the Siamese cat of the title, and with such simple devices as a chess game, some gunshots in the dark, and a new kind of ratsbane, should provide a frisson or two.

“Listen to the Mocking Bird” (G-Man Detective, November 1941) makes use—as does another of my favorite Brown shorts, “Whistler’s Murder” (reprinted in The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders)—of old Vaudevillean characters; in this story, a mimic who specializes in bird calls. Its plot is both solidly plausible and satisfying, making the story one of his pre-World War II best.

The flute was Fred Brown’s favorite musical instrument; he played it often if not well, for pleasure and relaxation. His love for the flute and for music in general are evident in “Suite for Flute and Tommy-gun” (Detective Story, June 1942). Again, a clever plot and an unusual blending of its various components make this an above-average story.

“The Moon for a Nickel” is hardly one of Brown’s strongest yarns, but the fact that it was his first published fiction makes it important from the historical point of view. It also demonstrates that from the very first, he had all the tools that would later make him so successful—the fast-paced storyline, the wry style, the eye, ear, and feel for the unusual.

Brown wrote relatively few stories featuring private detectives—prior, that is, to his creation of the team of Ed and Am Hunter in The Fabulous Clipjoint. “Homicide Sanitarium” (Thrilling Detective, May 1944) is one of those few, and another neglected gem. Any number of fictional private eyes have taken undercover jobs in sanitariums, but none for quite the same reason as pint-sized and newly married Eddie Anderson: he’s hunting an escaped homicidal maniac, and what better place for a lunatic to hide, after all, than in a private loony-bin that allows its patients to come and go as they please? The plot twists are numerous and baffling, and the delightful surprise Brown springs on the final page is surprising indeed.

Fredric Brown was one of the best storytellers of his time. These seven vintage tales from his pulp years may be minor, as noted earlier, but that doesn’t diminish their value in any way. They’re pure entertainment, from a writer who understood the meaning of that word as well as—if not better than—any producer of popular culture.

What more could a reader ask?

The Little Lamb

SHE DIDN’T come home for supper and by eight o’clock I found some ham in the refrigerator and made myself a sandwich. I wasn’t worried, but I was getting restless. I kept walking to the window and looking down the hill toward town, but I couldn’t see her coming. It was a moonlit evening, very bright and clear. The lights of the town were nice and the curve of the hills beyond, black against blue under a yellow gibbous moon. I thought I’d like to paint it, but not the moon; you put a moon in a picture and it looks corny, it looks pretty. Van Gogh did it in his picture The Starry Sky and it didn’t look pretty; it looked frightening, but then again he was crazy when he did it; a sane man couldn’t have done many of the things Van Gogh did.

I hadn’t cleaned my palette so I picked it up and tried to work a little more on the painting I’d started the day before. It was just blocked in thus far and I started to mix a green to fill in an area but it wouldn’t come right and I realized I’d have to wait till daylight to get it right. Evenings, without natural light, I can work on line or I can mold in finishing strokes, but when color’s the thing, you’ve got to have daylight. I cleaned my messed-up palette for a fresh start in the morning and I cleaned my brushes and it was getting close to nine o’clock and still she hadn’t come.

No, there wasn’t anything to worry about. She was with friends somewhere and she was all right. My studio is almost a mile from town, up in the hills, and there wasn’t any way she could let me know because there’s no phone. Probably she was having a drink with the gang at the Waverly Inn and there was no reason she’d think I’d worry about her. Neither of us lived by the clock; that was understood between us. She’d be home soon.

There was half of a jug of wine left and I poured myself a drink and sipped it, looking out the window toward town. I turned off the light behind me so I could better watch out the window at the bright night. A mile away, in the valley, I could see the lights of the Waverly Inn. Garish bright, like the loud jukebox that kept me from going there often. Strangely, Lamb never minded the jukebox, although she liked good music, too.

Other lights dotted here and there. Small farms, a few other studios. Hans Wagner’s place a quarter of a mile down the slope from mine. Big, with a skylight; I envied him that skylight. But not his strictly academic style. He’d never paint anything quite as good as a color photograph; in fact, he saw things as a camera sees them and painted them without filtering them through the catalyst of the mind. A wonderful draftsman, never more. But his stuff sold; he could afford a skylight.

I sipped the last of my glass of wine, and there was a tight knot in the middle of my stomach. I didn’t know why. Often Lamb had been later than this, much later. There wasn’t any real reason to worry.

I put my glass down on the windowsill and opened the door. But before I went out I turned the lights back on. A beacon for Lamb, if I should miss her. And if she should look up the hill toward home and the lights were out, she might think I wasn’t there and stay longer, wherever she was. She’d know I wouldn’t turn in before she got home, no matter how late it was.

Quit being a fool, I told myself; it isn’t late yet. It’s early, just past nine o’clock. I walked down the hill toward town and the knot in my stomach got tighter and I swore at myself because there was no reason for it. The line of the hills beyond town rose higher as I descended, pointing up the stars. It’s difficult to make stars that look like stars. You’d have to make pinholes in the canvas and put a light behind it. I laughed at the idea—but why not? Except that it isn’t done and what did I care about that. But I thought awhile and I saw why it wasn’t done. It would be childish, immature.

I was about to pass Hans Wagner’s place, and I slowed my steps thinking that just possibly Lamb might be there. Hans lived alone there and Lamb wouldn’t, of course, be there unless a crowd had gone to Hans’s from the inn or somewhere. I stopped to listen and there wasn’t a sound, so the crowd wasn’t there. I went on.

The road branched; there were several ways from here and I might miss her. I took the shortest route, the one she’d be most likely to take if she came directly home from town. It went past Carter Brent’s place, but that was dark. There was a light on at Sylvia’s place, though, and guitar music. I knocked on the door and while I was waiting I realized that it was the phonograph and not a live guitarist. It was Segovia playing Bach, the Chaconne from the D-Minor Partita, one of my favorites. Very beautiful, very fine-boned and delicate, like Lamb.

Sylvia came to the door and answered my question. No, she hadn’t seen Lamb. And no, she hadn’t been at the inn, or anywhere. She’d been home all afternoon and evening, but did I want to drop in for a drink? I was tempted—more by Segovia than by the drink—but I thanked her and went on.

I should have turned around and gone back home instead, because for no reason I was getting into one of my black moods. I was illogically annoyed because I didn’t know where Lamb was; if I found her now I’d probably quarrel with her, and I hate quarreling. Not that we do, often. We’re each pretty tolerant and understanding—of little things, at least. And Lamb’s not having come home yet was still a little thing.

But I could hear the blaring jukebox when I was still a long way from the inn and it didn’t lighten my mood any. I could see in the window now and Lamb wasn’t there, not at the bar. But there were still the booths, and besides, someone might know where she was. There were two couples at the bar. I knew them; Charlie and Eve Chandler and Dick Bristow with a girl from Los Angeles whom I’d met but whose name I couldn’t remember. And one fellow, stag, who looked as though he was trying to look like a movie scout from Hollywood. Maybe he really was one.

I went in and, thank God, the jukebox stopped just as I went through the door. I went over to the bar, glancing at the line of booths; Lamb wasn’t there.

I said, “Hi,” to the four of them that I knew, and to the stag if he wanted to take it to cover him, and to Harry, behind the bar. “Has Lamb been here?” I asked Harry.

“Nope, haven’t seen her, Wayne. Not since six; that’s when I came on. Want a drink?”

I didn’t, particularly, but I didn’t want it to look as though I’d come solely for Lamb, so I ordered one.

“How’s the painting coming?” Charlie Chandler asked me.

He didn’t mean any particular painting and he wouldn’t have known anything about it if he had. Charlie runs the local bookstore and—amazingly—he can tell the difference between Thomas Wolfe and a comic book, but he couldn’t tell the difference between an El Greco and an Al Capp. Don’t misunderstand me on that; I like Al Capp.

So I said, “Fine,” as one always says to a meaningless question, and took a swallow of the drink that Harry had put in front of me. I paid for it and wondered how long I’d have to stay in order to make it not too obvious that I’d come only to look for Lamb.

For some reason, conversation died. If anybody had been talking to anybody before I came in, he wasn’t now. I glanced at Eve and she was making wet circles on the mahogany of the bar with the bottom of a martini goblet. The olive stirred restlessly in the bottom and I knew suddenly that was the color, the exact color I’d wanted to mix an hour or two ago just before I’d decided not to try to paint. The color of an olive moist with gin and vermouth. Just right for the main sweep of the biggest hill, shading darker to the right, lighter to the left. I stared at the color and memorized it so I’d have it tomorrow. Maybe I’d even try it tonight when I got back home; I had it now, daylight or no. It was right; it was the color that had to be there. I felt good; the black mood that had threatened to come on was gone.

But where was Lamb? If she wasn’t home yet when I got back, would I be able to paint? Or would I start worrying about her, without reason? Would I get that tightness in the pit of my stomach?

I saw that my glass was empty. I’d drunk too fast. Now I might as well have another one, or it would be too obvious why I’d come. And I didn’t want people—not even people like these—to think I was jealous of Lamb and worried about her. Lamb and I trusted each other implicitly. I was curious as to where she was and I wanted her back, but that was all. I wasn’t suspicious of where she might be. They wouldn’t realize that.

I said, “Harry, give me a martini.” I’d had so few drinks that it wouldn’t hurt me to mix them, and I wanted to study that color, intimately and at close hand. It was going to be the central color motif; everything would revolve around it.

Harry handed me the martini. It tasted good. I swished around the olive and it wasn’t quite the color I wanted, a little too much in the brown, but I still had the idea. And I still wanted to work on it tonight, if I could find Lamb. If she was there, I could work; I could get the planes of color in, and tomorrow I could mode them, shade them.

But unless I’d missed her, unless she was already home or on her way there, it wasn’t too good a chance. We knew dozens of people; I couldn’t try every place she might possibly be. But there was one other fairly good chance, Mike’s Club, a mile down the road, out of town on the other side. She’d hardly have gone there unless she was with someone who had a car, but that could have happened. I could phone there and find out.

I finished my martini and nibbled the olive and then turned around to walk over to the phone booth. The wavy-haired man who looked as though he might be from Hollywood was just walking back toward the bar from the jukebox and it was making preliminary scratching noises. He’d dropped a coin into it and it started to play something loud and brassy. A polka, and a particularly noisy and obnoxious one. I felt like hitting him one in the nose, but I couldn’t even catch his eye as he strolled back and took his stool again at the bar. And anyway, he wouldn’t have known what I was hitting him for. But the phone booth was just past the jukebox and I wouldn’t hear a word, or be heard, if I phoned Mike’s.

A record takes about three minutes, and I stood one minute of it and that was enough. I wanted to make that call and get out of there, so I walked toward the booth and I reached around the jukebox and pulled the plug out of the wall. Quietly, not violently at all. But the sudden silence was violent, so violent that I could hear, as though she’d screamed them, the last few words of what Eve Chandler had been saying to Charlie Chandler. Her voice pitched barely to carry above the din of brass—but she might as well have used a public address system once I’d pulled the jukebox’s plug.

“… may be at Hans’s.” Bitten off suddenly, as if she’d intended to say more.

Her eyes met mine and hers looked frightened.

I looked back at Eve Chandler. I didn’t pay any attention to Golden Boy from Hollywood; if he wanted to make anything of the fact that I’d ruined his dime, that was his business and he could start it. I went into the phone booth and pulled the door shut. If that jukebox started again before I’d finished my call, it would be my business, and I could start it. The jukebox didn’t start again.

I gave the number of Mike’s and when someone answered, I asked, “Is Lamb there?”

“Who did you say?”

“This is Wayne Gray,” I said patiently. “Is Lambeth Gray there?”

“Oh.” I recognized it now as Mike’s voice. “Didn’t get you at first. No, Mr. Gray, your wife hasn’t been here.”

I thanked him and hung up. When I went out of the booth, the Chandlers were gone. I heard a car starting outside.

I waved to Harry and went outside. The taillight of the Chandlers’ car was heading up the hill. In the direction they’d have gone if they were heading for Hans Wagner’s studio—to warn Lamb that I’d heard something I shouldn’t have heard, and that I might come there.

But it was too ridiculous to consider. Whatever gave Eve Chandler the wild idea that Lamb might be with Hans, it was wrong. Lamb wouldn’t do anything like that. Eve had probably seen her having a drink or so with Hans somewhere, sometime, and had got the thing wrong. Dead wrong. If nothing else, Lamb would have better taste than that. Hans was handsome, and he was a ladies’ man, which I’m not, but he’s stupid and he can’t paint. Lamb wouldn’t fall for a stuffed shirt like Hans Wagner.

But I might as well go home now, I decided. Unless I wanted to give people the impression that I was canvassing the town for my wife, I couldn’t very well look any farther or ask any more people if they’d seen her. And although I don’t care what people think about me either personally or as a painter, I wouldn’t want them to think I had any wrong ideas about Lamb.

I walked off in the wake of the Chandlers’ car, through the bright moonlight. I came in sight of Hans’s place again, and the Chandlers’ car wasn’t parked there; if they’d stopped, they’d gone right on. But, of course, they would have, under those circumstances. They wouldn’t have wanted me to see that they were parked there; it would have looked bad.

The lights were on there, but I walked on past, up the hill toward my own place. Maybe Lamb was home by now; I hoped so. At any rate, I wasn’t going to stop at Hans’s. Whether the Chandlers had or not.

Lamb wasn’t in sight along the road between Hans’s place and mine. But she could have made it before I got that far, even if—well, even if she had been there. If the Chandlers had stopped to warn her.

Three quarters of a mile from the inn to Hans’s. Only one quarter of a mile from Hans’s place to mine. And Lamb could have run; I had only walked.

Past Hans’s place, a beautiful studio with that skylight I envied him. Not the place, not the fancy furnishings, just that wonderful skylight. Oh, yes, you can get wonderful light outdoors, but there’s wind and dust just at the wrong time. And when, mostly, you paint out of your head instead of something you’re looking at, there’s no advantage to being outdoors at all. I don’t have to look at a hill while I’m painting it. I’ve seen a hill.

The light was on at my place, up ahead. But I’d left it on, so that didn’t prove Lamb was home. I plodded toward it, getting a little winded by the uphill climb, and I realized I’d been walking too fast. I turned around to look back and there was that composition again, with the gibbous moon a little higher, a little brighter. It had lightened the black of the near hills and the far ones were blacker. I thought, I can do that. Gray on black and black on gray. And, so it wouldn’t be a monochrome, the yellow lights. Like the lights at Hans’s place. Yellow lights like Hans’s yellow hair. Tall, Nordic-Teutonic type, handsome. Nice planes in his face. Yes, I could see why women liked him. Women, but not Lamb.

I had my breath back and started climbing again. I called out Lamb’s name when I got near the door, but she didn’t answer. I went inside, but she wasn’t there.

The place was very empty. I poured myself a glass of wine and went over to look at the picture I’d blocked out. It was all wrong; it didn’t mean anything. The lines were nice but they didn’t mean anything at all. I’d have to scrape the canvas and start over. Well, I’d done that before. It’s the only way you get anything, to be ruthless when something’s wrong. But I couldn’t start it tonight.

The tin clock said it was a quarter to eleven; still, that wasn’t late. But I didn’t want to think so I decided to read a while. Some poetry, possibly. I went over to the bookcase. I saw Blake and that made me think of one of his simplest and best poems, “The Lamb.” It had always made me think of Lamb—“Little lamb, who made thee?” It had always given me, personally, a funny twist to the line, a connotation that Blake, of course, hadn’t intended. But I didn’t want to read Blake tonight. T.S. Eliot: “Midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium.” But it wasn’t midnight yet, and I wasn’t in the mood for Eliot. Not even Prufrock: “Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table—” He could do things with words that I’d have liked to do with pigments, but they aren’t the same things, the same medium. Painting and poetry are as different as eating and sleeping. But both fields can be, and are, so wide. Painters can differ as greatly as Bonnard and Braque, yet both be great. Poets as great as Eliot and Blake. “Little lamb, who—” I didn’t want to read.

And enough of thinking. I opened the trunk and got my forty-five caliber automatic. The clip was full; I jacked a cartridge into the chamber and put the safety catch on. I put it into my pocket and went outside. I closed the door behind me and started down the hill toward Hans Wagner’s studio.

I wondered, had the Chandlers stopped there to warn them? Then either Lamb would have hurried home—or, possibly, she might have gone on with the Chandlers, to their place. She could have figured that to be less obvious than rushing home. So, even if she wasn’t there, it would prove nothing. If she was, it would show that the Chandlers hadn’t stopped there.

I walked down the road and I tried to look at the crouching black beast of the hills, the yellow of the lights. But they added up to nothing, they meant nothing. Unfeeling, ungiving-to-feel, like a patient etherized upon a table. Damn Eliot, I thought; the man saw too deeply. The useless striving of the wasteland for something a man can touch but never have, the shaking of a dead geranium. As a madman. Little Lamb. Her dark hair and her darker eyes in the whiteness of her face. And the slender, beautiful whiteness of her body. The softness of her voice and the touch of her hands running through my hair. And Hans Wagner’s hair, yellow as that mocking moon.

I knocked on the door. Not loudly, not softly, just a knock.

Was it too long before Hans came?

Did he look frightened? I didn’t know. The planes of his face were nice, but what was in them I didn’t know. I can see the lines and the planes of faces, but I can’t read them. Nor voices.

“Hi, Wayne. Come in,” Hans said.

I went inside. Lamb wasn’t there, not in the big room, the studio. There were other rooms, of course; a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom. I wanted to go look in all of them right away, but that would have been crude. I wouldn’t leave until I’d looked in each.

“Getting a little worried about Lamb: she’s seldom out alone this late. Have you seen her?” I asked.

Hans shook his blond, handsome head.

“Thought she might have dropped in on her way home,” I said casually. I smiled at him. “Maybe I was just getting lonesome and restless. How about dropping back with me for a drink? I’ve got only wine, but there’s plenty of that.”

Of course he had to say, “Why not have a drink here?” He said it. He even asked me what I wanted, and I said a martini because he’d have to go out into the kitchen to make that and it would give me a chance to look around.

“Okay, Wayne, I’ll have one too,” Hans said. “Excuse me a moment.”

He went out into the kitchen. I took a quick look into the bathroom and then went into the bedroom and took a good look, even under the bed. Lamb wasn’t there. Then I went into the kitchen and said, “Forgot to tell you, make mine light. I might want to paint a bit after I get home.”

“Sure,” he said.

Lamb wasn’t in the kitchen. Nor had she left after I’d knocked or come in; I remember Hans’s kitchen door; it’s pretty noisy and I hadn’t heard it. And it’s the only door aside from the front one.

I’d been foolish.

Unless, of course, Lamb had been here and had gone away with the Chandlers when they’d dropped by to warn them, if they had dropped by.

I went back into the big studio with the skylight and wandered around for a minute looking at the things on the walls. They made me want to puke, so I sat down and waited. I’d stay at least a few minutes to make it look all right. Hans came back.

He gave me my drink and I thanked him. I sipped it while he waited patronizingly. Not that I minded that. He made money and I didn’t. But I thought worse of him than he could possibly think of me.

“How’s your work going, Wayne?”

“Fine,” I said. I sipped my drink. He’d taken me at my word and made it weak, mostly vermouth. It tasted lousy that way. But the olive in it looked darker, more the color I’d had in mind. Maybe, just maybe, with the picture built around that color, it would work out.

“Nice place, Hans,” I said. “That skylight. I wish I had one.”

He shrugged. “You don’t work from models anyway, do you? And outdoors is outdoors.”

“Outdoors is in your mind,” I said. “There isn’t any difference.” And then I wondered why I was talking to somebody who wouldn’t know what I was talking about. I wandered over to the window—the one that faced toward my studio—and looked out of it. I hoped I’d see Lamb on the way there, but I didn’t. She wasn’t here. Where was she? Even if she’d been here and left when I’d knocked, she’d have been on the way now. I’d have seen her.

I turned. “Were the Chandlers here tonight?” I asked him.

“The Chandlers? No; haven’t seen them for a couple of days.” He’d finished his drink. “Have another?” he asked.

I started to say no. I didn’t. My eyes happened, just happened, to light on a closet door. I’d seen inside it once; it wasn’t deep, but it was deep enough for a man to stand inside it. Or a woman.

“Thanks, Hans. Yes.”

I walked over and handed him my glass. He went out into the kitchen with the glasses. I walked quietly over to the closet door and tried it.

It was locked.

And there wasn’t a key in the door. That didn’t make sense. Why would anyone keep a closet locked when he always locked all the outer doors and windows when he left?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Hans came out of the kitchen, a martini in each hand. He saw my hand on the knob of the closet door.

For a moment he stood very still and then his hands began to tremble; the martinis, his and mine, slopped over the rims and made little droplets falling to the floor.

I asked him, pleasantly, “Hans, do you keep your closet locked?”

“Is it locked? No, I don’t, ordinarily.” And then he realized he hadn’t quite said it right, and he said, more fearlessly. “What’s the matter with you, Wayne?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.” I took the forty-five out of my pocket. He was far enough away so that, big as he was, he couldn’t think about trying to jump me.

I smiled at him instead. “How’s about letting me have the key?”

More martini glistened on the tiles. These tall, big, handsome blonds, they haven’t guts; he was scared stiff. He tried to make his voice normal. “I don’t know where it is. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “But stay where you are. Don’t move, Hans.”

He didn’t. The glasses shook, but the olives stayed in them. Barely. I watched him, but I put the muzzle of the big forty-five against the keyhole. I slanted it away from the center of the door so I wouldn’t kill anybody who was hiding inside. I did that out of the corner of my eye, watching Hans Wagner.

I pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot, even in that big studio, was deafening, but I didn’t take my eyes off Hans. I may have blinked.

I stepped back as the closet door swung slowly open. I lined the muzzle of the forty-five against Hans’s heart. I kept it there as the door of the closet swung slowly toward me.

An olive hit the tiles with a sound that wouldn’t have been audible, ordinarily. I watched Hans while I looked into the closet as the door swung fully open.

Lamb was there. Naked.

I shot Hans and my hand was steady, so one shot was enough. He fell with his hand moving toward his heart but not having time to get there. His head hit the tiles with a crushing sound. The sound was the sound of death.

I put the gun back into my pocket and my hand was trembling now.

Hans’s easel was near me, his palette knife lying on the ledge.

I took the palette knife in my hand and cut my Lamb, my naked Lamb, out of her frame. I rolled her up and held her tightly; no one would ever see her thus. We left together and, hand in hand, started up the hill toward home. I looked at her in the bright moonlight. I laughed and she laughed, but her laughter was like silver cymbals and my laughter was like dead petals shaken from a madman’s geranium.

Her hand slipped out of mine and she danced, a white slim wraith.

Back over her shoulder her laughter tinkled and she said, “Remember, darling? Remember that you killed me when I told you about Hans and me? Don’t you remember killing me this afternoon? Don’t you, darling? Don’t you remember?”

The Last Train

It was never a question of taking a later train…

ELIOT HAIG sat alone at a bar, as he had sat alone at many bars before, and outside it was dusk, a peculiar dusk. Inside the tavern it was dim and shadowy, almost darker than outside. The blue back bar mirror heightened the effect; in it Haig seemed to see himself as in dim moonlight from a blue moon. Dimly but clearly he saw himself; not doable, despite the several drinks he had had, but single.

Very, very single.

And as always when he had been drinking a few hours he thought, maybe this time I’ll do it.

The it was vague and big; it meant everything. It meant making the big jump from one life to another life that he had so long contemplated: It meant simply walking out on a moderately successful semi-shyster lawyer named Eliot Haig, walking out on all the petty complications of his life, on the personal involvements, the legal chicanery that was just inside the letter of the law or indetectably outside; it meant cutting the cable of habit that tied him to an existence that had become without meaning or significance or incentive.

The blue reflection depressed him and he felt, more strongly than usual, the need to move, to go somewhere else if only for another drink. He finished the last sip of his highball and slid off the stool to the solid floor.

He said, “So long, Joe,” and strolled toward the front.

The bartender said, “Must be a big fire somewhere; look at that sky. Wonder if it’s the lumber yards other side of town.” The bartender was leaning to the front window, staring out and up.

Haig looked up after he had gone through the door. The sky was a pinkish ‘ gray, as though with the glow of a distant fire. But it covered all of the sky he could see from where he stood, with no clue to the direction of the conflagration.

He strolled south at random. The far whistle of a locomotive came to his ears, reminding him.

Why not, he thought. Why not tonight? The old impulse, ghost of thousands of unsatisfactory evenings was stronger tonight. He was walking, even now, toward the railway station; but that he had done before, often. Often he had gone so far as to watch trains depart, thinking, as he watched each, I should be on that train. Never actually boarding one.

Half a block from the station, he heard clang of bell and chug of steam and the starting of the train. He’d missed that one, if he’d had the nerve to take it.

And suddenly it came to him that tonight was different, that tonight he’d really make it. Just with the clothes he had on, the money that happened to be in his pocket. Just as he’d always intended; the clean break. Let them report him missing, let them wonder, let someone else straighten the tangled mess his business would suddenly be without him.

Walter Yates was standing in front of the open door of his tavern a few doors from the station. He said, “Hullo, Mr. Haig. Beautiful aurora borealis tonight. Best one I’ve ever seen.”

“That what it is?” Haig asked. “I thought it was reflection from a big fire.”

Walter shook his head. “Nope. Look north; the sky’s kind of shivery up that way. It’s the aurora.”

HAIG turned and looked north, back along the street. The reddish glow in that direction was—yes, “shivery” described it well. It was beautiful, too, but just a little frightening, even when one knew what it was.

He turned back and went past Walter into the tavern, asking, “Got a drink for a thirsty man?”

Later, stirring a highball with the glass ‘ rod, he asked, “Walter, when does the next train leave?”

“For where?”

“For anywhere.”

Walter glanced up at the clock. “In a few minutes. It’s going to highball any second now.”

“Too soon; I want to finish this drink. And the next one after that?”

“There’s one at ten-fourteen. Maybe that’s the last one out tonight. Up to midnight anyway, it is; I close up then, so I don’t know.”

“Where does it—Wait, don’t tell me where it goes. I don’t want to know. But I’m going to be on it.”

“Without knowing where it goes?”

“Without caring where it goes,” corrected Haig. “And look, Walter, I’m serious. I want you to do this for me: If you read in the newspapers that I’ve disappeared, don’t tell anyone I was here tonight, or what I told you. I didn’t mean to tell anyone.”

Walter nodded sagely. “I can keep my trap shut, Mr. Haig. You’ve been a good customer. They won’t trace you through me.”

Haig swayed a little on the stool. His eyes focused on Walter’s face, seeing the. slight smile. There was a haunting sense of familiarity in this conversation. It was as though he had said the same words before, had had the same answer.

Sharply he asked, “Have I told you that before, Walter? How often?”

“Oh, six—eight—maybe ten times. I don’t remember.”

Haig said “God” softly. He stared at Walter and Walter’s face blurred and separated into two faces and only an effort pulled them back into one face; faintly smiling, ironically tolerant. It had been oftener, he knew now, than ten times. “Walter, am I a lush?”

“I wouldn’t call you that, Mr. Haig. You drink a lot, yes, but—”

He didn’t want to look at Walter any more.

He stared down into his glass and saw that it was empty. He ordered another, and while Walter was getting it, he stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Not a blue mirror here, thank God. It was bad enough to see two images of himself in the plain mirror; the twin images Haig and Haig, only that was now an outworn joke with himself and it was one of the reasons he was going to catch that train. Going to, by God, drunk or sober he’d be on that train.

Only that, phrase too had a ring of uneasy familiarity.

How many times?

He stared down into a glass a quarter full and the next time it was over half full and Walter was saying, “Maybe it is a fire, Mr. Haig, a big fire; that’s getting too bright for an aurora. I’m going out a second.” But Haig stayed on the stool and when he looked again, Walter was back behind the bar, fiddling with the radio.

Haig asked, ‘“Is it a fire?”

“Must be. I’m going to get the ten-fifteen newscast and see.”

THE radio blared jazz, a high-riding jittery clarinet over muted brass and restless drums.

“Be on in a minute; that’s the station.”

“Be on in a minute—^w He almost fell, getting, off the stool “It’s ten-fourteen, then?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The floor seemed tilting a little as he headed for the open door. Only a few doors and through the station. He might make it; he might actually make it. Suddenly it was as though he’d had nothing to drink at all and his mind was crystal clear no matter how his feet might stagger. And trains seldom left on the exact second, and Walter might have said “in a minute” meaning three or two or four minutes. There was a chance.

He fell on the steps but got up and went on, losing only seconds. Past the ticket window—he could buy his ticket on the train—and through the back doors to the platform, the gates, and the red tail-light of a train pulling out only yards, but hopeless yards, away. Ten yards, a hundred. Dwindling.

The station agent stood at the edge of the platform looking out after the departing train.

He must have heard Haig’s footsteps; over his shoulder he said, “Too bad you missed it. That was the last one.”

Haig suddenly saw the funny side of it and began to laugh. It was simply too ridiculous to take seriously, the narrowness of the margin by which he’d missed that train. Besides, there’d be an early one. All he had to do was go back in the station and wait until—

He asked, “When’s the first one out tomorrow?”

“You don’t understand,” said the agent.

For the first time he turned and Haig saw his face against the crimson, blazing sky. “You don’t understand,” he said. “That was the last train.”

Red-Hot and Hunted

Don't Look Behind You

JUST SIT back and relax, now. Try to enjoy this; it’s going be the last story you ever read, or nearly the last. After you finish it you can sit there and stall a while, you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your room, or your office, wherever you’re reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out. That’s where I’m waiting for you: outside. Or maybe closer than that. Maybe in this room.

You think that’s a joke of course. You think this is just a story in a book, and that I don’t really mean you. Keep right on thinking so. But be fair; admit that I’m giving you fair warning.

Harley bet me I couldn’t do it. He bet me a diamond he’s told me about, a diamond as big as his head. So you see why I’ve got to kill you. And why I’ve got to tell you how and why and all about it first. That’s part of the bet. It’s just the kind of idea Harley would have.

I’ll tell you about Harley first. He’s tall and handsome, and suave and cosmopolitan. He looks something like Ronald Coleman, only he’s taller. He dresses like a million dollars, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t; I mean that he’d look distinguished in overalls. There’s a sort of magic about Harley, a mocking magic in the way he looks at you; it makes you think of palaces and far-off countries and bright music.

It was in Springfield, Ohio, that he met Justin Dean. Justin was a funny-looking little runt who was just a printer. He worked for the Atlas Printing & Engraving Company. He was a very ordinary little guy, just about as different as possible from Harley; you couldn’t pick two men more different. He was only thirty-five, but he was mostly bald already, and he had to wear thick glasses because he’d worn out his eyes doing fine printing and engraving. He was a good printer and engraver; I’ll say that for him.

I never asked Harley how he happened to come to Springfield, but the day he got there, after he’d checked in at the Castle Hotel, he stopped in at Atlas to have some calling cards made. It happened that Justin Dean was alone in the shop at the time, and he took Harley’s order for the cards; Harley wanted engraved ones, the best. Harley always wants the best of everything.

Harley probably didn’t even notice Justin; there was no reason why he should have. But Justin noticed Harley all right, and in him he saw everything that he himself would like to be, and never would be, because most of the things Harley has, you have to be born with.

And Justin made the plates for the cards himself and printed them himself, and he did a wonderful job-something he thought would be worthy of a man like Harley Prentice. That was the name engraved on the card, just that and nothing else, as all really important people have their cards engraved.

He did fine-line work on it, freehand cursive style, and used all the skill he had. It wasn’t wasted, because the next day when Harley called to get the cards he held one and stared at it for a while, and then he looked at Justin, seeing him for the first time. He asked, “Who did this?”

And little Justin told him proudly who had done it, and Harley smiled at him and told him it was the work of an artist, and he asked Justin to have dinner with him that evening after work, in the Blue Room of the Castle Hotel.

That’s how Harley and Justin got together, but Harley was careful. He waited until he’d known Justin a while before he asked him whether or not he could make plates for five and ten dollar bills. Harley had the contacts; he could market the bills in quantity with men who specialized in passing them, and-most important-he knew where he could get paper with the silk threads in it, paper that wasn’t quite the genuine thing, but was close enough to pass inspection by anyone but an expert.

So Justin quit his job at Atlas and he and Harley went to New York, and they set up a little printing shop as a blind, on Amsterdam Avenue south of Sherman Square, and they worked at the bills. Justin worked hard, harder than he had ever worked in his life, because besides working on the plates for the bills, he helped meet expenses by handling what legitimate printing work came into the shop.

He worked day and night for almost a year, making plate after plate, and each one was a little better than the last, and finally he had plates that Harley said were good enough. That night they had dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria to celebrate and after dinner they went the rounds of the best night clubs, and it cost Harley a small fortune, but that didn’t matter because they were going to get rich.

They drank champagne, and it was the first time Justin ever drank champagne and he got disgustingly drunk and must have made quite a fool of himself. Harley told him about it afterwards, but Harley wasn’t mad at him. He took him back to his room at the hotel and put him to bed, and Justin was pretty sick for a couple of days. But that didn’t matter, either, because they were going to get rich.

Then Justin started printing bills from the plates, and they got rich. After that, Justin didn’t have to work so hard, either, because he turned down most jobs that came into the print shop, told them he was behind schedule and couldn’t handle any more. He took just a little work, to keep up a front. And behind the front, he made five and ten dollar bills, and he and Harley got rich.

He got to know other people whom Harley knew. He met Bull Mallon, who handled the distribution end. Bull Mallon was built like a bull, that was why they called him that. He had a face that never smiled or changed expression at all except when he was holding burning matches to the soles of Justin’s bare feet. But that wasn’t then; that was later, when he wanted Justin to tell him where the plates were.

And he got to know Captain John Willys of the Police Department, who was a friend of Harley’s, to whom Harley gave quite a bit of the money they made, but that didn’t matter either, because there was plenty left and they all got rich. He met a friend of Harley’s who was a big star of the stage, and one who owned a big New York newspaper. He got to know other people equally important, but in less respectable ways.

Harley, Justin knew, had a hand in lots of other enterprises besides the little mint on Amsterdam Avenue. Some of these ventures took him out of town, usually over weekends. And the weekend that Harley was murdered Justin never found out what really happened, except that Harley went away and didn’t come back. Oh, he knew that he was murdered, all right, because the police found his body with three bullet holes in his chest-in the most expensive suite of the best hotel in Albany. Even for a place to be found dead in Harley Prentice had chosen the best.

All Justin ever knew about it was that a long distance call came to him at the hotel where he was staying, the night that Harley was murdered-it must have been a matter of minutes, in fact, before the time the newspapers said Harley was killed.

It was Harley’s voice on the phone, and his voice was debonair and unexcited as ever. But he said, “Justin? Get to the shop and get rid of the plates, the paper, everything. Right away. I’ll explain when I see you.” He waited only until Justin said, “Sure, Harley,” and then he said, “Attaboy,” and hung up.

Justin hurried around to the printing shop and got the plates and the paper and a few thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit bills that were on hand. He made the paper and bills into one bundle and the copper plates into another, smaller one, and he left the shop with no evidence that it had ever been a mint in miniature.

He was very careful and very clever in disposing of both bundles. He got rid of the big one first by checking in at a big hotel, not one he or Harley ever stayed at, under a false name, just to have a chance to put the big bundle in the incinerator there. It was paper and it would burn. And he made sure there was a fire in the incinerator before he dropped it down the chute.

The plates were different. They wouldn’t burn, he knew, so he took a trip to Staten Island and back on the ferry and, somewhere out in the middle of the bay, he dropped the bundle over the side into the water.

Then, having done what Harley had told him to do, and having done it well and thoroughly, he went back to the hotel-his own hotel, not the one where he had dumped the paper and the bills-and went to sleep.

In the morning he read in the newspapers that Harley had been killed, and he was stunned. It didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t believe it; it was a joke someone was playing on him. Harley would come back to him, he knew. And he was right; Harley did, but that was later, in the swamp.

But anyway, Justin had to know, so he took the very next train for Albany. He must have been on the train when the police went to his hotel, and at the hotel they must have learned he’d asked at the desk about trains for Albany, because they were waiting for him when he got off the train there.

They took him to a station and they kept him there a long long time, days and days, asking him questions. They found out, after a while, that he couldn’t have killed Harley because he’d been in New York City at the time Harley was killed in Albany but they knew also that he and Harley had been operating the little mint, and they thought that might be a lead to who killed Harley, and they were interested in the counterfeiting, too, maybe even more than in the murder. They asked Justin Dean questions, over and over and over, and he couldn’t answer them, so he didn’t. They kept him awake for days at a time, asking him questions over and over. Most of all they wanted to know where the plates were. He wished he could tell them that the plates were safe where nobody could ever get them again, but he couldn’t tell them that without admitting that he and Harley had been counterfeiting, so he couldn’t tell them.

They located the Amsterdam shop, but they didn’t find any evidence there, and they really had no evidence to hold Justin on at all, but he didn’t know that, and it never occurred to him to get a lawyer.

He kept wanting to see Harley, and they wouldn’t let him; then, when they learned he really didn’t believe Harley could be dead, they made him look at a dead man they said was Harley, and he guessed it was, although Harley looked different dead. He didn’t look magnificent, dead. And Justin believed, then, but still didn’t believe. And after that he just went silent and wouldn’t say a word, even when they kept him awake for days and days with a bright light in his eyes, and kept slapping him to keep him awake. They didn’t use clubs or rubber hoses, but they slapped him a million times and wouldn’t let him sleep. And after a while he lost track of things and couldn’t have answered their questions even if he’d wanted to.

For a while after that, he was in a bed in a white room, and all he remembers about that are nightmares he had, and calling for Harley and an awful confusion as to whether Harley was dead or not, and then things came back to him gradually and he knew he didn’t want to stay in the white room; he wanted to get out so he could hunt for Harley. And if Harley was dead, he wanted to kill whoever had killed Harley, because Harley would have done the same for him.

So he began pretending, and acting, very cleverly, the way the doctors and nurses seemed to want him to act, and after a while they gave him his clothes and let him go.

He was becoming cleverer now. He thought, What would Harley tell me to do? And he knew they’d try to follow him because they’d think he might lead them to the plates, which they didn’t know were at the bottom of the bay, and he gave them the slip before he left Albany, and he went first to Boston, and from there by boat to New York, instead of going direct.

He went first to the print shop, and went in the back way after watching the alley for a long time to be sure the place wasn’t guarded. It was a mess; they must have searched it very thoroughly for the plates.

Harley wasn’t there, of course. Justin left and from a phone booth in a drugstore he telephoned their hotel and asked for Harley and was told Harley no longer lived there; and to be clever and not let them guess who he was, he asked for Justin Dean, and they said Justin Dean didn’t live there any more either.

Then he moved to a different drugstore and from there he decided to call up some friends of Harley’s, and he phoned Bull Mallon first and because Bull was a friend, he told him who he was and asked if he knew where Harley was.

Bull Mallon didn’t pay any attention to that; he sounded excited, a little, and he asked, “Did the cops get the plates, Dean?” and Justin said they didn’t, that he wouldn’t tell them, and he asked again about Harley.

Bull asked, “Are you nuts, or kidding?” And Justin just asked him again, and Bull’s voice changed and he said, “Where are you?” and Justin told him. Bull said, “Harley’s here. He’s staying under cover, but it’s all right if you know, Dean. You wait right there at the drugstore, and we’ll come and get you.”

They came and got Justin, Bull Mallon and two other men in a car, and they told him Harley was hiding out way deep in New Jersey and that they were going to drive there now. So he went along and sat in the back seat between two men he didn’t know, while Bull Mallon drove.

It was late afternoon then, when they picked him up, and Bull drove all evening and most of the night and he drove fast, so he must have gone farther than New Jersey, at least into Virginia or maybe farther, into the Carolinas. The sky was getting faintly gray with first dawn when they stopped at a rustic cabin that looked like it had been used as a hunting lodge. It was miles from anywhere, there wasn’t even a road leading to it, just a trail that was level enough for the car to be able to make it.

They took Justin into the cabin and tied him to a chair, and they told him Harley wasn’t there, but Harley had told them that Justin would tell them where the plates were, and he couldn’t leave until he did tell.

Justin didn’t believe them; he knew then that they’d tricked him about Harley, but it didn’t matter, as far as the plates were concerned. It didn’t matter if he told them what he’d done with the plates, because they couldn’t get them again, and they wouldn’t tell the police. So he told them, quite willingly.

But they didn’t believe him. They said he’d hidden the plates and was lying. They tortured him to make him tell. They beat him, and they cut him with knives, and they held burning matches and lighted cigars to the soles of his feet, and they pushed needles under his fingernails. Then they’d rest and ask him questions and if he could talk, he’d tell them the truth, and after a while they’d start to torture him again.

It went on for days and weeks-Justin doesn’t know how long, but it was a long time. Once they went away for several days and left him tied up with nothing to eat or drink. They came back and started in all over again. And all the time he hoped Harley would come to help him, but Harley didn’t come, not then.

After a while what was happening in the cabin ended, or anyway he didn’t know any more about it. They must have thought he was dead; maybe they were right, or anyway not far from wrong.

The next thing he knows was the swamp. He was lying in shallow water at the edge of deeper water. His face was out of the water; it woke him when he turned a little and his face went under. They must have thought him dead and thrown him into the water, but he had floated into the shallow part before he had drowned, and a last flicker of consciousness had turned him over on his back with his face out.

I don’t remember much about Justin in the swamp; it was a long time, but I just remember flashes of it. I couldn’t move at first; I just lay there in the shallow water with my face out. It got dark and it got cold, I remember, and finally my arms would move a little and I got farther out of the water, lying in the mud with only my feet in the water. I slept or was unconscious again and when I woke up it was getting gray dawn, and that was when Harley came. I think I’d been calling him, and he must have heard.

He stood there, dressed as immaculately and perfectly as ever, right in the swamp, and he was laughing at me for being so weak and lying there like a log, half in the dirty water and half in the mud, and I got up and nothing hurt any more.

We shook hands and he said, “Come on, Justin, let’s get you out of here,” and I was so glad he’d come that I cried a little. He laughed at me for that and said I should lean on him and he’d help me walk, but I wouldn’t do that, because I was coated with mud and filth of the swamp and he was so clean and perfect in a white linen suit, like an ad in a magazine. And all the way out of that swamp, all the days and nights we spent there, he never even got mud on his trouser cuffs, nor his hair mussed.

I told him just to lead the way, and he did, walking just ahead of me, sometimes turning around, laughing and talking to me and cheering me up. Sometimes I’d fall but I wouldn’t let him come back and help me. But he’d wait patiently until I could get up. Sometimes I’d crawl instead when I couldn’t stand up any more. Sometimes I’d have to swim streams that he’d leap lightly across.

And it was day and night and day and night, and sometimes I’d sleep, and things would crawl across me. And some of them I caught and ate, or maybe I dreamed that. I remember other things, in that swamp, like an organ that played a lot of the time, and sometimes angels in the air and devils in the water, but those were delirium, I guess.

Harley would say, “A little farther, Justin; we’ll make it. And we’ll get back at them, at all of them.”

And we made it. We came to dry fields, cultivated fields with waist-high corn, but there weren’t ears on the corn for me to eat. And then there was a stream, a clear stream that wasn’t stinking water like the swamp, and Harley told me to wash myself and my clothes and I did, although I wanted to hurry on to where I could get food.

I still looked pretty bad; my clothes were clean of mud and filth but they were mere rags and wet, because I couldn’t wait for them to dry, and I had a ragged beard and I was barefoot.

But we went on and came to a little farm building, just a two-room shack, and there was a smell of fresh bread just out of an oven, and I ran the last few yards to knock on the door. A woman, an ugly woman, opened the door and when she saw me she slammed it again before I could say a word.

Strength came to me from somewhere, maybe from Harley, although I can’t remember him being there just then. There was a pile of kindling logs beside the door. I picked one of them up as though it were no heavier than a broomstick, and I broke down the door and killed the woman. She screamed a lot, but I killed her. Then I ate the hot fresh bread.

I watched from the window as I ate, and saw a man running across the field toward the house. I found a knife, and I killed him as he came in at the door. It was much better, killing with the knife; I liked it that way.

I ate more bread, and kept watching from all the windows, but no one else came. Then my stomach hurt from the hot bread I’d eaten and I had to lie down, doubled up, and when the hurting quit, I slept.

Harley woke me up, and it was dark. He said, “Let’s get going; you should be far away from here before it’s daylight.”

I knew he was right, but I didn’t hurry away. I was becoming, as you see, very clever now. I knew there were things to do first. I found matches and a lamp, and lighted the lamp. Then I hunted through the shack for everything I could use. I found clothes of the man, and they fitted me-not too badly except that I had to turn up the cuffs of the trousers and the shirt. His shoes were big, but that was good because my feet were so swollen.

I found a razor and shaved; it took a long time because my hand wasn’t steady, but I was very careful and didn’t cut myself much.

I had to hunt hardest for their money, but I found it finally. It was sixty dollars.

And I took the knife, after I had sharpened it. It isn’t fancy; just a bone-handled carving knife, but it’s good steel. I’ll show it to you, pretty soon now. It’s had a lot of use.

Then we left and it was Harley who told me to stay away from the roads, and find railroad tracks. That was easy because we heard a train whistle far off in the night and knew which direction the tracks lay. From then on, with Harley helping, it’s been easy.

You won’t need the details from here. I mean, about the brakeman, and about the tramp we found asleep in the empty reefer, and about the near thing I had with the police in Richmond. I learned from that; I learned I mustn’t talk to Harley when anybody else was around to hear. He hides himself from them; he’s got a trick and they don’t know he’s there, and they think I’m funny in the head if I talk to him. But in Richmond I bought better clothes and got a haircut and a man I killed in an alley had forty dollars on him, so I had money again. I’ve done a lot of traveling since then. If you stop to think you’ll know where I am right now.

I’m looking for Bull Mallon and the two men who helped him. Their names are Harry and Carl. I’m going to kill them when I find them. Harley keeps telling me that those fellows are big time and that I’m not ready for them yet. But I can be looking while I’m getting ready so I keep moving around. Sometimes I stay in one place long enough to hold a job as a printer for a while. I’ve learned a lot of things. I can hold a job and people don’t think I’m too strange; they don’t get scared when I look at them like they sometimes did a few months ago. And I’ve learned not to talk to Harley except in our own room and then only very quietly so people in the next room won’t think I’m talking to myself.

And I’ve kept in practice with the knife. I’ve killed lots of people with it, mostly on the streets at night. Sometimes because they look like they might have money on them, but mostly just for practice and because I’ve come to like doing it. I’m really good with the knife by now. You’ll hardly feel it.

But Harley tells me that kind of killing is easy and that it’s something else to kill a person who’s on guard, as Bull and Harry and Carl will be.

And that’s the conversation that led to the bet I mentioned. I told Harley that I’d bet him that, right now, I could warn a man I was going to use the knife on him and even tell him why and approximately when, and that I could still kill him. And he bet me that I couldn’t and he’s going to lose that bet.

He’s going to lose it because I’m warning you right now and you’re not going to believe me. I’m betting that you’re going to believe that this is just another story in a book. That you won’t believe that this is the only copy of this book that contains this story and that this story is true. Even when I tell you how it was done, I don’t think you’ll really believe me.

You see I’m putting it over on Harley, winning the bet, by putting it over on you. He never thought, and you won’t realize how easy it is for a good printer, who’s been a counterfeiter too, to counterfeit one story in a book. Nothing like as hard as counterfeiting a five dollar bill.

I had to pick a book of short stories and I picked this one because I happened to notice that the last story in the book was titled Don’t Look Behind You and that was going to be a good title for this. You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes.

I’m lucky that the printing shop I’m working for now does book work and had a type face that matches the rest of this book. I had a little trouble matching the paper exactly, but I finally did and I’ve got it ready while I’m writing this. I’m writing this directly on a linotype, late at night in the shop where I’m working days. I even have the boss’ permission, told him I was going to set up and print a story that a friend of mine had written, as a surprise for him, and that I’d melt the type metal back as soon as I’d printed one good copy.

When I finish writing this I’ll make up the type in pages to match the rest of the book and I’ll print it on the matching paper I have ready. I’ll cut the new pages to fit and bind them in; you won’t be able to tell the difference, even if a faint suspicion may cause you to look at it. Don’t forget I made five and ten dollar bills you couldn’t have told from the original, and this is kindergarten stuff compared to that job. And I’ve done enough bookbinding that I’ll be able to take the last story out of the book and bind this one in instead of it and you won’t be able to tell the difference no matter how closely you look. I’m going to do a perfect job of it if it takes me all night.

And tomorrow I’ll go to some bookstore, or maybe a newsstand or even a drugstore that sells books and has other copies of this book, ordinary copies, and I’ll plant this one there. I’ll find myself a good place to watch from, and I’ll be watching when you buy it.

The rest I can’t tell you yet because it depends a lot on circumstances, whether you went right home with the book or what you did. I won’t know till I follow you and keep watch till you read it-and I see that you’re reading the last story in the book.

If you’re home while you’re reading this, maybe I’m in the house with you right now. Maybe I’m in this very room, hidden, waiting for you to finish the story. Maybe I’m watching through a window. Or maybe I’m sitting near you on the streetcar or train, if you’re reading it there. Maybe I’m on the fire escape outside your hotel room. But wherever you’re reading it, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish. You can count on that.

You’re pretty near the end now. You’ll be finished in seconds and you’ll close the book, still not believing. Or, if you haven’t read the stories in order, maybe you’ll turn back to start another story. If you do, you’ll never finish it.

But don’t look around; you’ll be happier if you don’t know, if you don’t see the knife coming. When I kill people from behind they don’t seem to mind so much.

Go on, just a few seconds or minutes, thinking this is just another story. Don’t look behind you. Don’t believe this-until you feel the knife.

The Spherical Ghoul

I HAD no premonition of horror to come. When I reported to work that evening I had not the faintest inkling that I faced anything more startling than another quiet night on a snap job.

It was seven o’clock, just getting dark outside, when I went into the coroner’s office. I stood looking out the window into the gray dusk for a few minutes.

Out there, I could see all the tall buildings of the college, and right across the way was Kane Dormitory, where Jerry Grant was supposed to sleep. The same Grant being myself.

Yes, “supposed to” is right. I was working my way through the last year of an ethnology course by holding down a night job for the city, and I hadn’t slept more than a five-hour stretch for weeks.

But that night shift in the coroner’s department was a snap, all right. A few hours’ easy work, and the rest of the time left over for study and work on my thesis. I owed my chance to finish out that final year and get my doctor’s degree despite the fact that Dad had died, to the fact that I’d been able to get that job.

Behind me, I could hear Dr. Dwight Skibbine, the coroner, opening and closing drawers of his desk, getting ready to leave. I heard his swivel chair squeak as he shoved it back to stand up.

“Don’t forget you’re going to straighten out that card file tonight, Jerry,” he said. “It’s in a mess.”

I turned away from the window and nodded. “Any customers around tonight?” I asked.

“Just one. In the display case, but I don’t think you’ll have anybody coming in to look at him. Keep an eye on that refrigeration unit, though. It’s been acting up a bit.”

“Thirty-two?” I asked just to make conversation, I guess, because we always keep the case at thirty-two degrees.

He nodded. “I’m going to be back later, for a little while. If Paton gets here before I get back tell him to wait.”

He went out, and I went over to the card file and started to straighten it out. It was a simple enough file—just a record of possessions found on bodies that were brought into the morgue, and their disposal after the body was either identified and claimed, or buried in potter’s field—but the clerks on the day shift managed to get the file tangled up periodically.

It took me a little while to dope out what had gummed it up this time. Before I finished it, I decided to go downstairs to the basement—the morgue proper—and be sure the refrigerating unit was still holding down Old Man Fahrenheit.

It was. The thermometer in the showcase read thirty-two degrees on the head. The body in the case was that of a man of about forty, a heavy-set, ugly-looking customer. Even as dead as a doornail and under glass, he looked mean.

Maybe you don’t know exactly how morgues are run. It’s simple, if they are all handled the way the Springdale one was. We had accommodations for seven customers, and six of them were compartments built back into the walls, for all the world like the sliding drawers of a file cabinet. Those compartments were arranged for refrigeration.

But the showcase was where we put unidentified bodies, so they could be shown easily and quickly to anybody who came in to look at them for identification purposes. It was like a big coffin mounted on a bier, except that it was made of glass on all sides except the bottom.

That made it easy to show the body to prospective identifiers, especially as we could click a switch that threw on lights right inside the display case itself, focused on the face of the corpse.

Everything was okay, so I went back upstairs. I decided I would study a while before I resumed work on the file. The night went more quickly and I got more studying done if I alternated the two. I could have had all my routine work over with in three hours and had the rest of the night to study, but it had never worked as well that way.

I used the coroner’s secretary’s desk for studying and had just got some books and papers spread out when Mr. Paton came in. Harold Paton is superintendent of the zoological gardens, although you would never guess it to look at him. He looked like a man who would be unemployed eleven months of the year because department store Santa Clauses were hired for only one month out of twelve. True, he would need a little padding and a beard, but not a spot of make-up otherwise.

“Hello, Jerry,” he said. “Dwight say when he was coming back?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Paton. Just said for you to wait.”

The zoo director sighed and sat down.

“We’re playing off the tie tonight,” he said, “and I’m going to take him.”

He was talking about chess, of course. Dr. Skibbine and Mr. Paton were both chess addicts of the first water, and about twice a week the coroner phoned his wife that he was going to be held up at the office and the two men would play a game that sometimes lasted until well after midnight.

I picked up a volume of The Golden Bough and started to open it to my bookmark. I was interested in it, because The Golden Bough is the most complete account of the superstitions and early customs of mankind that has ever been compiled.

Mr. Paton’s eyes twinkled a little as they took in the title of the volume in my hand.

“That part of the course you’re taking?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m picking up data for my thesis from it. But I do think it ought to be in a course on ethnology.”

“Jerry, Jerry,” he said, “you take that thesis too seriously. Ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves. If you ever find any, bring them around, and I’ll have special cages built for them at the zoo. Or could you keep a werewolf in a cage?”

You couldn’t get mad at Mr. Paton, no matter how he kidded you. That thesis was a bit of a sore point with me. I had taken considerable kidding because I had chosen as my subject, “The Origin and Partial Justification of Superstitions.” When some people razzed me about it, I wanted to take a poke at them. But I grinned at Mr. Paton.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned vampires in that category,” I told him. “You’ve got them already. I saw a cageful the last time I was there.”

“What? Oh, you mean the vampire bats.”

“Sure, and you’ve got a unicorn too, or didn’t you know that a rhinoceros is really a unicorn? Except that the medieval artists who drew pictures of it had never seen one and were guessing what it looked like.”

“Of course, but —”

There were footsteps in the hallway, and he stopped talking as Dr. Skibbine came in.

“Hullo, Harold,” he said to Mr. Paton, and to me: “Heard part of what you were saying, Jerry, and you’re right. Don’t let Paton kid you out of that thesis of yours.”

He went over to his desk and got the chessmen out of the bottom drawer.

“I can’t outtalk the two of you,” Mr. Paton said. “But say, Jerry, how about ghouls? This ought to be a good place to catch them if there are any running loose around Springdale. Or is that one superstition you’re not justifying?”

“Superstition?” I said. “What makes you think that’s—”

Then the phone rang, and I went to answer it without finishing what I was going to say.

When I came away from the phone, the two men had the chess pieces set up. Dr. Skibbine had the whites and moved the pawn to king’s fourth opening.

“Who was it, Jerry?” he asked.

“Just a man who wanted to know if he could come in to look at the body that was brought in this afternoon. His brother’s late getting home.”

Dr. Skibbine nodded and moved his king’s knight in answer to Mr. Paton’s opening move. Already both of them were completely lost in the game. Obviously, Mr. Paton had forgotten what he had asked me about ghouls, so I didn’t butt in to finish what I had started to say.

I let The Golden Bough go, too, and went to look up the file folder on the unidentified body downstairs. If somebody was coming in to look at it, I wanted to have all the facts about it in mind.

There wasn’t much in the folder. The man had been a tramp, judging from his clothes and the lack of money in his pockets and from the nature of the things he did have with him. There wasn’t anything at all to indicate identification.

He had been killed on the Mill Road, presumably by a hit-run driver. A Mr. George Considine had found the body and he had also seen another car driving away. The other car had been too distant for him to get the license number or any description worth mentioning.

Of course, I thought, that car might or might not have been the car that had hit the man. Possibly the driver had seen and deliberately passed up the body, thinking it was a drunk.

But the former theory seemed more likely, because there was little traffic on the Mill Road. One end of it was blocked off for repairs, so the only people who used it were the few who lived along there, and there were not many of them. Probably only a few cars a day came along that particular stretch of the road.

Mr. Considine had got out of his car and found that the man was dead. He had driven on to the next house, half a mile beyond, and phoned the police from there, at four o’clock.

That’s all there was in the files.

I had just finished reading it when Bill Drager came in. Bill is a lieutenant on the police force, and he and I had become pretty friendly during the time I had worked for the coroner. He was a pretty good friend of Dr. Skibbine too.

“Sorry to interrupt your game, Doc,” he said, “but I just wanted to ask something.”

“What, Bill?”

“Look—the stiff you got in today. You’ve examined it already?”

“Of course, why?”

“Just wondering. I don’t know what makes me think so, but—well, I’m not satisfied all the way. Was it just an auto accident?”

DR. SKIBBINE had a bishop in his hand, ready to move it, but he put it down on the side of the board instead.

“Just a minute, Harold,” he said to Mr. Paton, then turned his chair around to stare at Bill Drager. “Not an auto accident?” he inquired. “The car wheels ran across the man’s neck, Bill. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know. Was that the sole cause of death, or were there some other marks?”

Dr. Skibbine leaned back in the swivel chair.

“I don’t think being hit was the cause of death, exactly. His forehead struck the road when he fell, and he was probably dead when the wheels ran over him. It could have been, for that matter, that he fell when there wasn’t even a car around and the car ran over him later.”

“In broad daylight?”

“Um—yes, that does sound unlikely. But he could have fallen into the path of the car. He had been drinking plenty. He reeked of liquor.”

“Suppose he was hit by a car,” Bill said. “How would you reconstruct it? How he fell, I mean, and stuff like that.”

“Let’s see. I’d say he fell first and was down when the car first touched him. Say he started across the road in front of the car. Horn honked and he tried to turn around and fell flat instead, and the motorist couldn’t stop in time and ran over him.”

I had not said anything yet, but I put in a protest at that.

“If the man was as obviously drunk as that,” I said, “why would the motorist have kept on going? He couldn’t have thought he would be blamed if a drunk staggered in front of his car and fell, even before he was hit.”

Drager shrugged. “That could happen, Jerry,” he said. “For one thing, he may not have any witnesses to prove that it happened that way. And some guys get panicky when they hit a pedestrian, even if the pedestrian is to blame. And then again, the driver of the car might have had a drink or two himself and been afraid to stop because of that.”

Dr. Skibbine’s swivel chair creaked.

“Sure,” he said, “or he might have been afraid because he had a reckless driving count against him already. But, Bill, the cause of death was the blow he got on the forehead when he hit the road. Not that the tires going over his neck wouldn’t have finished him if the fall hadn’t.”

“We had a case like that here five years ago. Remember?”

Dr. Skibbine grunted. “I wasn’t here five years ago. Remember?”

“Yes, I forgot that,” said Bill Drager.

I had forgotten it, too. Dr. Skibbine was a Springdale man, but he had spent several years in South American countries doing research work on tropical diseases. Then he had come back and had been elected coroner. Coroner was an easy job in Springdale and gave a man more time for things like research and chess than a private practice would.

“Go on down and look at him, if you want,” Dr. Skibbine told Bill. “Jerry’ll take you down. It will get his mind off ghouls and goblins.”

I took Bill Drager downstairs and flicked on the lights in the display case.

“I can take off the end and slide him out of there if you want me to,” I said.

“I guess not,” Drager said and leaned on the glass top to look closer at the body. The face was all you could see, of course, because a sheet covered the body up to the neck, and this time the sheet had been pulled a little higher than usual, probably to hide the unpleasant damage to the neck.

The face was bad enough. There was a big, ugly bruise on the forehead, and the lower part of the face was cut up a bit.

“The car ran over the back of his neck after he fell on his face, apparently,” Bill Drager said. “Ground his face into the road a bit and took off skin. But—”

“But what?” I prompted when he lapsed into silence.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was mostly wondering why he would have tried to cross the road at all out there. Right at that place there’s nothing on one side of the road that isn’t on the other.”

He straightened up, and I switched off the showcase lights.

“Maybe you’re just imagining things, Bill,” I said. “How do you know he tried to cross at all? Doc said he’d been drinking, and maybe he just staggered from the edge of the road out toward the middle without any idea of crossing over.”

“Yeah, there’s that, of course. Come to think of it, you’re probably right. When I got to wondering, I didn’t know about the drinking part. Well, let’s go back up.”

We did, and I shut and locked the door at the head of the stairs. It is the only entrance to the morgue, and I don’t know why it has to be kept locked, because it opens right into the coroner’s office where I sit all night, and the key stays in the lock. Anybody who could get past me could unlock it himself. But it’s just one of those rules. Those stairs, incidentally, are absolutely the only way you can get down into the morgue which is walled off from the rest of the basement of the Municipal Building.

“Satisfied?” Dr. Skibbine asked Bill Drager, as we walked into the office.

“Guess so,” said Drager. “Say, the guy looks vaguely familiar. I can’t place him, but I think I’ve seen him somewhere. Nobody identified him yet?”

“Nope,” said Doc. “But if he’s a local resident, somebody will. We’ll have a lot of curiosity seekers in here tomorrow. Always get them after a violent death.”

Bill Drager said he was going home and went out. His shift was over. He had just dropped in on his own time.

I stood around and watched the chess game for a few minutes. Mr. Paton was getting licked this time. He was two pieces down and on the defensive. Only a miracle could save him.

Then Doc moved a knight and said, “Check,” and it was all over but the shouting. Mr. Paton could move out of check all right, but the knight had forked his king and queen, and with the queen gone, as it would be after the next move, the situation was hopeless.

“You got me, Dwight,” he said. “I’ll resign. My mind must be fuzzy tonight. Didn’t see that knight coming.”

“Shall we start another game? It’s early.”

“You’d beat me. Let’s bowl a quick game, instead, and get home early.”

After they left, I finished up my work on the card file and then did my trigonometry. It was almost midnight then. I remembered the man who had phoned that he was coming in and decided he had changed his mind. Probably his brother had arrived home safely, after all.

I went downstairs to be sure the refrigerating unit was okay. Finding that it was, I came back up and locked the door again. Then I went out into the hall and locked the outer door. It’s supposed to be kept locked, too, and I really should have locked it earlier.

After that, I read The Golden Bough, with a note-book in front of me so I could jot down anything I found that would fit into my thesis.

I must have become deeply engrossed in my reading because when the night bell rang, I jumped inches out of my chair. I looked at the clock and saw it was two in the morning.

Ordinarily, I don’t mind the place where I work at all. Being near dead bodies gives some people the willies, but not me. There isn’t any nicer, quieter place for studying and reading than a morgue at night.

But I had a touch of the creeps then. I do get them once in a while. This time it was the result of being startled by the sudden ringing of that bell when I was so interested in something that I had forgotten where I was and why I was there.

I put down the book and went out into the long dark hallway. When I had put on the hall light, I felt a little better. I could see somebody standing outside the glass-paned door at the end of the hall. A tall thin man whom I didn’t know. He wore glasses and was carrying a gold-headed cane.

“My name is Burke, Roger Burke,” he said when I opened the door. “I phoned early this evening about my brother being missing. Uh—may I—”

“Of course,” I told him. “Come this way. When you didn’t come for so long, I thought you had located your brother.”

“I thought I had,” he said hesitantly. “A friend said he had seen him this evening, and I quit worrying for a while. But when it got after one o’clock and he wasn’t home, I—”

We had reached the coroner’s office by then, but I stopped and turned.

“There’s only one unidentified body here,” I told him, “and that was brought in this afternoon. If your brother was seen this evening, it couldn’t be him.”

The tall man said, “Oh,” rather blankly and looked at me a moment. Then he said, “I hope that’s right. But this friend said he saw him at a distance, on a crowded street. He could have been mistaken. So as long as I’m here—”

“I guess you might as well,” I said, “now that you’re here. Then you’ll be sure.”

I led the way through the office and unlocked the door.

I was glad, as we started down the stairs, that there seemed little likelihood of identification. I hate to be around when one is made. You always seem to share, vicariously, the emotion, of the person who recognizes a friend or relative.

At the top of the stairs I pushed the button that put on the overhead lights downstairs in the morgue. The switch for the showcase was down below. I stopped to flick it as I reached the bottom of the stairs, and the tall man went on past me toward the case. Apparently he had been a visitor here before.

I had taken only a step or two after him when I heard him gasp. He stopped suddenly and took a step backward so quickly that I bumped into him and grabbed his arm to steady myself.

He turned around, and his face was a dull pasty gray that one seldom sees on the face of a living person.

“My God!” he said. “Why didn’t you warn me that—”

It didn’t make sense for him to say a thing like that. I’ve been with people before when they have identified relatives, but none of them had ever reacted just that way. Or had it been merely identification? He certainly looked as though he had seen something horrible.

I stepped a little to one side so that I could see past him. When I saw, it was as though a wave of cold started at the base of my spine and ran up along my body. I had never seen anything like it—and you get toughened when you work in a morgue.

The glass top of the display case had been broken in at the upper, the head, end, and the body inside the case was—well, I’ll try to be as objective about it as I can. The best way to be objective is to put it bluntly. The flesh of the face had been eaten away, eaten away as though acid had been poured on it, or as though —

I got hold of myself and stepped up to the edge of the display case and looked down.

It had not been acid. Acid does not leave the marks of teeth.

Nauseated, I closed my eyes for an instant until I got over it. Behind me, I heard sounds as though the tall man, who had been the first to see it, was being sick. I didn’t blame him.

“I don’t—” I said, and stepped back. “Something’s happened here.”

Silly remark, but you can’t think of the right thing to say in a spot like that.

“Come on,” I told him. “I’ll have to get the police.”

The thought of the police steadied me. When the police got here, it would be all right. They would find out what had happened.

AS I reached the bottom of the stairs my mind started to work logically again. I could picture Bill Drager up in the office firing questions at me, asking me, “When did it happen? You can judge by the temperature, can’t you?”

The tall man stumbled up the stairs past me as I paused. Most decidedly I didn’t want to be down there alone, but I yelled to him:

“Wait up there. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He would have to wait, of course, because I would have to unlock the outer door to let him out.

I turned back and looked at the thermometer in the broken case, trying not to look at anything else. It read sixty-three degrees, and that was only about ten degrees under the temperature of the rest of the room.

The glass had been broken, then, for some time. An hour, I’d say offhand, or maybe a little less. Upstairs, with the heavy door closed, I wouldn’t have heard it break. Anyway, I hadn’t heard it break.

I left the lights on in the morgue, all of them, when I ran up the stairs.

The tall man was standing in the middle of the office, looking around as though he were in a daze. His face still had that grayish tinge, and I was just as glad that I didn’t have to look in a mirror just then, because my own face was likely as bad.

I picked up the telephone and found myself giving Bill Drager’s home telephone number instead of asking for the police. I don’t know why my thoughts ran so strongly to Bill Drager, except that he had been the one who had suspected that something more than met the eye had been behind the hit-run case from the Mill Road.

“Can—will you let me out of here?” the tall man said. “I—I—that wasn’t my—”

“I’m afraid not,” I told him. “Until the police get here. You—uh—witnessed—”

It sounded screwy, even to me. Certainly he could not have had anything to do with whatever had happened down there. He had preceded me into the morgue only by a second and hadn’t even reached the case when I was beside him. But I knew what the police would say if I let him go before they had a chance to get his story.

Then Drager’s voice was saying a sleepy, “Hullo,” into my ear.

“Bill,” I said, “you got to come down here. That corpse downstairs—it’s—I—”

The sleepiness went out of Drager’s voice.

“Calm down, Jerry,” he said. “It can’t be that bad. Now, what happened?”

I finally got it across.

“You phoned the department first, of course?” Drager asked.

“N-no. I thought of you first because—”

“Sit tight,” he said. “I’ll phone them and then come down. I’ll have to dress first, so they’ll get there ahead of me. Don’t go down to the morgue again and don’t touch anything.”

He put the receiver on the hook, and I felt a little better. Somehow the worst seemed to be over, now that it was off my chest. Drager’s offering to phone the police saved me from having to tell it again, over the phone.

The tall man—I remembered now that he had given the name Roger Burke—was leaning against the wall, weakly.

“Did—did I get from what you said on the phone that the body wasn’t that way when—when they brought it in?” he asked.

I nodded. “It must have happened within the last hour,” I said. “I was down there at midnight, and everything was all right then.”

“But what—what happened?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Something had happened down there, but what? There wasn’t any entrance to the morgue other than the ventilator and the door that opened at the top of the stairs. And nobody—nothing—had gone through that door since my trip of inspection.

I thought back and thought hard. No, I hadn’t left this office for even a minute between midnight and the time the night bell had rung at two o’clock. I had left the office then, of course, to answer the door. But whatever had happened had not happened then. The thermometer downstairs proved that.

Burke was fumbling cigarettes out of his pocket. He held out the package with a shaky hand, and I took one and managed to strike a match and light both cigarettes.

The first drag made me feel nearly human. Apparently he felt better too, because he said:

“I—I’m afraid I didn’t make identification one way or the other. You couldn’t—with—” He shuddered. “Say, my brother had a small anchor tattooed on his left forearm. I forgot it or I could have asked you over the phone. Was there—”

I thought back to the file and shook my head.

“No,” I said definitely. “It would have been on the record, and there wasn’t anything about it. They make a special point of noting down things like that.”

“That’s swell,” Burke said. “I mean—Say, if I’m going to have to wait, I’m going to sit down. I still feel awful.”

Then I remembered that I had better phone Dr. Skibbine, too, and give him the story first-hand before the police got here and called him. I went over to the phone.

The police got there first—Captain Quenlin and Sergeant Wilson and two other men I knew by sight but not by name. Bill Drager was only a few minutes later getting there, and around three o’clock Dr. Skibbine came.

By that time the police had questioned Burke and let him go, although one of them left to go home with him. They told him it was because they wanted to check on whether his brother had shown up yet, so the Missing Persons Bureau could handle it if he hadn’t. But I guessed the real reason was that they wanted to check on his identity and place of residence.

Not that there seemed to be any way Burke could be involved in whatever had happened to the body, but when you don’t know what has happened, you can’t overlook any angle. After all, he was a material witness.

Bill Drager had spent most of the time since he had been there downstairs, but he came up now.

“The place is tighter than a drum down there, except for that ventilator,” he said. “And I noticed something about it. One of the vanes in it is a little bent.”

“How about rats?” Captain Quenlin asked. Drager snorted. “Ever see rats break a sheet of glass?”

“The glass might have been broken some other way.” Quenlin looked at me. “You’re around here nights, Jerry Grant. Ever see any signs of rats or mice?”

I shook my head, and Bill Drager backed me up. “I went over the whole place down there,” he said. “There isn’t a hole anywhere. Floor’s tile set in cement. The walls are tile, in big close-set slabs, without a break. I went over them.”

Dr. Skibbine was starting down the steps.

“Come on, Jerry,” he said to me. “Show me where you and this Burke fellow were standing when he let out a yip.”

I didn’t much want to, but I followed him down. I showed him where I had been and where Burke had been and told him that Burke had not gone closer to the case than about five feet at any time. Also, I told him what I had already told the police about my looking at the thermometer in the case.

Dr. Skibbine went over and looked at it.

“Seventy-one now,” he said. “I imagine that’s as high as it’s going. You say it was sixty-three when you saw it at two? Yes, I’d say the glass was broken between twelve-thirty and one-thirty.”

Quenlin had followed us down the stairs. “When did you get home tonight, Dr. Skibbine?” he asked.

The coroner looked at him in surprise. “Around midnight. Good Lord, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you, Quenlin?”

The captain shook his head. “Routine question. Look, Doc, why would anybody or anything do that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Skibbine said slowly, “unless it was to prevent identification of the corpse. That’s possible. The body will never be identified now unless the man has a criminal record and his prints are on file. But making that ‘anything’ instead of ‘anybody’ makes it easier, Cap. I’d say ‘anything’ was hungry, plenty hungry.”

I leaned back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, again fighting nausea that was almost worse than before.

Rats? Besides the fact that there weren’t any rats, it would have taken a lot of them to do what had been done.

“Jerry,” said Bill Drager, “you’re sure you weren’t out of the office up there for even a minute between midnight and two o’clock? Think hard. Didn’t you maybe go to the washroom or something?”

“I’m positive,” I told him.

Drager turned to the captain and pointed up to the ventilator.

“There are only two ways into this morgue, Cap,” he said. “One’s through the door Jerry says he sat in front of, and the other’s up there.”

My eyes followed his pointing finger, and I studied the ventilator and its position. It was a round opening in the wall, twelve or maybe thirteen inches across, and there was a wheel-like arrangement of vanes that revolved in it. It was turning slowly. It was set in the wall just under the high ceiling, maybe sixteen feet above the floor, and it was directly over the display case.

“Where’s that open into?” Quenlin asked.

“Goes right through the wall,” Dr. Skibbine told him. “Opens on the alley, just a foot or two above the ground. There’s another wheel just like that one on the outside. A little electric motor turns them.”

“Could the thing be dismantled from the outside?”

Dr. Skibbine shrugged. “Easiest way to find that out is to go out in the alley and try it. But nobody could get through there, even if you got the thing off. It’s too narrow.”

“A thin man might—”

“No, even a thin man is wider than twelve inches across the shoulders, and that’s my guess on the width of that hole.”

Quenlin shrugged.

“Got a flashlight, Drager?” he asked. “Go on out in the alley and take a look. Although if somebody did get that thing off, I don’t see how the devil they could have—”

Then he looked down at the case and winced. “If everybody’s through looking at this for the moment,” he said, “for crying out loud put a sheet over it. It’s giving me the willies. I’ll dream about ghouls tonight.”

The word hit me like a ton of bricks. Because it was then I remembered that we had talked about ghouls early that very evening. About—how had Mr. Paton put it?—“ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves,” and about a morgue being a good place for ghouls to hang around; and about—

Some of the others were looking at me, and I knew that Dr. Skibbine, at least, was remembering that conversation. Had he mentioned it to any of the others?

Sergeant Wilson was standing behind the other men and probably didn’t know I could see him from where I stood, for he surreptitiously crossed himself.

“Ghouls, nuts!” he said in a voice a bit louder than necessary. “There ain’t any such thing. Or is there?”

It was a weak but dramatic ending. Nobody answered him.

Me, I had had enough of that morgue for the moment. Nobody had put a sheet over the case because there was not one available downstairs.

“I’ll get a sheet,” I said and started up for the office. I stumbled on the bottom step.

“What’s eating—” I heard Quenlin say, and then as though he regretted his choice of words, he started over again. “Something’s wrong with the kid. Maybe you better send him home, Doc.”

He probably didn’t realize I could hear him. But by that time I was most of the way up, so I didn’t hear the coroner’s answer.

FROM THE cabinet I got a sheet, and the others were coming up the steps when I got back with it. Quenlin handed it to Wilson.

“You put it on, Sarge,” he said.

Wilson took it, and hesitated. I had seen his gesture downstairs and I knew he was scared stiff to go back down there alone. I was scared, too, but I did my Boy Scout act for the day and said:

“I’ll go down with you, Sergeant. I want to take a look at that ventilator.”

While he put the sheet over the broken case, I stared up at the ventilator and saw the bent vane. As I watched, a hand reached through the slit between that vane and the next and bent it some more.

Then the hand, Bill Drager’s hand, reached through the widened slit and groped for the nut on the center of the shaft on which the ventilator wheel revolved. Yes, the ventilator could be removed and replaced from the outside. The bent vane made it look as though that had been done.

But why? After the ventilator had been taken off, what then? The opening was too small for a man to get through and besides it was twelve feet above the glass display case.

Sergeant Wilson went past me up the stairs, and I followed him up. The conversation died abruptly as I went through the door, and I suspected that I had been the subject of the talk.

Dr. Skibbine was looking at me.

“The cap’s right, Jerry,” he said. “You don’t look so well. We’re going to be around here from now on, so you take the rest of the night off. Get some sleep.”

Sleep, I thought. What’s that? How could I sleep now? I felt dopy, I’ll admit, from lack of it. But the mere thought of turning out a light and lying down alone in a dark room—huh-uh! I must have been a little lightheaded just then, for a goofy parody was running through my brain:

A ghoul hath murdered sleep, the innocent sleep, sleep that knits…

“Thanks, Dr. Skibbine,” I said. “I—I guess it will do me good, at that.”

It would get me out of here, somewhere where I could think without a lot of people talking. If I could get the unicorns and rhinoceros out of my mind, maybe I had the key. Maybe, but it didn’t make sense yet.

I put on my hat and went outside and walked around the building into the dark alley.

Bill Drager’s face was a dim patch in the light that came through the circular hole in the wall where the ventilator had been.

He saw me coming and called out sharply, “Who’s that?” and stood up. When he stood, he seemed to vanish, because it put him back in the darkness.

“It’s me—Jerry Grant,” I said. “Find out anything, Bill?”

“Just what you see. The ventilator comes out, from the outside. But it isn’t a big enough hole for a man.” He laughed a little off-key. “A ghoul, I don’t know. How big is a ghoul, Jerry?”

“Can it, Bill,” I said. “Did you do that in the dark? Didn’t you bring a flashlight?”

“No. Look, whoever did it earlier in the night, if somebody did, wouldn’t have dared use a light. They’d be too easy to see from either end of the alley. I wanted to see if it could be done in the dark.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “But the light from the inside shows.”

“Was it on between midnight and two?”

“Um—no. I hadn’t thought of that.”

I stared at the hole in the wall. It was just about a foot in diameter. Large enough for a man to stick his head into, but not to crawl through.

Bill Drager was still standing back in the dark, but now that my eyes were used to the alley, I could make out the shadowy outline of his body.

“Jerry,” he said, “you’ve been studying this superstition stuff. Just what is a ghoul?”

“Something in Eastern mythology, Bill. An imaginary creature that robs graves and feeds on corpses. The modern use of the word is confined to someone who robs graves, usually for jewelry that is sometimes interred with the bodies. Back in the early days of medicine, bodies were stolen and sold to the anatomists for purposes of dissection, too.”

“The modern ones don’t—uh—”

“There have been psychopathic cases, a few of them. One happened in Paris, in modern times. A man named Bertrand. Charles Fort tells about him in his book Wild Talents.”

“Wild Talents, huh?” said Bill. “What happened?”

“Graves in a Paris cemetery were being dug up by something or someone who—” there in the dark alley, I couldn’t say it plainly—“who—uh—acted like a ghoul. They couldn’t catch him but they set a blunderbuss trap. It got this man Bertrand, and he confessed.”

Bill Drager didn’t say anything, just stood there. Then, just as though I could read his mind, I got scared because I knew what he was thinking. If anything like that had happened here tonight, there was only one person it could possibly have been.

Me.

Bill Drager was standing there silently, staring at me, and wondering whether I—

Then I knew why the others had stopped talking when I had come up the stairs just a few minutes before, back at the morgue. No, there was not a shred of proof, unless you can call process of elimination proof. But there had been a faint unspoken suspicion that somehow seemed a thousand times worse than an accusation I could deny.

I knew, then, that unless this case was solved suspicion would follow me the rest of my life. Something too absurd for open accusation. But people would look at me and wonder, and the mere possibility would make them shudder. Every word I spoke would be weighed to see whether it might indicate an unbalanced mind.

Even Bill Drager, one of my best friends, was wondering about me now.

“Bill,” I said, “for God’s sake, you don’t think—”

“Of course not, Jerry.”

But the fact that he knew what I meant before I had finished the sentence, proved I had been right about what he had been thinking.

There was something else in his voice, too, although he had tried to keep it out. Fear. He was alone with me in a dark alley, and I realized now why he had stepped back out of the light so quickly. Bill Drager was a little afraid of me.

But this was no time or place to talk about it. The atmosphere was wrong. Anything I could say would make things worse.

So I merely said, “Well, so long, Bill,” as I turned and walked toward the street.

Half a block up the street on the other side was an all-night restaurant, and I headed for it. Not to eat, for I felt as though I would never want to eat again. The very thought of food was sickening. But a cup of coffee might take away some of the numbness in my mind.

Hank Perry was on duty behind the counter, and he was alone.

“Hi, Jerry,” he said, as I sat down on a stool at the counter. “Off early tonight?”

I nodded and let it go at that.

“Just a cup of black coffee, Hank,” I told him, and forestalled any salestalk by adding, “I’m not hungry. Just ate.”

Silly thing to say, I realized the minute I had said it. Suppose someone asked Hank later what I had said when I came in. They all knew, back there, that I had not brought a lunch to work and hadn’t eaten. Would I, from now on, have to watch every word I said to avoid slips like that?

But whatever significance Hank or others might read into my words later, there was nothing odd about them now, as long as Hank didn’t know what had happened at the morgue.

He brought my coffee. I stirred in sugar and waited for it to cool enough to drink.

“Nice night out,” Hank said.

I hadn’t noticed, but I said, “Yeah.”

To me it was one terrible night out, but I couldn’t tell him that without spilling the rest of the story.

“How was business tonight, Hank?” I asked.

“Pretty slow.”

“How many customers,” I asked, “did you have between midnight and two o’clock?”

“Hardly any. Why?”

“Hank,” I said, “something happened then. Look, I can’t tell you about it now, honestly. I don’t know whether or not it’s going to be given out to the newspapers. If it isn’t, it would lose me my job even to mention it. But will you think hard if you saw anybody or anything out of the ordinary between twelve and two?”

“Um,” said Hank, leaning against the counter thoughtfully. “That’s a couple of hours ago. Must have had several customers in here during that time. But all I can remember are regulars. People on night shifts that come in regularly.”

“When you’re standing at that grill in the window frying something, you can see out across the street,” I said. “You ought to be able to see down as far as the alley, because this is a pretty wide street.”

“Yeah, I can.”

“Did you see anyone walk or drive in there?”

“Golly,” said Hank. “Yeah, I did. I think it was around one o’clock. I happened to notice the guy on account of what he was carrying.”

I felt my heart hammering with sudden excitement.

“What was he carrying? And what did he look like?”

“I didn’t notice what he looked like,” said Hank. “He was in shadow most of the time. But he was carrying a bowling ball.”

“A bowling ball?”

Hank nodded. “That’s what made me notice him. There aren’t any alleys —I mean bowling alleys—right around here. I bowl myself so I wondered where this guy had been rolling.”

“You mean he was carrying a bowling ball under his arm?”

I was still incredulous, even though Hank’s voice showed me he was not kidding.

He looked at me contemptuously.

“No. Bowlers never carry ‘em like that on the street. There’s a sort of bag that’s made for the purpose. A little bigger than the ball, some of them, so a guy can put in his bowling shoes and stuff.”

I closed my eyes a moment to try to make sense out of it. Of all the things on this mad night; it seemed the maddest that a bowling ball had been carried into the alley by the morgue—or something the shape of a bowling ball. At just the right time, too. One o’clock.

It would be a devil of a coincidence if the man Hank had seen hadn’t been the one.

“You’re sure it was a bowling ball case?”

“Positive. I got one like it myself. And the way he carried it, it was just heavy enough to have the ball in it.” He looked at me curiously. “Say, Jerry, I never thought of it before, but a case like that would be a handy thing to carry a bomb in. Did someone try to plant a bomb at the morgue?”

“No.”

“Then if it wasn’t a bowling ball —and you act like you think it wasn’t—what would it have been?”

“I wish I knew,” I told him. “I wish to high heaven I knew.”

I downed the rest of my coffee and stood up.

“Thanks a lot, Hank,” I said. “Listen, you think it over and see if you can remember anything else about that case or the man who carried it. I’ll see you later.”

WHAT I needed was some fresh air, so I started walking. I didn’t pay any attention to where I was going; I just walked.

My feet didn’t take me in circles, but my mind did. A bowling ball! Why would a bowling ball, or something shaped like it, be carried into the alley back of the morgue? A bowling ball would fit into that ventilator hole, all right, and a dropped bowling ball would have broken the glass of the case.

But a bowling ball wouldn’t have done—the rest of it.

I vaguely remembered some mention of bowling earlier in the evening and thought back to what it was. Oh yes. Dr. Skibbine and Mr. Paton had been going to bowl a game instead of playing a second game of chess. But neither of them had bowling balls along. Anyway, if Dr. Skibbine had told the truth, they had both been home by midnight.

If not a bowling ball, then what? A ghoul? A spherical ghoul?

The thought was so incongruously horrible that I wanted to stop, right there in the middle of the sidewalk and laugh like a maniac. Maybe I was near hysteria.

I thought of going back to the morgue and telling them about it, and laughing. Watching Quenlin’s face and Wilson’s when I told them that our guest had been a rnan-eating bowling ball. A spherical—

Then I stopped walking, because all of a sudden I knew what the bowling ball had been, and I had the most important part of the answer.

Somewhere a clock was striking half-past three, and I looked around to see where I was. Oak Street, only a few doors from Grant Parkway. That meant I had come fifteen or sixteen blocks from the morgue and that I was only a block and a half from the zoo. At the zoo, I could find out if I was right.

So I started walking again. A block and a half later I was across the street from the zoo right in front of Mr. Paton’s house. Strangely, there was a light in one of the downstairs rooms.

I went up onto the porch and rang the bell. Mr. Paton came to answer it. He was wearing a dressing gown, but I could see shoes and the bottoms of his trouser legs under it.

He didn’t look surprised at all when he opened the door.

“Yes, Jerry?” he said, almost as though he had been expecting me.

“I’m glad you’re still up, Mr. Paton,” I said. “Could you walk across with me and get me past the guard at the gate? I’d like to look at one of the cages and verify—something.”

“You guessed then, Jerry?”

“Yes, Mr. Paton,” I told him. Then I had a sudden thought that scared me a little. “You were seen going into the alley,” I added quickly, “and the man who saw you knows I came here. He saw you carrying—”

He held up his hand and smiled.

“You needn’t worry, Jerry,” he said. “I know it’s over—the minute anybody is smart enough to guess. And—well, I murdered a man all right, but I’m not the type to murder another to try to cover up, because I can see where that would lead. The man I did kill deserved it, and I gambled on—Well never mind all that.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

“His name was Mark Leedom. He was my assistant four years ago. I was foolish at that time—I’d lost money speculating and I stole some zoo funds. They were supposed to be used for the purchase of—Never mind the details. Mark Leedom found out and got proof.

“He made me turn over most of the money to him, and he—retired, and moved out of town. But he’s been coming back periodically to keep shaking me down. He was a rat, Jerry, a worse crook than I ever thought of being. This time I couldn’t pay so I killed him.”

“You were going to make it look like an accident on the Mill Road?” I said. “You killed him here and took him—”

“Yes, I was going to have the car run over his head, so he wouldn’t be identified. I missed by inches, but I couldn’t try again because another car was coming, and I had to keep on driving away.

“Luckily, Doc Skibbine didn’t know him. It was while Doc was in South America that Leedom worked for me. But there are lots of people around who did know him. Some curiosity seeker would have identified him in the week they hold an unidentified body and—well, once they knew who he was and traced things back, they’d have got to me eventually for the old business four years ago if not the fact that I killed him.”

“So that’s why you had to make him unidentifiable,” I said. “I see. He looked familiar to Bill Drager, but Bill couldn’t place him.”

He nodded. “Bill was just a patrolman then. He probably had seen Leedom only a few times, but someone else—Well, Jerry, you go back and tell them about it. Tell them I’ll be here.”

“Gee, Mr. Paton, I’m sorry I got to,” I said. “Isn’t there anything—”

“No. Go and get them. I won’t run away, I promise you. And tell Doc he wouldn’t have beat me that chess game tonight if I hadn’t let him. With what I had to do, I wanted to get out of there early. Good night, Jerry.”

He eased me out onto the porch again before I quite realized why he had never had a chance to tell Dr. Skibbine himself. Yes, he meant for them to find him here when they came, but not alive.

I almost turned to the door again, to break my way in and stop him. Then I realized that everything would be easier for him if he did it his way.

Yes, he was dead by the time they sent men out to bring him in. Even though I had expected it, I guess I had a case of the jitters when they phoned in the news, and I must have showed it, because Bill Drager threw an arm across my shoulders.

“Jerry,” he said, “this has been the devil of a night for you. You need a drink. Come on.”

The drink made me feel better and so did the frank admiration in Drager’s eyes. It was so completely different from what I had seen there back in the alley.

“Jerry,” he told me, “you ought to get on the Force. Figuring out that—of all things—he had used an armadillo.”

“But what else was possible? Look! All those ghoul legends trace back to beasts that are eaters of carrion. Like hyenas. A hyena could have done what was done back there in the morgue. But no one could have handled a hyena—pushed it through that ventilator hole with a rope on it to pull it up again.

“But an armadillo is an eater of corpses, too. It gets frightened when handled and curls up into a ball, like a bowling ball. It doesn’t make any noise, and you could carry it in a bag like the one Hank described. It has an armored shell that would break the glass of the display case if Paton lowered it to within a few feet and let it drop the rest of the way. And of course he looked down with a flashlight to see—”

Bill Drager shuddered a little.

“Learning is a great thing if you like it,” he said. “Studying origins of superstitions, I mean. But me, I want another drink. How about you?”

Homicide Sanitarium

The Moon for a Nickel

IT WAS almost midnight. The lake front sweltered in the aftermath of a blazing mid-summer day.

The little man with the straggly gray hair stood dejectedly beside his big black skyward-aimed telescope, upon which hung a hand-lettered sign, “The Moon for a Nickel.”

It was too hot. Business was poor.

Over the rippling waters of Lake Michigan the moon hung like a golden ball—but no one seemed interested in it. On the other side, beyond the park, the tall buildings rose: black gaunt shapes against a black background. Here and there shone the white rectangle of a lighted window.

A hand touched his shoulder, and the little man jumped. He had not heard any one approach.

A man with a black slouch hat pulled down over his forehead stood beside him. The telescope man recognized him as a man he had noticed hanging around almost an hour the previous night, watching the telescope, the buildings, and the people.

He was holding out a dollar bill. “Take a walk around a tree, dad,” he said. “I want to look at the Big Dipper.”

The little man stuck the dollar into his pocket. A buck was a buck—particularly right now. He didn’t see many of them. He meandered off and sat down on a bench, just near enough to see that the fellow didn’t try to walk off with the ‘scope.

Not that he could do much about it— the guy looked smooth but tough. Thinking about it, the little man became quite uneasy. It wasn’t usual to be handed a dollar and told to take a walk. In fact, it had never happened before. But a buck was a buck, and if only he had forty-nine more of them—

Out of the corner of his eye he managed to watch the mysterious stranger without appearing to do so. He had a hunch it would not be advisable to act interested.

The stranger swiveled the telescope around so that it seemed to be pointing up at the nearest building, across the street from the park.

He kept turning the focusing screw. At last he seemed satisfied with the adjustment and moved the telescope slowly from side to side as though he were peering intently into every window. Then he raised it a trifle and seemed to look into the windows of the floor above. Then the floor below.

Then he took out his handkerchief to mop his forehead. But before putting it back into his pocket, he waved it once. He turned the telescope around again so that it pointed out over the lake. Then, without a word, he walked away rapidly.

The little man with the straggly gray hair strolled back to the telescope. He knew that it was none of his business and that he should keep out of it, but his eyes followed the stranger, who became a dark shadow as he crossed the two blocks of park.

Then, as he came out under the street lights of the boulevard, he could be seen clearly again. He climbed into the front seat of a big car parked at the curb.

But the car didn’t drive away. It stayed there, waiting.

The little man realized he was out of his element—that sudden death sat in the front seat of that car, and in its vacant back seat as well.

And he didn’t want to get killed just then, not when his wife was so ill, when she needed an operation and was counting on him, somehow, to find the money. But fifty bucks was as far away as the moon.

The moon—he should re-aim his ‘scope at the moon, so that in case anybody with a nickel came along— He looked through the telescope and saw a blurred golden disk. He reached up to turn the focusing screw, and then lowered his hand. What was the use?

He might as well go home. No more tonight. The dollar bill had been a windfall, but just enough to be tantalizing. How, where, when, to find forty-nine more of them to pay for his wife’s operation? Her wan face seemed to swim before his eyes, superimposed upon the blurred disk of the moon.

He turned back and looked up at the building front across the park. There were a few lights here and there. One on the fourth floor, two in adjacent windows on the eighth. He tried to remember the exact slant of the telescope. It would have pointed, he guessed, at the fifth or sixth floor.

Suddenly, on the sixth floor, he saw a light that glowed and disappeared, showed once more, dimly. A flashlight, he thought. He didn’t see it again. Several minutes passed.

Then out of the entrance of the building, two men walked rapidly to the parked car. One carried a small bag.

Curiosity overcame caution in the little man beside the telescope. It was partly a dim hope that if he could get the license number of that car, a description of all three of the men, there might be a reward. But mostly it was curiosity.

He swung the telescope around as quickly as he could, gave the focusing screw a slight twist with a practiced hand, aimed.

As the distant scene leaped suddenly into view as though it were only a few yards away, the men were climbing into the car.

They looked tough. One had a long jagged white scar just above his collar. He had a long thin nose and little ratty eyes. The other man, who was getting in beside the driver, had a fat pudgy face. Through the telescope the little man could make out the baggy wrinkles under his eyes, could almost count the hairs in his toothbrush mustache.

He got ready to swing the telescope to follow the car. He wouldn’t be able to catch the license plates until it had moved almost a block. But anyway he could identify all three of the men, anywhere, any time. They seemed almost close enough to reach out and touch.

He saw the man who used the telescope start the car. It seemed so close that he was surprised for an instant not to be able to hear the sound of the motor.

Then the driver turned, looked out over the park toward the lake, toward the telescope. The little man could see his lips moving in what seemed to be silent curses. The driver pointed toward the telescope and said something to the two other men.

Obviously, plans were changed. The car made a U-turn on the boulevard and headed toward the drive leading into the park.

It had to go a few blocks out of its way to get at him, but it was coming toward the man with the telescope.

For a moment he stood petrified. The car was roaring down the straight stretch toward him before he moved. Then he began to run blindly out across the grass, away from the drive.

Brakes screeched. A gun barked and a bullet buzzed past his left car like an angry hornet.

Two automatics were barking now—they did not dare take time to get out of the car and run after him, so they were firing from the drive. But the light was uncertain, and he had presence of mind enough to zigzag a bit.

And then another sound, a welcome sound, came to his ears—the shrill sirens of squad cars. They seemed to come from three directions, converging upon the park. Two of the cars came into sight on the boulevard and swung into two different driveways into the park.

As suddenly as they had started, the automatics ceased to bark. The big black car roared into motion again—but a squad car blocked its way, swinging around to block the drive, a revolver firing at the robbers’ car.

The windshield shattered, and the car came to a stop with squealing brakes. A second squad car pulled up behind it. Two detectives from the third car were running toward it across the grass, one of them carrying a submachine gun.

A salvo from the big car made the man with the gun go flat on his belly, and he started firing from that position. The staccato of the gun drowned out the short sharp barks of the pistols. A row of holes six inches apart appeared in the side of the big car.

Only one automatic continued to bark. Then that one was thrown out to the drive, and its owner, trying to surrender, opened the door to climb out. But he fell out instead and sprawled gracelessly in a pool of blood on the asphalt.

In the silence that followed, the little man with the straggly gray hair walked over to the detective who had fired the submachine gun.

“I can identify them,” he said.

Then he realized how silly it sounded when the detective looked at him in bewilderment and from him to the body on the drive and the car with its two silent occupants.

“So can I,” said the detective, with a grin.

“I mean,” said the little man, “that I saw the robbery happen.” And he went on and told how his telescope had been used, and the whole story. “Is there,” he asked, although he knew very well that there wasn’t, “any chance of my getting a reward?”

“What for?” asked the detective, and then grinned. “You’re lucky we don’t run you in as an accessory, allowing your spyglass to be used by a lookout in a jewelry-house burglary.”

The little man winced, and the detective reassured him.

“Naw.” he added. “They set off an alarm as they were leaving. We’d have got ‘em anyway, a little bit down the boulevard, even if they hadn’t stopped to take a pot shot at you.”

The police ambulance had driven up, and the three bodies were loaded into it. A cop got into the riddled car and found that it could be driven in under its own power.

The little man walked dispiritedly back to his telescope. A crowd had gathered—the shooting had drawn one of those tremendous mobs of the curious who always gather at the scene of an accident or crime in a city, whether it be noon or midnight. There were hundreds milling about. Excitement can always draw a throng.

The little man perked up. Crowds might mean business.

“The moon for a nickel,” called the little man, standing beside his telescope. “See the moon for a nickel.”

But nobody much wanted to see the moon. He took in one nickel in five minutes.

He happened to look back toward the building across the boulevard. He saw the looted shop brightly lighted up. He focused the telescope on the windows. As though looking through from the very window sill, he could see the policemen, the detectives, going over the place. Back at one wall he could see a damaged safe. A man came in who looked liked a jeweler, probably the proprietor.

The little man had a big idea.

“See the scene of the crime!” he called. “Half a dollar to see the scene of the crime through a telescope!”

Some one shoved a half dollar into his hand and looked through the telescope. Another. A knot gathered about the telescope. The little man beamed, and began to get heavy about the pockets. He hadn’t known that there were that many half dollars. It was hours later before he finally went home, and sixty-one dollars jingled in his pockets.

Suite for a Flute and Tommy-Gun

I WAITED till the train had pulled out, and still nobody had got off it. Nobody, that is, except the funny-looking little guy with the shell-rimmed glasses and the hat that looked like a country preacher’s.

But the great McGuire wasn’t on it. I was glad, in a way, because I—well, I might as well admit that I resented Old Man Remmel having thought I wasn’t good enough for the job and having sent for the biggest-shot private detective in the country. Just on a matter of some threatening letters, too. Didn’t even want me to call in a postal inspector; said he’d have the best detective in the country or none.

Well, I decided, he’d been stood up. I grinned and turned to head back home, figuring maybe this guy McGuire had phoned Remmel he’d be delayed and Remmel had phoned me and I wasn’t there. But this funny-looking little guy I mentioned steps up to me and sticks out his hand. “Sheriff Clark?” he asked. And when I admitted it, he said, “My name is—”

Yeah, you guessed it.

I gawped at him. “Not the—”

He grinned at me. “Thanks for the compliment, sheriff, if it was meant for one. If I disappoint you, I’m sorry, but—”

I’d recovered enough by then to take his hand and to stammer out something that was probably worse than if I’d kept my big mouth shut and let it go at that. But honesty, not subtlety, has always been my long suit, and the people here have elected me ten terms running, in spite of it. I don’t mean in spite of the honesty; I mean in spite of my being not much of a diplomat.

“Well,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here anyway.” I saw too late that the “anyway” was putting my foot in it farther, but a word’s like a bullet in that once you’ve shot it you can’t get it back into the gun and pretend you didn’t. A guy really ought to be as careful about shooting off his yap as about shooting off his gun, come to think of it. There’d be fewer murders either way.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McGuire,” I told him sheepishly. “But, gosh, you sure don’t look like—”

He laughed. “Never mind the mister, sheriff. Just call me Mac. And I’m not sensitive about my looks; they’re an asset. Now about those letters. Got them with you?”

I took his arm. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll show ‘em to you over a drink before we drive out to see Remmel. I’ll give you the picture first, since we’ll be working together. Anyway, I can say some things better if it isn’t in front of him.”

“You mean he isn’t on the level?”

“Nix,” I said. “I don’t mean that at all. If anything, he’s too much on the level. He’s not only interested in his own morals, but in everybody else’s, see? He’s a reformer, and he’s a damn teetotaler. You know these smug teetotalers. Pains in the neck, all of them.”

I jerked my thumb toward the building we were passing on the other side of our main street. “That’s his bank,” I said, “and if he’d stick to banking, he wouldn’t have got those letters. But he had to stick his nose into politics and get himself elected to the county board. And with his ideas—” I shook my head.

“Such as—” McGuire prompted.

I steered him into Sam Frey’s place that we’d just come to, before I answered. If I was going out with him to see Remmel—and I had an appointment with Remmel to do just that—we’d be in for a long, dry conversation. A bit of prelubrication would come in handy.

I answered his question as we headed for the bar. “Such as tavern keepers and roadhouses, mostly. I know we’re not too tight on the roadhouses down this way, but that’s mostly because the people want it that way, and it brings a lot of business and money into the county. We keep ‘em closely enough supervised that there’s no rough stuff, you know, or anything really much wrong, but—”

“But what?”

“But this Remmel has a bill up before the county board—the gosh-awfulest bill you ever heard of. It would shut up all taverns and roadhouses at ten o’clock in the evening. Not midnight or one o’clock, mind you, but ten, when their trade is just starting. Naturally, the boys are sore. It’s just the same thing, practically, as closing them up entirely.”

I crooked a finger at Sam, and he came ambling down toward us behind the bar.

“And the worst of it is,” I went on, “that there’s a chance of it going through, with Remmel swinging all his influence back of it. Now, reform’s a darn good thing where it’s needed, but it isn’t needed here, and it’s going to play hell with things. That’s the trouble with these damn intemperate teetotalers—

“—Derryaire for mine, Sam, short beer for a wash. Yours, Mr. McG—I mean, Mac?”

His eyes twinkled at me from behind those shell-rimmed cheaters. He said, “I’ll have coffee, if Sam has some hot. Sorry, sheriff, but I’m a damn teetotaler.”

That was my third boner since the train had pulled in at seven p.m., which was ten minutes ago. There wasn’t anything to do but to laugh it off or else get down on my hands and knees and crawl for the back door. But the corners of McGuire’s mouth showed me I could laugh it off all right, and I did.

“Make mine coffee, too, Sam,” I said. “But be sure it’s got whiskers on it. Let’s get back to Banker Remmel, Mac. Now, I don’t mean that he is a complete louse, even if he is a—I don’t mean he is a complete louse at all. He’s got a soft side, too. He loves music, for one thing; plays piano at the Sunday school. And once a week regular, for thirty years, he and Dave Peters get together and jam it up.”

“Jam what up?”

“I got a daughter in high school,” I explained. “That’s the kind of English they teach them there. It means they play together. Dave plays a squeak-pipe.”

“A what?”

“I didn’t learn that from my daughter,” I told him. “It came natural, because I hate flutes. They smell to high heaven, and especially when Dave wheezes a high note on his. Golly!”

“Who is Dave?”

“Dave Peters, the clerk at the bank. He and Old Man Remmel are friends from kidhood. Guess Dave couldn’t hold a job anywhere else; he’s a little light in the head. Guess anybody has to be to take up playing the flute for a hobb—Say, Mac, you don’t by any chance play the flute, do you?”

He put back his head and laughed heartily. He said, “Sheriff, you’re a wow. May I see those letters?”

I nodded and handed them over. There were three of them, and they were the perfectly ordinary type of threatening note.

One of them read:

Another one:

The third one was about like the other two; I forget the exact wording.

“You checked them for prints, I suppose?” McGuire asked.

“Sure. Even us hicks know that much these days. Nope, no prints, Mac. But did you notice anything about the spelling?”

“Hm-m-m. Not especially. What do you mean?”

I nodded wisely, glad of a chance to show him that even out in Springdale we are able to give a whirl or two to the old deductive angles. “It’s the spelling of a fairly well-educated person,” I pointed out. “Makes no attempt to sound illiterate, you see. He spells words like ‘resign’ and ‘politics’ all right. But he misses an easy one, and that little slip wouldn’t have been faked. When we find a guy who spells ‘kimona’ with an ‘o’ on the end, we really got a suspect. See?”

He looked surprised. “You sure, sheriff? I’ve always thought it was spelled with an ‘o.’ ” He opened his brief case, which he’s put on the stool beside him, and pulls out a little pocket dictionary and—well, when we’d looked it up, he had to admit that my deduction would have been a good one if I’d only not known how to misspell kimono myself.

Sam brought our coffee and I put three spoonfuls of sugar in mine before I realized what I was doing, being kind of confused. And then, rather than make a worse fool of myself by admitting it, I had to pretend I’d done it on purpose and drink the sickly stuff. There’s a bottom limit to what a sheriff wants a famous detective to think of him, and I felt two degrees below that already, even if Mac was too nice to show that he thought it.

He drank his coffee black and unsweetened, and he asked. “Do you think these threats are from some roadhouse owner who’ll be ruined if that bill of Remmel’s goes through?”

I shrugged. “Could be. There’s plenty of owners that will be ruined, and some of those boys might play for keeps if they saw their livings being yanked out from under them. There are a few that—well, they stay within the law now because under the law they can still make a fair profit, but—”

He said, “Put yourself in the place of one of these roadhouse proprietors, sheriff, and try to imagine you don’t give a hang about the law. Now, if the situation were what it was, would you figure it would be best to try to scare Remmel with notes like these, or would you figure it safer in the long run just to eliminate him quietly, without threats?”

“Hm-m-m,’ I said. “I see your point.” Well, I did see it, even if I couldn’t see where it would get us. “If I really intended to go so far as killing him, I don’t think I’d send notes first that would give away my motive and make me one of a limited number of suspects.”

“Fine,” Mac said, “but you wouldn’t send the notes, either, unless you thought there was a chance of them working. Would you?”

I downed the last of my super-sugared coffee while I thought that one over. “Guess I wouldn’t,” I said. “But they might work, at that. Remmel doesn’t show it, but I think he’s really scared. Oh, he says he’s going ahead with his campaign with redoubled energy, but I think he’s weakening. He’d like some sort of an excuse, I think, to back out without looking like he was yellow.”

“And since you’d rather not commit murder unless you had to, for purely selfish reasons, if no others, how would you go about giving him that excuse to back out?”

“Darned if I know,” I admitted, after I’d scratched where my hair used to be. “How would you?”

“I don’t know either, sheriff. I’d like to meet one of these road-house owners of yours, though, just for a sample.”

“Under your right name?” I asked him. “Or undercoverlike, with me introducing you as a textile man from Texas, or something?”

He smiled. “Since I’m being introduced by the law, I may as well go under my true colors. I’ll be freer to ask questions without making excuses.”

“O.K., Mac,” I told him. I turned around and yelled, “Hey, Sam.” Sam Frey came waddling over to us again, and I said, “Sam, meet Mr. McGuire. The McGuire, the guy you’ve read about.”

Sam said, “Glad to meet you.” I told Mac: “Sam, here, owns a roadhouse, besides this tavern. It’s out on the Kerry pike, near where we’re going. He works there nights and here days and evenings, like now. He never sleeps.”

Sam grinned. “Oh, I catch a few hours now and then. Few more years and I’ll retire, and then I’ll sleep twenty hours a day for a while and catch up. I’ll be able to afford it then.”

“Unless this new law goes through,” said McGuire.

Sam’s face sobered. “Yeah,” he said.

I looked at the clock on the wall over the bar. “It’s eight o’clock, Sam. Want to turn your place here over to Johnny for the rest of the evening and go over to Remmel’s with us?”

I caught the surprised look on McGuire’s face. “Sam’s a deputy of mine,” I explained. “He knows all about the notes. And he’s a good guy to have along.”

“Here I thought you were introducing me to a suspect,” protested McGuire. “Or are all the suspects deputies of yours?”

Sam chuckled. “Nope,” he answered for me. “I’m the only one fits both ways. Sure it ain’t too early to go there, sheriff? This is his evening for Dave Peters to be there. And you’ve told me how Remmel won’t let anything at all interrupt those doo-ets of his.”

“Remmel’s expecting us,” I told him. “Said he’d have Dave come early tonight so they’d be through by the time we got there. Go get your coat, Sam, if you’re coming.”

Sam went to the back, and McGuire wanted to know, “Why are you taking him? Not that I mind, but I’m curious.”

“Two reasons. First, Sam knows every roadhouse proprietor who’ll be affected by that law. After you’ve talked to Remmel, Sam can give you enough leads to keep us going all night. Second, Sam’s been wanting to get a chance to see Remmel, to have a talk with him about that law. He says he thinks maybe he can make him see how unfair it is.”

“Oh,” said McGuire. Suddenly I saw what he was thinking. He’d just asked me how the sender of the notes could go about giving the banker a chance to back down without looking yellow.

“Sam never sent those notes,” I said suddenly. “Sam’s an honest guy, a swell guy. He wouldn’t kill a fly.”

McGuire said quietly, “I agree with you. But the sender of those notes hasn’t harmed a fly yet, has he? And maybe he has no intentions of harming Remmel.”

“You mean the whole thing is just a bluff? Is that what you think?”

He smiled. “Sheriff, are you asking me to give a considered opinion on the case before I’ve even seen Mr. Remmel? Lord, man, I just got here, and all I’ve got is an open mind. I’m discussing possibilities, not opinions.”

Well, he was right as usual, and I’d asked a silly question. But before I could try to back-track on it, Sam came with his coat and hat on and we got into my car and went to the Remmel place.

It’s a big, rambling house with three wings to it, and the minute I turned in the gateway I had a feeling that something was wrong. I get feelings like that sometimes, and every once in a while they’re right, even if they mostly aren’t.

And the minute I stopped the motor of my car in the driveway, I knew I was wrong again, and breathed a sigh of relief. They were still playing.

A flute isn’t exactly loud, but it carries well, and Dave’s wheezy tones were unmistakable. I grinned at McGuire as we walked along the path from the driveway to the porch, past what Remmel called his “music room.” The shades were up and the curtains drawn back, and we got a glimpse of them hard at it as we walked by, Remmel at the piano bench pounding away at the keys and Dave standing behind him and to his left, tooting.

“We got here too soon, all right,” I said as I rang the doorbell. “But it isn’t our fault. They were expecting us at eight, and it’s a quarter after.”

The door opened and Craig, the Remmel butler, bowed and stood aside for us to come in. I said, “Hi, Bob,” and clapped him on the shoulder as we went past.

Ethelda Remmel, regal in white, was sweeping down toward us along the corridor. “Sheriff Clark,” she said, holding out her fingertips and looking like she was trying to pretend to look glad to see us.

I performed the introductions.

“Henry is expecting you,” she informed us. “If you’ll step into the drawing room a moment until he and Mr. Peters are through their—” She didn’t name it; just gave a deprecating little laugh that made me understand why Henry Remmel—teetotaler that he was—sought release in pounding ivory. Another man might have set up a blonde, but Henry Remmel wasn’t another man.

We went in; it was across the hall from the music room. There was a lull in the noise and then it started in again, right away. I’d recognized the music before; I didn’t know the name, but it was something we had on the phonograph at home; but this one I didn’t know, had never heard before. It sounded like a show-off piece for the flute, with high, short little runs and trills and octave jumps all over the place. Not bad, but not good, either.

Then it happened, so suddenly that for an instant that seemed a lot longer none of us moved. Once you’ve heard that sound you never mistake it again. I’ve heard it, and I know Sam has, and I have no doubt that McGuire had heard it more often than we.

I mean the staccato yammer of a sub-machine gun. One burst of about half a dozen shots, so quick together that it sounded almost like one. The flute, in the middle of a high note, seeming to give an almost humanly discordant gasp before it went silent. And at the same moment the dreadful discord that a piano makes only when a couple of dozen keys in a row are pushed down all at once and hard—like if you fall across them.

It seemed, as I said, like a long time that we just looked at each other, but it couldn’t have been long, because the strings of the piano, with the keys obviously still held down, were still vibrating audibly when we reached the hall.

Mrs. Remmel had been nearest the door of the drawing room, and she was the first to reach that closed door across the hall. She wrenched at the knob, forgetting that her husband always turned the catch on the inside of the door to make sure no one would disturb him while he was in the one room he held sacred. Then she put up frantic fists to pound on the wooden panel, but before she could connect, the latch was turned from within and the door swung open.

Dave Peters stood there in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes so wide they seemed ready to fall out of their sockets. Over his shoulder I could see, at the piano, just what I had expected to see there. Somehow, merely from the way he lay slumped forward across the keyboard, I was certain that Henry Remmel was dead. I knew at a glance that there wasn’t any use wasting time crossing over to feel for a pulse that wouldn’t be there.

I saw Dave’s flute on the floor where he had dropped it, and the curtain blowing slightly inward from an opened window on the side of the wing toward the back of the house. Dave was pointing to that open window. “Fired in there,” he shouted, although there was no need for shouting. “Hurry, maybe you can—”

Cursing myself for not having thought of it before someone told me to, I jerked around and ran for the outside door. Sam had been quicker than I, and hadn’t waited for a flute-playing bank clerk to tell us what to do. He was already outside and pounding around the house to the left.

I pounded out the door after him and started around the house the other way, yanking out my Police Positive as I ran.

Sam had nerve, all right, because I knew he didn’t have a gun. Or maybe his running out had been more reaction than courage, because when we came in sight of each other at the back of the house and he didn’t recognize me in the almost darkness, he gave a yawp and started to go back.

I called out to him and he stopped. I was beginning to think again, and I said, “Be quiet, Sam. Listen.” It was too dark to see whoever might be making a getaway, but there was just a chance that they wouldn’t be so far but what we could hear them.

We stood there a moment, and there wasn’t any sound but the hysterical sobbing of Ethelda Remmel in the house. None that we could hear, anyway. I said, “Sam, there’s a flashlight in my car. Will you get it?”

He said, “Sure, Les,” and went after it. I stepped up toward the open window that the killer had fired through, and three feet away, too close to the window to be visible in the square of light that fell from the window onto the lawn, I stumbled over something. Something hard and heavy.

I bent over to look, and I could make out that it was a Tommy-gun all right. I didn’t touch it until Sam got back with the flashlight. Then I picked it up carefully by hooking my finger through the trigger guard so as not to smear any prints. As I raised up with it, I shot a resentful glance in the window.

This McGuire was sure disappointing me. He was in there comforting Mrs. Remmel and trying to calm down Dave Peters so he could answer questions without shouting. That kind of stuff is what you’d expect from an ordinary private dick, but not from one with a reputation like McGuire’s. Staying in there to jabber and leaving the man hunt and the dirty work to me and Sam.

I went around in the door again, and put the Tommy-gun down in a corner of the murder room. A housekeeper had appeared on the scene from somewhere and was taking Mrs. Remmel away toward the upstairs of the house.

“He got away,” I said. “And the ground is too hard for prints. He left the typewriter, though. Maybe there’ll be fingerprints on it.”

“And maybe not,” said Sam. Privately, I agreed with him. The only killers nowadays who leave prints are spur-of-the-moment boys, and they don’t carry Tommy-guns around on the chance that they may decide to go hunting.

I glared at McGuire. I couldn’t blame him out loud for not having gone chasing out with us, because it had turned out he was right and there hadn’t been any use of trying. But I was mad at him anyway, and my tongue gave way at its loosest hinge.

“So you thought the boys were bluffing about killing Remmel, huh?” I said. I realized, even as I said it, that I was being unfair, because he hadn’t made any such statement at all, and had refused to even guess until he had all the facts. Then I thought of another angle.

“So you thought Sam here was a suspect, huh?” I said accusingly. “That maybe he was coming here to give Remmel an out. Well, Remmel don’t need an out now; he’s got one. And Sam was with us when it happened, and he couldn’t have done it any more’n me or Mrs. Remmel or Dave or you yourself, or—”

He said, “Be quiet, sheriff.” He said it so softly and so calmly and authoritatively that I shut up so sudden I near sprained a tonsil, and felt my face getting red. In spite of my general resemblance to a spavined elephant, I have a blush—so I’m told—that is like a schoolgirl’s.

McGuire wasn’t even looking at me, though. He was talking conversationally to Dave, just like there wasn’t a stiff in the room at all. “That piece you were playing after the ‘IL Trovatore’ number,” he said. “Is this the score for it?” He strolled to the piano and looked at the music opened on it. It was written out by hand in ink, on ruled music paper.

Dave nodded. “My own composition,” he said. “A suite for flute and piano. I brought it over tonight for us to try out.”

“Interesting,” said McGuire casually. He was leaning over to study the manuscript, and he’d taken a pencil from his pocket. He pointed to a place about halfway down the second page. “This would be about the point where the machine gun made a trio of it, wouldn’t it? About so.”

Lightly, with his pencil, he sketched in six slurred thirty-second notes below the staff. “About six notes right here.”

I thought he’d gone nuts. I didn’t change my mind at all when he turned and went on talking. “The history of music is very interesting, Mr. Peters,” he said. I gawked at him.

A guy who’d talk about the history of music over a dead body was a new one on me. He went on: “Have you ever read about a Colonel Rebsomen who lived in France early in the last centur—”

Then I knew he’d gone genuinely and completely insane, because he tensed suddenly and his right hand darted inside his coat and came out holding an automatic. But this time I wasn’t so slow; I dived before he could aim at whoever he was going to aim at, and the bullet went wild and snipped a stem from a potted plant on my left. My right to his jaw made him drop the gun and claw the air, and I grabbed for the gun and got it. McGuire didn’t go down from my punch. He kept his feet and looked at me a little sadly. “You damned fool!” he said. “I was going to shoot it out of his hand.”

I said blankly, “Shoot what out of whose hand?”

Then I turned around and saw Dave, and saw that he was slumped back in a chair, and that his face wasn’t pretty to look at. There was a little bottle in his hand. Even as I watched, his relaxing fingers let it slide to the floor.

Sam said, “Prussic acid. It’s all over; no use rushing for any antidote for that stuff.”

I didn’t understand it, but I did get that I’d made a fool of myself again. This time, though, I can’t say I was really sorry. I’d known Dave pretty well, and if he’d killed Hank Remmel it was better for him to have had a sudden out than to go through what a murderer goes through before he climbs the steps. A guy like Dave.

I turned back to McGuire, and I didn’t call him Mac this time. I handed him his gun respectfully, and I said, “I sure owe you an apology, Mr. McGuire. I thought—but damn it all, I still don’t see how Dave could have killed him. We heard ‘em, all the time.”

He slid his gun back into its holster. “Here’s the score for it, sheriff,” he said. “Suite for Flute and Tommy-gun. I don’t like this case, sheriff, but just the same, I’d like to take along this piece of music as a souvenir of it. It’s unique. May I?”

He took it out into the hall and put it into the brief case he’d left there. I followed him. “Listen,” I said, “I’m still as dumb as I was. How did Dave—”

We were out of sight of the two dead bodies now, and he grinned. “The case is closed, sheriff,” he told me, “and I can catch the ten-o’clock train out. If you can have your deputy stay here and call in the coroner and so on, why on the way back to town I’ll tell you.”

I fixed it with Sam, and as I started to drive McGuire in, I said: “I figure it this far. It’s easy to see how Dave could have had motive, as teller of the bank. An audit’ll show it. I’d guess offhand that he must have forged Remmel’s name to cover up, too, and figured that with Remmel dead the forgery would never be found out. Maybe he even had it fixed to get control of the bank himself. If he was short, and had a choice between that and jail—well, you can see the motive, all right.

“And sending those notes was a natural to throw suspicion in another direction, and that, too, would show the murder was planned. But how on earth—Say, you mentioned a Colonel Reb-something. That was when Dave pulled out the bottle and—you know. What the hell would a colonel who lived last century have to do with it?”

“Colonel Rebsomen,” said McGuire, “was quite famous. He was a one-armed flute player. Anyone much interested in the flute would have heard of him. He had a special flute he could play anything on and play it well. When I wrote in that part for the Tommy-gun into Peters’ flute score and then mentioned Colonel Rebsomen, Peters knew I saw through it.”

“A one-armed flute player! Holy cow! But…but that was a special flute, you say. Dave’s is an ordinary one, isn’t it?”

McGuire nodded. “But on an ordinary flute there are certain notes that can be played with the left hand alone. Quite a few of them, in fact. From G to C in the first and second octaves, and most of the notes in the top octave.

“You see, sheriff, he not only planned this murder, but he had written the music for it. Almost the whole of that suite he wrote is so pitched that it can be played with one hand.

“We were to be his alibi. He waited until he heard us come, and then persuaded Remmel to run through that number once before he went out to join us. As soon as they started he backed to the window, still playing. He’d planted the gun on the window sill when he came, and he’d probably opened the window earlier to be ready to get at it.

“He got the gun and, still playing, pulled the trigger. You can’t do much with a Tommy-gun one-handed, but you can fire one burst that can’t miss a man two yards away. Then he dropped his flute, probably wiped his prints off the gun and threw it out the window and came to unlatch the door. Perfect—except for Colonel Rebsomen’s ghost.”

I’d just swung my car in to the curb at the station, and we walked in. It was well before train time and, except for us, the station was empty.

I said, “My God, Mac, what a scheme for murder that was! Only an unbalanced mind would have planned it. I guess flute players really are a bit nuts.”

McGuire nodded absently. He put his brief case down and took the score of Dave’s suite from it. I looked over his shoulder and shuddered when I saw those penciled staccato notes that showed where the Tommy-gun had joined in.

And suddenly I realized how near Dave had come to getting away with it. He would have, for all of me or Sam. Offhand, you’d say only another flute player could have—

“Gawd, Mac,” I said, “I just remembered that you didn’t answer me before when I asked if you played the flute. Do you?”

“I was just considering,” he said, “showing you how this would sound if it were well played. It’s not bad music, really.” He reached deeper in his brief case and came up with a black leather case that proved to be plush lining and the sections of a dismembered flute. And darned if it didn’t sound not so bad at that, the way he played it.

I’ve had mine a month now, and I can play “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” and a few other easy ones. Only, as my wife acrimoniously points out, if another fancy murder is ever pulled off in Crogan County, it’ll probably be planned by a chess player instead of a flute player, and I’ll make a fool of myself again because I don’t know a pawn from a bishop, except that the knights look like horses.

But a guy can’t be an expert in everything, and what’s good enough for a guy like McGuire, who can solve a case practically while it’s happening, is good enough for a guy like me.

The Cat from Siam

Listen to the Mockingbird

WHEN THE phone rang, Tim McCracken grabbed for it. Then he pulled back his hand and made himself count up to ten, slowly, before he lifted the receiver. Just because it was the first time the darned thing had let out a peep in a week, he didn’t want whoever was calling to think he’d been sitting there waiting for the call.

Sure, business was bad, but a guy had to bluff. Or did he? While he was counting to ten, McCracken let his eyes run around the well-furnished office that constituted his bluff. He wondered again if he hadn’t been foolish to sink the profits from his first three cases into that layout.

But those cases had come so easily and so quickly after he’d quit his job with the police department, and gone out on his own. They’d all come, though, when his office was a secondhand desk in a ramshackle building. And since then—

Eight, nine, ten. He picked up the phone, and said:

“Timothy McCracken Detective Agency. McCracken speaking.”

“About that rent, McCracken,” came a gruff voice. “When you going to pay up?”

“I explained about that yesterday, Mr.—Say, who is this? You’re not Mr. Rogers.”

There was a baritone chuckle at the other end of the line.

“Mack, you ought to be a detective, the way you catch on to things. This is Cap Zehnder. How’re tricks? Never mind, you just told me.”

McCracken grunted disgustedly. “Cap, if I didn’t used to work for you, I’d come over and slap your big ears down for that gag.”

“Keep your scanties on, Mack,” said Zehnder. “That ain’t why I called you. If you still think you’re a private detective, I got a client for you. He asked for you by name, even. I didn’t have to recommend you. Now what do you say?”

“My God!” said McCracken. “Give quick! Where is he?”

“In the jug, right here. Suspicion of murder. It says it heard of you and wants you to help it beat the rap.”

“It? What do you mean, it? You started out with a ‘he.’ “

“Did I?” The captain chuckled. “My error. It’s a mocking bird. And it crochets.”

“It what?”

“I said crochets. For a hobby. But it’s a mocking bird for a vocation. But, I’m not going to explain everything over the phone. If you want to make twelve bucks, come on over.”

McCracken gasped. “Twelve bucks? Listen, Cap, they didn’t transfer you to the narcotic squad and put you testing samples, did they? What do you mean, twelve bucks?”

“Okay, don’t come then,” Zehnder said stiffly. “That’s all the money, in cash, he’s got. But maybe you can blackmail him for more if you get him off. He’ll have a salary check coming from the theatre, if they don’t fire him.”

“But holy cow, Cap, I can’t handle a murder investigation for a twelve buck advance. What’s it about? Who’d he kill?”

“Don’t you read the papers? Story’s in the Morning Blade. Of course, if you haven’t got three cents—”

“Okay, okay! Save your breath to cool your soup. I’ll drop around and see what the guy looks like.”

“Fine, Mack. Listen, Jerold Bell’s coming over to see him, too. I told him to stop by and pick you up. Thought I’d save you cab-fare or a walk.”

“Bell?” echoed McCracken. “Oh, the insurance guy.I remember him. Where’s he figure in?”

“He insured the ring,” Zehnder explained. “It’s in the papers. Buy one, and I’ll refund your three cents.” There was a click in the receiver.

McCracken took his hat from the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on his head. He’d wait for Bell in the lobby and read the newspaper meanwhile.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the elevator and wondered if he’d been a triple-dyed sap to quit a paying job for a gamble on being his own boss. Six months ago, he’d been drawing down a paycheck every week, and no overhead to worry about. And this morning, he’d had a cup of coffee for breakfast, instead of the ham and eggs he usually ate.

Twelve bucks would buy a lot of ham and eggs. He hoped Zehnder hadn’t guessed how badly he needed that twelve bucks.

The elderly walrus at the cigar counter was waiting on another customer, and McCracken fished up the contents of his pockets and looked at them. There was a folder of matches, three keys, and two pennies in cash, one of which was Canadian.

He shoved his hand back into his pocket, as the walrus turned.

“Morning Blade, George,” said McCracken. He grinned engagingly. “Got a case today, George! So don’t let the credit worry you. I’ll be back in the money soon. Give me a pack of cigarettes, too.”

“That’s fine, Mr. McCracken,” said George. “But if you’re working, how come you can’t pay—”

“Don’t quibble, George. I’m going over now to pick up my retainer. I’ll pay you this afternoon.”

The walrus looked at him darkly, and then passed the cigarettes across the counter. McCracken had meanwhile picked up the top newspaper from the pile alongside the cash register.

The banner line read: “Italians Suffer New Reverses.” That wouldn’t be it. “President Vetoes —” No. But there was two-column head at one side halfway down the page. It read:

The walrus had followed the direction of his gaze. “Say, is that the case you’re gonna work on, Mr. McCracken?” he asked, and there was respect in his tone of voice.

McCracken’s eyes caught the words “Mocking Bird” in the second paragraph. He nodded absently, continuing to read.

“Golly,” said the walrus. “Reckon whoever’s hiring you has all kinds of dough, then. Slimjim used to be the biggest bookie in town. And the way he sometimes threw money around…You stick ‘em for plenty, young feller.”

“Mmmm,” said McCracken, and started to add that you couldn’t throw money around the way Slimjim Lee had thrown it, and still have much left, and that the big-shot gambler was reputed to be broke. Anyway, he wasn’t working for Slimjim’s heirs, if any.

Then he closed his mouth again. The way the walrus was looking at him awakened new possibilities.

“Say, George,” he said, “I’m short of cash until I get that retainer. Let me have a buck and put it on my account, will you?”

“Sure, Mr. McCracken.” The walrus rang up “No Sale” on the register and passed over a bill from the drawer. He made a notation on a slip of paper on the ledge.

“Makes it eleven dollars and—no, twelve dollars even.” McCracken winced slightly. “Thanks, George,” he said, and moved a few steps away to lean against the wall, while he studied the article in the Blade. It was quite brief—understandable as the murder had been discovered only half an hour before deadline of the Blade’s final edition.

Slimjim Lee, whose real name was James Rogers Lee, had met his death probably between midnight and three A.M., although the body had not been discovered until four-thirty. Autopsy might determine the time of death more closely.

His body had been found in the visiting parlor of a theatrical rooming house on Vermont Street. He had been killed, presumably, by a long slender needle called a crocheting needle in one part of the story and a knitting needle in another paragraph. It had been thrust into his heart.

He was known to have been wearing, shortly prior to the murder, his famous ring with the huge solitaire diamond for which he was reputed to have paid six thousand dollars. His billfold was found empty. Undoubtedly, according to the police, robbery had been the motive, and the solitaire diamond the principal objective of the murderer.

Mr. Lee, according to the newspaper article, had been a close friend of Perley Essington, who roomed at the house in question, and was a frequent visitor at the Vermont street address. Perley Essington was a vaudeville performer specializing in whistling and bird imitations, and he was billed as “The Mocking Bird” on the Bijou’s current bill.

Harry Lake, another vaudevillian and inmate of the rooming house, had seen Slimjim Lee enter the house at around midnight, and had assumed he was calling on Perley Essington.

Another vaudevillian and roomer, one LaVarre LaRoque, a dancer, had discovered the body when she came in at four-thirty in the morning. She had opened the parlor door when she had noticed a crack of light under it.

McCracken read the story for the third time, and was putting the paper in his pocket, when he saw Jerold Bell coming through the revolving door into the lobby.

“Hi, Mack,” Jerry greeted him. “Haven’t seen you since you left the force. Have a quick one before we go see our fine feathered friend?”

Over a Scotch-and-soda, McCracken asked:

“You’re in this because Continental insured the ring? How much was it really worth, Jerry?”

“He paid four thousand for it,” Bell said. “I doubt if it could be sold now for over two and a half. Openly, I mean. As stolen property, whoever has it will be lucky to get a thousand. It’s insured, incidentally, for two thousand.”

McCracken nodded. “Cap Zehnder said you sold the policy. How come? I thought you handled only investigations for Continental.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But in cases where unusual factors influence the amount of the premiums, I generally get called in. The regular salesman gets a cut, too, but turns the closing over to me and I help advise the amount of the premium.”

“And what was unusual about this policy?”

Bell grimaced. “Just that Lee insisted on wearing that rock twenty-four hours a day, which made the risk much greater than is ordinarily the case with jewelry that valuable. Most people keep their stuff in safes or vaults, and wear it on special occasions. And then there was his occupation to consider, of course. A gambler, who goes to all the places a gambler goes to, and associates with the kind of people—well, I had to talk the company into issuing the policy at all.”

“Leaving you out on a limb, now that the ring is gone?” McCracken grinned. “Any chance that Slimjim might have sold the ring himself?”

“Not an earthly one,” Bell said. “That ring was his luck, he thought. He’d have sold his shirt and shoes first. I’ve sat in on games with him, and knew him well enough to be positive of that.”

“Ever met this Perley Essington?”

Jerry Bell nodded. “Wait until you see him, Mack. A crackpot of the first water. I never thought he’d pull anything like this—if he really did. Cap Zehnder says he has him cold, but I don’t know what the evidence is.”

“How well you know him?” McCracken asked.

The insurance man laughed. “A month ago, he wanted to take out an insurance policy on—believe it or not, Mack—on his whistle! How could you insure a whistle? That was when he first got his engagement at the Bijou. He’d been ‘at liberty’ for a long time before that. I think Slimjim loaned him money to live on.”

“You didn’t issue the policy?”

“Heck, no. I saw him a few times and pretended to give it consideration only because he was a friend of Lee’s. I wanted to keep Slimjim’s good will, and that meant I had to go easy with Perley.”

At Headquarters, they found Zehnder alone in his office. He barked an order into his desk phone.

“I’m having your Mocking Bird sent up here,” he said. “If you want to talk to him in private before you go, Mack, you can do that in his cell when we send him back. Okay?”

McCracken nodded. “Sure. It won’t matter, if he’s innocent. And if he’s guilty, I don’t want it.”

Zehnder chuckled. “Then I’m afraid you’re out twelve bucks.”

“Any news on the ring?” Bell asked.

The captain shook his head, but before he could add to the negation, the door opened.

A fat little man, whose head was as devoid of hair as a banister knob, came in. A uniformed turnkey was behind him, but stepped back into the hall and closed the door from the outside when the captain signalled to him.

“Mack,” said Zehnder, “this is Perley Essington. Your client, maybe. You said you already know him, Bell?”

McCracken put out his hand and shook the pudgy, moist one of the little bird imitator.

“Tell me about it, Mr. Essington,” he said. “All I know now is what I read in the paper.”

The little man beamed at him. “I saw the paper,” he said. “It’s right as far as it goes. I wasn’t home when Jim Lee came there at midnight.”

“How do you know he came at midnight, then?” asked Zehnder.

Tim McCracken frowned at the captain. “Tut, tut, Cap. It says so in the paper. Don’t you read the Blade? Or haven’t you got three cents?” He turned back to the vaudevillian. “Where were you at midnight, Mr. Essington?”

“Call me Perley, Mr. McCracken,” the actor said. “Why, at midnight, I was just walking. After the show I went for a walk in the park. It was a warm night, and I didn’t get home until about two o’clock. I didn’t know Jim was coming around last night.”

“See anyone you knew while you were out?” McCracken asked.

“Nope.” Essington shook his head. “And you’ll ask next if I stopped in anywhere. I didn’t. I sat on a park bench for awhile and listened to a nightingale. I had a sort of conversation with him. Like this.”

He pursed his lips, and suddenly the little room was filled with a sweet, lilting melody. The clear notes throbbed to silence. McCracken saw that Jerold Bell, who was standing behind Perley’s chair, was grinning at him.

McCracken cleared his throat. “Say, that’s good, Perley. You that good on other birds?”

“Better,” said the little man complacently. “On some, even the birds can’t tell the difference. On the stage, I’m a wow. And I have a line of patter with the whistling that knocks them out of their seats and rolls them in the aisles. Just last week, the manager was telling me that I was the greatest—”

“That’s fine,” interrupted McCracken. “But let’s get back to Slimjim Lee. How well did you know him?”

The look that had been in Perley’s eyes while he talked of the stage faded to awareness of the present.

“Very well,” he told them. “I guess he was just about my best friend, and vice versa. Yes, I know most people think—thought—it was funny, because Jim and I are—were—so completely different. But I guess that was why we liked each other.”

“You saw him often?”

“He came to see me two-three times a week. Generally after the evening show. We’d play chess or whistle until nearly morning.”

“Whistle? Late at night?”

“Sure. He liked whistling. But he couldn’t very well, and I was teaching him how. He just couldn’t get the knack of it.”

“But didn’t the other roomers—”

“Not in a place like that, Mack,” Jerry Bell cut in. “They’re all slightly nuts. It’s liberty hall. Last time I was there, there were acrobats jumping off the banister at four o’clock in the morning. Slimjim took me there after a game.”

Zehnder nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been there,” he said, “and I’d believe anything. We picked up a guy there a month ago.”

“Cap,” McCracken asked, “could that have any connection with this case, maybe?”

“No. Simple theft case, and the guy’s up now, doing three years. He was a stranger to the rest of the mob there, anyway.”

McCracken glanced at Perley for confirmation, and got it.

“None of us knew him well,” the whistler said. “He wasn’t an artist like the rest of us. He painted pictures.”

McCracken closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and asked the bird imitator:

“What do you know about Jim Lee’s affairs? I’ve heard he was broke, or nearly so. If you’re a. friend of his, you ought to know about that.”

“I do, Mr. McCracken. He was hard up, that is, for him. He ran a lot of bookie places, you know, or rather he backed them. Then the syndicate—the Garvey-Cantoni group that runs the numbers game—moved in and took them over. He didn’t fight them about it. He wasn’t a gangster and he didn’t want to start a war. And that’s what it would have been if he’d tried to buck them.”

Zehnder cut in.

“Perley’s right about that. We’re working on that syndicate, and we close a place now and then, but we haven’t got much on them yet. They’re bad boys, though.”

“Then why,” McCracken wanted to know, “suspect Perley when you’ve got some really tough mugs that might have a motive?”

“But they haven’t,” said Perley. “Jim Lee wasn’t fighting them. Of course, they could have killed him for his ring, but—” He shrugged.

“What about that crochet needle Lee was killed with, Perley?” McCracken asked. “Was it one of yours? The captain says crocheting is your hobby.”

For the first time, the little man seemed on the defensive as he answered.

“The police seem to think it’s funny that I should like to crochet,” he complained. “That’s silly. Why, lots of men do. And it’s good for the nerves, and it gave me something to do when Jim and I played chess. He took so long between moves.”

“Was it one of your needles?” McCracken demanded.

“It could have been.” Perley shrugged again. “I have lots of them.”

“It was exactly like others in his room,” said Zehnder.

Jerold Bell was getting restless.

“The devil with crocheting needles,” he said. “I just dropped in here to see if there was any news on the ring. I think I’ll go on around to Vermont Street and help the boys there look for it. Coming, McCracken?”

“In a minute, Jerry.” He turned to Zehnder. “Listen, Cap, the main thing I want to know, is why you’re holding Mr. Essington? Thus far there isn’t any evidence against him, except that he hasn’t an alibi he can prove.”

Zehnder grinned. “It ain’t that he can’t prove he wasn’t there. It’s that we can prove he was, see? He says he didn’t get home before two. But two people there heard him in his room, between half past eleven and half past twelve.”

“You mean they heard someone in his room?”

“Nope. Him. Like always when he’s in his room alone, they said, he was whistling to himself. Bird calls and stuff. Even a dog imitation.”

Perley Essington whirled indignantly. “Dog imitations!” His voice was shrill with indignation. “Why, I—”

“How do you know it wasn’t Slimjim Lee they heard, waiting for Perley?” McCracken asked Zehnder. “If he was learning how to whistle —?”

Again Perley, still indignant, interrupted.

“Mr. McCracken, that isn’t possible,” he said. “Nobody would mistake Jim Lee’s whistling for mine. They couldn’t. He was just learning, and he just whistled straight, whistled, not bird calls.”

His voice rose now:

“No, nor anybody else whistling, either. Nor a phonograph record, or anything like that. One young whippersnapper of a policeman suggested that. There isn’t another artist in the country who could possibly have been mistaken for me by the people who room there and who know my work.”

“Fine,” said Captain Zehnder. “Then it must have been you they heard?”

“I don’t know,” said Perley. “But they couldn’t have mistaken anybody else for me. Listen, have you ever heard anybody else who can do this?”

He pursed his lips and began to run a gamut of bird calls that sounded like feeding time in an aviary. The calls tumbled upon one another’s heels so rapidly, that McCracken could almost have sworn that two or three birds were singing simultaneously.

The insurance man, standing behind the little bird imitator, looked at McCracken over Perley’s head and winked. He circled his forefinger at his temple, than reached forward at Perley’s bald head, and—with the exaggerated gesture of a stage magician—pretended to pluck something from Perley’s scalp. He held it up so McCracken could see that it was a tiny feather.

It was funny, but Perley was looking, and whistling, directly at McCracken and the private detective couldn’t laugh without hurting Perley’s feelings.

He wondered if Bell was right, and if Perley had really passed the borderline between eccentricity and outright screwiness. If he hadn’t, he was putting himself in a bad spot by refusing to admit that his fellow-roomers could have been mistaken about whom they had heard.

Zehnder tapped Perley on the shoulder to stop him.

“Anything else you want to tell McCracken?” he said.

Perley stopped whistling and shook his head. He looked at Tim McCracken.

“You’ll take the case?” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t pay you more than—”

“Sure,” said McCracken, “I’ll take it.” He looked at Zehnder. “You going around with us, Cap?”

Zehnder crossed and opened the door before he answered, and nodded to the turnkey who had been waiting outside. After shaking hands with McCracken, Perley was led down the hallway toward his cell. Mingling with his footsteps, there floated back the trilling notes of a thrush.

Zehnder grinned at McCracken. “That’s the answer,” he said. “The crackpot doesn’t even know he’s doing that. It’s a habit, a reflex. Last night, in his room, he probably didn’t even know he was whistling.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out an envelope, and handed it to McCracken. “Well, here’s your retainer, Mack. You can’t get him in any deeper than he is, so I wish you luck.”

McCracken put it in his pocket, grateful to Zehnder for not having embarrassed him by mentioning the amount.

“You didn’t answer me, Cap,” he said. “Coming with us?”

“Part way. Just for routine I want to see the Bijou’s doorman, to check on that call Perley says he got.”

“What call? He didn’t say anything about a. call.”

Zehnder snorted. “He did last night, but he probably decided it sounded too thin and to forget about it. Come on, I’ll tell you on the way. You follow us in your car, Jerry. We’ll just stop there a minute.”

As he drove north on 24th Street, the captain explained about the call:

“It was from a fan, Perley told us. Wanted him to listen to something he thought was a pink-crested tootwhistle, or something.”

“A what?”

“I dunno what, but it doesn’t matter. Perley says the guy said he was a fan of his and a member of some Audubon society, and he’d heard a night-singing bird in Winslow Park he thought was something or other that’s rare. He wanted Perley to meet him there and help identify it.”

“So that’s why he went to the park instead of home? And the guy didn’t show up?”

“Not unless it was that nightingale that called Perley up…Here’s where the doorman lives.”

Zehnder swung the car into the curb and climbed out. McCracken followed him into a rooming house where a brief conversation with a half-awake old man in a nightshirt brought out nothing of interest. As far as the doorman knew, Perley Essington might have got a call just after the show, or might not have. Lots of the performers got calls. He didn’t remember.

Zehnder drove on to the Vermont Street address. It was a brownstone front just like its neighbors, except that there was a cop in front. Jerold Bell parked just behind Zehnder’s car and joined them.

“I’m going back,” the captain told them, “but I’ll get you past Regan here. Are the Homicide boys still here, Regan?”

“Just left, fifteen minutes ago, Captain,” answered Regan. “Don’t think they got anything new. I heard one of them say something about grilling Essington again.”

“Okay, Regan. Let these fellows mosey around inside. You know Mack. This other guy’s from the insurance company.”

Zehnder got back into his car. McCracken, following Bell, turned back a moment.

“Who all’s here, Regan?” he asked.

“This LaVarre dame, for one. She’s asleep. Want me to go wake her up for you?” There was a faint note of hopefulness in the voice of the policeman.

McCracken shook his head. “Who else?”

“The landlady. And this Carson guy, the comic. He’s one of the two that heard Essington in his room. He’s in Number Two. Essington’s is Number Six, right across the hall from the parlor where they found the stiff. It’s unlocked.”

“How’s the LaVarre woman fixed for alibis?” McCracken asked.

Regan grinned. “Triple-barreled. She was out with three guys all at once. I heard the Homicide gang questioning her. Sure you don’t want me to wake her up for you?”

“Keep your mind on your work, Regan. I suppose somebody’s in back, on guard there?”

“Sure. Kaplan. You know him, don’t you?”

McCracken went down along the dark hallway to the parlor. Bell was looking around painstakingly. McCracken’s gaze went about the room quickly, noted the position of the body that had been marked in chalk on the floor before the sofa that stood diagonally across one corner of the room. There were half a dozen flash bulbs in the wastepaper basket in the corner.

“He must have been sitting there,” said Bell, pointing to the sofa. “If he was stabbed and fell off, that’d put him in about the position those chalk marks show. The killer could have been hidden right behind that sofa when he came in and sat down. Then he stood up, reached over his shoulder and stabbed him.”

McCracken nodded. “That’s about it. And if it is, that means he was killed early, almost as soon as he got here. Say, a crocheting needle isn’t so long, is it? Must have been fitted into some sort of a handle, like an ice pick. Well, we can find about that later. You don’t think you’ll find the ring in here, do you?”

Bell shrugged. “Probably not. Probably never find it, but I’ve got to turn in a report to the company. I want to be able to tell ‘em I went over things with a fine-tooth comb.”

McCracken crossed over and looked out the window.

“Whoever hid behind that sofa could have come and gone this way,” he mused. “And come and gone by the alley. There’s a cellar door right outside. You can come in this way easy.”

Bell nodded. “There’s fingerprint powder on the sill there. The Homicide boys thought of that, too. But what about Perley? He’s too screwy on his story to figure out of it. Why’d he lie about not having been here until two o’clock?”

McCracken grunted. “That’s the only thing against him, really. I want to talk to one of the persons who heard him, or say they did.”

He walked out into the hall, down two doors, and knocked. After a minute, a tall man in a worn bathrobe came to the door and said, “Yeah?” He had the sad, bored air most comedians have when they aren’t working at the trade.

“Carson?” McCracken asked.

“That’s me, yeah.”

“You like this Perley Essington? Was he a friend of yours?”

“Huh? Sure, he’s a swell little guy. A bit nuts, maybe. But he’s good on the boards.”

“As good as he thinks he is?”

“Well, maybe not that good,” Carson said. “Maybe none of us are. It’s an occupational disease. What do you want?”

“I want to hear your side of what happened last night.” The tall man put a hand to his head. “Oh, Lord! Again?” He started to close the door. “Four cops, and three reporters, and —”

McCracken caught the door and held it. “Then once more won’t hurt you,” he said. “Besides, I’m on Perley’s side. I’m working for him, trying to punch some holes in the case against him.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Come on in.” He walked back to the dresser to get the bottle standing on it. “Have a drink?”

“Two fingers. The main thing is are you sure it was Perley you heard?”

“Yes and no. I wouldn’t swear it was him, but if it wasn’t, it was somebody pretty good. There aren’t many that can come close to him on that warble stuff. I’ve heard lots of imitators. Straight whistling, yes, but not on the imitations.”

“What time did you hear it first, and what time last?”

Carson lifted a glass and clinked it against the one he’d handed McCracken. When he’d downed the glass’ contents, he said:

“I got home about ten-thirty, maybe eleven. I had a good mystery story I wanted to finish, and I was reading.” He rubbed his chin. “It was sometime between then and midnight that it started. And kept up maybe half an hour, off and on. And it was in Perley’s room. I went past the door when I went to the bathroom once about twelve, so I’m sure of that.”

“Did you look in the parlor then?” McCracken asked.

“No. I think the door was closed. But I didn’t have any reason to look in, so I didn’t.”

“You’re not sure about the time. Couldn’t it have been two o’clock, maybe, if you’d lost track of time while you were reading?”

“No. I went to bed at twelve-thirty, see? I did look at my clock then, and my watch too, to set it. I could be wrong by it being earlier, but not later.”

“And the other fellow who heard it?”

“Name’s Bill Johnson. Yes, he’s sure, too, that it was somewhere around midnight.”

McCracken sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He tried another tack.

“Birds outside, maybe?” he asked.

“No, too loud,” Carson said. “And I never heard birds sing that much or that loud around here before. Anyway, it’d have to be a flock of different kinds of them. And—let’s see—robins don’t sing at night, do they? Robin’s about the only bird call I’m sure of, and I heard that.”

“How good was Slimjim Lee? Perley was teaching him, he says.”

Carson shook his head firmly. “No, but definitely. I’ve heard him, and he could carry a tune, but that’s about all. And he wasn’t sure where he’d carry it. No, pal, this stuff was good. If it wasn’t Perley, then he’s got a rival.”

“How about the radio?”

“I thought of that, afterwards,” Carson said. “But it couldn’t have been. The place was as quiet as a morgue, around then, and I’d have heard the announcer shooting his mouth off between imitations. Anyway, no bird imitator could stay on the air that long. It was at least half an hour, off and on, like I said.”

McCracken sighed again. “Was it you said something about a dog imitation?”

“Not me. That was Bill Johnson. I might have heard a dog, but if I did, I don’t remember. I’d have figured that came from outside. Like the cats. I did hear some cats yowling, but that wouldn’t have been Perley either. He doesn’t imitate animals, just birds.”

McCracken got up and went to the door.

“Well, thanks,” he said. He declined another drink, and went down the hall. He opened the door of Perley Essington’s room and went in.

Jerry Bell came out of the room across the hall and stood in the doorway.

“Find out anything new?” he asked.

“Carson’s telling the truth, I think,” McCracken said. “If he was lying, he’d be more definite about time and things. He rings true.”

“Then how can you figure an out for Perley? Or can you?

“I don’t know,” McCracken said. “But I got an idea. It’s almost as screwy as Perley is.”

He got down on his hands and knees in the middle of the carpet, and started working around the floor in circles, examining the carpet carefully. A white spot he found on the floor behind a chair interested him considerably.

He was starting to crawl behind the bed, when Jerry Bell said:

“You got it wrong, Mack. No corpses in here. That was the other room, remember?”

McCracken got up slowly and dusted off the knees of his trousers with his left hand. A tiny object he’d found behind the bed was gripped carefully between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He held it so Bell could see that it was a light blue feather.

Jerry Bell grunted. “Is that what you were looking for, Mack? Jeepers, I’ll open the pillow and get you a handful of “em.”

McCracken shook his head slowly.

“I doubt it,” he said. “Very few pillows are stuffed with mocking bird feathers. Jerry.”

“What makes you think that’s off a mocking bird? You sure?”

“No,” McCracken answered frankly. “But it’s the right color. An ornithologist can tell. Anyway, mocking bird or not, there was a bird in this room. There’s proof of that back of the chair. And a mocking bird fits the picture.”

“Look,” he explained. “The killer brought the bird here, probably in a box. He came in the window there and hid in the parlor until Jim Lee came in, and he killed him. Then—to pin the thing on Perley Essington—he came in here and let the bird out in this room for awhile. The bird would be Perley’s best imitator, wouldn’t it? And it’d sing, being free—comparatively—after being shut up.”

“But—a mocking bird!” Bell protested. “Where’d anyone get one?”

“Pet shops have ‘em occasionally. They’re not common, but they can be got. Probably the killer stole it, though. He wouldn’t want the trail traceable if there’d be a slip-up. It was that dog-and-cat business made me think of one. My aunt used to have a mocking bird, and it’d imitate dogs and cats when it heard them.

And it’d have picked that up around the pet shop.”

“Then maybe Perley wasn’t lying about that call that sent him on a wild-goose chase.”

McCracken nodded. “Of course. This was carefully planned. The guy who did it made sure Jim Lee would be here and that Perley wouldn’t, and that he’d be a place where he couldn’t prove he’d been.”

“If an expert backs you up on your guess what that feather is,” Bell said, “looks like you did figure Perley an out, Mack. Got any idea who did kill Lee?”

McCracken took a deep breath, then said flatly: “You did, Jerry. I was sure as soon as I found this feather. It’s just like the one you pretended to pull off Perley Essington’s head when you were clowning back at Headquarters. You had the bird in your pocket when you left. Maybe you’d killed it after you used it. And when you pulled that feather gag in Zehnder’s office you’d just had your hand in your pocket. You were so confident you had Perley framed, you didn’t hesitate to use it for making fun of Perley.”

The expression on Jerry Bell’s face didn’t change. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, an unlighted cigar was tilted in a corner of his mouth.

“Not bad, Mack,” he said. “How about motive?”

“It wasn’t the ring,” McCracken went on, “although in your kind of work you ought to know the outlets and where to cash in on it easy. But you wouldn’t have done it for that. I figure you must have gambled over your head and gone in debt to Lee. Which did he have in his billfold, I.O.U.‘s or checks of yours?”

Jerry Bell sighed deeply, took a gun out of his pocket.

“You’re covered, Mack,” he said. “I think you could make that stick. I’m in plenty deep, including some company funds, and that’d come out if the police nosed around. And -well, I did buy that bird instead of stealing it.” He paused, then:

“But listen, Mack, Slimjim was blackmailing me on those debts. You can’t blame a man for killing a blackmailer. You aren’t —”

“How about Perley?” McCracken interrupted. “You tried to frame it on him, just so you wouldn’t be suspected, just to give the cops an easy victim.”

“He was in with Slimjim on the whole—”

“Nuts! If he had been, he’d have known who killed Jim, and why. That don’t hold water, Jerry.”

“Then let’s try it this way, Mack. I can get two thousand for that ring. I know you’re broke. How about half of that?”

McCracken’s eyes were cold. “Jerry,” he asked, “know what that spot on the floor back of the chair is?”

“I can guess. Why?”

“Then you can guess my answer to that proposition. I’m going to call your bluff, Jerry. You won’t shoot me. You’d have done it already, if you figured you could get away with it. As readily as you killed Lee.”

He turned and walked slowly toward the door, his hands relaxed at his sides.

“Regan out there knows we’re in here alone, Jerry,” he said. “If there’s a bullet hole in my back, there’s no story you could tell that would stand up under investigation. I’m not even armed, so you couldn’t use self-defense. There’d be no out for you at all, Jerry.”

He took a step toward the door, another.

“Stop, Mack!” ordered Bell. “I’ll—”

McCracken kept on walking. It didn’t seem to him that he was breathing at all. He made the hallway, and was half way to the front door before he heard the shot. It had not been aimed at him.

The contents of the desk and the filing cabinet had been taken from the drawers and were stacked in a cardboard carton with a rope around it.

The carpet was rolled up at one side of the room, and the phone had been disconnected, although it still stood on the desk.

McCracken sat on the desk beside the phone, with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands.

He was whistling softly and mournfully.

He didn’t hear the door open, but he almost fell off the desk when a voice said:

“Excellent whistling, Mr. McCracken. Excellent!”

The shiny pate of the little bird imitator was bobbing across the office toward him.

“Hello, Perley,” McCracken said. He couldn’t muster a smile to go with it.

“I’m leaving vaudeville, Mr. McCracken,” Perley explained. “Or maybe one could say that vaudeville is leaving me, because the Bijou is closing. Anyway, I’m opening a school for whistling and bird imitating. You whistle well. I could make you my star pupil.”

“Thanks,” said McCracken listlessly. “Maybe sometime. But what with moving and all—”

“To better quarters, I hope. And that reminds me. You never sent me a bill. I came to settle up for what you did for me.”

He beamed at McCracken, and for a moment the private detective felt a ray of hope. Then it faded. A few dollars can seem like a lot sometimes, but it doesn’t make much difference when you owe a few hundred and are about to be put on the street. “In fact, Mr. McCracken,” Perley went on, “I have a check already written, which I hope you’ll think adequate. It’s for three thousand dollars. You may have heard that Jim Lee’s will said that I was his only real friend and that he left me all his money, and that it turned out to be more than anybody thought he had. Some bonds, you know, that he thought weren’t worth much.”

Mechanically, McCracken took the little slip of yellow paper that was being held out toward him. His eyes focused on the figures, then blurred, then came into focus again.

“There was thirty thousand net, Mr. McCracken,” Perley Essington was saying, “and if it hadn’t been for you—well, I’d never have been free to spend any of it. So I think a tenth is fair, isn’t it?”

McCracken found his own voice at last.

“More than fair, Perley. I—well you can put me down as your star pupil, all right. And give me that nightingale business first. It’s just how I feel. But not on an empty stomach.” He took the little man’s arm firmly. “First, we’re going down to the Crillon and order a plate apiece of their very best birdseed.”

A Date to Die

IT WAS five minutes before five a.m. and the lights in my office at the fourth precinct station were beginning to grow gray with the dawn. To me, that’s always the spookiest, least pleasant time of all. Darkness is better, or daylight. And those last five minutes before my relief are always the slowest.

In five minutes Captain Burke would arrive—on the dot, as always—and I could leave. Meanwhile, the hands of the electric clock just crawled.

The ache in my jaw crawled with them. That tooth had started aching three hours ago, and it had kept getting worse ever since. And I wouldn’t be able to find a dentist in his office until nine, which was four long hours away. But, come five o’clock, I’d go off duty, and I had a pretty good idea how to deaden the pain a bit while I waited.

Four minutes of five, the phone rang.

“Fourth Precinct,” I said, “Sergeant Murray.”

“Oh, it’s you, Sergeant!” The voice sounded familiar, although I couldn’t place it; it was a voice that sounded like an eel feels. “Nice morning, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

“Yeah,” I growled.

“Of course,” said the voice. “Haven’t you looked out the window at the pale gray glory that precedes the rising of—”

“Can it,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Your friend Sibi Barranya, Sergeant.”

I recognized the voice then. It didn’t make me any happier to recognize it, because he’d been lying like a rug when he called himself my friend. He definitely wasn’t. On the blotter, this mug Barranya is listed as a fortune-teller. He doesn’t call himself that; when they play for big dough, the hocus-pocus boys call themselves mystics. That’s what Barranya called himself, a mystic. We hadn’t been able to pin anything on him, yet.

I said, “So what?”

“I wish to report a murder, Sergeant.” His voice sounded slightly bored: you’d have thought I was a waiter and he was ordering lunch. “Your department deals in such matters, I believe.”

I knew it was a gag, but I pressed the button that turned on the little yellow light down at the telephone company’s switchboard.

I’ll explain about that light. A police station gets lots of calls that they have to trace. An excited dame will pick up the phone and say “Help, Police” and bat the receiver back on the hook without bothering to mention who she is or where she lives. Stuff like that. So all calls to any police station in our city go through a special switchboard at the phone station, and the girl who’s on that board has special instructions. She never breaks a connection until the receiver has been hung up at the police end of the call, whether the person calling the station hangs up or not. And there’s that light that flashes on over her switchboard when we press the button. It’s her signal to start tracing a call as quickly as possible.

While I pressed that button, I said, “Nice of you to think of me, Barranya. Who’s been murdered?”

“No one, yet, Sergeant. It’s murder yet to come. Thought I’d let you in on it.”

I grunted. “Picked out who you’re going to murder yet, or are you going to shoot at random?”

“Randall,” he said, “not random. Charlie Randall, Sergeant. Neighbor of mine; I believe you know him.”

Well—on the chance that he was telling the truth and was going to commit a murder—I’d as soon have had him pick Randall as anyone. Randall, like Barranya, was a guy we should have put behind bars, except that we had nothing to go on. Randall ran pinball games, which isn’t illegal, but we knew (and couldn’t prove) some of his methods of squelching opposition. They weren’t nice.

Barranya and Randall lived in the same swank apartment building, and it was rumored that the pinball operator was Barranya’s chief customer.

All that went through my head, and a lot of other things. Telling it this way, it may sound like I’d been talking over the phone a long time, but actually it had been maybe thirty seconds since I picked up the receiver.

Meanwhile, I had the receiver off the hook of the other phone on my desk—the interoffice one—and was punching the button on its base that would give me the squad car dispatcher at the main station.

I asked Barranya, “Where are you?”

“At Charlie Randall’s,” he said, “well, here it goes, Sergeant!”

There was the sound of a shot, and then the click of the phone being hung up.

I kept the receiver of that phone to my ear waiting for Central to finish tracing the call, which she’d do right away now that the call had been terminated at that end. Into the other phone I said, “Are you there, Hank?” and the squad car dispatcher said, “Yeah,” and I said, “Better put on the radio to— Wait a second.”

The other receiver was talking into my other ear now. The gal at Central was saying, “That call came from Woodburn 3480. It’s listed as Charles B. Randall, Apart—”

I didn’t listen to the rest of it. I knew the apartment number and address. And if it was really Charlie Randall’s phone that the call had come over, maybe then Barranya was really telling the truth.

“Hank,” I said, “send the nearest car to Randall’s apartment, number four at the Deauville Arms. It might be murder.”

I clicked the connection to the homicide department, also down at main, and got Captain Holding.

“There might be a murder at number four at the Deauville,” I reported. “Charlie Randall. It might be a gag, too. There’s a call going out to the nearest squad car; you can wait till they report or start over sooner.”

“We’ll start over right away,” he said. “Nothing to do here anyway.”

So that let me out of the game. I stood up and yawned, and by the electric clock on the wall, it was two minutes before five. In two minutes I could leave, and I was going to have three stiff drinks to see if it did my toothache any good. Then I intended going to the Deauville Arms myself. If there was a murder, the homicide boys would want my story about the call. And having something to do would help make the time go faster until nine o’clock when there’d be a dentist available.

If there wasn’t a murder, then I wanted a little talk with Sibi Barranya. He might still be there, or up in his own apartment two floors higher. Maybe “talk” isn’t the right word. I was going to convince him, with gestures, that I didn’t appreciate the gag.

I put on my hat at one minute of five. I looked out the window and saw Captain Burke, who relieves me, getting out of his car across the street.

I opened the door to the waiting room that’s between the hall and my office, and took one step into it. Then I stopped—suddenly.

There was a tall, dark, smooth-looking guy sitting there, looking at one of the picture magazines from the table. He had sharp features and sharp eyes under heavy eyebrows, each of which was fully as large as the small moustache over his thin lips.

There was only one thing wrong with the picture, and that was who the guy happened to be. Sibi Barranya—who’d just been talking to me over the telephone a minute before…from a point two miles away!

I stood there looking at him, with my mouth open as I figured back. It could have been two minutes ago, but no longer. Two minutes, two miles. There’s nothing wrong with traveling two miles in two minutes, except that you can’t do it when the starting point is the fourth floor of one building and the destination the second floor of another. Besides, the time had been nearer one minute than two.

No, either someone had done a marvelous job of imitating Barranya’s voice, or this wasn’t him. But this was Barranya, voice and all.

He said, “Sergeant, are you—psychic?”

“Huh?” That was all I could think of at the moment. On top of being where he couldn’t be, he had to ask me a completely screwy question.

“The look on your face, Sergeant,” he said. “I came here to warn you, and I would swear, from your expression, that you have already received the warning.”

“Warn me about what?” I asked.

His face was very solemn. “Your impending death. But you must have heard it. Your face, Sergeant. You look like—like you’d had a message from beyond.”

Barranya was standing now, facing me, and Captain Burke came in the room from the outer hallway.

“Hello, Murray.” He nodded to me. “Something wrong?”

I straightened out my face from whatever shape it had been and said, “Not a thing, Captain, not a thing.”

He looked at me curiously, but went on into the inner office.

The more I looked at Barranya, the more I didn’t like him, but I decided that whether I liked him or not, he and I had a lot of note-comparing to do. And this wasn’t the place to do it.

I said, “The place across the street is open. I like their kind of spirits better than yours. Shall we move there?”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d really better be getting home. Not that I’d mind a drink, but—”

“Somebody’s trying to frame a murder rap on you,” I told him. “The Deauville Arms is full of cops. Are you still in a hurry?”

It looked as though a kind of film went across his eyes, because they were suddenly quite different from what they had been and yet there had been no movement of eyelid or pupil. It was somehow like the moon going behind a cloud.

He said, “A murder rap means a murder. Whose?”

“Charlie Randall, maybe.”

“I’ll take that drink,” he said. “What do you mean by ‘maybe?’ ”

“Wait a minute and I’ll find out.” I went back into the inner office, but left the door open so I could keep an eye on Barranya. I said, “Cap, can I use the phone?” and when he nodded, I called the Randall number.

Someone who sounded like a policeman trying to sound like a butler said, “Randall residence.”

“This is Bill Murray. Who’s talking?”

“Oh,” said the voice, not sounding like a butler any longer. “This is Kane. We just busted in. I was going to the phone to call main when it rang and I thought I’d try to see who was—”

“What’d you find?”

“There’s a stiff here, all right. I guess it’s Randall; I never saw him, but I’ve seen his pictures in the paper and it looks like him.”

“Okay,” I said. “The homicide squad’s already on the way over. Just hold things down till they gel then’. I’m corning around too, but I got something to do first. Say—how was he killed?”

“Bullet in the forehead. Looks like about a thirty-eight hole. He’s sitting right there; I’m looking at him now. Harry’s going over the apartment. I was just going to the phone to call—”

“Yeah,” I interrupted. “Is he tied up?”

“Tied up, yes. He’s in pajamas, and there’s a bruise on his forehead, but he isn’t gagged. Looks like he was slugged in bed and somebody moved him to the chair and tied him to it, and then took a pop at him with the gun from about where I’m standing now.”

“At the phone?”

“Sure, at the phone. Where else would I be standing?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll be around later. Tell Cap Holding when he gets there.”

“Know who done it, Sarge?”

“It’s a secret,” I said, and hung up.

I went back to the inner office. Barranya was standing by the door. I knew he’d heard the conversation so I didn’t need to tell him he could erase the ‘maybe’ about Charlie Randall’s being dead.

We went across the street to Joe’s, which is open twenty-four hours a day. It was five minutes after five when we got there, and I noticed that it took us a few seconds over two minutes just to get from my office to Joe’s, which is half a block.

We took a booth at the back. Barranya took a highball, but I wanted mine straight and double. My tooth was thumping like hell.

I said, “Listen, Barranya, first let’s take this warning business. About me, I mean. What kind of a hook-up did it come over?”

“A voice,” he said. “I’ve heard voices many times, but this was louder and clearer than usual. It said, ‘Sergeant Murray will be killed today.’ ”

“Did it say anything else?”

“No, just that. Over and over. Five or six times.”

“And where were you when you heard this voice?”

“In my car, Sergeant, driving—let’s see—along Clayton Boulevard. About half an hour ago.”

“Who was with you?”

“No one, Sergeant. It was a spirit voice. When one is psychic, one hears them often. Sometimes meaningless things, and sometimes messages for oneself or people one knows.”

I stared at him, wondering whether he really expected me to swallow that. But he had a poker face.

I took a fresh tack. “So, out of the kindness of your heart you came around to warn me. Knowing that for a year now I’ve been trying to get something on you so I could put you—”

His upraised hand stopped me. “That is something else again, Sergeant. I don’t particularly like you personally, but a psychic has obligations which transcend the mundane. If it was not intended that I pass that warning on to you, I should not have received it.”

“Where had you been, before this happened?”

“I went with a party of people to the Anders Farm.”

The Anders Farm isn’t a farm at all; it’s a roadhouse and it’s about fifteen miles out of town. Coming on from there, you take Highway 15, which turns into Clayton Boulevard in town.

“I left the others there around four o’clock,” Barranya said. “We’d been there since midnight and I was getting bored, and—well, feeling queer—as often happens when I am on the verge of a communication from the astral—”

“Wait,” I said, “were you there with someone? A woman?”

“No, Sergeant. It was a mixed party, but there were three couples and two stags and I was one of the stags. I drove slowly coming in, because I’d been drinking and because of that feeling of expectancy. I was on Clayton, out around Fiftieth, when I heard the voice. It said, ‘Sergeant Murray will be killed to—’ ”

“Yeah, yeah” I interrupted. For some reason, it made my tooth ache worse when he said that. I looked at him a minute trying to figure out how much truth he was telling me. I couldn’t swallow that spirit message stuff.

But the rest of it? It would be easy to get and check the names of the people he’d been with. But that was routine, up to whoever was handling the case…

Say Barranya left the Anders Farm near four o’clock. He came to my office at five, or a few minutes before. That gave him an hour. Not too long a time if he’d driven as slowly as he said. But it was possible.

I said, “Now about Charlie Randall. What were your relations with him?”

“Very pleasant, Sergeant. I advised him in a business way.”

I studied him. “Meaning when he had to bump off a competitor you’d cast a horoscope to see if the stars were favorable?”

That veil business was over his eyes again, and I knew he didn’t like the way I’d put that. It was probably a close guess. We knew that Randall, like most crooks, was superstitious and that he was Sibi Barranya’s best hocus-pocus sucker.

Barranya said, “Mr. Randall conducted a legitimate business, Sergeant. My advice concerned purely legal transactions.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Since it would be hard to prove otherwise now, we’ll let it ride. But look—you’re probably pretty familiar with Randall’s business. Who would benefit by his death?”

Barranya thought a moment before he answered. “His wife, of course. That is, I presume she’ll inherit his money; he never consulted me about a will. And there is Pete Burd; but you know about that.”

I knew about Pete Burd, all right. He was the only rival Randall had had, and not too much competition at that. He put his machines in the smaller places that Randall didn’t want, and that was maybe why Randall hadn’t done to him what he’d done to more enterprising competitors. But now that Randall was out of the way, it would mean room for expansion for Burd.

I let that cook for the moment. “Know where Charlie’s wife is?”

“Yes. Out of town. That is, unless she has returned unexpectedly and I haven’t heard.”

I snorted lightly. “Don’t your spirits tell you things?…Let’s get back to the warning about me. Did the what’s-it suggest any reason why I might be killed?”

“No,” he told me, “and I can see you’re incredulous about that, Sergeant. Frankly, I don’t care whether you take it seriously or not. I had a message and it was my duty to relay it. Any more questions? If not, I’d like to get on home.”

I stood up. “We’re both going to the same building. Come on.”

“Fine!” Barranya said. “Want to go in my car? I presume there’ll be plenty of squad cars rallying around over there to give you a lift back.”

Well, there would be; and these days a chance to save rubber is a chance to save rubber. So I got into his car. And when I saw how smoothly it ran I wondered—as all cops wonder once in a while, but not too seriously—whether I’d picked the right side of the law. It was a sweet chariot, that convertible of his.

“Can you get short-wave broadcasts?” I asked, assuming that a boat like his would have a radio, and ready not to be surprised if it turned out to be a radio-phono combination. I was curious to see if anything new was going out to the squad cars.

“Out of order,” he said. “Worked early this evening, but I tried it after I left the Anders Farm and it wouldn’t work.”

We drove a few blocks without either of us saying anything, and it was then that I heard the voice:

“Sibi Barranya killed Randall. He wanted Randall’s wife.”

I blinked and looked around at Barranya. He wasn’t talking, unless he was a good ventriloquist. Not that it would have surprised me if he was, because these fake mystics dabble in all forms of trickery.

But Barranya looked scared as hell. The car swerved a little, but righted itself as he swung the wheel back. We slowed up and he said, “Did you hear—”

“Shut up,” I barked. As soon as I’d seen his lips weren’t moving, I looked around the rest of the car. Maybe it was the comparative quiet because we were slowing down, but I recognized and placed a faint sound I’d been hearing ever since we’d started; a sound I’d wondered about in a car that ran as sweet and smooth as that one did.

It was a faint crackling, like static on a radio, and it seemed to come from the loud-speaker that was up where the windshield met the car top, on Barranya’s side.

“Cut in to the curb and stop a minute,” I said. As we coasted in, he said, “Sergeant, there are good spirits and evil ones. The evil ones lie, and you mustn’t—”

“Shut up,” I said. “There are good radios and bad radios, too. Where’s a screwdriver?”

He opened the glove compartment and found one. “Do you mean you think—”

I said, “I’m sure as hell going to see. When it comes to spooks, Barranya, I don’t think anything. I look for where they come from. That radio’s on!”

I got it out from behind the instrument panel with the screwdriver. The faint crackling noise stopped when I disconnected the battery wire.

The set showed what I had a hunch I’d find. It had been tampered with, all right. There was a wire shorted across both the short-wave band switch and the turn-on switch, so that it was permanently on, and permanently adjusted to the short-wave band. The condenser shaft had been loosened so the rotor plates didn’t turn with the shaft. In other words, it was permanently set to receive anything broadcast on a certain short wavelength. Barranya was peering curiously at it. “Could someone with an amateur broadcasting set have?…”

“They could,” I told him, “and did. How’s your battery?”

“How’s— Oh, I see what you mean.” Without putting the car in gear he stepped on the starter and the engine turned over merrily. The battery wasn’t run down.

“This thing’s been on,” I said, “since it was monkeyed with. If your battery’s still got that much oomph, it means it was done recently. If your radio worked early this evening, this was done since then. Maybe while you were at the roadhouse.”

“Then that other message, the one that warned about you—”

“Yeah,” I said, “my apologies—maybe. I thought you were talking a lot of hot air.”

Unless he was honestly bewildered, he was putting on a marvelous act. He said, “But I have heard such voices elsewhere.”

I smiled. “Maybe your radio here was in tune with the infinite and it was a spirit, once removed. I got my doubts. Let’s get going. I want to show this little gadget to the boys.”

He slid the car into gear and away from the curb. He asked thoughtfully, “Is there any way they could trace from that set where the messages came from?”

“Nope,” I told him. “But they can tell exactly what wavelength it was set for. That might help, but the F.C.C. has suspended all amateur licenses since the war started. It would have to be an illegal set.”

“Aren’t illegal broadcasts tracked down?”

“Yeah. There are regular listening posts, with directional equipment. But if a set broadcast only a couple of sentences like that, they’d probably be overlooked. So that’s no help.”

We were slowing down already for the apartment building when I remembered. “How’s about what your radio ghost friend said just now? Are you chummy with Randall’s wife?”

He took time to word his answer. I could have counted to ten before he said, “You’d find out anyway, I suppose. Yes, I like her a lot and she likes me. Her husband…”

“Didn’t understand her?” I prompted.

He glared at me, and started to say something that would probably have led to trouble if I’d let him finish.

“Hold it, pal,” I cut in. “Here’s the big thing to think about. Whoever put on that broadcast just now knew about you and Mrs. Randall. How many people know that. Pete Burd, maybe?” He calmed down. “I don’t know. Anyone might have guessed, I suppose. Uh—Charlie Randall didn’t mind, so we weren’t too secretive about being seen.”

“Randall knew you were making love to his wife!”

“I think so. He wouldn’t have cared, if he had known. You know that little blonde who used to sell cigarettes at the Green Dragon?”

“I think I know which one you mean,” I told him. “The one with the nice—”

“That one,” he said. “She doesn’t work there any more.” The car stopped in front of the Deauville Arms, and I got out, carrying the gimmicked radio. I waited until Barranya came around the car to join me.

When we got into the elevator I said, “We’re going to Randall’s flat first, both of us. You’ll have to bear up a while yet before you go to sleep.”

“Why can’t I go on up, while you—”

“Nix,” I said. “I’m going to report to Holding, and you’re not going in that flat before I go with you. Listen, Barranya, the only thing I don’t like about your alibi is that it’s too damn good. Maybe you got something upstairs I’d like to see before you dismantle it. Such like a phonograph with your—”

I broke off, because as soon as I mentioned it I knew it wasn’t a phonograph record that had made that call. Because I’d done part of the talking, and he’d answered what I said. I remembered that lousy gag about not shooting at random but at Randall. But I took Barranya with me just the same. Holding would want to see him.

The Randall flat was full of photographers and fingerprint men. I parked Barranya in the hallway, and told the man on duty at the door to keep an eye on him. I went in to give Holding my report and the radio set.

The coroner was working on the body; they’d moved it into the bedroom after taking photos. Captain Holding showed me the position of the chair and the ropes; everything checked with what I’d heard over the telephone.

Holding said, “Maybe Barranya could have called you from the phone booth in the hall at your precinct station, and then gone on into the waiting room while—”

“No, dammit,” I said. “I traced the call. It came from here. It must be some kind of a frame, but it’s the goofiest thing I ever heard of. If anybody wanted to frame Barranya, why’d they give him that message about me that sent him to my office only two minutes after the murder?”

Holding shrugged. “Do you know anybody connected with the case who’s a good voice imitator?”

“Not unless it’s Barranya, and he wouldn’t imitate his own voice. Nuts! I’m going in circles, and this toothache is driving me batty. Say, how’s Mrs. Randall doing on alibis?”

“Excellent. We called the hotel in Miami she was supposed to be at. She’s there all right. I talked to her myself.”

“Just now?”

“What do you mean, just now? Think we could have notified her yesterday, Sergeant?”

I shook my head. “Don’t mind me, Cap. My mind just isn’t working any more. But one thing. I take it you’re going to send men up to search Barranya’s place. Maybe while he’s here and you’re talking to him? Well, I’d like to go up with them.”

“You should go home, Bill. This is our job, now that you’ve reported,” Holding pointed out.

“Got to stay awake till I can see a dentist at nine. Having something to do will keep my mind off this damn toothache. Anyway, this is my big day, Cap. If Barranya’s spirit controls are in working order, I’m due to be bumped off.”

“I’ll question Barranya now. I’ll hold him a while, and give you plenty of time, though.”

“Swell. I’m even going to take the kitchen sink apart up there. Say, know who lives above and below this flat—on the third and fifth?”

“Third’s vacant. Guy named Shultz has the fifth, in between here and Barranya.”

“What’s he do?” I asked.

“Manufacturer. Pinball games and carnival novelties.” Holding saw the sudden look of interest I gave him, and went on. “Yes, he did a little business with Randall. But he’s clear on this. He’s out of town, he and his wife. We’ve checked and it’s on the up and up.”

“How about Burd?”

“Murphy’s on the way over there now. I’m going to have that cigarette girl angle looked into, too. We can trace her easy enough if Randall set her up somewhere. Might be an angle there.”

“More curves than angles,” I said. “Sure you don’t want me to—”

“I do not. Send in Barranya, and take Clem and Harry up to his flat.”

Clem and Harry and I spent two hours searching, but there wasn’t anything in Barranya’s flat worthy of interest except a bottle of Scotch in the cupboard. The homicide boys didn’t touch it because they were on duty, but I wasn’t.

When they left, I sat down at the table in the living room to wait. Holding kept Barranya down there another half hour. He looked mad when he came in. By that time my tooth had stopped jumping up and down and settled into a slow steady ache that wasn’t quite so bad.

I waved my hand toward the Scotch on the table, and the extra glass I’d put there. “Have a drink.”

“Thanks, Sergeant, I shall. After that, if you don’t mind, I’d like to turn in.”

“Don’t mind me,” I told him. “Go right ahead and turn in. It’s your flat.”

“But—” He looked puzzled.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just sitting here thinking.”

He poured himself a drink from the bottle and refilled my glass. He said, “And how long do you expect to sit there and think?”

“Until I’ve figured out how you killed Charlie Randall.”

He smiled, and sat down on a corner of the table. He said, “What makes you think I killed Randall?”

“The fact that you couldn’t have,” I told him, very earnestly. “It’s all too damn pat, Barranya. It’s like a stage illusion. It’s a show. It doesn’t ring true. It’s just the kind of murder and kind of alibi that an illusionist would arrange. The kind of thing that wouldn’t occur to an ordinary guy.”

“You’re logical, Sergeant, up to a point.”

“And I’m going to get past that point. Go on to bed if you’re tired.”

He chuckled and stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. “Is that all that makes you think I did it?”

“Not quite,” I said. “We found something very suspicious in this flat. That’s what makes me sure.”

He looked up quickly.

“We found nothing, Barranya. Absolutely nothing of interest.”

His smile came back; mockingly, I thought. “And you find that suspicious?”

“Absolutely. I have a strong hunch that before you left here this evening you took away and hid any papers, any notations, you wouldn’t have wanted the police to find. And the gimmicks connected with the seances you hold here.”

“They aren’t seances. I’ve explained—”

“It’s just unlikely,” I went on without paying any attention to his interruption, “for us not to have found something you wouldn’t want found. Not even letters tied in blue ribbon. Not a scrap of a notation about one of your customers.”

“Clients.”

“Clients, then. Nothing at all. I just don’t believe it, Barranya. And if you knew this apartment would be searched, then you knew Randall was going to be killed. That means you killed him, somehow.”

“Brilliant, Sergeant. Have your deductions gone any farther?”

“Yes. You knew when he was going to be killed—or when it would appear that he was killed. Probably it was twenty minutes before I got that phone call. Time for you to get from his flat to my office.”

“And you think I framed myself by accusing—”

“Why not? That radio was a swell trick. It wasn’t the radio at all, Barranya. I’ve thought that out. It was ventriloquism. My first guess was right, only I found that radio going and naturally thought that the voice came from it. You fixed the radio yourself, and any spiritualist knows ventriloquism—the safest and easiest way of getting spirit voices in a seance. The trick has whiskers on it.”

He said, “Interesting, Sergeant—if you can prove that I do know ventrilo—”

“I can’t, but I’m not interested. All I have to prove is that you killed Randall. As long as I know you could have pulled that stunt in the car, I can forget it. How’s about another drink? And incidentally, what you said was clever as hell. You knew we’d find out about you and Mrs. Randall, and if you accused yourself of having that motive, it would spike our guns. You expect to marry her, don’t you, and get Randall’s money?”

He filled my glass, but not his own. He stood up, yawning. “Hope you’ll excuse me, Sergeant. I am tired.”

“Go right to bed,” I said. “Got an alarm clock, or shall I wake you any special time?”

“Never mind.” He sauntered to the door of the bedroom and then turned. “I’ll appreciate your leaving one drink in the bottle.”

“I’ll buy you a new bottle,” I assured him. “Barranya, you know anything about relays?”

“Relays? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I’m not, either. Probably that’s the wrong name for it. But it’s the first thing I looked for when I came up here. I didn’t find it.”

“And where would you have looked for one?”

“I thought of the bell box of your telephone. Look, while you were playing Randall for a sucker on the celestial advice racket, didn’t you have his phone wire tapped?”

“No, Sergeant. But how would a tapped wire—”

“Here’s the idea. Holding gave it to me, in a way. He said you might have phoned from the booth at the station, right out in the hall. Except that the call came from here, that would have made sense. So I got to thinking.”

“So?”

“This could have happened. You came here, driving fast from the roadhouse, killed Randall, and switched in the gimmick. You’d have everything ready, so you could do it in a minute. There’d already be the tap on Randall’s wire. The gimmick is a little electromagnet in your phone’s bell box.

“You drive to the station and call your own phone. The circuit is shorted through the electromagnet, so instead of ringing the bell, the magnet throws the double switch—just as though the receiver had been lifted from Randall’s phone. You’re on Randall’s wire and when the light goes on down at the phone company switchboard, it’s over his number. That switch also opens his circuit, of course. When Central says ‘Number, please?’ you give my number, and—well, that’s all it would take. You knew, of course, that snapping a rubber band across the diaphram of the transmitter makes a sound like a shot.

“And when you hung up, both circuits would be broken, and things just like they were. The call would trace back to Randall’s phone, but his receiver was never off the hook!”

Barranya’s eyes had widened while I was talking. He said, “Sergeant, I never thought it of you. That’s positively brilliant. But you didn’t find such an electromagnet?”

“No,” I admitted. “But it was a good idea.”

He yawned again. “You underestimate yourself. It was excellent. Pardon me.”

“I will,” I said, “but how about the governor?”

He chuckled and closed the bedroom door. I poured myself another drink, but I didn’t touch it. The last three drinks hadn’t had any further effect on the toothache, so I figured I might as well stay sober and bear it.

I listened until I heard him get into bed. Then I gave it another ten minutes by my watch.

I went out the door and closed it, being neither quiet nor noisy about my movements, got into the elevator and—in case the sound of the elevator would be audible—I rode it all the way down to the first floor and walked back up to five. One of my set of keys worked easily on the door of the absent Mr. Shultz.

I crossed over to the telephone and bent down to examine the box. There wasn’t any dust on top of it, and there was a thin layer of dust on most other things in the room.

I didn’t touch it. I was sure enough now that the electromagnet would be there, and I didn’t want to lessen its value as evidence by taking off the cover until there were other witnesses. Anyway, there was an easier way to check my hunch.

I picked up the receiver and when a feminine voice said, “Number, please?” I asked, “What phone am I calling from?”

“Pardon?”

I said, “I’m alone at a friend’s house. I want to tell someone to call me back here, and I can’t read the number without my glasses.”

She said, “Oh, I see. You’re calling from Woodburn 3840.”

Randal’s number. That cracked the case, of course. Barranya had worked it just as I’d told him upstairs, except that, knowing his own flat would be searched, he’d put the tab on Shultz’ phone and called up there.

“Fine,” I said, “Now give me—”

That was when something jabbed into my back and Barranya said, “Tell her never mind.” His tone of voice meant business. “Never mind,” I told the operator. “I’ll put in the call later.”

As I put down the phone, Barranya’s hand reached over my shoulder and slid my police positive out of its shoulder holster. He stepped back, and I turned around.

He’d really undressed for bed; he wore a lounging robe over pajamas and had slippers on his feet. That’s why I hadn’t heard him come through the flat. I’d known he’d be down sometime today to remove the evidence, but I’d expected him to wait longer, and I hadn’t thought of the back door. Maybe I’d drunk more Scotch than I thought I had, to overlook a bet like that.

His face was expressionless; there was just a touch of mockery in his voice. “Remember that message I brought you from the spirit world a few hours ago, Sergeant? Maybe it wasn’t as wrong as you thought.”

“You can’t get away with it,” I said. “Killing me, I mean. If you do, you’ll have to lam, and they’ll catch you. The homicide boys know I stayed with you. If they find me dead—”

“Shut up, Sergeant,” he said, “I’m trying to think how—”

I didn’t dare give him time to think. The guy was too clever. He might think of some way he could kill me without it being pinned on him.

I said, “A good lawyer can get you a sentence for shooting a rat like Randall. But you know what happens when you kill a cop in this state.”

I could see there was indecision in his face, in his voice when he said, “Keep back, or—”

I took another step toward him and kept on talking. I said, “There are still men in Randal’s flat, right under us. They’ll hear that gun. You won’t have time to muffle it, like when you shot Randall.”

I kept walking, slowly. I knew if I moved suddenly, he’d shoot. My hands were going down slowly, too. I said, “Give me that gun, Barranya. Figure out what a rope around your neck feels like before you pull that trigger, and don’t pull it.”

I was reaching out, palm upward for him to hand the gun to me, but he backed away. He said, “Stop, damn you,” and the urbanity and mockery were gone from his voice. He was scared.

I kept walking forward. I said, “I saw a cop-killer once after they finished questioning him, Barranya. They did such a job that he didn’t mind hanging, much, after that. And don’t forget the boys below us will hear a shot. You won’t have time to pull those wires up through the wall before they get up here.”

And then he was back against the wall, and I must have pressed him too hard, because I saw from his eyes that he was going to shoot. But my hand was only inches from the gun now, and I took the last short step in a lunge and slapped the gun just as it went off. I felt the burn of powder on my palm and wrist, but I wasn’t hit. The gun hit the wall and ricocheted under the sofa.

The burn on my hand made me jerk back, involuntarily, off balance, and he jumped in with a wallop that caught me on the jaw that knocked me further off balance.

I took half a dozen punches, and they hurt, before I could get set to throw one back effectively. I took half a dozen more before I got in my Sunday punch and Barranya folded up on the carpet.

I staggered across the room to the phone. My nose felt lopsided and one of my eyes was hard to see out of. There was blood in my mouth and I spat it out. A tooth came with it.

I got Holding on the phone, and told him. I said, “I guess there’s no one downstairs at the moment or they’d sure as hell be up here by now.”

He said, “Swell work, Sarge. We’ll be right over; sit on the guy till we get there. How’s your toothache coming?”

“Huh?” I said, and then it dawned on me that my whole face and head ached, except for my tooth. I felt to see which one had been knocked out in the fight, and it was!

After I’d hung up, I found Shultz, too, was a good host; his whiskey was poorly hidden. My knees felt wobbly and I figured I’d earned this one. I had another, and then heard voices and footsteps out in the hall, and knew the homicide boys were back.

I walked over to the sofa where Barranya lay, to see if he was conscious again. He wasn’t, but bending over made my head swim and suddenly my knees just weren’t there any more. I don’t know whether it was the whiskey, or the fight I’d been through, or the relief that I didn’t have to go to the dentist.

But I’ll never live down the fact that they came in a second later—and found me sleeping peacefully on top of the murderer.

Mad Dog!

I GOT it the minute I saw that distorted face peering around the corner of the turn in the hallway. I wasn’t looking toward the hallway, of course, but toward MacCready. Back of Mac’s desk was a mirror and it was in the mirror that I saw it.

For just a minute I thought I had ‘em, then I remembered Mac’s screwy ideas on mental therapeutics, and I grinned. I kept the grin to myself, though. Here’s where I have some fun with good old Mac, I thought to myself. Let him pull his gag and pretend to play along.

So I kept on with what I was saying. “Mac, old horse,” I told him, “can’t you get it out of your head that this isn’t a professional call? Quit psychoanalyzing me, dammit, or I’ll leave you flat and hike right back to Provincetown over these bloody roller-coaster anthills you call dunes, and get myself drunk.”

He snorted, a well-bred Scotch snort. “You’d fall flat on your lace before you got halfway. Bryce, how you ever made it out here’s got me beat. And how you ever write plays that get on Broadway, when you keep yourself so full of whiskey that—” He shook his head in bewilderment.

“Ever see any of my plays, Mac? Maybe you’d get the connection. But—”

I caught sight of that face again in the mirror, and I calculated the angle and decided that Mac couldn’t see it from where he sat. The guy in the hall had come around the corner now, and was pussy-footing up to the door. He was smiling, if you could call it a smile; one corner of his mouth went up and the other down so his mouth looked like an unhealed diagonal wound across the bottom of his face. His eyes were so narrowed you couldn’t see the whites. I thought crazily that if the British had done that at Bunker Hill they wouldn’t have got fired on at all.

All in all it wasn’t a nice expression. I shuddered a bit, involuntarily. Whoever was stooging for Mac on this gag of his ought to be on the stage. He could do Dracula without makeup, unless he already had the makeup on, and if he did, it was a wow.

Mac was talking again, it dawned on me. “If this wasn’t my vacation—” he was saying. “Listen, Bryce, even if it is, I’ll take you on. It’d take me three months to get you wrung out so you’d stay that way, but I’ll do it if you say the word. You’re darned far on the road to being an alcoholic. At the rate you’re going, pal…”

I grinned at him. “You underestimate me, old horse. I’m a lush of the first water, right now. I like it. But listen, Mac, there is something that worries me. I’m three months overdue on starting my next play, and I haven’t a ghost of an idea. I thought a summer in Provincetown would fix me up. Cape Cod and all that and the picturesque fishing smacks and all that sort of tripe. But—well, I’m worried stiff.”

I was, too. There’s nothing worse than not having an idea when you need an idea. That’s the trouble with being a playwright. If you need a house or a horse or a multiple-head drill or a set of golf clubs, you go out and buy it, but if you need an idea and need it bad, you sit and stew and maybe it comes and maybe it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, you go slowly nuts.

You get to the stage where you remember that an old friend of yours is a psychiatrist and has his summer home on the other side of the cape, with the waves of the Atlantic rolling into his front yard, and you hike across the dunes to see him to find out what’s wrong that you haven’t got an idea.

He said, “How to help you there, Bryce, I’m not sure. But this should be good country for you. Eugene O’Neill got his start here, and Millay, and others. Harry Kemp has a place only a few miles from here, and…”

That was when the guy in the hallway reached around the door jamb and switched off the light. Mac’s head—I could still see dimly because it was only eight-thirty and not completely dark out yet what with daylight savings time and a bright moon—jerked around toward the doorway and I saw his eyes widen. He reached quick for a drawer of his desk and then slowly started to raise his hands up over his head instead. He was going to take it big, I could see that.

I turned my head slowly toward the doorway. The man had stepped fully into the room now, and although his face was in the shadow now, I could see how big and powerful he was. He wore an overcoat three sizes too large for him, and he held something in his hand that looked like a cross between a pistol and a shotgun. It must be, I decided, a scattergun—one of those things cautious householders keep on hand for burglars. It’s useless at any range to speak of, but up to twenty feet it can’t miss a man, and it can’t miss doing unpleasant things to him. It shoots a small gauge shotgun shell.

Of course, this one wouldn’t be loaded. Maybe my pal Colin MacCready didn’t know I’d read his most recent book, but I had. In it, he told his ideas about what he called “shock treatment.” Alcoholism was one of the things it was supposed to help. I won’t go into details, but the basic idea is to scare the pants off the patient.

He’d described several ways of doing it; apparently the treatment was varied to suit the individual case. I personally thought the idea was screwy when I read about it, but then I’m not a psychiatrist, thank heaven. Anyhow, it sounded interesting, and for a moment I wished that that book hadn’t tipped me off in advance so I could tell how I’d feel if things really were what they were maybe going to be.

The guy with the gun was talking now, to Mac. He said, “Come out from behind that desk, Doc. You and this other mug stand close together. Who is he?”

What faint light came in the window fell on Mac’s face when he stood up, and he was doing it well. He didn’t look frightened, but he looked deadly serious, and a little pale. He kept his hands up level with his shoulders. He started to edge around the desk toward my chair. Then his face got into the shadow again.

He said, “This is just a friend of mine, Herman. Now—when did you escape?”

I stood up and bowed ceremoniously. If I’d been sober, by that time I’d have been suspecting my diagnosis of the situation. There was something just a little phony about it to be wrong. It was too slow an approach, it lacked the zip and tempo, the suddenness of shock described in that book. But I wasn’t sober, quite.

Anyhow, I bowed low and said, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume,” or something equally idiotic, and started across the room toward the guy Mac had just addressed as Herman. The gun jerked up in my direction.

I heard Mac call out sharply, “Don’t shoot! I’ll—” and I didn’t hear the rest of it for something that must have been Mac’s fist clouted me on the side of the jaw. Mac is no lightweight and that wallop had, I guessed, his whole weight behind it. I went down, groggy, but not completely out.

Something—it must have been common sense—told me to stay there. I heard Mac say, “Whew!” and this guy Herman say coldly, “Another funny move like that from either of you—”

“Another funny move won’t happen, Herman,” said Mac, soothingly. “My friend is a little drunk, that’s all. Quite a little. What can I do for you?”

“First, you will tie up your friend so I’ll not have to watch him. Who else is in the house?”

I heard Mac say, “No one, Herman. I have one servant but he has the day off. Drove in to Wellfleet.”

He was telling the truth, I knew. That proved nothing one way or the other, of course. Mac said, “There’s rope in the kitchen, Herman. Shall I—”

“Take off his necktie and yours, Doc. You tie his ankles with one and his wrists, behind him, with the other. Tight.”

Mac came over and untied my cravat. He pretended to have trouble unknotting it, and bent down close and whispered. “Careful, Bryce. Homicidal maniac. Escaped. I had to sock you or—”

He didn’t have to finish that “or—” if the rest of it was true. At an order from the man with the scattergun, he stepped back. At another order, he opened a drawer in his desk in which he kept a gun and then stepped back flat against the wall while the maniac pocketed the gun.

Then he said, “Sit down, Doc.” He kept the scattergun in his hand ready for action.

I’d rolled over, cautiously, so I could keep an eye on what went on. Mac had tied my wrists and ankles, and had done a good job of it, probably thinking he’d be checked up on it. I saw Mac cross cautiously to the desk and sit down.

He said, “What are you going to do, Herman?”

Sitting at the desk, Mac was in what little light came in from the windows. The other man was now nothing but a huge dark shadow standing there. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and in the silence you could hear the waves lapping on the shore outside and the far squeaky cry of a circling gull.

He said, “I’m going back to finish. To kill the rest of them. Do you think I’m crazy?” He laughed a little, as though he had said something very funny.

“Your father and your brother both?” Mac’s voice was quiet. “Why? Your sister—well, I thought you killed her, Herman, because there was always enmity between you. But Kurt—what have you got against Kurt? Why should you want to kill your brother?”

The madman chuckled. His voice started out soft, almost a whisper in the darkness, and got louder. “The ears, Doc. Like the rest of them. Dad, too. I never told anybody about that, but I didn’t really hate Lila, except for them. Those damned ears—they—”

Unless it was magnificent acting, he was starkly mad. His voice had risen in pitch and volume until he was shouting meaningless obscenities. I heard Mac’s voice cut in quietly, calmly.

“Herman-”

“You can’t stop me, Doc. I—I just stopped here to show you that I’m not crazy, like you said I was at the hearing. See? Why don’t I kill you? This friend of yours? Because I don’t have to. I’ll shoot you in a minute if you try to stop me, both of you, but if what you said about me was true, why don’t I do it now?”

He went on arguing, calmer now, sometimes talking almost sensibly, sometimes with the perverted logic of paranoia. Mac egged him on, tried to reason with him from his own premises, tried to convince him without contradicting flatly any of the madman’s statements.

I started quietly to work on the knots in the cravat that held my wrists behind me. I knew Mac was stalling, trying to hold the fellow as long as he could. He wasn’t stalling for help from me. I knew that from the way he’d tied those blamed knots so tightly. He figured me as a liability rather than an asset after that fool stunt I’d pulled, and I couldn’t blame him for that. But I went to work on those knots just the same.

“You won’t believe me, Doc,” I heard Herman say. “All right, so you won’t. But don’t think I don’t know why you’re stalling. You think they’re after me, and will trail me here.” He laughed again.

“How did you get away, Herman?”

“They aren’t after me, Doc. Not here, I mean. They’ve got a swamp surrounded back ten miles from the sanitarium, and I’m supposed to be in it, armed, and they’re taking their time. I’ve got till morning. I’ve got lots of time. It’s just getting dark now.”

“Herman, you won’t get away with it. They’ll catch you and—”

“And what? Listen, I’m crazy; you said so and you swore to it, and other doctors, too. If they do catch me, what can they do but put me back, see? I’m going to tie you up now, Doc, so you won’t go running for help. Stand up and turn around.”

“I’m anxious to talk to you more about your father and about Kurt. Herman, you mustn’t—”

“I’ve talked enough, Doc. Get up. And before I tie you, I’m going to hit you on the head hard enough to knock you out, because I don’t want any trouble. But I won’t hit hard enough to kill you.”

Mac’s voice again, persuasively; the madman’s, sharper. He took a step nearer the desk, and that put him within a yard of where I lay. Those knots hadn’t budged a millimeter. But, standing where the guy was, and with Mac on hand to finish what I could start, I saw a chance.

If I swiveled around and doubled up my legs and lashed them out right at the back of his knees, he’d go down like a ton of bricks. And Mac is no mean scrapper; he should have been able to take over from there.

Maybe if I’d been cold sober, I wouldn’t have been ready to take a chance like that. But I wasn’t. And I wasn’t entirely convinced that there wasn’t something phony about the set-up. It seemed just a bit theatrical to be true, like a second act that needs patching.

Anyway, I braced my wrists and heels against the floor and swiveled myself around, and I made enough noise in doing it to make the guy with the scattergun take a quick look around behind him to see what was going on. And that was the end of my little scheme.

I suppose I was lucky he didn’t pot me with the gun, but my luck didn’t seem so hot at the moment, for he pulled back his foot and lashed out a kick at my head that would have killed me if it had landed squarely.

And it missed landing squarely by a narrow margin. I jerked under it and the toe of his shoe passed safely over, the heel catching my mouth a glancing but painful blow. There was a taste of blood in my mouth—and the realization that I’d come within less than an inch of losing my front teeth. Then and there I abandoned any doubt I’d had about whether that gun was loaded and whether the man holding it was playing for keeps.

I could hear, but not see, Mac starting across the desk, trying to close in during the diversion I’d caused. But he didn’t have time. The maniac swung back, raised the barrel of that scattergun and brought it down on Mac’s head with a sickening thump. Mac’s momentum carried him on across the desk and he fell unconscious, on the floor near me.

There didn’t seem to be anything to say, so I didn’t say it, and the silence was so thick you could spread it with a knife. The guy who had just slugged Mac grunted once, then he went out toward the kitchen and came back with some heavy twine, a ball of it. He kept an eye on me while he tied up Mac.

Then he said, “You going to lie still while I put some of this on you, or—” He hefted the gun significantly, a shadowy bludgeon in the gathering darkness.

“I’ll lie still,” I told him. “Is—Mac—all right?”

He came over and began to supplement the two neckties that held my wrists and ankles with wrappings of the twine. “Sure,” he said, “he’s breathing. I should have killed him and you, too, but—”

He was finishing my ankles now.

I’d been thinking. Maybe I was getting sober or maybe I was just beginning to feel the effect of what I’d drunk; I don’t know. Anyway, along with the taste of blood in my mouth was a taste of something strictly phony. I knew now, of course, that this wasn’t any idea of Mac’s, but it was still a bad second act.

Yes, that was it—call it a playwright’s instinct, but this was a second act; there’d been a first one that I didn’t know about. I’d walked in during the intermission.

“Listen,” I said, “why did you come here at all, really?”

The moment the words were out, I knew I shouldn’t have said it. He’d just stood up, and the gun was still in his pocket where he’d stuck it to tie me up. Slowly he took it out again, and, like he was thinking hard while he was doing it, he swung the muzzle around until it pointed at my head.

At times like that, you think crazy things. The first thought that popped into my head, while that gun was swinging around was—“This tears it. It’s going to be a hell of a second act curtain, with the hero getting killed!” Sure, I thought of myself as the hero. I don’t know why; but who doesn’t?

That screwy notion, though, took just about as long to flash through my head as it took the gun to move an inch or two. The second thought, and I guess it was what saved me for the third act, was—“This man isn’t crazy; if he’s a real homicidal maniac, then I’m Bill Shakespeare.” And I’m not Bill Shakespeare, but I do have a strong sense of motivation, and that was the rub here. There was a motivation behind the visit of the chap with the scattergun who was about to use it to scatter my brains over Mac’s carpet. I’d called him on it, and that was how I’d asked for trouble.

And I saw that the reason I was going to die, if I was, concerned that very question of whether or not he was crazy. He suspected now that I suspected he wasn’t. My only chance was to convince him otherwise, and darned quick.

I started talking, and I didn’t start out by accusing him of being batty—that would have been a giveaway of what I was trying to do. I talked fast, but I made my voice soft and calm and soothing, like Mac’s had been when Mac was trying to talk him out of committing a couple of murders. I talked as though I were talking to a madman and was trying to calm him down.

“Listen,” I told him, “you don’t want to shoot me, Herman. I’ve never done anything to you, have I? Sure, I made a pass at you before, but that was because I thought you were going to kill Mac, and Mac’s a friend of mine, Herman. A good friend. You can’t blame me for that, can you?” Well, I went on from there, and I repeated myself with variations, and I guess I got it across. The gun stayed pointed at my head, but it didn’t explode and I began to think that it wasn’t going to.

Funny, come to think of it. Here was a guy who was either a homicidal maniac or he wasn’t, and I felt convinced that if he thought I thought he was crazy, I’d get by. If he thought I saw through his act, as that incautious question of mine had indicated, I was a dead duck. And the only way to convince him that I was being hoodwinked, was to pretend I thought he was mad and was humoring him. So I humored him; I talked, believe me, I talked.

And then, abruptly, he grunted and stuck that scattergun through his belt. He took a large clasp knife from his pocket and opened a four-inch blade.

He reached down and grabbed a handful of my coatfront and dragged me across the carpet a couple of yards to where a square of bright moonlight came in the open window behind Mac’s desk, and he held me so my head was in that moonlight, and—

I gave an involuntary yowl and began to almost wish he’d decided to use that scattergun after all. He took a handful of my hair in his left hand, and—sitting on my chest so I couldn’t move—he turned my head around sidewise.

He put the knife down a moment and took hold of my left ear, bending down as though to examine it carefully. Then he let go and picked up the knife again. And I remembered what he’d been saying to Mac ten minutes or so ago—“The ears, Doc. Those damned ears—they—”

Was the guy crazy, or was he just trying to convince me that he was? I thought for a minute it was going to cost me an ear or two to find out. I howled, “Herman, don’t—” and never knew until then just how eloquent I was.

Whether it was my eloquence or not, he decided at last that he didn’t want my ears. He grunted and put the knife back in the pocket of that capacious overcoat. He said, “No good. They’re not Wunderly.”

He got up from my chest and started toward the door. He must have guessed that I was already wondering how soon it would be safe to yell for help. He turned back a minute and took a handkerchief out of his pocket. Then he said, “The hell with it. Yell all you want. Yell to the seagulls.”

I watched the big dark shadow of him go through the doorway and I didn’t say thanks or good-bye. I was going to let well enough alone. I heard his footsteps across the porch.

I didn’t yell to the seagulls; he was right about that. Mac’s place is a mile from its nearest neighbor, three miles from the coast guard station that has the only telephone on that part of the beach. And I didn’t worry about trying to loosen my bonds; I’d found them too tough to handle even before he’d added to them with the heavy twine.

Mac was my—our—only chance of getting out of there in time to make a third act curtain. I crawled across, or rather wriggled my way across, to where he lay. He was breathing heavily now, and once as I worked my way toward him he moved a bit.

Probably he’d have snapped out of it quickly if I’d been able to give his face a few healthy slaps, but that wasn’t possible. Fortunately he was lying on his side; I’d have had a devil of a job rolling him over if he’d been on his back where I couldn’t get at the knots at his wrists.

I wriggled up behind him, and began work on those knots with my teeth. It was slow tough work, about the hardest thing I ever tackled. But I plugged along at it, and in between tries, I yelled at him and nudged him in the back with my head. Finally he said, “What happened, Bryce?”

“He’s gone,” I told him. “We’re tied up. That’s all. Listen, Mac, I’ll keep on with these knots. If you can talk okay, tell me who the guy is and what’s what, while I get you loose if I can.”

His voice gradually got stronger as he talked. “Herman Wunderly,” he told me. “Homicidal maniac killed his sister several years ago. Gruesome business; cut off her ears. He’s got some mania about ears.

“I was up here for the summer when it happened, and I helped handle him, and had to testify. The Wunderly place is a mile down the beach; nearest house here, in fact. They’re year-rounders, residents, a bit eccentric. There’s old man Wunderly now, and Herman’s brother Kurt. He’s going back to kill them unless we can—”

I’d got the knot loosened a bit now; it wouldn’t be much longer. But my bruised and cut lip hurt so badly I had to stop for a second or two. I said, “Are they all as batty as Herman? Good Lord—sorricide, patricide—”

Then I went back to work on the knots. Mac said, “Neither. Herman and Kurt are brothers, but they were adopted. So Ethel wasn’t their sister, and Old Man Wunderly isn’t—”

Then the knot gave way, and Mac sat up, got his hands braced on the edge of the desk, stood up and worked his way around it. I said, “Hey, how about me? Untie—”

“Scissors,” he told me. “Quicker.” He found them in a drawer, cut the cord from his ankles, and then cut me loose. “One of those neckties,” I said, “was mine. And a new silk one at that. You owe me—”

“Shut up, you dope. Listen, you take the coast guard station, three miles northwest. Have ‘em send men quick. I’ll go to the Wunderlys’, and maybe I’ll be in time to—”

“Got another gun, Mac, besides the one he took?”

He shook his head. “Tell the coast guard boys to come armed. Don’t worry about me; handling nuts is my business. I can take care of—”

I’d switched the light back on while he was talking, and I grinned at him. “So I noticed,” I cut in. “Come on, if you’re going.”

He was going, all right. He was running so fast I had to yell the last of that remark after him. I ran after, using the forethought to grab up a fairly hefty cane that was in the umbrella rack in the corner of the hallway. I wasn’t leaning on Mac’s persuasive abilities with a homicidal maniac—nor counting on my own to work a second time.

I caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “You can’t run a mile through sand,” I yelled. “You’ll fall down before you get half way—”

He saw the point in that and slowed down, and I panted alongside. “Our ears,” I said. “We should have taken them off and left them back where they’re safe.”

“You’re still drunk. Listen, be sensible and go back to the coast guard station and let me handle this. It isn’t any of your business.”

“They wouldn’t get there in time and you know it and I’m not still drunk, dammit. And that second act stank, Mac. It needs doctoring, and I’m the guy who can—”

“Shut up, you sap. If you’re going to come, save your breath for getting there.”

It was good advice, and I took it.

He pushed on, sometimes running, sometimes walking—mostly according to the footing—and we were both fairly winded when we rounded the dune that hid the Wunderly house.

Mac said, “Shhh,” and grabbed my arm. We were pretty close now, and he pointed to a window that was open about ten inches. We tiptoed to it, and got it open wider without making as much noise as I thought it would make.

The window was low enough that we could see in, and as far as we could tell looking into the darkened room, it was empty. Mac went in first, and I followed him. The room was just sufficiently illumined that we could make out where the furniture was, when our eyes had got accustomed to it.

Mac pointed toward one of the two closed doors and said, “Hallway. Stairs.” And we crossed over and opened it. It didn’t squeak, but the latch clicked when I let go the knob, and Mac grabbed my arm again, so hard and unexpectedly that I almost let out a yawp.

The hall was darker. I reached in my pocket for a box of matches, but Mac pulled me over to him and whispered in my ear, “I’ve been here. I know where the stairs are.” He started off, feeling along the wall with one hand. I held on to the sleeve of his coat and followed.

We came to a turn, and he whispered, “This is the back of the staircase. Feel your way around it and you’ll come to the bannister on the other side. We’re going up.”

“And then what?”

He answered, “Kurt and the old man sleep upstairs, and it looks like they’ve turned in early—unless we’re too late. We’ll see if they’re all right first.”

That sounded sensible. If they were all right, we’d have allies, and we could use them. And maybe there’d be a gun around. I still didn’t feel very happy about chasing an armed maniac with only a walking stick for defense.

I whispered, “Listen—” and reached out for Mac.

But he’d moved on. I found the wall with my left hand and started to follow it around the staircase. Just around the corner, there was a door. A door there under the stairs meant a closet. I don’t know why I opened that door. I heard a faint rustling sound, or thought I did, inside the closet, as my hand went along the outside of the door. But I should have caught up with Mac and told him, and we should have done the thing cautiously. But I didn’t wait. Like a fool, I jerked the door open.

For just a second there was so much light that I couldn’t see a thing. Some closet doors are rigged like that—particularly closets off darkish hallways. When you open the door the light inside the closet goes on, and when you close it the light goes off again.

It’s a handy arrangement, but I didn’t appreciate it just then. That light seemed to flash right in my eyes, and it utterly blinded me. I heard an exclamation from Mac, who’d reached the foot of the stairs, and I heard another rustle in the closet and a noise that sounded like the growl of an animal.

For what was probably two seconds, but seemed two hours, I stood there blinking, and then I could see again.

I saw, back among the coats and things hanging in the closet, a tall figure in an outsize overcoat. Terrifyingly expressionless eyes stared at me out of a twisted face. And a familiar-looking scattergun pointed squarely at the pit of my stomach from a range of two feet or less.

It was one of those awful instants that seem to hang poised upon the brink of time’s abyss interminably. There wasn’t time for me to grab for that gun or jump sidewise from in front of its muzzle. But, as though in slow motion, I could see the knuckles of his hand whiten as his finger tightened on the trigger. I could see the hammer go back, hear the click as it slipped the pawl and see it start down toward the single chamber of the gun.

It clicked down—empty—and I was still standing there alive and without a hole blown through me and my liver splattered over the wall behind me. For another fraction of a second, I was too terrified to move. If that gun hadn’t been loaded back at Mac’s house, then this whole thing didn’t make sense at all. But the guy who’d just pulled the trigger must have thought it was loaded or he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. Until he’d done that he had me buffaloed; I’d have put up my hands like a lamb with that thing looking at me. Add it up, and—

But the guy in the overcoat didn’t wait to add it up. He came out of the closet after me in a flying leap like the charge of a tiger. The empty gun was raised now to be used as a bludgeon and just in the nick of time I got my cane up to block a blow that would have crushed my skull.

His wrist hit against the edge of the cane and the gun flew out of his hand, over my shoulder, and knocked a square foot of plaster out of the wall behind, before it hit the floor.

He kept on coming, though, and the momentum of his charge knocked me off my feet, and he was right there on top of me, his hands reached for my throat.

All this had happened before Mac could get back down the two or three steps of the staircase he’d started up, but I heard him yell, “Herman, stop!” and the thud of his feet as he vaulted over the bannister and came running.

One of Herman’s hands had found my throat and I was having to use both my hands to keep the other one off when Mac got there. He joined the fray with a nifty full nelson that pulled the maniac’s arms away from my throat and yanked him up to his knees. Then Mac let the full nelson slide to a half, and got one of Herman’s arms pinned behind him in a hammerlock. It was neat work.

But all of this hadn’t been accomplished in silence. Another light flashed on at the top of the stairs, and we heard slippered feet in the upper hallway.

“The old man?” I asked Mac.

“No, he’s deaf; this wouldn’t have waked him. That’ll be Kurt Wunderly.” He called out, “Hey, Wunderly. This is MacCready. Everything’s under control, but come on down.”

A tall man in a bathrobe thrown over pajamas was starting down the steps even before Mac finished talking. He said, “What on earth? Herman!”

Herman gave a yank to get free then, and I picked up the empty scattergun. Held by the barrel, it made a beautiful billy. I tapped Herman lightly on the skull—just a soft tap—and said, “Behave, sonny.”

Mac was explaining to Kurt Wunderly. “Herman got away from the sanitarium. He was going to kill you and your foster-father. Stopped at my place to brag about it or something, and left us tied up, but we—”

I said, “My name’s Bryce. I was visiting—”

“The famous playwright?”

“Thanks,” I said. “Better get us some ropes.”

He nodded, his face a bit pale. “There should be some in the closet there.” There were, and I got them.

I came in with the ropes. Herman made no resistance, his face was dull, expressionless, and his manner completely lethargic now. I’m no psychiatrist, but I recognized the symptoms of a manic-depressive insanity. Being captured had thrown him into the depressive state. Speechless, on the edge of sheer unconsciousness, he paid no attention to his surroundings or to what was said or done to him. Tying him up was routine. And old Mr. Wunderly turned out to be sleeping soundly, the sleep of the partly deaf, upstairs. Still with his ears on, so we didn’t waken him.

Back down in the living room, Mac said, “Bryce and I will go to the coast guard station and phone for—”

“Hold it, Mac,” I cut in. “I figured out what was wrong with that second act. Look,” and I pointed at Herman, “this guy’s crazy.”

Mac gawped at me for a minute like he thought I was, too, and maybe he did just then.

I went on: “But your caller wasn’t, Mac. He was pretending to be. Add that up.” And I turned the scattergun around and pointed it at Kurt Wunderly, Herman’s brother. I said, “Herman escaped and came here and asked you to protect him. He wasn’t homicidal, just then. You hid him in that closet, and you came over to Mac’s house to establish the idea that Herman was going to kill his foster-father and yourself. You turned out the light in Mac’s study before you came in, and you figured that wearing that old overcoat and a hat and acting insane, you could pass for Herman in a darkened room.

“My guess is you wanted to kill Old Man Wunderly, probably because you thought he might live another ten years and you wanted your inheritance now. Or is that a good guess? Maybe you’ve got a taint of Herman’s homicidal streak, too.”

Mac cut in, “Bryce, do you realize what you’re—”

“Pipe down, Mac,” I told him, and went on talking to Kurt: “You left us tied up, ready to be witnesses that Herman was going to kill the old man. Then you came back here, gave him back the coat and gun, and you were getting into your pajamas when we came. Then you were going—except that we got here in time—to kill the old man and then ‘capture’ Herman and turn him over with the story that you’d overcome him after the first murder and while he was trying to kill you. He had nothing to lose by being blamed for another murder; he’d just be sent back. And who’d have believed anything he tried to tell them?”

Kurt Wunderly said, “That should make a good play, Mr. Bryce, but you’re being absurd. Now put down that empty gun and—”

I laughed. “If you didn’t know Herman was here, how do you know this gun is empty? Because you unloaded it before you gave it back to him, to play safe! You weren’t in the hall when he clicked it at me. You couldn’t have known it was empty, if you’re innocent.”

I heard Mac give a low whistle.

I wanted to push the point home while I was at it, so I lied a little. My glimpse of the intruder’s face in Mac’s mirror had been too brief and too distant. But I said: “I can identify him, Mac. Before he reached around the corner in your study and turned out the light, I had a good look at his face in the mirror behind you—and his fingerprint will be on that light switch, and—”

The other proof came in a way I wasn’t expecting. Kurt Wunderly yanked his hand out of his bathrobe pocket, and it held the thirty-two revolver that he’d taken away from Mac back at Mac’s place.

He said, “You’re too clever, Bryce. That forces me to go through with it—with one alteration. It will be found that Herman killed you and MacCready also.”

I guess I began to sweat a little when I saw what I’d done. Mac and I were each maybe three yards from Kurt Wunderly, and not standing together. But if we tried to rush him, he’d be sure to get one of us. And this time he wasn’t going to take any chances; I saw from his face that he was going to shoot us down here and now, and then take the time necessary to get the stage set before he went for help.

For some reason he picked Mac first—maybe to save me for last, I don’t know. But he pointed the gun Mac’s way, and said “Sorry, MacCready, but—” and I had to do something.

Just to stall an instant I said the first damn fool thing that popped into my head. I said, “It’s a good thing I happened to have a shell to fit this scattergun, Wunderly. Drop your pistol!”

I knew as I said it that there wasn’t a chance on earth that I’d be believed. People don’t carry around small-gauge shotgun shells on the chance they’ll find a gun to put them in. But it did divert his attention from Mac for the second. He swung the gun back my way.

The scattergun was hanging at my side and I brought it up as though to fire it. I saw Kurt Wunderly grin as he waited for the empty click that would call my bluff—before he shot me. But I didn’t pull the trigger. I kept my hand arcing out with the gun in it, and let go of the gun, sailing it right at his face.

He triggered the revolver then and it spat noise and flame at me. But five pounds of cold steel being thrown into a man’s face is enough to spoil his aim, even if he’s easily able to duck the missile. That shot came close, undoubtedly, but it didn’t hit me.

And Mac had leaped in the second he saw what I was doing, and had Kurt Wunderly by the wrist before he could fire again. I got there myself a split second later, and between us we had no trouble handling him. We tied him and put him on the couch beside Herman.

Mac went across to a decanter of whiskey on the buffet and poured himself a drink with a hand that shook just a trifle. He said, “Five minutes, and we’ll go for help. How did you figure out—?”

“Playwright’s instinct, Mac. I told you that second act just didn’t jell, and you thought I was talking through my hat. But I know how I can make it jell. I got a dilly of an idea for that play I have to write. Listen, I start off with a lonely house and a homicidal—”

“Save it. I’ll come down to New York and see it on the boards.” He looked at the decanter of whiskey in his hand and then at me, incredulously. “Mean to say you’re not having one with me?”

I shook my head firmly. “On the wagon till the play’s complete. Or—say, I don’t even want a drink. Mac, is there anything in this shock treatment of yours? And you didn’t by any chance arrange all this just to—?”

He’d just downed the drink he’d poured—and he choked on it. When he could talk again he said, “You crazy—” and raised the decanter as though he was going to throw it at me. Then the reaction hit us, and we had an arm around each other’s shoulders and laughed until it brought tears to our eyes.

Handbook for Homicide

Before She Kills

THE DOOR was that of an office in an old building on State Street near Chicago Avenue, on the near north side, and the lettering on it read HUNTER & HUNTER DETECTIVE AGENCY. I opened it and went in. Why not? I’m one of the Hunters; my name is Ed. The other Hunter is my uncle, Ambrose Hunter.

The door to the inner office was open and I could see Uncle Am playing solitaire at his desk in there. He’s shortish, fattish and smartish, with a straggly brown mustache. I waved at him and headed for my desk in the outer office. I’d had my lunch—we take turns—and he’d be leaving now.

Except that he wasn’t. He swept the cards together and stacked them but he said, “Come on in, Ed. Something to talk over with you.”

I went in and pulled up a chair. It was a hot day and two big flies were droning in circles around the room. I reached for the fly swatter and held it, waiting for one or both of them to light somewhere. “We ought to get a bomb,” I said.

“Huh? Who do we want to blow up?”

“A bug bomb,” I said. “One of these aerosol deals, so we can get flies on the wing.”

“Not sporting, kid. Like shooting a sitting duck, only the opposite. Got to give the flies a chance.”

“All right,” I said, swatting one of them as it landed on a corner of the desk. “What did you want to talk about?”

“A case, maybe. A client, or a potential one, came in while you were feeding your face. Offered us a job, but I’m not sure about taking it. Anyway, it’s one you’d have to handle, and I wanted to talk it over with you first.”

The other fly landed and died, and the wind of the swat that killed it blew a small rectangular paper off the desk onto the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a check made out to Hunter & Hunter and signed Oliver R. Bookman—a name I didn’t recognize. It was for five hundred dollars.

We could use it. Business had been slow for a month or so. I said, “Looks like you took the job already. Not that I blame you.” I put the check back on the desk. “That’s a pretty strong argument.”

“No, I didn’t take it. Ollie Bookman had the check already made out when he came, and put it down while we were talking. But I told him we weren’t taking the case till I’d talked to you.”

“Ollie? Do you know him, Uncle Am?”

“No, but he told me to call him that, and it comes natural. He’s that kind of guy. Nice, I mean.”

I took his word for it. My uncle is a nice guy himself, but he’s a sharp judge of character and can spot a phony a mile off.

He said, “He thinks his wife is trying to kill him or maybe planning to.”

“Interesting,” I said. “But what could we do about it—unless she does? And then it’s cop business.”

“He knows that, but he’s not sure enough to do anything drastic about it unless someone backs up his opinion and tells him he’s not imagining things. Then he’ll decide what to do. He wants you to study things from the inside.”

“Like how? And why me?”

“He’s got a young half brother living in Seattle whom his wife has never met and whom he hasn’t seen for twenty years. Brother’s twenty-five years old—and you can pass for that age. He wants you to come to Chicago from Seattle on business and stay with them for a few days. You wouldn’t even have to change your first name; you’d be Ed Cartwright and Ollie would brief you on everything you’ll be supposed to know.”

I thought a moment and then said, “Sounds a little far out to me, but—” I glanced pointedly at the five-hundred-dollar check. “Did you ask how he happened to come to us?”

“Yes. Koslovsky sent him; he’s a friend of Kossy’s, belongs to a couple of the same clubs.” Koslovsky is chief investigator for an insurance company; we’ve worked for him or with him on several things.

I asked, “Does that mean there’s an insurance angle?”

“No, Ollie Bookman carries only a small policy—small relative to what his estate would be—that he took out a long time ago. Currently he’s not insurable. Heart trouble.”

“Oh. And does Kossy approve this scheme of his for investigating his wife?”

“I was going to suggest we ask Kossy that. Look, Ed, Ollie’s coming back for our answer at two o’clock. I’ll have time to eat and get back. But I wanted to brief you before I left so you could think it over. You might also call Koslovsky and get a rundown on Ollie, whatever he knows about him.”

Uncle Am got up and got the old black slouch hat he insists on wearing despite the season. Kidding him about it does no good.

I said, “One more question before you go. Suppose Bookman’s wife meets his half brother, his real one, someday. Isn’t it going to be embarrassing?”

“I asked him that. He says it’s damned unlikely; he and his brother aren’t at all close. Hell never go to Seattle and the chances that his brother will ever come to Chicago are one in a thousand. Well, so long, kid.”

I called Koslovsky. Yes, he’d recommended us to Bookman when Bookman had told him what he wanted done and asked—knowing that he, Koslovsky, sometimes hired outside investigators when he and his small staff had a temporary overload of cases—to have an agency recommended to him.

“I don’t think too much of his idea,” Koslovsky said, “but, hell, it’s his money and he can afford it. If he wants to spend some of it that way, you might as well have the job as anyone else.”

“Do you think there’s any real chance that he’s right? About his wife, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t know, Ed. I’ve met her a time or two and—well, she struck me as a cold potato, probably, but hardly as a murderess. Still, I don’t know her well enough to say.”

“How well do you know Bookman? Well enough to know whether he’s pretty sane or gets wild ideas?”

“Always struck me as pretty sane. We’re not close friends but I’ve known him fairly well for three or four years.”

“Just how well off is he?”

“Not rich, but solvent. If I had to guess, I’d say he could cash out at over one hundred thousand, less than two. Enough to kill him for, I guess.”

“What’s his racket?”

“Construction business, but he’s mostly retired. Not on account of age; he’s only in his forties. But he’s got angina pectoris, and a year or two ago the medicos told him to take it easy or else.”

Uncle Am got back a few minutes before two o’clock and I just had time to tell him about my conversation with Kossy before Ollie Bookman showed up. Bookman was a big man with a round, cheerful face that made you like him at sight. He had a good handshake.

“Hi, Ed,” he said. “Glad that’s your name because it’s what I’ll be calling you even if it wasn’t. That is, if you’ll take on the job for me. Your Uncle Am here wouldn’t make it definite. What do you say?”

I told him we could at least talk about it and when we were comfortably seated in the inner office, I said, “Mr. Bookman—”

“Call me Ollie,” he interrupted, so I said, “All right, Ollie. The only reason I can think of, thus far, for not taking on the job, if we don’t, is that even if you’re right—if your wife does have any thoughts about murder—the chances seem awfully slight that I could find out about it, and how she intended to do it, in time to stop it.”

He nodded. “I understand that, but I want you to try, anyway. You see, Ed, I’ll be honest and say that I may be imagining things. I want somebody else’s opinion—after that somebody has lived with us at least a few days. But if you come to agree with me, or find any positive indications that I’m maybe right, then—well, I’ll do something about it. Eve—that’s my wife’s name—won’t give me a divorce or even agree to a separation with maintenance, but damn it, I can always simply leave home and live at the club—better that than get myself killed.”

“You have asked her to give you a divorce, then?”

“Yes, I— Let me begin at the beginning. Some of this is going to be embarrassing to tell, but you should know the whole score. I met Eve…”

HE’D MET Eve eight years ago when he was thirty-five and she was twenty-five, or so she claimed. She was a strip-tease dancer who worked in night clubs under the professional name of Eve Eden—her real name had been Eve Packer. She was a statuesque blonde, beautiful. Ollie had fallen for her and started a campaign immediately, a campaign that intensified when he learned that offstage she was quiet, modest, the exact opposite of what strippers are supposed to be and which some of them really are. By the time he was finally having an affair with her, lust had ripened into respect and he’d been thinking in any case that it was about time he married and settled down.

So he married her, and that was his big mistake. She turned out to be completely, psychopathically frigid. She’d been acting, and doing a good job of acting, during the weeks before marriage, but after marriage, or at least after the honeymoon, she simply saw no reason to keep on acting. She had what she wanted—security and respectability. She hated sex, and that was that. She turned Ollie down flat when he tried to get her to go to a psychoanalyst or even to a marriage consultant, who, he thought, might be able to talk her into going to an analyst. In every other way she was a perfect wife. Beautiful enough to be a showpiece that made all his friends envy him, a charming hostess, even good at handling servants and running the house. For all outsiders could know, it was a perfect marriage. But for a while it drove Ollie Bookman nuts. He offered to let her divorce him and make a generous settlement, either lump sum or alimony. But she had what she wanted, marriage and respectability, and she wasn’t going to give them up and become a divorcee, even if doing so wasn’t going to affect her scale of living in the slightest. He threatened to divorce her, and she laughed at him. He had, she pointed out, no grounds for divorce that he could prove in court, and she’d never give him any. She’d simply deny the only thing he could say about her, and make a monkey out of him.

It was an impossible situation, especially as Ollie had badly wanted to have children or at least a child, as well as a normal married life. He’d made the best of it by accepting the situation at home as irreparable and settling for staying sane by making at least occasional passes in other directions. Nothing serious, just a normal man wanting to live a normal life and succeeding to a degree.

But eventually the inevitable happened. Three years ago, he had found himself in an affair that turned out to be much more than an affair, the real love of his life—and a reciprocated love. She was a widow, Dorothy Stark, in her early thirties. Her husband had died five years before in Korea; they’d had only a honeymoon together before he’d gone overseas. Ollie wanted so badly to marry her that he offered Eve a financial settlement that would have left him relatively a pauper—this was before the onset of his heart trouble and necessary semiretirement; he looked forward to another twenty years or so of earning capacity—but she refused; never would she consent to become a divorcee, at any price. About this time, he spent a great deal of money on private detectives in the slim hope that her frigidity was toward him only, but the money was wasted. She went out quite a bit but always to bridge parties, teas or, alone or with respectable woman companions, to movies or plays.

Uncle Am interrupted. “You said you used private detectives before, Ollie. Out of curiosity, can I ask why you’re not using the same outfit again?”

“Turned out to be crooks, Am. When they and I were finally convinced we couldn’t get anything on her legitimately, they offered for a price to frame her for me.” He mentioned the name of an agency we’d heard of, and Uncle Am nodded.

Ollie went on with his story. There wasn’t much more of it. Dorothy Stark had known that he could never marry her but she also knew that he very badly wanted a child, preferably a son, and had loved him enough to offer to bear one for him. He had agreed—even if he couldn’t give the child his name, he wanted one—and two years ago she had borne him a son: Jerry, they’d named him, Jerry Stark. Ollie loved the boy to distraction.

Uncle Am asked if Eve Bookman knew of Jerry’s existence and Ollie nodded.

“But she won’t do anything about it. What could she do, except divorce me?”

“But if that’s the situation,” I asked him, “what motive would your wife have to want to kill you? And why now, if the situation has been the same for two years?”

“There’s been one change, Ed, very recently. Two years ago, I made out a new will, without telling Eve. You see, with angina pectoris, my doctor tells me it’s doubtful if I have more than a few years to live in any case. And I want at least the bulk of my estate to go to Dorothy and to my son. So— Well, I made out a will which leaves a fourth to Eve, a fourth to Dorothy and half, in trust, to Jerry. And I explained, in a preamble, why I was doing it that way—the true story of my marriage to Eve and the fact that it really wasn’t one, and why it wasn’t. And I admitted paternity of Jerry. You see, Eve could contest that will—but would she? If she fought it, the newspapers would have a field day with its contents and make a big scandal out of it—and her position, her respectability, is the most important thing in the world to Eve. Of course, it would hurt Dorothy, too—but if she won, even in part, she could always move somewhere else and change her name. Jerry, if this happens in the next few years as it probably will, will be too young to be hurt, or even to know what’s going on. You see?”

“Yes,” I said. “But if you hate your wife, why not—”

“Why not simply disinherit her completely, leave her nothing? Because then she would fight the will, she’d have to. I’m hoping by giving her a fourth, she’ll decide she’d rather settle for that and save face than contest the will.”

“I see that,” I said. “But the situation’s been the same for two years now. And you said that something recent—”

“As recent as last night,” he interrupted. “I kept that will in a hiding place in my office—which is in my home since I retired—and last night I discovered it was missing. It was there a few days ago. Which means that, however she came to do so, Eve found it. And destroyed it. So if I should die now—she thinks—before I discover the will is gone and make another, I’ll die intestate and she’ll automatically get everything. She’s got well over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of motive for killing me before I find out the will is gone.”

Uncle Am asked, “You say ‘she thinks.’ Wouldn’t she?”

“Last night she would have,” Ollie said grimly. “But this morning, I went to my lawyer, made out a new will, same provisions, and left it in his hands. Which is what I should have done with the first one. But she doesn’t know that, and I don’t want her to.”

It was my turn to question that. “Why not?” I wanted to know. “If she knows a new will exists, where she can’t get at it, she’d know killing you wouldn’t accomplish anything for her. Even if she got away with it.”

“Right, Ed. But I’m almost hoping she will try, and fail. Then I’d be the happiest man on earth. I would have grounds for divorce—attempted murder should be grounds if anything is—and I could marry Dorothy, legitimize my son and leave him with my name. I—well, for the chance of doing that, I’m willing to take the chance of Eve’s trying and succeeding. I haven’t got much to lose, and everything to gain. How otherwise could I ever marry Dorothy—unless Eve should predecease me, which is damned unlikely. She’s healthy as a horse, and younger than I am, besides. And if she should succeed in killing me, but got caught, she’d inherit nothing; Dorothy and Jerry would get it all. That’s the law, isn’t it? That no one can inherit from someone he’s killed, I mean. Well, that’s the whole story. Will you take the job, Ed, or do I have to look for someone else? I hope I won’t.”

I looked at Uncle Am—we never decide anything important without consulting one another—and he said, “Okay by me, kid.” So I nodded to Ollie. “All right,” I said.

WE WORKED out details. He’d already checked plane flights and knew that a Pacific Airlines plane was due in from Seattle at ten fifteen that evening; I’d arrive on that and meanwhile he’d pretend to have received a telegram saying I was coming and would be in Chicago for a few days to a week on business, and asking him to meet the plane if convenient. I went him one better on that by telling him we knew a girl who sometimes did part-time work for us as a female operative and I’d have her phone his place, pretend to be a Western Union operator, and read the telegram to whoever answered the phone. He thought that was a good idea, especially if his wife was the one to take it down. We worked out the telegram itself and then he phoned his place on the pretext of wanting to know if his wife would be there to accept a C.O.D. package. She was, so I phoned the girl I had in mind, had her take down the telegram, and gave her Ollie’s number to phone it to. We had the telegram dated from Denver, since the real Ed, if he were to get in that evening, would already be on the plane and would have to send the telegram from a stop en route. I told Ollie I’d work out a plausible explanation as to why I hadn’t decided, until en route, to ask him to meet the plane.

Actually, we arranged to meet downtown, in the lobby of the Morrison Hotel an hour before plane time; Ollie lived north and if he were really driving to the airport, it would take him another hour to get there and an hour back as far as the Loop, so we’d have two hours to kill in further planning and briefing. Besides another half hour or so driving to his place when it was time to head there.

That meant he wouldn’t have to brief me on family history now; there’d be plenty of time this evening. I did ask what kind of work Ed Cartwright did, so if necessary I could spend the rest of the afternoon picking up at least the vocabulary of whatever kind of work it was. But it turned out he ran a printing shop—which was a lucky break since after high school and before getting with my Uncle Am, I’d spent a couple of years as an apprentice printer myself and knew enough about the trade to talk about it casually.

Just as Ollie was getting ready to leave, the phone rang and it was our girl calling back to say she’d read the telegram to a woman who’d answered the phone and identified herself as Mrs. Oliver Bookman, so we were able to tell Ollie the first step had been taken.

After Ollie had left, Uncle Am looked at me and asked, “What do you think, kid?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Except that five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks. Shall I mail the check in for deposit now, since I won’t be here tomorrow?”

“Okay. Go out and mail it if you want and take the rest of the day off, since you’ll start working tonight.”

“All right. With this check in hand, I’m going to pick me up a few things, like a couple shirts and some socks. And how about a good dinner tonight? I’ll meet you at Ireland’s at six.”

He nodded, and I went to my desk in the outer office and was making out a deposit slip and an envelope when he came and sat on the corner of the desk.

“Kid,” he said. “This Ollie just might be right. We got to assume that he could be, anyway. And I just had a thought. What would be the safest way to kill a man with bad heart trouble, like angina pectoris is? I’d say conning him into having an attack by giving him a shock or by getting him to overexert himself somehow. Or else by substituting sugar pills for whatever he takes—nitroglycerin pills, I think it is—when he gets an attack.”

I said, “I’ve been thinking along those lines myself, Uncle Am. I thought maybe one thing I’d do down in the Loop is have a talk with Doc Kruger.” Kruger is our family doctor, sort of. He doesn’t get much business from either of us but we use him for an information booth whenever we want to know something about forensic medicine.

“Wait a second,” Uncle Am said. “I’ll phone him. Maybe he’ll let us buy him dinner with us tonight to pay him for picking his brains.”

He went in the office and used his phone; I heard him talking to Doc. He came out and said, “It’s a deal. Only at seven instead of six. That’ll be better for you, anyway, Ed. Bring your suitcase with you and if we take our time at Ireland’s, you can go right from there to meet Ollie and not have to go home again.”

So I did my errands, went to our room, cleaned up and dressed, and packed a suitcase. I didn’t think anybody would be looking in it to check up on me, but I thought I might as well be as careful as I could. I couldn’t provide clothes with Seattle labels but I could and did avoid things with labels that said Chicago or were from well-known Chicago stores. And I avoided anything that was monogrammed, not that I particularly like monograms or have many things with them. Then I doodled around with my trombone until it was time to head for Ireland’s.

I got there exactly on time and Doc and Uncle Am were there already. But there were three Martinis on the table; Uncle Am had known I wouldn’t be more than a few minutes late, if any, so he’d ordered for me.

Without having to be asked, since Uncle Am had mentioned it over the phone, Doc started telling us about angina pectoris. It was incurable, he said, but a victim of it might live a long time if he took good care of himself. He had to avoid physical exertion like lifting anything heavy or climbing stairs. He had to avoid overtiring himself by doing even light work for a long period. He had to avoid overindulgence in alcohol, although an occasional drink wouldn’t hurt him if he was in good physical shape otherwise. He had to avoid violent emotional upsets as far as was possible, and a fit of anger could be as dangerous as running up a flight of stairs.

Yes, nitroglycerin pills were used. Everyone suffering from angina carried them and popped one or two into his mouth any time he felt an attack coming on. They either prevented the attack or made it much lighter than it would have been otherwise. Doc took a little pillbox out of his pocket and showed us some nitro pills. They were white and very tiny.

There was another drug also used to avert or limit attacks that was even more effective than nitroglycerin. It was amyl nitrite and came in glass ampoules. In emergency, you crushed the ampoule and inhaled the contents. But amyl nitrite, Doc told us, was used less frequently than nitroglycerin, and only in very bad cases or for attacks in which nitro didn’t seem to be helping, because repeated use of amyl nitrite diminished the effect; the victim built up immunity to it if he used it often.

Doc had really come loaded. He’d brought an amyl nitrite ampoule with him, too, and showed it to us. I asked him if I could have it, just in case. He gave it to me without asking why, and even showed me the best way to hold it and crush it if I ever had to use it.

We had a second cocktail and I asked him a few more questions and got answers to them, and that pretty well covered angina pectoris, and then we ordered. Ireland’s is famous for sea-food; it’s probably the best inland sea-food restaurant in the country, and we all ordered it. Doc Kruger and Uncle Am wrestled with lobsters; me, I’m a coward—I ate royal sole.

DOC HAD to take off after our coffee, but it was still fifteen or twenty minutes too early for me to leave—I’d have to take a taxi to the Morrison on account of having a suitcase; otherwise, I’d have walked and been just right on the timing—so Uncle Am and I had a second coffee apiece and yakked. He said he felt like taking a walk before he turned in, so he’d ride in the taxi with me and then walk home from there.

I fought off a bellboy who tried to take my suitcase away from me and made myself comfortable on one of the overstuffed chairs in the lobby. I’d sat there about five or ten minutes when I heard myself being paged. I stood up and waved to the bellboy who’d been doing the paging and he came over and told me I was wanted on the phone and led me to the phone I was wanted on. I bought him off for four bits and answered the phone. It was Ollie Bookman, as I’d known it would be. Only he and Uncle Am would have known I was here and Uncle Am had left me only ten minutes ago.

“Ed,” he said. “Change of plans. Eve wasn’t doing anything this evening and decided to come to the airport with me, for the ride. I couldn’t tell her no, for no reason. So you’ll have to grab a cab and get out there ahead of us.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where are you now?”

“On the way south, at Division Street. Made an excuse to stop in a drugstore; didn’t know how to get in touch with you until the time of our appointment. You can make it ahead of us if you get a cabby to hurry. I’ll stall—drive as slow as I can without making Eve wonder. And I can stop for gas, and have my tires checked.”

“What do I do at the airport if the plane’s late?”

“Don’t worry about the plane. You take up a spot near the Pacific Airlines counter; you’ll see me come toward it and intercept me. Won’t matter if the plane’s in yet or not. I’ll get us the hell out of there fast before Eve can learn if the plane’s in. I’ll make sure not to get there before arrival time.”

“Right,” I said. “But, Ollie, I’m not supposed to have seen you for twenty years—and I was five then, or supposed to be. So how would I recognize you? Or, for that matter, you recognize me?”

“No sweat, Ed. We write each other once a year, at Christmas. And several times, including last Christmas, we traded snapshots with our Christmas letters. Remember?”

“Of course,” I said. “But didn’t your wife see the one I sent you?”

“She may have glanced at it casually. But after seven months she wouldn’t remember it. Besides, you and the real Ed Cartwright are about the same physical type, anyway—dark hair, good looking. You’ll pass. But don’t miss meeting us before we reach the counter or somebody there might tell us the plane’s not in yet, if it’s not. Well, I better not talk any longer.”

I swore a little to myself as I left the Morrison lobby and went to the cab rank. I’d counted on the time Ollie and I would have had together to have him finish my briefing. This way I’d have to let him do most of the talking, at least tonight. Well, he seemed smart enough to handle it. I didn’t even know my parents’ names, whether either of them was alive, whether I had any other living relatives besides Ollie. I didn’t even know whether I was married or not—although I felt reasonably sure Ollie would have mentioned it if I was.

Yes, he’d have to do most of the talking—although I’d better figure out what kind of business I’d come to Chicago to do; I’d be supposed to know that, and Ollie wouldn’t know anything about it. Well, I’d figure that out on the cab ride.

Barring accidents, I’d get there well ahead of Ollie, and I didn’t want accidents, so I didn’t offer the cabby any bribe for speed when I told him to take me to the airport. He’d keep the meter ticking all right, since he made his money by the mile and not by the minute.

I had my cover story ready by the time we got there. It wasn’t detailed, but I didn’t anticipate being pressed for details, and if I was, I knew more about printing equipment than Eve Bookman would know. I was a good ten minutes ahead of plane time. I found myself a seat near the Pacific Airlines counter and facing in the direction from which the Bookmans would come. Fifteen minutes later—on time, as planes go—the public-address system announced the arrival of my flight from Seattle, and fifteen minutes after that—time for me to have left the plane and even to have collected the suitcase that was by my feet—I saw them coming. That is, I saw Ollie coming, and with him was a beautiful, soignée blonde who could only be Eve Bookman, nee Eve Eden. Quite a dish. She was, with high heels, just about two inches short of Ollie’s height, which made her just about as tall as I, unless she took off her shoes for me. Which, from what Ollie had told me about her, was about the last thing I expected her to do, especially here in the airport.

I got up and walked toward them and—remembering identification was only from snapshot—didn’t put too much confidence in my voice when I asked, “Ollie?” and I put out my hand but only tentatively.

Ollie grabbed my hand in his big one and started pumping it. “Ed! Gawdamn if I can believe it, after all these years. When I last saw you, not counting pictures, you looked— Hell, let’s get to that later. Meet Eve. Eve, meet Ed.”

Eve Bookman gave me a smile but not a hand. “Glad to meet you at last, Edward. Oliver’s talked quite a bit about you.” I hoped she was just being polite in making the latter statement.

I gave her a smile back. “Hope he didn’t say anything bad about me. But maybe he did; I was probably a pretty obstreperous brat when he saw me last. I would have been—let’s see—”

“Five,” said Ollie. “Well, what are we waiting for? Ed, you want we should go right home? Or should we drop in somewhere on the way and hoist a few? You weren’t much of a drinker when I knew you last but maybe by now—”

Eve interrupted him. “Let’s go home, Oliver. You’ll want a nightcap there in any case, and you know you’re not supposed to have more than one or two a day. Did he tell you, Edward, about his heart trouble in any of his letters?”

Ollie saved me again. “No, but it’s not important. All right, though. We’ll head home and I’ll have my daily one or two, or maybe, since this is an occasion, three. Ed, is that your suitcase back by where you were sitting?”

I said it was and went back and got it, then went with them to the parking area and to a beautiful cream-colored Buick convertible with the top down. Ollie opened the door for Eve and then held it open after she got in. “Go on, Ed. We can all sit in the front seat.” He grinned. “Eve’s got an MG and loves to drive it, but we couldn’t bring it tonight. With those damn bucket seats, you can’t ride three in the whole car.” I got in and he went around and got in the driver’s side. I was wishing that I could drive it—I’d never piloted a recent Buick—but I couldn’t think of any reasonable excuse for offering.

Half an hour later, I wished that I’d not only offered but had insisted. Ollie Bookman was a poor driver. Not a fast driver or a dangerous one, just sloppy. The way he grated gears made my teeth grate with them and his starts and stops were much too jerky. Besides, he was a lane-straddler and had no sense of timing on making stop lights.

But he was a good talker. He talked almost incessantly, and to good purpose, briefing me, mostly by apparently talking to Eve. “Don’t remember if I told you, Eve, how come Ed and I have different last names, but the same father—not the same mother. See, I was Dad’s son by his first marriage and Ed by his second—Ed was born Ed Bookman. But Dad died right after Ed was born and Ed’s mother, my stepmother, married Wilkes Cartwright a couple years later. Ed was young enough that they changed his name to match his stepfather’s, but I was already grown up, through high school anyway, so I didn’t change mine. I was on my own by then. Well, both Ed’s mother and his stepfather are dead now; he and I are the only survivors. Well…” And I listened and filed away facts. Sometimes he’d cut me in by asking me questions, but the questions always cued in their own answers or were ones that wouldn’t be giveaways whichever way I answered them, like, “Ed, the house you were born in, out north of town—is it still standing, or haven’t you been out that way recently?”

I was fairly well keyed in on family history by the time we got home.

HOME WASN’T as I’d pictured it, a house. It was an apartment, but a big one—ten rooms, I learned later—on Coleman Boulevard just north of Howard. It was fourth floor, but there were elevators. Now that I thought of it, I realized that Ollie, because of his angina, wouldn’t be able to live in a house where he had to climb stairs. But later I learned they’d been living there ever since they’d married, so he hadn’t had to move there on account of that angle.

It was a fine apartment, nicely furnished and with a living room big enough to contain a swimming pool. “Come on, Ed,” Ollie said cheerfully. “I’ll show you your room and let you get rid of your suitcase, freshen up if you want to—although I imagine we’ll all be turning in soon. You must be tired after that long trip. Eve, could we talk you into making a round of Martinis meanwhile?”

“Yes, Oliver.” The perfect wife, she walked toward the small but well-stocked bar in a corner of the room.

I followed Ollie to the guest room that was to be mine. “Might as well unpack your suitcase while we talk,” he said, after he closed the door behind us. “Hang your stuff up or put it in the dresser there. Well, so far, so good. Not a suspicion, and you’re doing fine.”

“Lots of questions I’ve still got to ask you, Ollie. We shouldn’t take time to talk much now, but when will we have a chance to?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll say I have to go downtown, make up some reasons. And you’ve got your excuse already—the business you came to do. Maybe you can get it over with sooner than you thought—but then decide, since you’ve come this far anyway, to stay out the week. That way you can stick around here as much as you want, or go out only when I go out.”

“Fine. We’ll talk that out tomorrow. But about tonight, we’ll be talking, the three of us, and what can I safely talk about? Does she know anything about the size of my business, or can I improvise freely and talk about it?”

“Improvise your head off. I’ve never talked about your business. Don’t know much about it myself.”

“Good. Another question. How come, at only twenty-five, I’ve got a business of my own? Most people are still working for somebody else at that age.”

“You inherited it from your stepfather, Cartwright. He died three years ago. You were working in the shop and moved to the office and took over. And as far as I know, or Eve, you’re doing okay with it.”

“Good. And I’m not married?”

“No, but if you want to invent a girl you’re thinking about marrying, that’s another safe thing you can improvise about.”

I put the last of the contents of my suitcase in the dresser drawer and we went back to the living room. Eve had the cocktails made and was waiting for us. We sat around sipping at them, and this time I was able to do most of the talking instead of having to let Ollie filibuster so I wouldn’t put my foot into my mouth by saying something wrong.

Ollie suggested a second round but Eve stood up and said that she was tired and that if we’d excuse her, she’d retire. And she gave Ollie a wifely caution about not having more than one more drink. He promised he wouldn’t and made a second round for himself and me.

He yawned when he put his down after the first sip. “Guess this will be the last one, Ed. I’m tired, too. And we’ll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

I wasn’t tired, but if he was, that was all right by me. We finished our nightcaps fairly quickly.

“My room’s the one next to yours,” he told me as he took our glasses back to the bar. “No connecting door, but if you want anything, rap on the wall and I’ll hear you. I’m a light sleeper.”

“So am I,” I told him. “So make it vice versa on the rapping. I’m the one that’s supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around.”

“And Eve’s room is the one on the other side of mine. No connecting door there, either. Not that I’d use it, at this stage, even if it stood wide open with a red carpet running through it.”

“She’s still a beautiful woman,” I said, just to see how he’d answer it.

“Yes. But I guess I’m by nature monogamous. And this may sound corny and be corny, but I consider Dorothy and me married in the sight of God. She’s all I’ll ever want, she and the boy. Well, come on, and we’ll turn in.”

I turned in, but I didn’t go right to sleep. I lay awake thinking, sorting out my preliminary impressions. Eve Bookman—yes, I believed Ollie’s story about their marriage and didn’t even think it was exaggerated. Most people would think her sexy as hell to look at her, but I’ve got a sort of radar when it comes to sexiness. It hadn’t registered with a single blip on the screen. And Koslovsky is a much better than average judge of people and what had he said about her? Oh, yes, he’d called her a cold potato.

Some women just naturally hate sex and men—and some of those very women become things like strip teasers because it gives them pleasure to arouse and frustrate men. If one of them breaks down and has an affair with a man, it’s because the man has money, as Ollie had, and she thinks she can hook him for a husband, as Eve did Ollie. And once she’s got him safely hog-tied, he’s on his own and she can be her sweet, frigid self again. True, she’s given up the privilege of frustrating men in audience-size groups, but she can torture the hell out of one man, as long as he keeps wanting her, and achieve respectability and even social position while she’s doing it.

Oh, she’d been very pleasant to me, very hospitable, and no doubt was pleasant to all of Ollie’s friends. And most of them, the ones without radar, probably thought she was a ball of fire in bed and that Ollie was a very lucky guy.

But murder—I was going to take some more convincing on that. It could be Ollie’s imagination entirely. The only physical fact he’d come up with to indicate even the possibility of it was the business of the missing will. And she could have taken and destroyed that but still have no intention of killing him before he could make another like it; she could simply be hoping he’d never discover that it was missing.

But I could be wrong, very wrong. I’d met Eve less than three hours ago and Ollie had lived with her eight years. Maybe there was more than met the eye. Well, I’d keep my eyes open and give Ollie a run for his five hundred bucks by not assuming that he was making a murder out of a molehill. I went to sleep and Ollie didn’t tap on my wall.

I WOKE at seven but decided that would be too early and that I didn’t want to make a nuisance of myself by being up and around before anybody else, so I went back to sleep and it was half past nine when I woke the second time. I got up, showered and shaved—my bedroom had a private bath so all of them must have—dressed and went exploring. I went back to the living room and through it, and found a dining room. The table was set for breakfast for three but no one was there yet.

A matronly-looking woman who’d be a cook or housekeeper—I later learned that she was both and her name was Mrs. Ledbetter—appeared in the doorway that led through a pantry to the kitchen and smiled at me. “You must be Mr. Bookman’s brother,” she said. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“What time do the Bookmans come down for breakfast?” I asked.

“Usually earlier than this. But I guess you talked late last night. They should be up soon, though.”

“Then I won’t eat alone, thanks. I’ll wait till at least one of them shows up. And as for what I want—anything; whatever they will be having. I’m not fussy about breakfasts.”

She smiled and disappeared into the kitchen and I disappeared into the living room. I took a chair with a magazine rack beside it and was leafing through the latest Reader’s Digest, just reading the short items in it, when Ollie came in looking rested and cheerful. “Morning, Ed. Had breakfast?”

I told him I’d been up only a few minutes and had decided to wait for company. “Come on, then,” he said. “We won’t wait for Eve. She might be dressing now, but then again she might sleep till noon.”

But she didn’t sleep till noon; she came in when we were starting our coffee, and told Mrs. Ledbetter that she’d just have coffee, as she had a lunch engagement in only two hours. So the three of us sat drinking coffee and it was very cozy and you wouldn’t have guessed there was a thing wrong. You wouldn’t have guessed it, but you might have felt it. Anyway, I felt it.

Ollie asked me if I wanted a lift downtown to do the business I’d come to do, and of course I said that I did. We discussed plans. Mrs. Ledbetter, I learned, had the afternoon and evening off, starting at noon, so no dinner would be served that evening. Eve would be gone all afternoon, playing bridge after her lunch date, and she suggested we all meet in the Loop and have dinner there. I wasn’t supposed to know Chicago, of course, so I let them pick the place and it came up the Pump Room at seven.

Ollie and I left and on the way to the garage back of the building, I asked him if he minded if I drove the Buick. I said I liked driving and didn’t get much chance to.

“Sure, Ed. But you mean you and Am don’t have a car?”

I told him we wanted one but hadn’t got around to affording it as yet. The few times we needed one for work, we rented one and simply got by without one for pleasure.

The Buick handled wonderfully. With me behind the wheel, it shifted smoothly, didn’t jerk in starting or stopping; it timed stop lights and didn’t straddle lanes. I asked how much it cost and said I hoped we’d be able to afford one like it someday. Except that we’d want a sedan because a convertible is too noticeable to use for a tail job. When we rented cars, we usually got a sedan in some neutral color like gray. Detectives used to use black cars, but nowadays a black car is almost as conspicuous as a red one.

I asked Ollie where he wanted me to drive him and he said he’d like to go to see Dorothy Stark and his son, Jerry. They lived in an apartment on LaSalle near Chicago Avenue. And did I have any plans or would I like to come up to meet them? He said he would like that.

I told him I’d drop up briefly if he wanted me to, but that I had plans. I wanted him to lend me the key to his apartment and I was going back there, after I could be sure both Mrs. Ledbetter and Mrs. Bookman had left. Since it was the former’s afternoon off, it would be the best chance I’d have to look around the place in privacy. He said sure, the key was on the ring with the car keys and I might as well keep the keys, car and all, until our dinner date at the Pump Room. It would be only a short cab ride for him to get there from Mrs. Stark’s. I asked him if there was any danger that Eve would go back to the apartment after her lunch date and before her bridge game. He was almost sure she wouldn’t, but her bridge club broke up about five thirty and she’d probably go back then to dress for dinner. That was all right; I could be gone by then.

When I parked the car on LaSalle, I remembered to ask him who I was supposed to be when I met Mrs. Stark—Ed Hunter or Ed Cartwright. He suggested we stick to the Cartwright story; if he told Dorothy the truth, she’d worry about him being in danger. Anyway, it would be simpler and take less explanation.

I liked Dorothy Stark on sight. She was small and brunette, with a heart-shaped face. Only passably pretty—nowhere near as stunning as Eve—but she was warm and genuine, the real thing. And really in love with Ollie; I didn’t need radar to tell me that. And Jerry, age two, was a cute toddler. I can take kids or let them alone, but Ollie was nuts about him.

I stayed only half an hour, breaking away with the excuse of having a business-lunch date in the Loop, but it was a very pleasant half hour, and Ollie was a completely different person here. He was at home in this small apartment, much more so than in the large apartment on Coleman Boulevard. And you had the feeling that Dorothy was his wife, not Eve.

I was only a half a dozen blocks from the office and I didn’t want to get out to Coleman Boulevard before one o’clock, so I drove over to State Street and went up to see if Uncle Am was there. He was, and I told him what little I’d learned to date and what my plans were.

“Kid,” he said, “I’d like a ride in that chariot you’re pushing. How about us having an early lunch and then I’ll go out with you and help search the joint. Two of us can do twice as good a job.”

It was tempting but I thumbed it down. If a wheel did come off and Eve Bookman came back unexpectedly, I could give her a song and dance as to what I was doing there, but Uncle Am would be harder to explain. I said I’d give him the ride, though. We could leave now and he could come with me out as far as Howard Avenue and we’d eat somewhere out there; then he could take the el back south from the Howard station. It would amount only to his taking a two-hour lunch break and we did that any time we felt like it. He liked the idea.

I let him drive the second half of the way and he fell in love with the car, too. After we had lunch, I phoned the apartment from the restaurant and let the phone ring a dozen times to make sure both Mrs. Bookman and Mrs. Ledbetter were gone. Then I drove Uncle Am to the el station and myself to the apartment.

I LET myself in and put the chain on the door. If Eve came back too soon, that was going to be embarrassing to explain; I’d have to say I’d done it absent-mindedly and it would make me look like a fool. But it would be less embarrassing than to have her walk in and find me rooting in the drawers of her dresser.

First, I decided, I’d take a look at the place as a whole. The living room, dining room, and the guest bedroom were the only rooms I’d been in thus far. I decided to start at the back. I went through the dining room and the pantry into the kitchen. It was a big kitchen and had the works in the way of equipment, even an automatic dishwasher and garbage disposal. A room on one side of it was a service and storage room and on the other side was a bedroom; Mrs. Ledbetter’s, of course. I looked around in all three rooms but didn’t touch anything. I went back to the dining room and found that a door from it led to a room probably intended as a den or study; there was a desk—an old-fashioned roll-top desk that was really an antique—two file cabinets, a bookcase filled mostly with books on construction and business practice but with a few novels on one shelf, mostly mysteries, a typewriter on a stand, and a dictating machine. This was Ollie’s office, from which he conducted whatever business he still did. And the dictating machine meant he must have a part-time secretary, however many days or hours a week. He’d hardly dictate letters and then transcribe them himself.

The roll-top desk was closed but not locked. I opened it and saw a lot of papers and envelopes in pigeonholes, but I didn’t study any of them. Ollie’s business was no business of mine. But I wondered if he’d used the “Purloined Letter” method of hiding his missing will by having it in plain sight in one of those pigeonholes. And if so, what had Eve been looking for when she found it? I made a mental note to ask him about that.

There was a telephone on top of the desk and I looked at the number on it; it wasn’t the same number as that on the phone in the living room, which meant it wasn’t an extension but a private line.

I closed the desk and went back to the living room and through its side doorway to the hall from which the bedrooms opened. Another door from it turned out to be a linen closet.

Ollie’s bedroom was the same size as mine and furnished in the same way. I walked over to the dresser. A little bottle on it contained nitroglycerin pills. It held a hundred and was about half full. Beside it were three glass ampoules of amyl nitrite like the one in my pocket, the one I’d got from Doc Kruger last night at dinner. I looked at the ampoules and decided that they hadn’t been tampered with. Couldn’t be tampered with, in fact. But I took a couple of the nitro pills out of the bottle and put them in my pocket. If I had a chance to get them to Uncle Am, I’d ask him to take them to a laboratory and have them checked to make sure they were really what the label claimed them to be.

I didn’t search the room thoroughly, but I looked through the dresser drawers and the closet. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, unless maybe a gun. If Ollie kept a gun, I wanted to know it. But I didn’t find a gun or anything else more dangerous than a nail file.

Eve Bookman’s room was, of course, the main object of my search, but I wasn’t in any hurry and decided I’d do a little thinking before I tackled it. I went back to the living room and since it occurred to me that if Eve was coming back between lunch and bridge, this would be about the time, I took the chain off the door. It wouldn’t matter if I was found here, as long as I was innocently occupied. I could just say that I was unable to see the man I’d come to see until tomorrow. And that Ollie—Oliver to her—had had things to do in the Loop and had lent me his car and his house key.

I made myself a highball at the bar and sat down to sip it and think, but the thinking didn’t get me anywhere. I knew one thing I’d be looking for—pills the size and color of nitro pills but that might turn out to be something else. Or a gun or any other lethal weapon, or poison—if it could be identified as such. But that was all and it didn’t seem very likely to me that I’d find any of those things, even if Eve did have any designs on her husband’s life. One other thing I thought of: I might as well finish my search for a gun by looking for one in Ollie’s office. If he had one, I wanted to know it, and he might keep it in his study instead of his bedroom.

I made myself another short drink and did some more thinking without getting any ideas except that if I could reach Ollie by phone at the Stark apartment, I could simply ask him about the gun, and another question or two I’d thought of.

I rinsed out and wiped the glass I’d used and went to the telephone. I checked the book and found a Stark, Dorothy on LaSalle Street and called the number. Ollie answered and when I asked him if he could talk freely, he said sure, that Dorothy had gone out shopping and had left him to baby-sit.

I asked him about guns and he said no, he didn’t own any.

I told him I’d noticed the ampoules and pills on his dresser and asked him if he carried some of both with him. He said the pills yes, always. But he didn’t carry ampoules because the pills always worked for him and the ampoules he just kept on hand at home in case his angina should get worse. He told me the same thing about them the doctor had, that if one used them often I hey became ineffective. He’d used one only once thus far, and wouldn’t again until and unless he had to.

After I’d hung up, I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask him where the will had been hidden in his office but it didn’t seem worth while calling back to ask him. I wanted to know, if only out of curiosity, but there wasn’t any hurry and I could find out I he next time I talked to him alone.

I put the chain bolt back on the door—I was pretty sure by now that Eve wasn’t coming back before her bridge-club session, as it was already after two, but I thought I might as well play sale—and went to her room.

IT WAS bigger than any of the other bedrooms—had originally, no doubt, been intended as the master bedroom—and it had a dressing room attached and lots of closet space. It was going to he a lot of territory to cover thoroughly, but if Eve had any secrets, they’d surely be here, not in Ledbetter territory like the kitchen or Ollie’s office or neutral territory like the living room. Apparently she spent a lot of time here; besides the usual bedroom furniture and a vanity table, there was a bookcase of novels and a writing desk that looked used. I sighed and pitched in. Two hours later, all I knew that I hadn’t known—but might have suspected—before was that a woman can have more clothes and more beauty preparations than a man would think possible.

I’d looked in everything but the writing desk; I’d saved that for last. There were three drawers and the top one contained only raw materials—paper and envelopes, pencils, ink and such. No pens, hut she probably used a fountain pen and carried it with I in. The middle one contained canceled checks, neatly in order and rubber-banded, used stubs of checkbooks similarly banded, and hank statements. No current checkbook; she must have had it with her. The bottom drawer was empty except for a dictionary, a Merriam-Webster Collegiate. If she corresponded with anyone, beyond sending out checks to pay bills, she must have destroyed letters when she answered them and not owed any at the moment; there was no correspondence at all.

I still had almost an hour of safe time, since her bridge club surely wouldn’t break up before five, so for lack of anything else to go through, I started studying the bank statements and the canceled checks. One thing was immediately obvious: this was her personal account, for clothes and other personal expenses. There was one deposit a month for exactly four hundred dollars, never more or never less. None of the checks drawn against this account would have been for household expenses. Ollie must have handled them, or had his hypothetical part-time secretary (that was another thing I hadn’t remembered to ask him about, but again it was nothing I was in a hurry to know) handle them. This account was strictly a personal one. Some of the checks, usually twenty-five-or fifty-dollar ones, were drawn to cash. Others, most of them for odd amounts, were made out to stores. There was one every month to a Howard Avenue Drugstore, no doubt mostly for cosmetics; most of the others were to clothing stores, lingerie shops and the like. Occasional checks to some woman or other for odd amounts up to twenty or thirty dollars were, I decided, probably bridge losses or the like, at times when she didn’t have enough cash to pay off. From the bank statements I could see that she lived up to the hilt of her allowance; at the time each four-hundred-dollar check was deposited, always on the first of the month, the balance to which it was added was never over twenty or thirty dollars.

I went through the stack of canceled checks once more. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but my subconscious must have noticed something my conscious mind had missed. It had. Not many of the checks were over a hundred dollars, but all of the checks to one outfit, Vogue Shops, Inc., were over a hundred and some were over two hundred. At least half of Eve’s four hundred dollars a month was being spent in one place. And other checks were dated at different times, but the Vogue checks were all dated the first of the month exactly. Wondering how much they did total, I took paper and pencil and added the amounts of six of them, for the first six months of the previous year. The smallest was $165.50 and the largest $254.25, but the total—it jarred me. The total of the six checks came to $1,200. Exactly. Even. On the head. And so, I knew a minute later, did the six checks for the second half of the year. It certainly couldn’t be coincidence, twice.

Eve Bookman was paying somebody an even two hundred bucks a month—and disguising the fact, on the surface at any rate, by making some of the amounts more than that and some less, but making them average out. I turned over some of the checks to look at the endorsements. Each one was rubber-stamped Vogue Shops, Inc., and under the rubber stamp was the signature John L. Littleton. Rubber stamps under that showed they’d all been deposited or cashed at the Dearborn Branch of the Chicago Second National Bank.

And that, whatever it meant, was all the checks were going to tell me. I rebanded them and put them back as I’d found them, took a final look around the room to see that I was leaving everything else as I’d found it, and went back to the living room. I was going to call Uncle Am at the office—if he wasn’t there, I could reach him later at the rooming house—but I took the chain off the door first. If Eve walked in while I was talking on the phone, I’d just have to switch the subject of conversation to printing equipment, and Uncle Am would understand.

He was still at the office. I talked fast and when I finished, he said, “Nice going, kid. You’ve got something by the tail and I’ll find out what it is. You stick with the Bookmans and let me handle everything outside. We’ve got two lucky breaks on this. One, it’s Friday and that bank will be open till six o’clock. Two, one of the tellers is a friend of mine. When I get anything for sure, I’ll get in touch with you. Is there an extension on the phone there that somebody could listen in on?”

“No,” I said. “There’s another phone in Ollie’s office, but it’s a different line.”

“Fine, then I can call openly and ask for you. You can pretend it’s a business call, if anyone’s around, and argue price on a Miehle vertical for your end of the conversation.”

“Okay. One other thing.” I told him about the two alleged nitro pills I’d appropriated from Ollie’s bottle. I told him that on my way in to town for dinner, I’d drop them off on his desk at the office and sometime tomorrow he could take them to the lab. Or maybe, if nitro had a distinctive taste, Doc Kruger could tell by touching one of them to his tongue.

IT WAS five o’clock when I hung up the phone. I decided that I’d earned a drink and helped myself to a short one at the bar. Then I went to my room, treated myself to a quick shower and a clean shirt for the evening.

I was just about to open the door to leave when it opened from the other side and Eve Bookman came home. She was pleasantly surprised to find me and I told her how I happened to have the house key and Ollie’s car, but said I’d been there only half an hour, just to clean up and change shirts for the evening.

She asked why, since it was five thirty already, I didn’t stay and drive her in in Ollie’s car. That way we wouldn’t be stuck, after dinner, with having both the Buick and the MG downtown with us and could all ride home together.

I told her it sounded like an excellent idea. Which it was, except for the fact that I wanted to get the pills to Uncle Am. But there was a way around that. I asked if she could give me a piece of paper, envelope and stamp. She went to her room to get them and after she’d gone back there to dress, I addressed the envelope to Uncle Am at the office, folded the paper around the pills and sealed them in the envelope. All I’d have to do was mail it, on our way in, at the Dearborn Post Office Station and it would get there in the morning delivery.

I made myself comfortable with a magazine to read and Eve surprised me by taking not too long to get ready. And she looked gorgeous, and I told her so, when she came back to the living room. It was only six fifteen and I didn’t have to speed to get us to the Pump Room by seven. Ollie wasn’t there, but he’d reserved us a table and left word with the maître d’ that something had come up and he’d be a bit late.

He was quite a bit late and we were finishing our third round of Martinis when he showed up, very apologetic about being detained. We decided we’d have one more so he could have one with us, and then ate a wonderful meal. As an out-of-town guest who was presuming on their hospitality already, I insisted on grabbing the check. A nice touch, since it would go on Ollie’s bill anyway.

We discussed going on to a night club, but Eve said that Ollie looked tired—which he did—and if we went clubbing, would want to drink too much. We could have a drink or two at home—if Ollie would promise to hold to two. He said he would.

Since Ollie admitted that he really was a little tired, I had no trouble talking him into letting me do the driving again. Eve seemed more genuinely friendly than hitherto. Maybe it was the Martinis before dinner or maybe she was getting to like me. But it was an at-a-distance type of friendliness; my radar told me that.

Back home, I offered to do the bartending, but Eve overruled me and made our drinks. We were drinking them and talking about nothing in particular when I saw Ollie suddenly put down his glass and bend forward slightly, putting his right hand under his left arm.

Then he straightened up and saw that we were both looking at him with concern. He said, “Nothing. Just a little twinge, not an attack. But maybe to be on the safe side, I’ll take one—”

He took a little gold pillbox out of his pocket and opened it.

“Good Lord,” he said, standing up. “Forgot I took my last one just before I got to the Pump Room. Just as well we didn’t go night-clubbing, after all. Well, it’s okay now. I’ll fill it.”

“Let me—” I said.

But he looked perfectly well now and waved me away. “I’m perfectly okay. Don’t worry.”

And he went into the hallway, walking confidently, and I heard the door of his room open and close so I knew he’d made it all right.

Eve started to make conversation by asking me questions about the girl in Seattle whom I’d talked about, and I was answering and enjoying it, when suddenly I realized Ollie had been gone at least five minutes and maybe ten. A lot longer than it would take to refill a pillbox. Of course he might have decided to go to the John or something while he was there, but just the same, I stood up quickly, excused myself without explaining, headed for his room.

The minute I opened the door, I saw him and thought he was dead. He was lying face down on the rug in front of the dresser and on the dresser there wasn’t any little bottle of pills and there weren’t any amyl nitrite ampoules, either.

I bent over him, but I didn’t waste time trying to find out whether he was dead or not. If he was, the ampoule I’d got from Doc Kruger wasn’t going to hurt him. And if he was alive, a fraction of a second might make the difference of whether it would save him or not. I didn’t feel for a heartbeat or look at his face. I got hold of a handful of hair and lifted his head a few inches off the floor, reached in under it with my hand and crushed the ampoule right under his nose.

Eve was standing in the doorway and I barked at her to phone for an ambulance, right away quick. She ran back toward the living room.

OLLIE DIDN’T die, although he certainly would have if I hadn’t had the bright idea of appropriating that ampoule from Doc and carrying it with me. But Ollie was in bad shape for a while, and Uncle Am and I didn’t get to see him until two days later, Sunday evening.

His face looked gray and drawn and he was having to lie very quiet. But he could talk, and they gave us fifteen minutes with him. And they’d told us he was definitely out of danger, as long as he behaved himself, but he’d still be in the hospital another week or maybe even two.

But bad as he looked, I didn’t pull any punches. “Ollie,” I said, “it didn’t work, your little frame-up. I didn’t go to the police and accuse Eve of trying to murder you. On the other hand, I’ve given you this break, so far. I didn’t go to them and tell them you tried to commit suicide in a way to frame her for murder. You must love Dorothy and Jerry awfully much to have planned that.”

“I—I do,” he said. “What—made you guess, Ed?”

“Your hands, for one thing,” I said. “They were dirtier than they’d have been if you’d just fallen. That and the fact that you were lying face down told me how you managed to bring on that attack at just that moment. You were doing push-ups—about as strenuous and concentrated exercise as a man can take. And just kept doing them till you passed out. It should have been fatal, all right.

“And you knew the pills and ampoules had been on your dresser that afternoon, and that Eve had been home since I’d seen them and could have taken them. Actually you took them yourself. You came out in a taxi—and we could probably find the taxi if we had to prove this—and got them yourself. You had to wait till you were sure Eve and I would be en route downtown, and that’s why you were so late getting to the Pump Room. Now Uncle Am’s got news for you—not that you deserve it.”

Uncle Am cleared his throat. “You’re not married, Ollie. You’re a free man because your marriage to Eve Packer wasn’t legal. She’d been married before and hadn’t got a divorce. Probably because she had no intention of marrying again until you popped the question to her, and then it was too late to get one.

“Her legal husband, who left her ten years ago, is a bartender named Littleton. He found her again somehow and when he learned she’d married you illegally, he started blackmailing her. She’s been paying him two hundred a month, half the pinmoney allowance you gave her, for three years. They worked out a way she could mail him checks and still have her money seemingly accounted for. The method doesn’t matter.”

I took over. “We haven’t called copper on the bigamy bit, either, because you’re not going to prosecute her for it, or tell the cops. We figure you owe her something for having tried to frame her on a murder charge. We’ve talked to her. She’ll leave town quietly, and go to Reno, and in a little while you can let out that you’re divorced and free. And marry Dorothy and legitimize Jerry.

“She really will be getting a divorce, incidentally, but from Littleton, not from you. I said you’d finance that and give her a reasonable stake to start out with. Like ten thousand dollars—does that sound reasonable?”

He nodded. His face looked less drawn, less gray now. I had a hunch his improvement would be a lot faster now.

“And you fellows,” he said. “How can I ever—?”

“We’re even,” Uncle Am said. “Your retainer will cover. But don’t ever look us up again to do a job for you. A private detective doesn’t like to be made a patsy, be put in the spot of helping a frame-up. And that’s what you tried to do to us. Don’t ever look us up again.”

We never saw Ollie again, but we did hear from him once, a few months later. One morning, a Western Union messenger came into our office to deliver a note and a little box. He said he had instructions not to wait and left.

The envelope contained a wedding announcement. One of the after-the-fact kind, not an invitation, of the marriage of Oliver R. Bookman to Dorothy Stark. On the back of it was scribbled a note. “Hope you’ve forgiven me enough to accept a wedding present in reverse. I’ve arranged for the dealer to leave it out front. Papers will be in glove compartment. Thanks for everything, including accepting this.” And the little box, of course, contained two sets of car keys.

It was, as I’d known it would be, a brand-new Buick sedan, gray, a hell of a car. We stood looking at it, and Uncle Am said, “Well, Ed, have we forgiven him enough?”

“I guess so,” I said. “It’s a sweet chariot. But somebody got off on his time, either the car dealer or the messenger, and it’s been here too long. Look.”

I pointed to the parking ticket on the windshield. “Well, shall we take our first ride in it, down to the City Hall to pay the fine and get right with God?”

We did.

A Cat Walks

IT ALL started with one cat, one small gray cat. It ended with nine of them. Gray cats all—because at night all cats are gray—and some of them were alive and others dead. And there was a man without a face, but the cats didn’t do that.

It started at ten o’clock in the morning. Miss Weyburn must have been waiting for the shop to open, because she came in as soon as I’d put up the shades and unlocked the door. I knew her name was Miss Weyburn because she’d given it to me three days before when she’d come in to leave her cat with us. And she was such a honey that I remembered her name almost as well as I remembered my own or that of the shop. Incidentally, it’s the Bon Ton Pet Shop, and I think it’s a silly name myself, but my mother has a half interest in it, and you know how women are. It was all I could do to keep it from being a pet shoppe, and to avoid that I settled for the Bon Ton part with scarcely more of a murmur than would have caused the neighbors to send in a riot call.

I smiled at her and said, “Good morning, Miss Weyburn.”

She had one of our business cards in her hand and said, “Good morning, Mr.—”

She sort of glanced at the card, so I put in quickly: “Don’t let the name on the card fool you; I’m not Bon Ton. The name is Phil Evans. Very much at your service. And I hope that—”

“I came to get my cat, please.”

I nodded, and stalled. “I remember; you left a cat to be boarded while you were out of town, didn’t you? I’m very fond of cats, myself. So many people prefer dogs, but there’s something about a cat—a kind of quiet dignity and self-respect. Dogs seem to lack it. They’re boisterous and haven’t any subtlety. They—”

“I would like,” she said firmly, “to have my cat. Now. To take out.”

“Yes, ma’am; with or without mustar— Now, don’t get mad! Please. I’ll get it. Let’s see; it was a small gray cat, I recall. I presume you want the same one. What is its name?”

And then the way she was looking at me made me decide that I’d better get it for her right away and try to resume the conversation afterward. So I went to the back room where we keep most of the pets, and went to the cage where Miss Weyburn’s cat had been.

The cage was empty. The door was closed and latched, so it couldn’t have got out by itself. But it wasn’t there.

Incredulously, I opened the door of the cage to look in; which was silly, because I could see through the netting perfectly well that the cage was empty.

And so were the cages on either side. In fact, Miaow Alley—the row of cat cages—was a deserted street. There weren’t any cats. Neither Miss Weyburn’s nor the four other cats, our own cats, which had been there yesterday.

I looked around the room quickly, but everything else was O.K. I mean, all the dogs were there, and the canaries chirping as usual, and the big parrot that we have to keep out of sight in the back room until he’s forgotten a few of the words somebody taught him.

But there weren’t any cats.

I was too surprised, just then, to be worried. I went to the staircase between the back room and the store, and yelled up, “Hey, ma!” and she came to the head of the stairs.

The girl up front said, “Is something wrong with Cinder, Mr… uh…Evans?”

I smiled at her reassuringly, or tried to. I said, “Not at all. I…I just don’t know which cage my mother put him in.”

Ma was coming down the stairs and I said to her, “Listen, ma, when you fed the cats this morning, did you—”

“Cats? Why, Phil, there aren’t any cats. I told you at breakfast, while you were reading that paper, that you’d have to arrange to get some. Weren’t you even listening?”

“But, ma! That little gray cat! It wasn’t ours; surely you didn’t—”

“Not ours? Why, I thought you told me—”

By that time she was in the store, and she caught the stricken look on Miss Weyburn’s face, and got the idea. Meanwhile, I was deciding that I’d never again read at the table while ma was talking to me and sometimes answer “Uh-huh” without being sure what she was saying. But that good resolution wasn’t doing any good right at the moment.

Our customer was getting white around the gills and red around the eyes, and her voice sounded like she was trying to keep from crying and wouldn’t succeed much longer. She said, “But how could you have—” And she was looking at me, and I had to stand there and look back because there wasn’t any mouse hole around for me to crawl into.

I gulped. “Miss Weyburn, it looks like we’ve…I’ve pulled an awful boner. But we’ll find that cat and get it back for you. Somehow. Ma, do you know who you sold it to? Was there a sales slip or anything?”

Ma shook her head slowly. “No, the man paid cash. For all of them. And he was such an odd-looking—”

“All of them?” I echoed. “You mean one guy bought all our cats?”

“Yes, Phil. I told you, at breakfast. It was late yesterday afternoon, after you left at four o’clock. You got home so late last night that I didn’t have a chance to tell you until—”

“But, ma, what would one guy want with five cats? We had four besides Miss Weyburn’s. Did he say what he wanted them for?”

Ma leaned her elbows on the counter. “He wanted a dozen,” she said. “Like I told you. And he said he had a big farm and it was overrun with field mice, and that he liked cats and decided to get several of them while he was at it.”

I looked at her aghast. “The Siamese? Don’t tell me he paid twenty-five bucks for that Siamese to hunt mice on a farm?”

“Phil, you know that cat was only three-quarters Siamese,” said ma, “and that you told me to take fifteen, or even less, if we could get it. And the others were all ordinary cats, and he offered twenty-five for the five of them and I took it.”

“But haven’t you any idea who he was, or where his farm is, or anything about him?”

“Hm-m-m,” said ma thoughtfully. “He said his name was—yes, that was it, Smith. Didn’t mention his first name. Nor where he lived. Let’s see—he was short and stocky, about the size and build of Mr. Workus, say. But he was bald; he didn’t wear a hat. And he had a reddish mustache and wore dark glasses.”

“That sounds like a disguise,” said Miss Weyburn.

Ma blinked. “Why should anyone disguise himself to buy cats?”

“But, ma,” I protested, “there must have been something screwy about the guy. Dark glasses and a name like ‘Smith’ and— Heck, if he wanted cats for mousing, he could have got ‘em for nothing. Why pay a fancy price?”

I turned to our customer. “Listen, Miss Weyburn,” I said, “I’ll check into this, and I’ll find your cat, if it’s possible. But if I can’t—well, were you awfully attached to it? Or if I got you a beautiful thoroughbred Angora or Siamese kitten, would you be—”

Tears were running down her cheeks, and I said hastily, “Please don’t cry! If it’s that important, I’ll find your cat if I have to…to go to China for it. And if I don’t, you can have our whole store, and—” And me with it, I wanted to say, but it didn’t seem the proper time and place to say it.

“I don’t want your d-darned store. I want—”

“Listen, ma,” I said, “you’ll watch the store for the rest of the day, won’t you? I’m going out to hunt—”

“Sure, Phil.” Ma gave me a knowing look. “But first you go back and finish currying that pony, and let me talk to Miss Weyburn.”

I got the idea, because we didn’t have a pony to curry. So I made myself scarce out the back door for about ten minutes, and gave ma a chance to stop the girl crying. Ma can talk; she can convince almost anybody of almost anything, and when I came in again the girl wasn’t crying, and she looked less mad and more cheerful.

“Well,” I said, “if you’ll tell me where I can get in touch with you, miss, I’ll let you know the minute I find—”

“I’m going with you,” she interrupted. And I didn’t object to that, at all. I said, “That’s swell. I’ll get the car out of the garage and bring it around front.”

And five minutes later, we were driving downtown. First, we stopped at the offices of the two local newspapers and arranged to put in ads addressed to a Mr. Smith who had purchased five cats the day before.

And then I turned the car down Barclay Street.

“Where are we going now?” Miss Weyburn wanted to know.

“Police station,” I told her. “Those personal ads were just in case this Smith guy is what he said he was. But there seems to be a faint smell of fish about a guy wanting a dozen cats, and it’s just possible that the police may know of him as a nut, or something.”

“But—”

“It won’t cost anything to try, will it?” I pointed out. “And Lieutenant Granville is a good friend of mine. If he’s in—”

And he was. We walked into his office and I said, “Hi, Hank. This is Miss Weyburn. We wanted to talk about a cat. Her cat. A small gray—”

“Stolen?”

“Well, not exactly. I mean if it was, I’m the one who stole it. I was boarding it for her and it was sold by mistake.”

Hank glowered at me. “I got real trouble. I’m working on a murder case that happened night before last and there aren’t any leads and we’re against a blank wall, and you come in and want me to hunt a cat.”

“If you’re up against a blank wall,” I pointed out, quite reasonably, “then there’s nothing you can do for the moment, and you might as well be human and listen to us.”

“Shut up,” said Hank. “Miss Weyburn, if Phil sold a cat that belongs to you, he’s responsible. Do you want to bring charges against him?”

“N-no.”

Hank looked at me again. “Well, then what do you want me to do?”

“You yahoo,” I said, “I want you to listen. And then, if possible, be helpful.” And before he could interrupt again, I managed to tell him the story.

He looked thoughtful. “Checked the pound yet?”

“Why, no—but why would anyone buy a cat, or cats, and then take them to the pound?”

“Not that, Phil. But the guy might have tried to get cats there. You said he originally wanted a dozen. Well, it sounds silly to buy cats by the dozen, but it’s not illegal. Anyway, he got only five from you. Maybe he kept on trying, or maybe he’d been to the pound first. Maybe he left his address there.”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. “That might be a lead. Hank, I knew there must be some reason why they made you a detective. We’ll go to the pound, and we’ll go to Workus’ pet shop, too. And meanwhile, if you should happen to hear anything—”

“Sure,” Hank agreed. “I’ll let you know. And, Miss Weyburn, anytime you want to have this guy here put in jail, just let me know and sign a complaint, and I’ll be glad to—”

But I got the girl out before Hank could give her any more ideas, and when we got out of the station, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was after noon.

So we stopped in the restaurant across the street, and when we’d ordered, she asked, “Who is this Mr. Workus you mentioned?”

“He runs the other pet shop in town,” I explained. “If this Smith wasn’t satisfied with five cats, he probably went there next. Anyway, we’ll try.”

“And if he didn’t leave an address at the pound or at the other pet shop?”

Well, she had me there, but I ducked answering, and tried to keep the conversation on more cheerful topics while we ate.

Hank strolled into the restaurant while we were having coffee, and I motioned him over to a seat at our table. He grinned and said, “Well, any more news on the cat-astrophe?”

“This isn’t funny,” I told him. “Miss Weyburn is attached to that cat. That beagle I sold you last fall, Hank—would you think it a joke if something happened to it?”

He reddened a bit and said, “Sorry, Miss Weyburn. I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s all right, lieutenant,” she said. “What’s the important case you’re working on?”

“Guy named Blake. Somebody burglarized the Dean laboratories night before last. Blake was the watchman, and they killed him.”

“Laboratories?” I asked. “What’d they steal?”

Hank shook his head. “We haven’t made a check-up yet; not thorough enough to tell if anything gone. But there isn’t a single clue. Even the F.B.I, men—” He broke off.

“Huh?” I said. “What would the F.B.I, be doing on a burglary-and-murder case?”

Hank looked uncomfortable. He said. “They aren’t here on that. Something else. I didn’t mean that the Dean burglary was an F.B.I, case.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “do I think it will rain tomorrow?”

He grinned sheepishly. “That’s the general idea.”

By that time the waitress was there to take Hank’s order, and Miss Weyburn and I left and headed first for the pound. We drew a blank. They hadn’t had any cats for several days. There’d been two inquiries about cats the day before, but both by phone calls, and no record had been made. Nor could the man who’d taken the calls remember any helpful details.

So I headed the car for the far side of town. Pete Workus was alone in his shop when we went in. I knew him only slightly; he’d been in business there only a year or so.

“Hello, Pete,” I said. “This is Miss Weyburn. We’re trying to trace a man who bought five cats at our place yesterday. He wanted more than that, and I thought maybe he came here.”

Workus nodded. “He did. Or anyway, there was a guy here who bought us out of cats, so I suppose it’s the same one. I sold him three of them.”

“Did he leave a name and address?”

Workus leaned an elbow on the counter and rubbed his chin. “Uh, I guess he gave me his name, but I don’t remember. It was a common name, I think.”

“Smith?”

“Yeah, I guess that was it. But not his address. Anyway, he doesn’t want any more cats, Evans, so you can stop hunting for him. I offered to get him some more, but he figured he had enough with what I sold him. Come to think of it, he mentioned your place; he said he got five from you, and he’d got one somewhere else, and with the three I had, he figured nine would be enough.”

“I don’t want to sell him any more cats,” I said. “What happened is that we sold him one too many, by mistake. Miss Weyburn’s cat. And I got to get it back for her.”

“Hm-m-m, that’s tough. Well, I hope you find him then; but I don’t know how to help you.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you can add to the description of him that we have.”

Workus closed his eyes to think. “Well, he was maybe five feet seven or eight inches, about a hundred and seventy pounds—”

I nodded. “That fits ma’s description. And he wore dark glasses while he was here?”

“Yes, yellowish sun glasses. He didn’t wear a hat, and he was bald, and he had a mustache. That’s…that’s all I can remember about him. Say, Evans, while you’re here will you take a look at a puppy of mine? I hear you’re something of a vet, and maybe you can tell me whether it’s got distemper or not.”

“Sure,” I said. “Be glad to. Where is he?”

“Back this way.” He opened the door to the room behind the shop, and I went in after him. I turned around to ask the girl if she minded waiting a few minutes, but she was following us. She said, “May I watch?”

“Sure,” I told her, and we followed Workus into the back room.

He was leading the way back past a row of cages when it happened. Up at shoulder height, a small brown monkey arm darted out through the bars of one of the upper cages, and grabbed.

Workus swore suddenly as his hair vanished into the monkey cage. Then, his face a bit red, he said, “Excuse my language, miss. But that’s the second time that d-darned monkey caught me napping.”

He opened the door of the cage and reached in to recover his toupee, which the now-frightened and jabbering monkey had dropped just behind the bars.

I hadn’t known, until now, that Workus wore a toupee; and I’d jumped a bit at the apparent spectacle of a man being scalped. For under the toupee, Workus was completely bald.

“Say,” I said, half jokingly and half seriously, “it wasn’t by any chance you who bought these cats of ours, was it? If you left off your toupee and hat, and put on dark glasses and a mustache—”

Workus had closed the door of the monkey cage, and was adjusting the toupee on his head. He looked at me strangely. “Are you crazy, Evans? Or joking? Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“I haven’t any idea,” I said cheerfully. And I hadn’t. But something was beginning to buzz at the back of my mind, and without stopping to think it over, I went on talking. “But one thing does strike me funny. My mother described the mysterious Mr. Smith as being about your height and weight. Now what made her say that? She’s seen you only a few times in her life. But, in thinking what the man who bought the cats was like, she used your name. Doesn’t it seem that it might have been because—sort of subconsciously—she saw through the disguise, and recognized your walk, or your voice, or something?”

Workus was frowning. He said, “Are you accusing me of—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. If it was you, there’s nothing criminal about buying cats. All we want is Miss Weyburn’s cat back, and we’ll…I’ll pay for it. That sale wasn’t legal, anyway. We can get a writ of replevin for the animal. But I hope we won’t have to go to the police.”

And having gone that far, I decided to bluff it on out, and added, “Or will we?”

He didn’t answer at all for a moment. Then, quite suddenly and surprisingly, he grinned at us. “O.K.,” he said. “You win. It was me. And I’ll see that you get your cat back, Miss—Weyburn, is it? I’ll give you a note to the man who has it, and his address.”

He crossed toward the desk at one side of the room, and I turned and looked at Miss Weyburn, and said: “See? The Bon Ton Pet Shop gets results. Even if we have to turn into a detective agency. We get our cat. Like the Northwest—”

But she was looking past me, toward Workus. Suddenly, at the startled look on her face, I whirled around. Workus was holding a gun on us. A .38 automatic that looked like a cannon when seen from the front. He said, “Don’t move.”

For a moment, I thought he was crazy. But I lifted my hands shoulder-high, and I tried to make my voice calm and reasonable. I said, “What’s the idea? In the first place, Workus, you can’t get away with this. And in the second—”

“Be quiet, Evans. Listen, I don’t want to kill you unless I have to, and if you’re reasonable, maybe I won’t have to. But I can’t let you out of here; you’d go to the police and they just might decide to investigate what you told them. Even if you got your cat back, you might.”

“Listen,” I said. “What’s all this about? Am I crazy, or are you? Why this fuss about cats?”

“If you knew that, I’d have to kill you. Still want to know?”

“Well,” I said, “if you put it that way, maybe not. But—about holding us here. How long—”

“Tomorrow. I’m through here, and leaving town after tonight. Tomorrow I won’t care what you tell the cops. I’ll be clear.”

I grunted. “But dammit—” I turned my head toward the girl. “I’m sorry, Miss Weyburn. Looks like I got you in a mess.”

She managed a fleeting smile. “It isn’t your fault. And—”

The sound of a door opening behind me made me start to turn my head farther around, but Workus’ voice barked, “Look this way.” And the snick of the safety catch on the automatic backed it up, and I turned.

“You first, Evans,” Workus snapped. “Put your hands behind you to be tied.”

I obeyed, and somebody behind me did a good job of tying my wrists. Then a blindfold was tied over my eyes and a clean handkerchief from my own pocket used as a gag. When, on instructions, I sat down and leaned back against the wall, my ankles, too, were tied.

Then, after Miss Weyburn had been similarly tied and placed beside me, I heard the footsteps of Workus going back to the store at the front. The other man opened and closed a door, and I heard his steps on stairs, but don’t know whether he was going up or down them.

And then, for a long time, nothing happened.

I tried, experimentally, to reach the knots in the cord that bound my wrists, but couldn’t touch them, even with the tip of one finger. I might have been able to loosen the cord by rolling around until I found a rough edge somewhere to rub it against, but every ten or fifteen minutes, all afternoon, I’d hear Workus’ footsteps coming to the door to look in at us, or coming on into the back room on some errand or other. So, for the present, there was nothing I could do—except wait and hope for the best.

Time passed, but slowly. Very slowly. You’d think that in a spot like that, you’d have enough to worry about to keep you from getting bored. But after an hour or two, you haven’t. You can be worried, or afraid, or mad, just so long and no longer. It begins to taper off; an hour or two passes like a year or two, and you begin to wish something would happen, almost anything. Time becomes an unendurable vacuum.

I don’t know how long it was before I got the idea of opening communication with the girl beside me in code. But suddenly I thought of the old idea of communicating by taps or touches; one for A, two for B, three for C and so on through the alphabet. If she got the idea—

I wriggled over a few inches until my right elbow touched her left. By nudges, I spelled out C-A-N U U-N-D-E-RS-and she saved me from spelling out the rest of the “understand” by cutting in with Y-ES.

It was a slow and painful method of communication, and I prefer talking and listening, but it helped pass the time and it didn’t matter how slow it was, because we had more time than we knew what to do with. And often we could shorten it by interrupting a question in the middle as soon as there was enough of it to guess the rest.

It didn’t take long to find out that neither of us could make any intelligent guess as to the motive and purpose of our captors. We decided that if a reasonable chance of escape should offer itself, we should take it rather than trust too completely to Workus’ stated intention to let us go the next day. But that for the present, we’d better make the best of it.

Then—for chivalrous, if unromantic, reasons—I moved farther away from her. I had discovered that I entertained other company. Undoubtedly, I was too near the monkey cage, and undoubtedly Workus was too stingy with his flea powder. I probably got only a couple of them, but they moved around and gave the impression of a legion.

But time did pass, and after a while I heard Workus closing up the shop and pulling down the shades. He didn’t leave, though, but remained up front, still looking in on us occasionally. The man who’d gone up or down the stairs rejoined Workus; then first one and then the other left by the back door and returned after a while. Probably they had gone out to eat; one at a time, while the other remained on guard.

After a while my trained fleas seemed to have left me, and it was lonesome alone, so I slid over next to the girl again. I spelled out O-K and tried to figure out how to put a question mark after it and couldn’t, but she spelled back Y-E-S W-H-E-R-E W-E-R-E-, U, and I spelled F-L-E-A-S, and she came back N-O T-H-A-N-KS, which didn’t make sense, but then probably my answer hadn’t made sense to her.

Then—it must have been close to nine o’clock—the two men came into the back room together. One of them took my shoulders and one of them my feet and I was carried out the back door and into what I judged to be Workus’ truck; a light delivery van with a closed body. A minute later the girl was put in with me and the back door of the truck closed and latched.

The engine started and I hit my head a resounding thump as the car jerked into motion.

It lurched through the roughly paved alley. Out on the streets, the motion wasn’t so bad. But from time to time we hit bumps and went around corners. I tried to brace myself, sitting up and leaning against a side of the truck body, but it didn’t work. The only way to avoid frequent head thumpings was to lie flat.

Apparently the girl had made the same discovery, because I found her lying beside me, and we found that by lying close together we minimized the jouncing and rolling. We didn’t try our code of signaling, because the joggling of the moving truck would have made it impossible.

After an hour or so the truck hit a rough driveway again, went along it what seemed quite a distance, and stopped. From the time we’d been traveling, I judged that we were well out in the country somewhere; but I couldn’t have made the wildest guess as to our direction from town.

Then the ignition went off, and the truck stopped and stood still. I heard the doors on either side of the truck cab slam, but Miss Weyburn was spelling out something by nudging my elbow and I concentrated on that and got: R U A-L-L R-I-T-E, and answered Y-E-S, and then it occurred to me that spelling out that question and answer had taken quite a bit of time, and why hadn’t Workus and the other chap opened the back of the truck to take us out?

But maybe they weren’t going to. Maybe they intended merely to leave us here in the truck while they accomplished their business—whatever it was—in this place, and they’d get rid of us later.

And that meant that we might have quite a bit of time here.

There was one possible way of our getting loose from those all-too-efficiently tied cords around our wrists. A way I’d thought of, but which hadn’t been practicable in the back room of Workus’ pet shop, with him looking back at us frequently. But now—

As quickly as I could, I spelled out: L-I-E O-N S-I-D-E W-I-L-L T-R-Y U-N-T-I-E.

She got the idea, for instead of trying to answer, she immediately rolled over with her back toward me and held out her bound wrists.

My fingers were almost numb from lack of proper circulation, but I started right in on the knotted cord about her wrists, and the effort of trying to untie it gradually restored my hands to normal.

It was a tough knot; we’d been tied with ordinary heavy wrapping twine, I found. Several turns of it, and then a knot that was made up of four square knots, well tied; each had been pulled as tight as possible before the next one was made.

But one at a time, they gave way. It was slow business, because my own wrists were tied crosswise and I could reach the knots of the girl’s bindings with the fingers of only one hand at a time. It must have taken me nearly half an hour before the inner knot gave way and I felt the cord itself slip as she pulled her wrists apart.

A moment later she took off my gag and blindfold and then whispered, “I’ll have you loose in a minute, Mr. Evans.”

“Phil, now,” I whispered back, as she started work on the cords on my wrists. “What’s your name?”

“Ellen.” With both her hands free, she could make faster progress than I had on her bindings. “Got any idea where we are?”

“No, but it must be way out in the country. No street lights or anything. And listen; isn’t that frogs?”

It was dark inside that truck, but when my wrists came free and I sat up to start on the knots at my ankles—while Ellen did the same with hers—I could see a dim, gray square that was the back window of the truck.

“Listen,” Ellen said. “Did you hear—”

It was the distant yowling of a cat. Of several cats. Once my ears were attuned to the sound, I could hear it quite plainly.

I whispered, “Is it Cinder? Can you recognize his…uh…voice?”

“I think so. I’m almost sure. There—my ankles are—”

The cords on my own ankles came loose at the same moment, and I crawled to the back of the truck. The twin doors were latched from the outside, and I reached through the barred window, but I couldn’t get enough of my arm through to reach down and turn the handle.

Ellen joined me, and her more slender arm solved the problem.

We stepped down, cautiously, into the unknown. We stood there, listening.

Frogs. Crickets. And cats.

There was a thin sliver of new moon playing hide and seek among high cumulus clouds, fast drifting, although down on the ground there didn’t seem to be a breath of wind.

We were standing on grass between two wheel ruts that were a crude sort of driveway. It led, ahead past the front of the truck, to what looked like a big, ramshackle barn.

And a dozen yards the other direction was a building that looked like a farmhouse. An abandoned farmhouse, judging from its state of disrepair and the high grass and weeds about it. There was a dim light in one room that seemed to be the kitchen.

I took Ellen’s arm and whispered, “The driveway to the road leads back past the house. Shall we risk that—or try the other way?”

“You decide. But let’s— Isn’t that the way the cats are?” She pointed away from the house, out past the dark barn; and the distant caterwauling did seem to come from that direction.

As far as danger was concerned, it seemed a toss-up. Past the house was probably the direction of the nearest road. But if we made a sound as we went by the house, we’d never reach safety. And, too, if they came to the truck and found us gone, that’s the direction they’d figure we took.

“This way,” I said, and led around the truck and past the barn. It would be farther, that way, to the next road. But we’d have a better chance of making it.

We went around the side of the barn farthest from the house, and on the farther side we came upon a dimly defined path, one that we could barely follow.

We found that the feline serenade grew louder as we progressed. The path led through a brief patch of woods, and then, quite suddenly, started downhill.

It was there that we saw the man without a face. I was in the lead, and I heard footsteps. They seemed to come toward us from the direction in which we were heading. I stopped walking so abruptly that Ellen ran into me, but I grabbed her before she could make a sound.

“Back, and step carefully,” I whispered. “Somebody’s coming.”

We were only a few steps out of the woods through which the path had run, and I led her back to it and then off the path among the trees.

And then, peering from the edge of the woods well to one side of the path, we watched in the direction in which we’d been walking.

There was a moment of comparatively bright moonlight, and in it we saw a man—or something—coming along the path toward us. He was about twenty yards away when we saw him. The figure was tall and thin and seemed to be that of a man, but—well, there just didn’t seem to be any face where a face should have been. A blank area with two huge blanked circles that were too large for eyes.

I felt Ellen’s fingers constrict suddenly about my arm. And then that damn sliver of moon slid behind clouds again, and we were staring into gray nothingness.

The footsteps paused. There was a faint click and a circle of yellow leaped out on the path. The faceless man had turned on a flashlight, and its beam danced ahead of him as he came on into the woods and passed us. But there wasn’t enough reflected light from it to give us another look at whoever held it.

We waited several minutes, not quite daring to whisper, until we were sure that he was well past us back toward the house. Then I said, “Come on, let’s get this over with. Unless you’d rather try back the other way?”

She whispered, “No, I’d rather go on this way. Even if it wasn’t for Cinder being this way—”

We groped our way back to the path and out of the woods again into the downhill stretch of the path.

We were quite close to the source of the caterwauling now, and I noticed something puzzling. Fewer cats seemed to be making the noise.

Then, quite suddenly, the sliver of moon came out brightly from behind the clouds and, with our eyes accustomed to a greater darkness, we could see comparatively well.

The path leveled off and we were standing on a flat area at the bottom of a valley. Quite near it was a wooden box, an ordinary small crate from a grocery. There were slats nailed across one side to make it into a crude cage. And—if my ears told me aright—there was a cat inside it.

Five feet ahead was another such box, and five feet beyond that—yes, a whole row of crude soap-box cages, each five feet from the next. Nine of them.

The reappearance of the moon left us standing in the open, and my first impulse was to duck for cover—but there wasn’t any in sight. There wasn’t any human being in sight, either—fortunately, or we’d have been seen right away.

I heard Ellen gasp, and then she ran past me to the nearest wooden cage. She bent down, and then turned as I joined her. “It isn’t Cinder,” she said. “But let it out, anyway. I don’t know what on earth—”

I didn’t know, either. Ellen was going on to the next cage. If we’d used our common sense, we’d have run like hell and come back later, with the police, to rescue the cats. But—well, there we were, and we didn’t. I reached down and pulled loose one of the carelessly nailed slats of the box, and a gray streak went past me and vanished.

From the second cage, Ellen said, “Here he is!” and she herself was tearing a slat loose from the box, eagerly. When I got there she was cuddling a small gray cat in her arms, and it snuggled up to her, purring.

“Swell,” I said. “Let’s get going. We’ll come to a farm or a road or something, and— But wait!”

“Phil, those other cats—”

“You’re darn right,” I told her. “I’m going to let them out first. I don’t know why, but—”

It wasn’t even a hunch; as yet I hadn’t made a guess what it was all about. But it was instinctive; I love animals and I wasn’t going to run off and leave seven more cats in those cages. It was quixotic, maybe, to risk sticking around to let them go, but it wouldn’t take more than two minutes to do it, and we’d been there longer than that already and nobody had challenged us.

I ran to the next cage and released the cat that was in it. And the next.

Then the fifth of the nine. Nothing ran out of that one, and I reached a hand in and said, “What the hell—” The cat in it was dead.

I felt a little dizzy from bending over. I straightened up, and still felt dizzy. But I went to the sixth cage. It was harder to pull apart than the others, took me almost a minute. And the cat in it was dead, too. I looked toward the others, wondering if I was going to find all dead cats from there on; four live cats in a row and then the rest of the row of nine—

And quite suddenly I felt absurdly silly, as one feels in a dream sometimes, and wondered what I was doing here finding live cats and dead cats—and my mind was going around in dizzy circles, and when I stood up body swayed dizzily, too, and I couldn’t get my balance.

Yes, I got it, then, and I tried to run. But too late. My feet wouldn’t mind what I wanted them to do, and my knees went rubber and I didn’t even feel pain from the impact of the ground hitting me as I went down.

As though from a great distance I heard a voice call, “Phil,” and saw Ellen running toward me. I tried to motion her back and to call out to her to run away—but then things slipped away from under me, and I wasn’t there any more. My last sensation before I completely lost consciousness was a tugging at my shoulders, as though someone was trying to drag me back to safety.

Then a steady light hurt my eyes, and I found I was lying on a wooden floor, so I knew that I had been unconscious for a while and was just coming to. There were voices.

Workus’ voice and that of another man, an uninflected, monotonous voice. It was saying: “Yes, it is satisfactory. Reached to the cats in the first five cages; that’s twenty-five feet. And only half a pound I put in the water pail. Think of half a ton!”

“But this guy and girl,” I heard Workus saying. “It didn’t kill them like it ought to. The girl’s O.K. and Evans is coming to, already. So—”

“Naturally, fool. I was on the way back and pulled them out in time. He couldn’t have been in it more than three minutes, probably much less. And less than that for her, which is why she came out first. If it’d been five—”

Workus growled. “I still don’t see why you didn’t just leave them there that long.”

“You see nothing. The bodies, of course. I want to keep on living here, even if an agent comes nosing around later. You are giving up your shop to go south, but I stay here. Nor would we want those bodies found dead anywhere else, dead of the gas.”

I opened my eyes in time to see Workus nod assent. He said, “We shoot them, then? Sure, we’ve got their car. The bodies can be found in it, on the road miles from here.”

“Yes,” said the monotonous voice, and I turned my head to look toward the man who’d spoken.

I’d never seen him before, but he was worth looking at. He was tall and almost ridiculously thin, but his face was what drew my eyes. The skin was stretched so tightly over the bones that his head looked almost like a skull.

Pasty-white skin, and across the forehead was a vivid red scar that looked like a saber wound. It ran down into one empty eye socket uncovered by any patch or effort at concealment. The other eye turned upon me piercingly. “Our friend has come back,” he said. “Peter, you take care of them.”

The automatic was in Workus’ hand. He said, “Here? But—”

“Here, yes,” said the man with one eye. “They escaped once. We’ll take no chances again.” He grinned mirthlessly at me. “And if you hadn’t escaped, you would have been freed—probably. But now, no.”

I was able, for the first time since I’d seen him, to wrench my gaze away from his face enough to notice other things about him. First, that there was a gas mask slung about his neck, a type of mask which, when worn, covered all of the face except the eyes—which were huge circles of glass. He, then, had been the “faceless” man we’d seen on the path. He’d worn the mask, then.

Out of a corner of my eye, I saw Ellen sitting on a chair against the wall. The little gray cat was still in her arms, and her head was bent down over it, gently rubbing its fur with her chin. She smiled at me, a tremulous little smile that took real courage to produce. She said, “Well, Phil, we did find my cat.”

Workus said, “Stand up, if you want, Evans. If you’d rather not take it lying down.”

And I found, surprisingly, that I didn’t want to take it lying down. Sounds funny that you’d feel that way when you’re going to be shot, anyway. You’d think it doesn’t matter how, but, somehow, it does.

I got up slowly, first to one knee, trying to take in as much of the room as I could in a quick glance around. Not that I expected to find a weapon in reach, or to see the United States marines coming through the doorway, or anything like that. But just in case.

If there was any way out of death for Ellen and myself, it would have to be tried within the next dozen seconds, and it wasn’t going to cost anything to try. Maybe if I lunged for Workus before I got completely to my feet—

But it wouldn’t have worked. He was six feet away; he’d be able to fire twice at point-blank range before I could get there. And he was ready for it.

There didn’t seem to be anything that offered a chance of succeeding. There wasn’t any furniture within reach. There were several chairs; the nearest was the one Ellen was sitting on. A kitchen table and a cupboard, but on the other side of the room. The back door was closed, and the one-eyed man stood beside it, as though ready to leave as soon as Workus had obeyed his orders.

The light was from an electric bulb in the center of the ceiling, out of reach overhead. And there was a telephone—somehow it gave the impression of being newly installed—on the table. Also out of reach. Two windows, the bottom sash of one of them was raised.

Nothing within reach. Not a chance that I could see. Nothing remotely resembling a weapon. Except—

I started talking before I’d quite reached my feet. Workus had no reason to be in a hurry to shoot us; he’d probably let me finish whatever I started to say, as long as I didn’t move closer to him.

“O.K., Workus,” I said. “But we shouldn’t have to die in vain, should we? After we went to all this trouble to get Miss Weyburn’s cat, does it have to die, too?”

He was staring at me as though he thought I was crazy—and maybe I was crazy to think I could get away with this, but I figured that as long as I had him puzzled, he’d hold the trigger. I didn’t, of course, wait for him to answer. I kept right on: “Look, if I’m giving up my life for a cat, you ought to be sport enough to let the cat go. And anyway, you can’t shoot Miss Weyburn while she’s holding—” She wasn’t holding the cat any more, though, because I’d just turned around and taken it from her, and I was turning with it in my hands toward the open window.

As though I were going to drop the cat out the window; but I didn’t. I’d timed my turn and synchronized the motion of my arms for the throw, and even before the man with one eye yelled, “Hey!” and the automatic in Workus’ hands went off, the cat was sailing through the air at Workus’ face.

He pulled the trigger all right, but he ducked while he was doing it, and the bullet missed me by inches. It’s not easy to shoot straight when there’s a cat hurtling at one’s face, its claws out ready to grab the first available object to stop its flight.

And I was going in toward Workus behind the cat, and almost as fast. Swinging a roundhouse right as I went; aiming at his stomach as the biggest and hardest to miss target for a blow I couldn’t take time to aim carefully.

The cat caught its claws in the shoulder of his coat and then jumped on down to the floor just as my fist made connections. The blow had all my weight and the force of my run behind it. He didn’t pull the trigger a second time, and I heard the automatic clatter to the floor as he started to fall.

I didn’t take time to go after that gun; I whirled toward the man standing by the door and I was starting toward him almost before I’d finished my blow at Workus.

The one-eyed man was bringing a pistol—which had been, apparently, in his hip pocket—around and up. But things had happened too fast, and he hadn’t reached for it soon enough. Or maybe he’d fumbled in getting it out of his pocket. Anyway, I got there before he could lift and aim it. I didn’t take time to swing at him; I simply ran smack into him with a straight arm that caught him full in the face and smacked his head against the door behind him so hard that I thought, from the sound of it, that I’d killed him.

I whirled back to see if Workus was going for the gun he’d dropped, but he was sitting on the floor, doubled up and groaning in pain, and Ellen had the gun.

I said, “Atta girl,” and then picked up the other gun and put it in my pocket and went for the phone. I called Hank Granville’s home number and got a sleepily grunted “hello” after a minute or two.

“Hank,” I said, “this is Phil. Say, about that Dean-laboratory burglary and murder. Was the secrecy because they’d been working on an odorless lethal gas? Something in solid form that you drop in water like carbide, and it—”

“Hey!” Hank sounded suddenly very wide awake. “Phil, for God’s sake where’d you find that out? It’s supposed to be—”

“Yeah,” I cut in. “Secret. But a guy by the name of Workus who had a front as a pet-shop owner, and another guy, got it. Dunno whether they got it to peddle to a foreign power, or what, but they weren’t sure they had the right stuff and they wanted to test just how good it was. That’s what they wanted cats for; to see how far a given quantity of it would spread.”

“The hell! Phil, this is big! If you’re right— Where the devil are you?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Somewhere in the country. But I got both guys here, and everything’s under control. I’ll leave this receiver off the hook and you can get the call traced and come out with the Maria. So long.”

And without waiting for him to answer, I put the receiver down on the table and crossed over to Ellen. She’d just picked up the little gray cat, which looked a bit ruffled, but unhurt. She was soothing and petting it and talking baby talk to it.

I said, “Gosh, I’m sorry I had to throw it, but— Maybe I can make friends with it again.”

And I reached out a doubtful hand, not knowing whether I’d get clawed or not. But I wasn’t. Ellen smiled at me, and the cat began to purr. And I put my arms around Ellen and she had to put the cat down because it was in the way.

I hoped it would be a long time before the police got there and I felt like purring myself.

The Missing Actor

“HUNTER AND HUNTER,” I told the telephone, and it asked me if this was one of the Mr. Hunters speaking and I said yes, I was Ed Hunter.

And I was, and still am. Hunter & Hunter is a two-man detective agency operated on State Street on the Near North Side of Chicago. My Uncle Am for Ambrose is shortish, fattish, and smartish; he’d been an operative for a private detective agency once back when and then had become a carney. We got together after my father’s death ten years ago when I was eighteen, spent a couple of seasons together with a carnival, and then got jobs as operatives for the Starlock Agency in Chicago, and after a few years of that started our own detective agency, just the two of us. It’s still a peanut operation, but we like peanuts. We get along with each other and most of the world, and we make a living.

“Floyd Nielson,” the phone said. “Like you to do a job for me. Be there if I come around now?”

“One of us will be here,” I said, “and probably both. But could you tell me what kind of a job it is? If it’s some sort of work we can’t or don’t handle, I can save you the trip.”

“Missing person. My son Albee. Want you to find him.”

“Have you tried the police?”

“Sure. Missing Persons. Guy named Chudakoff. Lieutenant, I think. Said he’d done all he could, unless there’s new information. Said if I wanted more done, I should get a private agency. Recommended yours.”

Sounded okay, I thought, getting into his laconic way of talking. Every once in a while some friend of ours in the department tosses something our way, and in that case it’s bound to be on the up and up. Only honest people go to the cops first and then sometimes turn out to want more help than the cops can give them.

“How soon will you be here, Mr. Nielson?” I asked.

“Hour. Maybe less. I’m at the Ideal Hotel on South State. You’re on North State. Must be a bus that takes me through the Loop. Probably faster’n getting a taxi.”

I told him the number of the bus, where to catch it, and where to get off. He thanked me and hung up.

I put down the phone and was just about to pick it up again to call Tom Chudakoff to see what I could learn about the case in advance; then I looked at my watch and realized Uncle Am was already a few minutes overdue back from lunch and decided to wait and let him listen in on the call. Either or both of us might be working on the case.

He came in a minute later and I told him about the call from Nielson, what there’d been of it, and suggested he listen in on my call to Lieutenant Chudakoff. He said okay and went into his office, the inner one, and picked up his phone while I was dialing.

I got Chudakoff right away and told him what we wanted.

“Nielson, sure,” he said. “He’s been heckling me and I got him out of my hair by sending him to you. If you make any money out of him, you owe me a dinner.”

“Okay,” I said. “But he’s on his way here now, and what can you tell us in advance?”

“That there’s no problem. His son owed a bookie eight hundred bucks and took a powder. It’s as mysterious as all that.”

“If his father’s solvent enough to hire detective work, wasn’t he solvent enough to stand a bite to pay the bookie?”

“Oh, he gave the money to Albee all right. But it never got to the bookie. Albee thought it was better used as a fresh stake, I’d guess. He’d just lost his job, so what did he have to lose glomming onto the money himself.”

“Tell me something about him. Albee, I mean.”

“Well, he had a fairly good job in a bookstore, and a padded pad, was fairly solvent and played ponies on the cuff with a bookie named Red Kogan. Know him?”

“Heard of him,” I said.

“Well, Albee booked with him and always paid up when he lost until, all of a sudden a little over a week ago, Kogan realized Albee was into him for eight hundred. One of his boys drops in at Albee’s pad and doesn’t connect. He goes around to the bookstore and learns Albee’s been fired from his job. So what’s mysterious?”

“A padded pad, for one thing. What is one?”

“Albee was a part-time hipster. He was square eight hours a day—or whatever—at the bookstore, hip in his spare time. Look over his pad and you’ll see what I mean.”

“When was he last seen, Tom?”

“Week ago last Saturday night, July sixth. He borrowed car keys from a friend of his, Jerry Score, on Saturday morning—that’s the day after he was fired from the bookstore. Gave ‘em back late evening. If any of his friends, or anybody else, has seen him since, they’re not talking.”

“Sure. Said he was in a jam and wanted to see his old man—that’s your client—to raise some scratch. Floyd Nielson was a truck farmer near Kenosha, Wisconsin—”

“What do you mean, was?” I cut in. “Isn’t he now?”

“Sold his truck farm ten days ago, getting ready to blow this part of the country. He’s in Chicago, trying to see his son for one last time first.”

“But he saw him only nine days ago.”

“Yeah. It’s not so much that, or rather, I shouldn’t have put it that way. It’s that he wants to be sure Albee is okay before he takes off.

“And he thinks he’s sure Albee wouldn’t run off, just to duck an eight hundred dollar debt—at least not when he had the eight hundred in hand. Says Albee likes Chicago and has a lot of friends here, that he wouldn’t leave just because of that. Maybe he’s got a point, I wouldn’t know, but hell, there’s no evidence of foul play or anything but a run-out, and we can’t spend any more of taxpayers’ money on it. I can keep it open on the books, and that’s all, from here on in. That is, unless something new turns up. If you boys take the case and can turn up something, like maybe a motive for somebody dusting him off, we’ll work on it again.”

“Isn’t his running out on the bookie a motive?”

“Ed, this isn’t the old days. Bookies don’t have people killed for peanuts like that. Besides, Kogan’s not that kind of guy. He might lean on Albee a little, but that’s all. Probably did lean on him, which is what scared the guy. If Albee’s stayed, he’d have turned over the money—it’s just that he figured he’d rather use it as a stake for a fresh start somewhere else, and he had to do it one way or the other. Take my word for it.”

“Makes sense, Tom,” I said. “But if it’s that cut and dried, aren’t we just taking money away from a poor old man to take the case at all?”

“He’s not that poor. Frugal, yes; don’t try to bite him too hard.”

He was just kidding, so I didn’t answer that. He and our other cop friends know that we don’t bomb our clients. Which is why they send business our way once in a while.

“Find out anything else interesting about Albee?” I asked.

“Well, he had a hell of a cute little colored sweetie-pie. These beat boys seem to go for that.”

“First,” I said, “you say he’s hip, now he’s beat. Which is he?”

“Is there a difference?”

I said, “Norman Mailer seems to think so.”

“Who is Norman Mailer?”

“That,” I said, “is a good question. But back to this girl. What color is she? Green? Orange? Or what?”

“Ed, she’s Hershey-bar colored. But listen, why pry this stuff out of me piecemeal? I’ve got the file handy, so why don’t I give you names and addresses of people we talked to—there aren’t many—and what they told us. Then maybe you’ll let me get back to work and quit yakking.”

I told him that would be fine and I pulled over a pad of foolscap and made notes, and when I finished, Uncle Am and I knew as much as the police did. About the disappearance of Albee Nielson, anyway. I thanked Chudakoff and hung up.

Uncle Am came out of the inner office and sat down across from my desk in the outer one. “Well, kid,” he asked, “how does it hit you?”

I shrugged. “Looks like Albee just took a powder, all right. But if Nielson wants to spend a little before he’s convinced, who are we to talk him out of it?”

“Nobody. Anyway, we’ll see what he’s got to say.”

It wasn’t long before we heard what he had to say. Nielson looked anywhere in his fifties. Grizzled graying hair and a beard to match, steel-rimmed glasses, and the red skin and redder neck of a man who’s worked outdoors all his life, even under a relatively mild Wisconsin sun.

“Damn cops,” he said. “That Chudakoff. Wouldn’t believe me. Told him Albee wouldn’t run away. Not for eight hundred dollars, and when he had it.”

I asked, “How did you and Albee get along, Mr. Nielson? In general, and the day he came to you for the money?”

“General, fair. Oh, we didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. Crazy ideas, he had. Left me alone the minute he got through high school, came to Chicago. But we kept in touch. Letter once in a while. And he dropped up once in a while, sometimes just overnight, sometimes a whole weekend. Usually when he could borrow a car.”

“You ever visit him here?”

“Once-twice a year, if I had business in Chicago. Not overnight, ‘less I had business that kept me. Then I stayed at a hotel, though. Didn’t think much of that—what he called a pad, of his.”

“What about Albee’s mother? And any brothers or sisters he was close to?”

“No brothers or sisters. Mother died when he was twelve. What’s she got to do with it?”

“We’re just trying to get the whole picture, Mr. Nielson,” I said. “And Albee and you lived alone till he was graduated from high school and he came to Chicago?”

He nodded, and I asked, “How long ago was that?”

“ ‘Leven-twelve years. Albee’s thirty now.”

“Did he ever borrow money from you during that time?”

“Small amounts a few times. If he was out of work a while or something. But always paid it back, when he got a job. That was back when. Ain’t borrowed since, till now, from the time he got that bookstore job. That paid pretty good.”

“So you didn’t worry about his paying back the current eight hundred?”

“Oh, it’d of taken him a time to do it, but he would of. Especially as he’d learned his lesson—I think—and was through with gambling.” He stopped long enough to light a pipe he’d been tamping down, “Oh, I bawled hell out of him before I give it to him. That kind of gambling, I mean. Not that I’m agin gambling in reason. Used to go into Kenosha most every Saturday night myself for a little poker. But stakes I could afford. It was going in debt gambling that I laid Albee out for. Laid him out plenty, ‘fore I give him the money.”

“But you didn’t actually quarrel?”

“Some, at first. But we got over it and he stayed for supper, and we talked about my plans, now I’m partially retiring.”

“What do you mean by partly retiring, Mr. Nielson?” Uncle Am cut in with that; I’d been wondering whether to ask it or skip it.

“Place near Kenosha’s a little too much for me to handle any more. By myself, that is, and I don’t like hired hands. Always quit on you when you’re in a jam.

“So I’d decided—if I could get my price, and I did, near enough—to sell it and get a smaller truck farm. One I could handle by myself, even when I get some older’n I am now. Maybe give me time to set in the sun an hour or two a day, not work twelve, sometimes more, hours a day like I been. And in a milder climate.

“That’s mostly what me and Albee talked about. I’d thought Florida. Albee said California climate’d be better for me, dryer.”

“Have you made up your mind now which?”

“Yes-no. Made up my mind to take a look at California. Saw Florida once. If I like California better, and find what I want, I’ll stay.”

“And since this conversation with Albee a week ago Saturday, you haven’t heard from him? Not even a letter?”

“Nope. No reason for him to write. Told him I’d be passing through Chicago in a few days on my way either to Florida or California, hadn’t made up my mind for sure which then, and that I’d look him up to say so long. That was the last thing between us.”

“And this would have been about eight o’clock Saturday evening, which would have got him back to Chicago about ten.”

“It’s about two hours’ drive, yes. And I left Monday. Didn’t take me long to pack up as I thought. Been here since, a week today. Want to find Albee, or what happened to him—or something—before I take off. No hurry in my getting to California, but I’m wasting time here and I don’t like Chicago. Kill time seeing a lot of movies, but that’s about all I can do. That Chudakoff, he thinks Albee run off. I still don’t. He says if I want more looking, try you. Here I am.”

“And if we have no better luck than the police,” I asked, “or if we decide they’re right in deciding your son left town voluntarily, how long do you intend to stay in Chicago?”

Nielson burst into a sudden cackle of laughter that startled inc. Up to now he hadn’t cracked a smile. “What you’re asking is how much I want to spend. Let’s take it from the other end. How much do you charge?”

I glanced at Uncle Am so he’d know to take over; when we’re both around I always let him do the talking on money.

“Seventy-five a day,” he said. “And expenses. I suggest you give us a retainer of two hundred; that’ll cover two days and expenses. That’ll be long enough for us to give you at least a preliminary report. And there shouldn’t be many expenses, so if you decide to call it off at the end of two days you’ll probably have a rebate coming.”

Nielson frowned. “Seventy-five a day for both of you to work on it or for one?”

I let Uncle Am tell him it was for one of us, and argue it from there. He finally came down to sixty a day, saying it was our absolute minimum rate—which it is, for private clients. We charge less only to insurance companies, skip-trace outfits, and others who give us recurrent trade. And Uncle Am finally settled for a retainer of one-fifty, which would allow thirty for expenses.

Nielson counted it out in twenties and a ten. Then he had another thought and wanted to know if today would count for a day, since it was already two in the afternoon. Uncle Am assured him it wouldn’t, unless whichever of us worked on it worked late enough into the evening to make it a full day.

I’d thought of another question meanwhile. “Mr. Nielson, when Albee borrowed the money from you, did he tell you he’d lost his job at the bookstore?”

He gave that cackle-laugh again. “No, he didn’t. I didn’t find out that till I phoned the store to see if I could get him at work. Albee’s smart, figured I’d be less likely to lend him money if I knew he was out of work. Guess I would of anyway—he’s never been out of a job long—but he didn’t know that and I don’t blame him for playing safe. Told me he wasn’t working that Saturday cause the store was closed for three days, Friday through Sunday, for remodeling.”

“One other thing, did you give him cash or a check? If it was a check we’ll know something when we find out where it clears from. He couldn’t have cashed a check that size late Saturday night or on a Sunday.”

“It was cash. I’d closed out my bank account, had quite a bit of cash, cashier’s check for the rest. Still got enough I won’t have to use that cashier’s check till I’m ready to buy another truck farm.”

He stood up to go and we both walked to the door with him. Uncle Am asked something I should have thought of. “Mr. Nielson, if he still is in Chicago and we find him, what do we tell him? Just to get in touch with you at the Ideal Hotel?”

“You can make it stronger’n that. Tell him to get in touch with me or else. I never made a will, see, so being my only living blood relative, he’s still my heir. But it don’t have to stay that way. I can make a will in California and cut him off. Cost him a lot more than eight hundred dollars, someday.”

He reached for the doorknob but Uncle Am’s question and its answer had made me think of something. I said, “Just a minute, Mr. Nielson. Has this possibility occurred to you? That he did blow town while he had that eight hundred as a stake, rather than pay it to a bookie just to stay here, but that he intends to write to you as soon as he’s got another job somewhere and can start paying off what he owes you?”

“Yep, that’s possible. Sure I thought of it.”

“This is not my business, Mr. Nielson, but if that does happen, would you still make a will to disinherit him?”

“Make up my mind if and when it happens. Maybe according to what he says when he writes, and if he really does start paying back. Right now I’m mad at him if that’s what happened—if he did that without letting me know so I wouldn’t waste time and money trying to find him here. But I could get over my mad, I guess.”

“If you don’t know just where you’re going in California, how are you having your mail forwarded?”

“Fellow bought from me’s going to hold it for me till I write him. But no letter’s come yet could be from Albee. I phoned last night to make sure. Just a couple bills and circulars. No personal letters like could be from Albee even if he changed his name. I thought of that, son. May be a farmer, but I ain’t dumb.”

“That I see,” I said. “And you’ll probably phone Kenosha once more the last thing before you start driving west?”

“Right, except for the driving. Sold my pickup truck with the farm. Buy another in California. Be a hell of a long drive, rather go by train.”

“Do you want written reports?” I asked him.

“Don’t see what good they’d do. Just phone me at the hotel what you find out. If I see any more movies before I go, I’ll do it by day, stay there evenings so you can call me. Or Albee can, if you find him.”

That seemed to cover everything anybody could think of so we let him leave. Uncle Am strolled into his inner office and I strolled after him.

“What do you think, Uncle Am?” I asked.

He shrugged. “That Albee took a powder. I think his papa thinks so too, but if he wants to let us spend a couple of days making a final try, more power to him. He’s a stubborn old coot.”

“Uh-huh” I said. “Well, I guess it’s my turn to work on it. You put in four days’ work last week and I got in only two. This’ll even it up.”

“Okay, kid. Going to take the car?”

I shook my head. “Most of the places are pretty near here. I’ll do it faster on foot or an occasional taxi hop than having to find places to park.”

He yawned and took a deck of cards out of his desk to play some solitaire. “Okay. I’ll be here till five. Think you’ll work this evening, or call it half a day today?”

“I might as well work through,” I said. “So don’t figure on dinner with me and look for me when you see me.”

I went back to my desk and took the paper I’d taken the notes on during my conversation with Chudakoff. And said so long to Uncle Am and left.

I decided to go to the bookstore first. It might close at five, and the other addresses I had were personal ones and I’d probably stand a better chance of finding the people I wanted to talk to by evening than by day.

It was the Prentice Bookstore on Michigan Avenue. I’d never been inside it, but I knew where it was. It took me about twenty minutes to walk there.

There weren’t any customers at the moment. A clerk up front, a girl, told me Mr. Heiden, the proprietor, was in his office at the back. I went back, found him studying some publishers’ catalogs, introduced myself and showed him identification.

“You let Albee Nielson go on Friday, the fifth?”

“Yes. And haven’t seen him. I told everything I knew to the detective—the city detective—that came here last week. Who you working for? The man he owed money to?”

“For Albee’s father,” I said. “He’s worried about his son’s disappearance. For his sake, do you mind answering a few more questions?”

He gave me a grudging “What are they?” and put down the catalog he’d been looking at.

“Why did you fire Albee?”

“I’m afraid that that’s one I won’t answer.”

“Had you given him notice?”

“No.”

“Then doesn’t that pretty well answer the other question? You must have found that he was dipping in the till, or knocking down some way or other. But decided not to prosecute, and now it’d be too late, and it’d be slander if you said that about him.”

He give me a smile, but a pretty thin one. “That wasn’t a question, Mr. Hunter. I can’t control what conclusions you may choose to draw.”

“Would you give him a recommendation for another job?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But I would refuse to give my reasons for not giving one.”

“That would be your privilege,” I admitted. And since I wasn’t getting anywhere on that tract, I tried another. “Do you know anything about Albee’s life outside the job? Names of any of his friends, anything at all about him personally?”

“Not a thing, I’m afraid. Except his home address and telephone number, and of course you already have those. Before he started here I checked a couple of references he gave me, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten now what they were except that they checked out all right. That was almost five years ago.”

“Do you remember what kind of jobs they were?”

“One was taking want-ads for a newspaper, but I forget which newspaper. The other was clerking in a hardware store—but I don’t remember now even in what part of town it was. And as for friends of his, no. He must have, or have had, some, but none of them ever came here to see him. Almost as though he told them not to, as though he deliberately wanted to keep his business life and his social life completely separated. I’ve never known even what kind of friends he had. And he never talked about himself.”

He was being friendly now and cooperating, once we’d skirted the subject of why he’d fired Albee. But his very refusal to answer that question, I thought, pretty well did answer it.

So I did the only thing I could do, gave him a business card and asked him to call us if he did happen to think of anything at all that might be the slightest help in our finding Albee for his father. He promised to do that, and maybe he even meant it.

On my way out, I saw the girl clerk was still or again free and asked her if she’d known Albee Nielson. The name registered, but only from seeing it on sales slips and employment records. She’d worked there only a week and had been taken on because Nielson, as she thought, had quit the job.

So I went out into the hot July sunlight again. Next was Albee’s pad, and his landlady. On a short street called Seneca, near the lake. Only a ten minute walk this time; he’d picked a place conveniently near to where he had worked. Handy to the beach, too, if he swam or sun-bathed.

It was an old stone front, three stories, that had probably been a one-family residence in its day but had now been divided into a dozen rooms. That’s how many mailboxes there were and there was a buzzer button under each. Nielson was the name on No. 9, and I pushed the buzzer button under it. Even took hold of the doorknob in case an answering buzz should indicate that the lock was being temporarily released. But I got just what I expected to get, no answering buzz. Well, that was good in one way; if Albee had been home and had let me come up to see him, we’d have had to give Floyd Nielson most of his hundred and fifty bucks. We couldn’t have charged more than half a day’s time, and expenses so far had run to zero.

I went back and looked through the glass of Nielson’s mailbox. There was something in it that looked like it was a bill, but I couldn’t read the return address. The lock was one of those simple little ones that open with a tiny flat key; if I’d thought to bring our picklock along I could have had it open in thirty seconds, but one can’t think of everything.

I looked over the other mailboxes for a Mrs. Radcliffe; Chudakoff had said she was the landlady. Sure enough, it was No. I, and had “Landlady” written under the name in the slot. I pushed her button and put my hand on the knob of the door; this time it buzzed and released itself and I went on through.

Mrs. Radcliffe had the door of No. 1 opened and was waiting for me in the doorway. She was about fifty and was small and wiry. Chicago rooming house landladies come in all sizes but most of them have two things in common, hard eyes and a tough look. Mrs. Radcliffe wasn’t one of the exceptions, and I was sure, too, that she hadn’t named herself after a college she’d been graduated from.

I gave her a business card and the song and dance about Albee’s poor old father being worried about him, but it didn’t soften her eyes any. Finally I got to questions.

“When did you last see Albee, Mrs. Radcliffe?”

“Don’t remember exactly, but it was over a week ago. Then, just seeing him come in or go out. Last time I talked to him was on the first. Paid me a month’s rent then; it’s still his place till the end of the month, whether he comes back to it or not.”

“Have you been in it, since then?”

“No. I rent ‘em as is, and people do their own cleaning. I don’t go in, till after they’ve left, to get it cleaned up for the next tenant.”

“Are they rented furnished or unfurnished?”

“Unfurnished, except for stove and refrigerator; there’s a kitchenette in each for them who want to do light housekeeping. And each one has its own bathroom. Couples live in a few of ‘em, but they’re fine for one person.”

“Would you mind letting me look inside Albee’s?”

“Yes. It’s his till his rent’s up.”

“But you let Lieutenant Chudakoff go up and look around. We’re working the same side of the fence. In fact, he’s a friend of mine.”

“But he’s a real cop and you’re not. Bring him with you and I’ll let you go up with him.”

I sighed. “He’s a busy man, Mrs. Radcliffe. If I get him to write you a letter, on police stationery, asking you to let me borrow a key, will that do?”

“Guess so. Or even if he tells me over the phone.”

I wondered how I’d been so stupid as not to think of that short cut. The phone, I’d already noticed, was a pay one, on the wall behind me. I got a dime out of my pocket and started for it.

But she said, “Wait a minute. How do I know you’d dial the right number? You could call any number and have somebody there to say his name is Chudakoff. He gave me his card. I’ll dial it.” Apparently she’d put the card on a stand right beside the door; she was able to get it without leaving the doorway. She held out a hand. “I’ll use your dime, though.”

While she dialed, I grinned to myself at how suspicious she was—and how right. I could have set it up with Uncle Am to have answered “Missing Persons. Chudakoff speaking.”

She finished dialing and I heard her say, “Mr. Chudakoff please.” She listened a few seconds and then hung up.

“He’s out of the office, won’t be back till tomorrow morning. You can try again then, if you’ve got another dime.”

I sighed and decided to give up till tomorrow. Well, at least that’s run the investigation into a second day.

I said, “All right, I’ll be back then. Mrs. Radcliffe, do you know any of Albee’s friends?”

“A few by sight, none by name. And, like I told Mr. Chudakoff, I wouldn’t have an idea where he might of gone to, if he’s really gone. Unless to see his father near Kenosha, and you say it’s him that’s looking for Albee.”

I tried a new tack, not that I expected it to get me anywhere. “Has Albee been a good tenant?”

“Except a couple of things. Played his phonograph too loud a time or two and others on the third floor complained and I told him about it. And something I don’t hold with personally—he’s brought a girl here. But that’s his business, the way I look at it.”

Well, I didn’t pursue that. I had the girl’s name on my list. I thanked Mrs. Radcliffe, and left. I’d be back tomorrow, I decided, but first I’d make sure Chudakoff would be in his office ready for the call.

Next on my list was a Jerry Score, identified by Chudakoff as Albee’s closest friend. Chudakoff hadn’t got anything helpful out of him, but I could try. Especially as he lived only two blocks away, on Walton Place.

It turned out to be a rooming house building pretty much like the one in which Albee had his pad, except with four stories and more rooms. Again I got silence in answer to buzzing the room, and again I tried a landlady, whose name turned out to be Mrs. Proust, although this one labeled herself “Proprietor.” This one was big, fat and sloppy, and the heat was getting her down.

But she gave me the score on Jerry Score. He wouldn’t be home; he was out of town for the day. She didn’t know where, but he’d said he’d be back tomorrow. And she was sure he would be, because he was playing the second lead in a play for the Near Northers, a little theater group, and was having to rehearse almost every afternoon and evening. She told me where they were rehearsing and would be playing, an old theater on Clark Street that had once been a burlesque house and was now used only by little theater groups. And yes, she was sure he’d be there tomorrow afternoon because that was the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal.

She was panting by then and invited me in for a cold lemonade, probably because she wanted one herself, and the lemonade tasted good and she was bottled up with talk. Yes, she knew Jerry pretty well, he’d been with her for years. His job? He was a door-to-door canvasser, vacuum cleaners, and did pretty well at it. He liked that kind of work because he could set his own hours and that let him go in for amateur theatricals. He’d wanted to be a pro and had once made a try at Hollywood, but had given up and came back. He gave her duckets and she’d seen him act and thought he was pretty good. She was show people herself; back when, she’d been a pony in a chorus line, with a traveling troupe that had once played the very theater Jerry was now acting in.

Yes, she knew Albee Nielson. Not real well, but she’d met him a few times, and had seen him act too. Yes, he’d been with the Near Northers, but not in the current play, and Jerry had told her, she thought about a week ago, that Albee had left town.

In case she might be holding something back—although she sure didn’t sound as though she was—I trotted out the poor old father bit for her, telling her that finding Albee for his father was the reason I wanted to see Jerry Score.

It didn’t help, but she’d have helped if she could. Jerry hadn’t told her where Albee had gone, and she didn’t think Jerry knew. I believed her and was convinced she couldn’t tell me more than she had about Albee; that is, anything that would be helpful in finding him.

Not that she wasn’t willing to keep on talking—about anything at all. I had to make my escape or soon she’d have been bringing out her press clippings and theatrical photos of two dozen years ago. But I liked her and promised to come back some time, and meant it.

It was five o’clock. The next name on my list was Honey Howard, Albee’s inamorata. She lived a taxi jump away, on Schiller Street a couple blocks west of Clark Street. But the Graydon Theater, the ex-burlesque house that was now used only by little theater groups like and including the Near Northers, was on Clark just a block or two from Schiller, so I decided to take a taxi there, and walk to Honey’s from the theater. Probably I’d find no one at the theater, but if they’d had an afternoon rehearsal without Jerry Score and it had run late, someone might still be there.

I used the phone in the hallway near Mrs. Proust’s door to call a cab and waited for it outside. Surprisingly, for such a rush hour, it came fairly quickly, and it was only five-thirty when I disembarked in front of the Graydon.

I walked through the lobby, its walls ornate with plaster nymphs and satyrs, and tried the doors but found them locked. But there’d be a stage entrance around off the alley and I headed for it, neared it just in time to see a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman turn a key in the lock of the door and come toward me. I begged his pardon and asked if he was connected with the Near Northers.

He smiled. “You might almost say I am the Near Northers, young man. I started the group four years ago and have been manager ever since and director of every alternate play we’ve put on since. I’m directing the current one. What can I do for you?”

I introduced myself and told him I was interested in Albee Nielson, and why.

He told me that he didn’t know a lot about Albee personally, but he’d be glad to tell me what he did know. Where should we talk? We could go back into the theater, or there was a quiet bar a block down the street if I cared to have a drink with him.

It was half past five and I decided on the drink. I’d be eating soon, maybe before I looked up Honey Howard if my talk with the little theater group’s manager-director ran very long.

He introduced himself, while we walked, as Carey Evers. The name sounded vaguely familiar to me, and it occurred to me that

his face was slightly familiar too. I asked him if I’d ever seen him before, possibly on television or in movies.

Quite probably, he told me, if I ever watched old movies on late-late shows. He’d started in them about the time they were making the transition from silents to talkies. He’d played bit parts and character roles. Never important parts, never starred, but he’d been in a hundred and sixty-four movies. A great many of them were B’s, most of them in fact, but they were still being rerun on television. He’d never tried to make the transition to television per se. He’d retired seven years ago.

We were in the bar, sitting in a booth over drinks, by that time. He stopped talking, waiting for me to start asking my questions about Albee, but instead I asked him how much time he had.

He glanced at his watch. “An hour or so. Dinner date at seven, but it’s near here; I won’t have to leave until a quarter of.”

“Good,” I said. “Then keep on about yourself for at least a few more minutes. How you came to Chicago after you retired, and how you started the Near Northers.”

He’d bought a place in Malibu when he’d retired, he told me, but he’d never liked California. “Hated the place, in fact. And I’d been born and raised in Chicago—broke into show business here, night club work—and didn’t go to Hollywood till I was almost thirty. And I found myself homesick for Chicago after I had nothing to do out there, so I sold the Malibu place within a year and came back. Bought a house on Lake Shore Drive, but near the Near North Side, my old haunt.

“And after a while, found myself bored with nothing to do, and homesick for show biz again, and discovered little theater. Worked with two other groups, and then started my own. It’s wonderful. I work fourteen hours a day, except when I rest between plays, and love it.”

He grinned wryly. “And these kids love me—if only because I’m angel as well as manager-director.” He explained that almost all little theater groups operated at a deficit, especially if they wanted to do good work and put on good plays, the public be damned, and still keep ticket prices low enough so they’d have a good audience to play to.

Carey Evers had retired not rich but with a lot more money then he’d be able to use during the rest of his life, and could think of no better way to spend it, and his time; as long as he remained strong and healthy enough, he’d keep on doing what he was doing. He loved it.

In answer to a question, he told me that no, the actors didn’t make any money out of it; they worked for the love of acting, for the fun of it, and some of them with the hope of learning enough to become professionals someday. And two kids out of the original group he’d started with four years ago were now doing bit parts in television, another was now an announcer on a Chicago television station.

“Do you ever lend any of them money?” I asked, and then cut in before he could answer. “Wait. That’s none of my business, but this is: Did Albee Nielson ever borrow or try to borrow money from you?”

He nodded. “About three weeks ago, he came to me and tried to borrow five hundred. I turned him down. In the first place, I never lend money in amounts like that and in the second, I didn’t believe his story, that it was for an operation for his father. I knew enough about him to know that his father was solvent, and I knew Albee was working steady—he was then—but playing the horses. I put two and two together.

“And from what I’ve learned since, my addition was correct. In fact, in the week or so after that he apparently ran a few hundred more in the hole trying to get out.”

“Was that the last time you saw him?”

He nodded. “That was when we were casting the current play and I asked him if he wanted to try out for a part. He didn’t. It was too bad; he’s a pretty good actor. I’d say almost but not quite professional, or potentially professional, caliber. He had the lead role in two plays we’ve put on, strong supporting parts in several others.”

“What else do you know about him? Especially his personal life?”

He talked a while, but I didn’t know any more when he’d told me all he could than I had when he’d started. Yes, Jerry Score was his closest friend, Honey Howard was his girl. And other things I’d already learned.

I asked him if he knew where Jerry Score was today. It turned out in Hammond, Indiana, for the funeral of an uncle. “Went there a little early to have some time with his family. The funeral’s tomorrow morning, and Jerry will rush right back for afternoon rehearsal. He’ll probably come right from the train, so you’ll do better finding him at the Graydon than trying his room. We start rehearsal at one-thirty.”

“Will I be able to talk to him during rehearsal, or should I wait till after?”

“During. He’s not on stage all the time. Ed, would you like a ducket or two for the show, Thursday evening? Or any night through Sunday, for that matter; we run four days.”

I told him I’d manage to make it one of the four but would just as soon kick through with a paid admission to help the cause.

Then he asked me about me, and about being a private detective, and I got to talking. And was still going strong when suddenly I saw that it was ten of seven and reminded him about his appointment. He lost another half minute giving me a fight over the check—it was only for two drinks apiece—then gave up and ran.

I paid the check and left more slowly because I was trying to decide whether to call on Honey Howard first, or after eating. I was beginning to get pretty hungry, but duty won when I realized I’d have a better chance of finding her in now than maybe an hour later when she could have left for the evening.

It was another stone front; it was my day for stone fronts. One mailbox had two names on it, Wilcox and Howard, and the number six. But there was no bell button and the door wasn’t locked so I went in and started checking room numbers, found Number Six on the second floor, and knocked.

A tall, quite beautiful colored girl opened the door. But very light colored—far from Hershey-bar—so I felt sure she would be the Wilcox of the two names on the mailbox, Honey Howard’s roommate. I asked her if Miss Howard was there. She said yes, and then stepped back. “Honey, someone to see you.”

And Honey appeared at the doorway instead. Hershey-bar, yes, but petite and very beautiful, much more so than her tall, light roommate.

I gave her my best smile and went into my spiel.

“You might as well come in, Mr. Hunter,” she said, stepping back. I followed her into a nicely furnished, bright and cheerful double room pretty much like the one Uncle Am and I live in on Huron Street.

“I’m willing to help if I can, Mr. Hunter,” she said, “but I hope this won’t take very long. Lissa and I were just about to go out to eat.”

It was the perfect opening. I said, “I’m ravenously hungry myself, Miss Howard. May I invite both of you to have dinner with me? Then we can talk while we eat, and it won’t take up any of anybody’s time.” I grinned at her. “And we’ll all eat for free because I can put it on my client’s expense account.”

She gave a quick glance at her roommate and apparently got an affirmative because she turned back and returned my grin. “All right, especially if it’s on Mr. Nielson. After the way Albee ran out on me without even telling me he was going, guess the Nielsons owe me at least a dinner. Let’s go.”

And we went, although first I instigated a conversation as to where they wanted to go so we could phone for a cab. But the place they wanted to go, I had in fact been intending to go anyway, was only two blocks south on Clark Street, only a few blocks away and they’d rather walk.

It turned out to be a fairly nice restaurant, called Robair’s. The proprietor knew the girls and came over to our table while we were having cocktails and I was introduced to him and he grinned and admitted that his name was really Robert but that he knew how the name was pronounced in French and thought it a little swankier to spell it that way. He was colored and so were the waitresses and most of the clientele, but I was far from being the only ofay in the place.

When I started asking questions, Honey Howard answered them freely, or seemed to. Of course I didn’t ask anything about her personal relationships with him; that was none of my business.

She’d last seen him Thursday evening, two evenings before the time he’d been seen last. No, he hadn’t said anything about going away anywhere, not even about a possibility of his going up to Kenosha to see his father. Nor anything about his job or a possibility of his losing it. But he had been moody and depressed, and had admitted he owed a bundle to his bookie and was worried about it. She’d told him she had fifty bucks saved up and wanted to know if lending him that would help. He’d thanked her but said it would not, that it was a hell of a lot more than that.

No, she hadn’t heard from him since. And she made that convincing by admitting she was a bit hurt about it. Quite a bit, in fact. The least he could have done would have been to telephone her to say goodbye and he hadn’t even done that.

No, she had no idea where he might have gone, except that it would have been another big city—like New York or Los Angeles or San Francisco. He hated small towns. Or maybe Paris—Paris was the only specific place he’d ever talked about wanting to go to.

I considered that for a moment because it was the only specific place that had been mentioned thus far as a place he’d like to go. I asked Honey—we were Honey and Lissa and Ed by now—whether he spoke French. He didn’t, and I pretty well ruled Paris out. With only eight hundred bucks and little chance of getting a job there, it would be a silly place for him to go, however glamorous it might look to him. Besides, with a sudden change of identity that left him no provable antecedents, he’d have hell’s own time getting a passport.

No, I wasn’t going to learn anything helpful from Honey. Jerry Score, tomorrow, would be my last hope. And a slender one.

We’d finished eating by then and I suggested a brandy to top the dinner off. Honey agreed, but Lissa said she had to leave; she worked as hat check girl in a Loop hotel and her shift was from eight-thirty on. She’d just have time to make it.

Honey and I had brandies and, since I’d run out of questions to ask her, she started asking them of me. I saw no reason not to tell her anything I’d learned to date, so I started with Nielson’s phone call and went through my adventures of the day.

She looked at me a moment thoughtfully when I ran down, and smiled a bit mischievously. “Since you want to take a look at it, should we take a look together—at Albee’s pad?”

“You mean you have a key?”

She was fumbling in her purse. “Pair of keys. Outer door and room. Just hadn’t got around to throwing them away.” She found them and handed them to me, two keys fastened together with a loose loop of string.

It was a real break, a chance to see Albee’s pad and to have Honey see it with me. She’d be able to tell me how much of his stuff he’d taken, things like that. Besides, I could get in trouble using those keys by myself. But not if I was with Honey; if he’d given her keys he’d given her the legal right to use them, whether he was there or not. Even Mrs. Radcliffe couldn’t object to our going up there, not that we’d alert her if we could help it.

I bought us each a second brandy on the strength of those keys, then paid the tab and phoned for a taxi.

The landlady’s door stayed closed when we passed it, and we didn’t encounter anyone in the hallway or on the stairs. Albee’s room, No. 9, was the front one on the third floor.

The moment I turned on the light and looked around I saw why Tom Chudakoff had called it a “padded pad.” Except for a dresser there wasn’t a piece of furniture in sight, but the floor was padded almost wall to wall. In one corner was a mattress with bedding and a pillow. The rest of the floor was scattered with green pads, the kind used on patio furniture. In all sizes. You could sit almost anywhere, fall almost anywhere. Real cool.

At the far end a curtain on a string masked what was no doubt the kitchenette, at one side there were two doors, one no doubt leading to a John and the other to a closet.

Honey closed the door and was looking around. She pointed to a bare area of floor on which there was a small stack of LP phonograph records. “His portable phono’s gone. And part of his records. I’ll check the closet.”

She kicked off her shoes and started for one of the doors. I saw the point; it made sense to kick off your shoes in here. Then you could walk in a straight line; it didn’t matter whether you stepped on floor or padding. Luckily, I was wearing loafers and I stepped out of them and followed her.

She was looking into a closet behind the door she’d opened and I looked over her shoulder. There were some clothes hanging there, but not many.

“There were two suitcases in here, and a lot more clothes. He cleared out, all right. With his phonograph and as many clothes as he could get into the two suitcases. I think he probably went to Los Angeles.”

“Huh?” I said.

She pointed to one of the garments still in the closet. “His overcoat. He’d have taken that, even if he had to carry it over his arm, if he was going to New York. Or even San Francisco. It’s an almost new overcoat; he just got it last winter.”

“Why rule out Florida?” I asked.

“He told me he went there once and didn’t like it. And that was Miami, the nearest thing there to a big city. And he didn’t like the South, in general. Or Southerners, or Texans.”

I tried the dresser while she looked into the bathroom and reported his shaving things were gone. The top three drawers of the dresser were empty. There was dirty linen in the bottom drawer; he hadn’t had room for that. I ran my finger across the top of the dresser; there was at least a week’s accumulation of dust.

“Doesn’t seem to be any doubt he took off,” I said.

Honey was disappearing behind the curtain that screened off the kitchenette. I wondered what she was looking for there. Not food, surely, after the big dinner we’d just eaten.

Then she pulled back the curtain part way and grinned at me, holding up a bottle. “Anyway, he left us half a bottle of Scotch.”

“Going to take it along?”

“Not in the bottle,” she said. “I’ll find us glasses. Pick yourself a chair, man.”

I laughed and picked myself a pad.

And jumped almost out of my clothes when a buzzer buzzed. Someone had just pushed the button under Albee’s mailbox. I looked at Honey and she looked back, as startled as I was.

My first thought was to ignore it and then I realized that, as this was a front room, whoever was ringing would know that there was a light on, that someone was here.

I stood up quickly as it buzzed a second time. “I’ll handle it,” I told Honey. “Stay behind that curtain out of sight,” I told her. I found the button beside the door that would release the catch on the door downstairs and held it down a few seconds.

“If it’s someone you know,” I told Honey over my shoulder, “come on out. Otherwise stay there.”

It was probably, I told myself, some casual friend of Albee’s who, happening by, saw his light on. If that was the case, I could easily explain, identify myself, and get rid of him.

I stepped back into my loafers, for dignity, and waited.

When there was a knock on the door, I opened it.

I never really saw what he looked like. He stepped through the door the instant it opened and hit me once, with a fist like a piledriver, in the stomach. I hadn’t been set for it, and it bent me over double and knocked the wind out of me, all the wind. I couldn’t have spoken a word if my life depended upon it.

Luckily, it didn’t. He could have swung a second time, to my chin, and knocked me cold and I wouldn’t even have seen it coming. But he didn’t. He stepped back and said, quite pleasantly, “Red would like you to drop up and see him. I think you better.”

And he walked away. Honey was beside me by the time I could even start to straighten up. She was the one who closed the door. “Ed! Are you hurt?”

I couldn’t talk to tell her that I couldn’t talk and that that was a damn silly question anyway. She helped me to cross the room and to lie down on the mattress and she moved the pillow so it was under my head when I was able to straighten out enough to put my head down. She asked me if a drink would help and by that time I had enough breath back to tell her not yet, but if she wanted to help sooner than that she could hold my hand.

I’d been partly kidding, but she took me at my word, sat down on the edge of the mattress and held my hand. And maybe it did help; pretty soon I was breathing normally again and the acute phase of the pain had gone. I was going to have somewhat sore stomach muscles for several days.

What time I got home that night doesn’t matter, but Uncle Am was already asleep. He woke up, though, and wanted to know what gave, and I made with the highlights while I undressed. He frowned about the Kogan goon bit and wanted to know if I wanted to do anything about it. I said no, that obviously he hadn’t known Albee by sight and had made a natural mistake under the circumstances, and that what I’d got was no more than Albee would have had coming.

I said, “I’ll talk to this Jerry Score tomorrow, but I guess that’ll wind it up, unless I get a lead from him. Up to now, the only thing that puzzles me is why old man Nielson still thinks there’s a chance Albee didn’t do what he obviously did do.”

Uncle Am said, “Uh-huh. I didn’t set the alarm, kid. I got to sleep early enough so I’ll wake up in plenty of time. You sleep as late as you want to, since you can’t see Score till afternoon.”

I slept till ten. I was surprised when I got up to find a note from Uncle Am: “Ed, I’ve got a wild hunch that I want to get off my mind. I’m taking the car, and a run up to Kenosha. We won’t bill our client for it unless it pays off. See you this evening if not sooner.”

I puzzled about it a while and then decided to quit puzzling; I’d find out when Uncle Am got back. I took my time showering and dressing and left our room about eleven. I had a leisurely brunch and the morning paper and then it was noon. I phoned our office to see if by any chance Uncle Am was back or had phoned in; I got our answering service and learned there’d been no calls at all.

I went back to our room and read an hour and then it was time for me to leave if I wanted to get to the Graydon Theater at one-thirty. Rehearsal hadn’t started yet, but Jerry Score was back and Carey Evers introduced us. He’d already explained about me to Score, so I didn’t have to go through the routine.

He was a tall blond young man about my age or Albee’s. Maybe just a touch on the swish side but not objectionably so.

And quite likeable and friendly. He gave me a firm handshake and suggested we go into the manager’s office to talk. He wasn’t in the first scene they’d be rehearsing and had plenty of time.

The manager’s office contained only a battered desk, a file cabinet, and two chairs. He took one of the chairs and I sat on a corner of the desk.

His story matched what I’d learned from Honey and from everybody else. Yes, he was convinced Albee had taken a powder, and like Honey he was annoyed with Albee for not even having said so long before he took off.

I asked, “He didn’t even give you a hint when he gave you back the car keys that Saturday night?”

“I didn’t see him Saturday night. The last time I saw him was Saturday morning when he borrowed the car. He just dropped the keys into my mailbox when he brought it back.”

I said, “But Lieutenant Chudakoff said that you said—” And then realized Tom hadn’t said Score had seen Albee, just that Albee had returned the car keys.

I asked Score if he’d been home Saturday evening and he said yes, all evening. But that if I wondered why Albee had left the keys in the box instead of bringing them upstairs to him, the answer was simple. Since he’d decided to lam anyway he wanted to keep his get-away money intact, and he’d promised Jerry ten bucks for use of the car on the trip to Kenosha. If he’d seen him he’d have had to fork it over.

“The only thing that surprises me,” Score said, “is that the old man came up with the money for him. Albee hadn’t expected it, had made the Kenosha trip as a last desperate chance. I think now that he’d have blown town even without capital if the old man hadn’t come through. With a sudden stake, he just couldn’t resist it.”

I asked if he knew what had happened at the bookstore and Score said sure, Albee had told him. He’d been managing to drag down about ten bucks a week besides his salary all the time he had worked there. Just tried to drag a bit too deeply that Friday morning because he was desperate about his bookie bill, and got caught with his hand in the till.

Score shrugged. “He’ll land on his feet, wherever he went. He’s — — — Ever see a picture of him?”

He got up and went to the file cabinet. “We got some stills here.” He opened a drawer, hunted for and took out a file folder, handed me half a dozen eight-by-ten glossies, portrait shots. “Top one’s straight, others made up for roles he played. One of ‘em’s as King Lear; that’s the best role he ever played.”

Albee was a good-looking young man all right, but what struck me was his resemblance to his father. It was really strong, one case where neither of them or anybody else could ever have denied the relationship. The second shot showed him as a mustachioed pirate with a black eye patch, as villainous a character as ever stormed a poop deck, whatever a poop deck is. The third — — —

The photographs shook a little in my hand. Albee as King Lear, with lines of age in his face and wild gray hair and a wild gray beard. He didn’t look like his father in that shot; he was his father. Trim that beard. Instead of that gray wig, dye his own short hair. Let him talk like a Wisconsin farmer as, having known his father and being an actor, he certainly could do…

I made the motions of looking at the rest of the glossies and handed them back. I thanked Jerry Score and made my get-away.

I walked south and walked blindly except when I had to cross a street without getting run over. Of course Floyd Nielson hadn’t given away eight hundred dollars. Discount everything that Albee, as Floyd Nielson, had told us. Albee hadn’t expected to get the loan and hadn’t. But he’d learned his father had just sold the farm. Probably had all his money including the proceeds of the sale on hand, in cash. A fortune for a killing, whether it had been in cold blood or during a fight after a violent quarrel.

And then the fright and the planning. Establish that Albee had taken a powder, that his father was still alive and had gone west, where he’d gradually be lost track of. And if Albee showed up alive someday, somewhere, even came back to Chicago someday, so what? His father had been alive and looking for him long after Albee had gone. If his father’s body were never found, there’d never have been a murder, never be an investigation.

And Uncle Am, even without having seen the photographs I’d just seen, had guessed it before I had. Or at least had seen it as a possibility. Right now he was on the Nielson farm, looking to see if there was a place where a body could have been put where it would never be found. Not a grave; a grave gives itself away by sinking unless there’s someone around to keep it leveled off. But somewhere…

If I’d had any sense I’d have gone to the office to wait for Uncle Am. Even if he hadn’t found a body—and Albee could have disposed of it elsewhere than at the truck farm—we could prove a case, or let the cops prove it, just by pulling off Albee’s beard; it was two inches long and he couldn’t possibly have grown a real one in nine days.

But I didn’t have any sense because I was walking into the lobby of the Ideal Hotel. A medium priced hotel, the kind the real Floyd Nielson would have chosen. Albee was staying in character and—suddenly I saw the reason why Albee Nielson had used first Missing Persons and then us as cats’-paws; he himself had had to stay away from even pretending to hunt for Albee on his own; Honey, Score, probably even his landlady, would have recognized him, gray beard or no. Which was why, too, he’d taken a hotel south of the Loop instead of on the Near North Side. In person, he’d avoided the area completely, except for his brief visit to our office.

I asked the clerk if Mr. Nielson was in. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “I guess so; his key’s not in the box. Room two-fourteen.”

There was an elevator, but I didn’t wait for it; I walked up the stairs. I found 214 door and knocked on it. He opened it and said, “Oh, Mr. Hunter. Come in.” I went in and he closed the door and looked at me. “Well, find out anything about Albee?”

And I realized then, too late, that I hadn’t figured out what I was going to say or do. Give a tug on his beard? But I’d look, feel, and be too damn foolish if I was wrong, and I could be wrong.

I decided to toss out a feeler and see how he reacted to it.

I said, “The case isn’t closed yet, Mr. Nielson. Something new has come up. There’s a suspicion of murder.”

And as suddenly as I’d been hit in the gut last night, I was being strangled. His hands were around my throat. There are people who fight by lashing out with their fists and there are stranglers. He was a strangler. And his hands were strong. Like a steel vise.

I tried to pull them away with my own hands and couldn’t. Then, just in time, I remembered the trick for breaking a strangle hold taken from the front. You bring up your forearms inside his arms and jerk them apart. I tried it. It worked.

I took a step back quick while I had the chance, before he could grab me again. He didn’t know boxing. He put up his guard too high and I swung a right in under it that got him in the gut just like the goon’s swing last night got me. Maybe not as hard, but hard enough to bring his guard down. I feinted a left to keep them down and then put my right into his chin with all the weight of my body behind it, and he went down, out cold.

So cold that my first thought was to kneel beside him and make sure that his heart was still beating.

My second was the beard. It did not come off. And I bent down to study his face closely and saw that the age lines in it were etched and not drawn.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed sitting there for about nine hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. I gently massaged my neck where those strong hands had gripped it, and then I looked down at those strong hands and wondered how I could have been so blind as not to notice them the first time we’d talked to him. They were, even aside from their own indications of age, the muscled, hard, callused hands of a farmer, not the hands of a bookstore clerk. Uncle Am had always told me to look at people’s hands as well as their faces when I was sizing them up. I hadn’t even noticed Floyd Nielson’s hands.

He began to stir, and his eyes opened.

And there were footsteps in the hallway outside and a heavy knock on the door, a cop’s kind of knock. I called out, “Come in!”

The first one through was a cop I knew slightly, Lieutenant Guthrie of Homicide. The second man I didn’t know; I later learned he was a Kenosha County Sheriff’s deputy. The third man in was Uncle Am.

Nielson sat up.

Guthrie said, “Floyd Nielson, you are under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Albee Nielson. Anything-you-say-may-be-used-against-you.” He produced a pair of handcuffs.

Uncle Am winked at me. “Come on, kid. They won’t need us, not now anyway. We may have to testify later.”

I went with him. Outside he said, “You beat me to him, Ed, but damn it, you shouldn’t have tackled him alone.”

I said, “Yeah.”

“There’s a likely looking bar across the street. I think we’ve earned a drink. How’s about it?”

“Yeah,” I said.

We ordered drinks. Uncle Am said, “You gave me the idea, kid, when you said, last thing last night, that what puzzled you was that he wouldn’t just accept that Albee had taken it on the lam, go on to California and wait to hear from Albee if Albee ever chose to write. What he did was out of character, spending a full week in Chicago heckling first Missing Persons and then us. He just wanted it firmly established that Albee had taken a powder.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“With the hypothetical money. It would have been out of character for him to give Albee that money to begin with, and he didn’t. So they got into a fight over it and he killed Albee. That’s my guess, and if it was that, he could probably have got away with self-defense if he’d called the sheriff right away. But he wanted to play it cute.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So I guessed he’d have disposed of the body on the farm rather than risk moving it, so I went there. I looked around with the idea of where I’d put a body where it never would be found unless someone looked for it. A grave in the open was out. But there was a brand new cement floor in the tool shed. The new owner was surprised Nielson had gone to that trouble after he’d already sold the farm. So I called the sheriff and he brought men with picks.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“One thing puzzles me. How he got Albee to take Jerry’s car back to him and then return to the farm to be killed. That part doesn’t make sense.”

I said, “He brought the car back to Chicago himself Saturday evening, left it in front of Jerry’s and left the keys in Jerry’s mail box. He had the address on the car registration.”

“And then went back to Kenosha by bus or however, got his pickup truck and came to Chicago again to use Albee’s keys to raid his pad in the middle of the night. Sure. There were two suitcases and a portable phonograph under that cement, besides Albee. Well, kid, however you figured it out, you beat me to the answer.”

I said, “Uncle Am, I cannot tell a lie.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean it’s four o’clock. Let’s knock off as of now and have a night on the town. We’re due for one anyway.”

“Sure, kid, we’re overdue. But what’s that got to do with your not being able to tell a lie?”

I said, “I mean I need two more drinks before I can tell you the truth.”

“Then let’s have them right here and get it over with. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

And we ordered our second round, and then our third.

To Slay a Man About a Dog

PETER KIDD should have suspected the shaggy dog of something, right away. He got into trouble the first time he saw the animal. It was the first hour of the first day of Peter Kidd’s debut as a private investigator. Specifically, ten minutes after nine in the morning.

It had taken will power on the part of Peter Kidd to make himself show up a dignified ten minutes late at his own office that morning instead of displaying an unprofessional overenthusiasm by getting there an hour early. By now, he knew, the decorative secretary he had engaged would have the office open. He could make his entrance with quiet and decorum.

The meeting with the dog occurred in the downstairs hallway of the Wheeler Building, halfway between the street door and the elevator. It was entirely the fault of the shaggy dog, who tried to pass to Peter Kidd’s right, while the man who held the dog’s leash — a chubby little man with a bulbous red nose — tried to walk to the left. It didn’t work.

“Sorry,” said the man with the leash, as Peter Kidd stood still, then tried to step over the leash. That didn’t work, either, because the dog jumped up to try to lick Peter Kidd’s ear, raising the leash too high to be straddled, even by Peter’s long legs.

Peter raised a hand to rescue his shell-rimmed glasses, in imminent danger of being knocked off by the shaggy dog’s display of affection.

“Perhaps,” he said to the man with the leash, “you had better circumambulate me.”

“Huh?”

“Walk around me, I mean,” said Peter. “From the Latin, you know. Circum, around — ambulare, to walk. Parallel to circumnavigate, which means to sail around. From ambulare also comes the word ambulance — although an ambulance has nothing to do with walking. But that is because it came through the French hôpital ambulant, which actually means—”

“Sorry,” said the man with the leash. He had already circumambulated Peter Kidd, having started the procedure even before the meaning of the word had been explained to him.

“Quite all right,” said Peter.

“Down, Rover,” said the man with the leash. Regretfully, the shaggy dog desisted in its efforts to reach Peter’s ear and permitted him to move on to the elevator.

“Morning, Mr. Kidd,” said the elevator operator, with the deference due a new tenant who has been introduced as a personal friend of the owner of the building.

“Good morning,” said Peter. The elevator took him to the fifth, and top floor. The door clanged shut behind him and he walked with firm stride to the office door whereupon — with chaste circumspection — golden letters spelled out:

He opened the door and went in. Everything in the office looked shiny new, including the blonde stenographer behind the typewriter desk. She said, “Good morning, Mr. Kidd. Did you forget the letterheads you were going to pick up on the floor below?”

He shook his head. “Thought I’d look in first to see if there were any — ah—”

“Clients? Yes, there were two. But they didn’t wait.

They’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Peter Kidd’s eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. “Two? Already?”

“Yes. One was a pudgy-looking little man. Wouldn’t leave his name.”

“And the other?” asked Peter.

“A big shaggy dog,” said the blonde. “I got his name, though. It’s Rover. The man called him that. He tried to kiss me.”

“Eh?” said Peter Kidd.

“The dog, not the man. The man said ‘Down, Rover,’ so that’s how I know his name. The dog’s, not the man’s.”

Peter looked at her reprovingly. He said, “I’ll be back in five minutes,” and went down the stairs to the floor below.

The door of the Henderson Printery was open, and he walked in and stopped in surprise just inside the doorway. The pudgy man and the shaggy dog were standing at the counter. The man was talking to Mr. Henderson, the proprietor.

“—will be all right,” he was saying. “I’ll pick them up Wednesday afternoon, then. And the price is two-fifty?” He took a wallet from his pocket and opened it. There seemed to be about a dozen bills in it. He put one on the counter. “Afraid I have nothing smaller than a ten.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Asbury,” said Henderson, taking change from the register. “Your cards will be ready for you.”

Meanwhile, Peter walked to the counter also, a safe distance from the shaggy dog. From the opposite side of the barrier Peter was approached by a female employee of Mr.

Henderson. She smiled at him and said, “Your order is ready.

I’ll get it for you.”

She went to the back room and Peter edged along the counter, read, upside down, the name and address written on the order blank lying there: Robert Asbury, 633 Kenmore Street. The telephone number was BEacon 3-3434. The man and the dog, without noticing Peter Kidd this time, went on their way out of the door.

Henderson said, “Hullo, Mr. Kidd. The girl taking care of you?”

Peter nodded, and the girl came from the back room with his package. A sample letterhead was pasted on the outside.

He looked at it and said, “Nice work. Thanks.”

Back upstairs, Peter found the pudgy man sitting in the waiting room, still holding the shaggy dog’s leash.

The blonde said, “Mr. Kidd, this is Mr. Smith, the gentleman who wishes to see you. And Rover.”

The shaggy dog ran to the end of the leash, and Peter Kidd patted its head and allowed it to lick his hand. He said,

“Glad to know you, Mr. — ah — Smith?”

“Aloysius Smith,” said the little man. “I have a case I’d like you to handle for me.”

“Come into my private office, then, please, Mr. Smith.

Ah — you don t mind if my secretary takes notes of our conversation?”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Smith, trolling along at the end of the leash after the dog, which was following Peter Kidd into the inner office. Everyone but the shaggy dog took chairs.

The shaggy dog tried to climb up onto the desk, but was dissuaded.

“I understand,” said Mr. Smith, “that private detectives always ask a retainer. I—” He took the wallet from his pocket and began to take ten-dollar bills out of it. He took out ten of them and put them on the desk. “I — I hope a hundred dollars will be sufficient.”

“Ample,” said Peter Kidd. “What is it you wish me to do?”

The little man smiled deprecatingly. He said, “I’m not exactly sure. But I’m scared. Somebody has tried to kill me —twice. I want you to find the owner of this dog. I can’t just let it go, because it follows me now. I suppose I could — ah —take it to the pound or something, but maybe these people would keep on trying to kill me. And anyway, I’m curious.”

Peter Kidd took a deep breath. He said, “So am I. Can you put it a bit more succinctly?”

“Huh?”

“Succinctly,” said Peter Kidd patiently, “comes from the Latin word, succinctus, which is the past participle of succingere, the literal meaning of which is to gird up — but in this sense, it—”

“I knew I’d seen you before,” said the pudgy man.

“You’re the circumabulate guy. I didn’t get a good look at you then, but—”

“Circumambulate,” corrected Peter Kidd.

The blonde quit drawing pothooks and looked from one to another of them. “What was that word?” she asked.

Peter Kidd grinned. “Never mind, Miss Latham. I’ll explain later. Ah — Mr. Smith, I take it you are referring to the dog which is now with you. When and where did you acquire it — and how?”

“Yesterday, early afternoon. I found it on Vine Street near Eighth. It looked and acted lost and hungry. I took it home with me. Or rather, it followed me home once I’d spoken to it. It wasn’t until I’d fed it at home that I found the note tied to its collar.”

“You have that note with you?”

Mr. Smith grimaced. “Unfortunately, I threw it into the stove. It sounded so utterly silly, but I was afraid my wife would find it and get some ridiculous notion. You know how women are. It was just a little poem, and I remember every word of it. It was — uh — kind of silly, but—”

“What was it?”

The pudgy man cleared his throat. “It went like this:

“Alexander Pope,” said Peter Kidd.

“Eh? Oh, you mean Pope, the poet. You mean that’s something of his?”

“A parody on a bit of doggerel Alexander Pope wrote about two hundred years ago, to be engraved on the collar of the King’s favorite dog. Ah — if I recall rightly, it was:

The little man nodded. “I’d never heard it, but— Yes, it would be a parody all right. The original’s clever. ‘Whose dog are you?’ ” He chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “I thought my verse was funny, too, but last night—”

“Yes?”

“Somebody tried to kill me, twice. At least, I think so. I took a walk downtown, leaving the dog home, incidentally, and when I was crossing the street only a few blocks from home, an auto tried to hit me.”

“Sure it wasn’t accidental?”

“Well, the car actually swerved out of its way to get me, when I was only a step off the curb. I was able to jump back, by a split second and the car’s tires actually scraped the curb where I’d been standing. There was no other traffic, no reason for the car to swerve, except—”

“Could you identify the car? Did you get the number?”

“I was too startled. It was going too fast. By the time I got a look at it, it was almost a block away. All I know is that it was a sedan, dark blue or black. I don’t even know how many people were in it, if there was more than one. Of course, it might have been just a drunken driver. I thought so until, on my way home, somebody took a shot at me.

“I was walking past the mouth of a dark alley. I heard a noise and turned just in time to see the flash of the gun, about twenty or thirty yards down the alley. I don’t know by how much the bullet missed me — but it did. I ran the rest of the way home.”

“Couldn’t have been a backfire?”

“Absolutely not. The flash was at shoulder level above the ground, for one thing. Besides— No, I’m sure it was a shot.”

“There have never been any other attempts on your life, before this? You have no enemies?”

“No, to both questions, Mr. Kidd.”

Peter Kidd interlocked his long fingers and looked at him. “And just what do you want me to do?”

“Find out where the dog came from and take him back there. To — uh — take the dog off my hands meanwhile. To find what it’s all about.”

Peter Kidd nodded. “Very well, Mr. Smith. You gave my secretary your address and phone number?”

“My address, yes. But please don’t call me or write me. I don’t want my wife to know anything about this. She is very nervous, you know. I’d rather drop in after a few days to see you for a report. If you find it impossible to keep the dog, you can board it with a veterinary for some length of time.”

When the pudgy man had left, the blonde asked, “Shall I transcribe these notes I took, right away?”

Peter Kidd snapped his fingers at the shaggy dog. He said, “Never mind, Miss Latham. Won’t need them.”

“Aren’t you going to work on the case?”

“I have worked on the case,” said Peter. “It’s finished.”

The blonde’s eyes were big as saucers. “You mean—”

“Exactly.” said Peter Kidd. He rubbed the backs of the shaggy dog’s ears and the dog seemed to love it. “Our client’s right name is Robert Asbury, of six-thirty-three Kenmore Street, telephone Beacon three, three-four-three-four. He’s an actor by profession, and out of work. He did not find the dog, for the dog was given to him by one Sidney Wheeler who purchased the dog for that very purpose undoubtedly — who also provided the hundred-dollar fee. There’s no question of murder.”

Peter Kidd tried to look modest, but succeeded only in looking smug. After all, he’d solved his first case — such as it was — without leaving his office.

He was dead right, too, on all counts except one:

The shaggy dog murders had hardly started.

The little man with the bulbous nose went home — not to the address he had given Peter Kidd, but to the one he had given the printer to put on the cards he’d had engraved. His name, of course, was Robert Asbury and not Aloysius Smith. For all practical purposes, that is, his name was Robert Asbury. He had been born under the name of Herman Gilg. But a long time ago he’d changed it in the interests of euphony the first time he had trodden the boards; 633 Kenmore Street was a theatrical boardinghouse.

Robert Asbury entered, whistling. A little pile of mail on the hall table yielded two bills and a theatrical trade paper for him. He pocketed the bills unopened and was looking at the want ads in the trade paper when the door at the back of the hall opened.

Mr. Asbury closed the magazine hastily, smiled his most winning smile. He said, “Ah, Mrs. Drake.”

It was Hatchet-face herself, but she wasn’t frowning.

Must be in a good mood. Swell! The five-dollar bill he could give her on account would really tide him over. He took it from his wallet with a flourish.

“Permit me,” he said, “to make a slight payment on last week’s room and board, Mrs. Drake. Within a few days I shall—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Same old story, Mr.

Asbury, but maybe this time it’s true even if you don’t know it yet. Gentleman here to see you, and says it’s about a role.”

“Here? You mean he’s waiting in the—?”

“No, I had the parlor all tore up, cleaning. I told him he could wait in your room.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Drake.” He managed to walk, not run, to the stairway, and start the ascent with dignity. But who the devil would call to see him about a role?

There were dozens of producers any one of whom might phone him, but it couldn’t be a producer calling in person.

More likely some friend telling him where there was a spot he could try out for.

Even that would be a break. He’d felt it in his bones that having all that money in his wallet this morning had meant luck. A hundred and ten dollars! True, only ten of it was his own, and Lord, how it had hurt to hand out that hundred! But the ten meant five for his landlady and two and a half for the cards he absolutely had to have — you can’t send in your card to producers and agents unless you have cards to send in —and cigarette money for the balance. Funny job that was. The length some people will go to play a practical joke. But it was just a joke and nothing crooked, because this Sidney Wheeler was supposed to be a right guy, and after all, he owned that office building and a couple of others; probably a hundred bucks was like a dime to him. Maybe he’d want a follow-up on the hoax, another call at this Kidd’s office. That would be another easy ten bucks.

Funny guy, that Peter Kidd. Sure didn’t look like a detective; looked more like a college professor. But a good detective ought to be part actor and not look like a shamus.

This Kidd sure talked the part, too. Circum — am —Circumambulate, and — uh — succinctly. “Perhaps you had better circumambulate me succinctly.” Goofy! And that “from the Latin” stuff!

The door of his room was an inch ajar, and Mr. Asbury pushed it open, started through the doorway. Then he tried to stop and back out again.

There was a man sitting in the chair facing the doorway and only a few feet from it — the opening door had just cleared the man’s knees. Mr. Asbury didn’t know the man, didn’t want to know him. He disliked the man’s face at sight and disliked still more the fact that the man held a pistol with a long silencer on the barrel. The muzzle was aimed toward Mr. Asbury’s third vest button.

Mr. Asbury tried to stop too fast. He stumbled, which, under the circumstances, was particularly unfortunate. He threw out his hands to save himself. It must have looked to the man in the chair as though Mr. Asbury was attacking him, making a diving grab for the gun.

The man pulled the trigger.

“ ‘I am the dog of a murdered man,’ ” said the blonde. “ ‘Escape his fate, Sir, if you can.’ ” She looked up from her shorthand notebook. “I don’t get it.”

Peter Kidd smiled and looked at the shaggy dog, which had gone to sleep in the comfortable warmth of a patch of sunlight under the window.

“Purely a hoax,” said Peter Kidd. “I had a hunch Sid Wheeler would try to pull something of the sort. The hundred dollars is what makes me certain. That’s the amount Sid thinks he owes me.”

“Thinks he owes you?”

“Sid Wheeler and I went to college together. He was full of ideas for making money, even then. He worked out a scheme of printing special souvenir programs for intramural activities and selling advertising in them. He talked me into investing a hundred dollars with the understanding that we’d split the profits. That particular idea of his didn’t work and the money was lost.

“He insisted, though, that it was a debt, and after he began to be successful in real estate, he tried to persuade me to accept it. I refused, of course. I’d invested the money and I’d have shared the profits if there’d been any. It was my loss, not his.”

“And you think he hired this Mr. Smith — or Asbury—”

“Of course. Didn’t you see that the whole story was silly?

Why would anyone put a note like that on a dog’s collar and then try to kill the man who found the dog?”

“A maniac might, mightn’t he?”

“No. A homicidal maniac isn’t so devious. He just kills.

Besides, it was quite obvious that Mr. Asbury’s story was untrue. For one thing, the fact that he gave a false name is pretty fair proof in itself. For another he put the hundred dollars on the desk before he even explained what he wanted.

If it was his own hundred dollars, he wouldn’t have been so eager to part with it. He’d have asked me how much of a retainer I’d need.

“I’m only surprised Sid didn’t think of something more believable. He underrated me. Of all things — a lost shaggy dog.”

The blonde said, “Why not a shag— Oh, I think I know what you mean. There’s a shaggy dog story, isn’t there? Or something?”

Peter Kidd nodded. “The shaggy dog story, the archetype of all the esoteric jokes whose humor values lie in sheer nonsensicality. A New Yorker, who has just found a large white shaggy dog, reads in a New York paper an advertisement offering five hundred pounds sterling for the return of such a dog, giving an address in London. The New Yorker compares the markings given in the advertisement with those of the dog he has found and immediately takes the next boat to England. Arrived in London, he goes to the address given and knocks on the door. A man opens it. ‘You advertised for a lost dog,’ says the American, ‘a shaggy dog.’

‘Oh,’ says the Englishman coldly, ‘not so damn shaggy’…and he slams the door in the American’s face.”

The blonde giggled, then looked thoughtful. “Say, how did you know that fellow’s right name?”

Peter Kidd told her about the episode in the printing shop. He said, “Probably didn’t intend to go there when he left here, or he wouldn’t have taken the elevator downstairs first.

Undoubtedly he saw Henderson’s listing on the board in the lobby, remembered he needed cards, and took the elevator back up.”

The blonde sighed. “I suppose you’re right. What are you going to do about it?”

He looked thoughtful. “Return the money, of course. But maybe I can think of some way of turning the joke. After all, if I’d fallen for it, it would have been funny.”

The man who had just killed Robert Asbury didn’t think it was funny. He was scared and he was annoyed. He stood at the washstand in a corner of Asbury’s dingy little room, sponging away at the front of his coat with a soiled towel. The little guy had fallen right into his lap. Lucky, in one way, because he hadn’t thudded on the floor. Unlucky, in another way, because of the blood that had stained his coat. Blood on one’s clothes is to be deplored at any time. It is especially deplorable when one has just committed a murder.

He threw the towel down in disgust, then picked it up and began very systematically to wipe off the faucets, the bowl, the chair, and anything else upon which he might have left fingerprints.

A bit of cautious listening at the door convinced him that the hallway was empty. He let himself out, wiping first the inside knob and then the outside one, and tossing the dirty towel back into the room through the open transom.

He paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at his coat again. Not too bad — looked as though he’d spilled a drink down the front of it. The towel had taken out the color of blood, at least.

And the pistol, a fresh cartridge in it, was ready if needed, thrust through his belt, under his coat. The landlady— well, if he didn’t see her on the way out, he’d take a chance on her being able to identify him. He’d talked to her only a moment.

He went down the steps quietly and got through the front door without being heard. He walked rapidly, turning several corners, and then went into a drugstore which had an enclosed phone booth. He dialed a number.

He recognized the voice that answered. He said, “This is— me. I saw the guy. He didn’t have it…. Uh, no, couldn’t ask him. I — well, he won’t talk to anyone about it now, if you get what I mean.”

He listened, frowning. “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “Had to. He — uh — well, I had to. That’s all…. See Whee — the other guy? Yeah, guess that’s all we can do now. Unless we can find out what happened to — it… Yeah, nothing to lose now. I’ll go see him right away.”

Outside the drugstore, the killer looked himself over again. The sun was drying his coat and the stain hardly showed. Better not worry about it, he thought, until he was through with this business. Then he’d change clothes and throw this suit away.

He took an unnecessarily deep breath, like a man nerving himself up to something, and then started walking rapidly again. He went to an office in a building about ten blocks away.

“Mr. Wheeler?” the receptionist asked. “Yes, he’s in.

Who shall I say is calling?”

“He doesn’t know my name. But I want to see him about renting a property of his, an office.”

The receptionist nodded. “Go right in. He’s on the phone right now, but he’ll talk to you as soon as he’s finished.”

“Thanks, sister,” said the man with the stain on his coat.

He walked to the door marked Private — Sidney Wheeler, went through it, and closed it behind him.

Stretched out in the patch of sunlight by the window, the white shaggy dog slept peacefully. “Looks well fed,” said the blonde. “What are you going to do with him?” Peter Kidd said, “Give him back to Sid Wheeler, I suppose. And the hundred dollars, too, of course.”

He put the bills into an envelope, stuck the envelope into his pocket. He picked up the phone and gave the number of Sid Wheeler’s office. He asked for Sid.

He said, “Sid?”

“Speaking— Just a minute—”

He heard a noise like the receiver being put down on the desk, and waited. After a few minutes Peter said, “Hello,” tried again two minutes later, and then hung up his own receiver.

“What’s the matter?” asked the blonde.

“He forgot to come back to the phone.” Peter Kidd tapped his fingers on the desk. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“It would be letting him off too easily, merely to tell him that I’ve seen through the hoax. Somehow, I ought to be able to turn the tables, so to speak.”

“Ummm,” said the blonde. “Nice, but how?”

“Something in connection with the dog, of course. I’ll have to find out more about the dog’s antecedents, I fear.”

The blonde looked at the dog. “Are you sure it has antecedents? And if so, hadn’t you better call in a veterinary right away?”

Kidd frowned at her. “I must know whether he bought the dog at a pet shop, found it, got it from the pound, or whatever. Then I’ll have something to work on.”

“But how can you find that out without—? Oh, you’re going to see Mr. Asbury and ask him. Is that it?”

“That will be the easiest way, if he knows. And he probably does. Besides, I’ll need his help in reversing the hoax. He’ll know, too, whether Sid had planned a follow-up of his original visit.”

He stood up. “I’ll go there now. I’ll take the dog along.

He might need — he might have to— Ah — a bit of fresh air and exercise may do him good. Here, Rover, old boy.” He clipped the leash to the dog’s collar, started to the door. He turned. “Did you make a note of that number on Kenmore Street? It was six hundred something, but I’ve forgotten the rest of it.”

The blonde shook her head. “I made notes of the interview, but you told me that afterward. I didn’t write it down.”

“No matter. I’ll get it from the printer.” Henderson, the printer, wasn’t busy. His assistant was talking to Captain Burgoyne of the police, who was ordering tickets for a policemen’s benefit dance. Henderson came over to the other end of the railing to Peter Kidd. He looked down at the dog with a puzzled frown.

“Say,” he said, “didn’t I see that pooch about an hour ago, with someone else?”

Kidd nodded. “With a man named Asbury, who gave you an order for some cards. I wanted to ask you what his address is.”

“Sure, I’ll look it up. But what’s it all about? He lose the dog and you find it, or what?”

Kidd hesitated, remembered that Henderson knew Sid Wheeler. He told him the main details of the story, and the printer grinned appreciatively.

“And you want to make the gag backfire,” he chuckled.

“Swell. If I can help you, let me know. Just a minute and I’ll give you this Asbury’s address.”

He leafed a few sheets down from the top on the order spike. “Six-thirty-three Kenmore.” Peter Kidd thanked him and left.

A number of telephone poles later, he came to the corner of Sixth and Kenmore. The minute he turned that corner, he knew something was wrong. Nothing psychic about it —there was a crowd gathered in front of a brownstone house halfway down the block. A uniformed policeman at the bottom of the steps was keeping the crowd back. A police ambulance and other cars were at the curb in front.

Peter Kidd lengthened his stride until he reached the edge of the crowd. By that time he could see that the building was numbered 633. By that time the stretcher was coming out of the door. The body on the stretcher — and the fact that the blanket was pulled over the face showed that it was a dead body — was that of a short, pudgy person.

The beginning of a shiver started down the back of Peter Kidd’s neck. But it was a coincidence, of course. It had to be, he told himself, even if the dead man was Robert Asbury.

A dapper man with a baby face and cold eyes was running down the steps and pushing his way out through the crowd. Kidd recognized him as Wesley Powell of the Tribune.

He reached for Powell’s arm, asked, “What happened in there?”

Powell didn’t stop. He said, “Hi, Kidd. Drugstore —phone!”

He hurried off, but Peter Kidd turned and fell in step with him. He repeated his question. “Guy named Asbury, shot. Dead.”

“Who was it?”

“Dunno. Cops got description from landlady, though, the guy was waiting for him in his room when he came home less’n hour ago. Musta burned him down, lammed quick.

Landlady found corpse. Heard other guy leave and went up to ask Asbury about job — guy was supposed to see him about a job. Asbury an actor, Robert Asbury. Know him?”

“Met him once,” Kidd said. “Anything about a dog?”

Powell walked faster. “What you mean,” he demanded, “anything about a dog?”

“Uh — did Asbury have a dog?”

“Hello, no. You can’t keep a dog in a rooming house.

Nothing was said about a dog. Damn it, where’s a store or a tavern or any place with a phone in it?”

Kidd said, “I believe I remember a tavern being around the next corner.”

“Good.” Powell looked back, before turning the corner, to see if the police cars were still there, and then walked even faster. He dived into the tavern and Kidd followed him.

Powell said, “Two beers,” and hurried to the telephone on the wall.

Peter Kidd listened closely while the reporter gave the story to a rewrite man. He learned nothing new of any importance. The landlady’s name was Mrs. Belle Drake. The place was a theatrical boardinghouse. Asbury had been “at liberty” for several months.

Powell came back to the bar. He said, “What was that about a dog?” He wasn’t looking at Kidd, he was looking out into the street, over the low curtains in the window of the tavern.

Peter Kidd said, “Dog? Oh, this Asbury used to have a dog when I knew him. Just wondered if he still had it.”

Powell shook his head. He said, “That guy across the street — is he following you or me?”

Peter Kidd looked out the window. A tall, thin man stood well back in a doorway. He didn’t appear to be watching the tavern. Kidd said, “He’s no acquaintance of mine. What makes you think he’s following either of us?”

“He was standing in a doorway across the street from the house where the murder was. Noticed him when I came out of the door. Now he’s in a doorway over there. Maybe he’s just sight-seeing. Where’d you get the pooch?”

Peter Kidd glanced down at the shaggy dog. “Man gave him to me,” he said. “Rover, Mr. Powell. Powell, Rover.”

“I don’t believe it,” Powell said. “No dog is actually named Rover any more.”

“I know,” Peter Kidd agreed solemnly, “but the man who named him didn’t know. What about the fellow across the street?”

“We’ll find out. We go out and head in opposite directions. I head downtown, you head for the river. We’ll see which one of us he follows.”

When they left, Peter Kidd didn’t look around behind him for two blocks. Then he stopped, cupping his hands to light a cigarette and half turning as though to shield it from the wind.

The man wasn’t across the street. Kidd turned a little farther and saw why the tall man wasn’t across the street. He was directly behind, only a dozen steps away. He hadn’t stopped when Kidd stopped. He kept coming.

As the match burned his fingers, Peter Kidd remembered that these two blocks had been between warehouses. There was no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. He saw that the man had already unbuttoned his coat — which had a stain down one side of it. He was pulling a pistol out of his belt.

The pistol had a long silencer on it, obviously the reason why he’d carried it that way instead of in a holster or in a pocket. The pistol was already half out of the belt.

Kidd did the only thing that occurred to him. He let go the leash and said, “Sic him, Rover!”

The shaggy dog bounded forward and jumped up just as the tall man pulled the trigger. The gun pinged dully but the shot went wild. Peter Kidd had himself set by then, jumped forward after the dog. A silenced gun, he knew, fires only one shot. Between him and the dog, they should be able…

Only it didn’t work that way. The shaggy dog had bounded up indeed, but was now trying to lick the tall man’s face. The tall man, his nerve apparently having departed with the single cartridge in his gun, gave the dog a push and took to his heels. Peter Kidd fell over the dog. That was that. By the time Kidd untangled himself from dog and leash, the tall man was down an alley and out of sight.

Peter Kidd stood up. The dog was running in circles around him, barking joyously. It wanted to play some more.

Peter Kidd recovered the loop end of the leash and spoke bitterly. The shaggy dog wagged its tail.

They’d walked several blocks before it occurred to Kidd that he didn’t know where he was going. For that matter, he told himself, he didn’t really know where he’d been. It had been such a beautifully simple matter, before he’d left his office.

Except that if the shaggy dog hadn’t been the dog of a murdered man, it was one now. Except for that bullet having gone wild, his present custodian, one Peter Kidd, might be in a position to ask Mr. Aloysius Smith Robert Asbury just exactly what the devil it was all about.

It had been so beautifully simple, as a hoax. For a moment he tried to think that— But no, that was silly. The police department didn’t go in for hoaxes. Asbury had really been murdered.

“I am the dog of a murdered man… Escape his fate, Sir, if you can….”

Had Asbury actually found such a note and then been murdered? Had the man with the silenced gun been following Kidd because he’d recognized the dog? A nut, maybe, out to kill each successive possessor of the shaggy dog?

Had Asbury’s entire story been true — except for the phony name he’d given — and had he given a wrong name and address only because he’d been afraid?

But how to—? Of course. Ask Sid Wheeler. If Sid had originated the hoax and hired Asbury, then the murder was a coincidence — one hell of a whopping coincidence. Yes, they were bound for Sid Wheeler’s office. He knew that now, but they’d been walking in the wrong direction. He turned and started back, gradually lengthening his strides. A block later, it occurred to him it would be quicker to phone. At least to make certain Sid was in, not out collecting rents or something.

He stopped in the nearest drugstore and: “Mr. Wheeler,” said the feminine voice, “is not here. He was taken to the hospital an hour ago. This is his secretary speaking. If there is anything I can—”

“What’s the matter with Sid?” he demanded. There was a slight hesitation and he went on: “This is Peter Kidd, Miss Ames. You know me. What’s wrong?”

“He — he was shot. The police just left. They told me not to g-give out the story, but you’re a detective and a friend of his, so I guess it’s all ri—”

“How badly was he hurt?”

“They — they say he’ll get better, Mr. Kidd. The bullet went through his chest, but on the right side and didn’t touch his heart. He’s at Bethesda Hospital. You can find out more there than I can tell you. Except that he’s still unconscious —you won’t be able to see him yet.”

“How did it happen, Miss Ames?”

“A man I’d never seen before said he wanted to see Mr. Wheeler on business and I sent him into the inner office. Mr. Wheeler was talking on the phone to someone who’d just called— What was that, Mr. Kidd?”

Peter Kidd didn’t care to repeat it. He said, “Never mind.

Go on.”

“He was in there only a few seconds and came out and left, fast. I couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his mind so quick, and after he left I looked in and— Well, I thought Mr. Wheeler was dead. I guess the man thought so too, that is, if he meant to kill Mr. Wheeler, he could have easily — uh—”

“A silenced gun?”

“The police say it must have been, when I told them I hadn’t heard the shot.”

“What did the man look like?”

“Tall and thin, with a kind of sharp face. He had a light suit on. There was a slight stain of some kind on the front of the coat.”

“Miss Ames,” said Peter Kidd, “did Sid Wheeler buy or find a dog recently?”

“Why, yes, this morning. A big white shaggy one. He came in at eight o’clock and had the dog with him on a leash.

He said he’d bought it. He said it was to play a joke on somebody.”

“What happened next — about the dog?”

“He turned it over to a man who had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. A fat, funny-looking little man. He didn’t give his name. But he must have been in on the joke, whatever it was, because they were chuckling together when Mr. Wheeler walked to the door with him.”

“You know where he bought the dog? Anything more about it?”

“No, Mr. Kidd. He just said he bought it. And that it was for a joke.”

Looking dazed, Peter Kidd hung up the receiver.

Sid Wheeler, shot.

Outside the booth, the shaggy dog stood on its hind legs and pawed at the glass. Kidd stared at it. Sid Wheeler had bought a dog. Sid Wheeler had been shot with intent to kill.

Sid had given the dog to actor Asbury. Asbury had been murdered. Asbury had given the dog to him, Peter Kidd. And less than half an hour ago, an attempt had been made on his life.

The dog of a murdered man.

Well, there wasn’t any question now of telling the police.

Sid might have started this as a hoax, but a wheel had come off somewhere, and suddenly.

He’d phone the police right here and now. He dropped the dime and then — on a sudden hunch — dialed his own office number instead of that of headquarters. When the blonde’s voice answered, he started talking fast: “Peter Kidd, Miss Latham. I want you to close the office at once and go home. Right away, but be sure you’re not followed before you go there. If anyone seems to be following you, go to the police. Stay on busy streets meanwhile. Watch out particularly for a tall, thin man who has a stain on the front of his coat. Got that?”

“Yes, but — but the police are here, Mr. Kidd. There’s a Lieutenant West of Homicide here now, just came into the office asking for you. Do you still want me to—?”

Kidd sighed with relief. “No, it’s all right then. Tell him to wait. I’m only a few blocks away and will come there at once.”

He dropped another coin and called Bethesda Hospital.

Sid Wheeler was in serious, but not critical, condition. He was still unconscious and wouldn’t be able to have visitors for at least twenty-four hours.

He walked back to the Wheeler Building, slowly. The first faint glimmering of an idea was coming. But there were still a great many things that didn’t make any sense at all.

“Lieutenant West, Mr. Kidd,” said the blonde.

The big man nodded. “About a Robert Asbury, who was killed this morning. You knew him?”

“Not before this morning,” Kidd told him. “He came here — ostensibly — to offer me a case. The circumstances were very peculiar.”

“We found your name and the address of this office on a slip of paper in his pocket,” said West. “It wasn’t in his handwriting. Was it yours?”

“Probably it’s Sidney Wheeler’s handwriting, Lieutenant.

Sid sent him here, I have cause to believe. And you know that an attempt was made to kill Wheeler this morning?”

“The devil! Had a report on that, but we hadn’t connected it with the Asbury murder as yet.”

“And there was another murder attempt,” said Kidd.

“Upon me. That was why I phoned. Perhaps I’d better tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

The lieutenant’s eyes widened as he listened. From time to time he turned to look at the dog.

“And you say,” he said, when Kidd had finished, “that you have the money in an envelope in your pocket? May I see it?”

Peter Kidd handed over the envelope. West glanced inside it and then put it in his pocket. “Better take this along,” he said. “Give you a receipt if you want, but you’ve got a witness.” He glanced at the blonde.

“Give it to Wheeler,” Kidd told him. “Unless — maybe you’ve got the same idea I have. You must have, or you wouldn’t have wanted the money.”

“What idea’s that?”

“The dog,” said Peter Kidd, “might not have anything to do with all this at all. Today the dog was in the hands of three persons — Wheeler, Asbury, and myself. An attempt was made — successfully, I am glad to say, in only one case out of the three — to kill each of us. But the dog was merely the —ah — deus ex machina of a hoax that didn’t come off, or else came off too well. There’s something else involved — the money.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Kidd?”

“That the money was the object of the crimes, not the dog. That money was in the hands of Wheeler, Asbury, and myself, just as was the dog. The killer’s been trying to get that money back.”

“Back? How do you mean, back? I don’t get what you’re driving at, Mr. Kidd.”

“Not because it’s a hundred dollars. Because it isn’t.”

“You mean counterfeit? We can check that easy enough, but what makes you think so?”

“The fact,” said Peter Kidd, “that I can think of no other motive at all. No reasonable one, I mean. But postulate, for the sake of argument, that the money is counterfeit. That would, or could, explain everything. Suppose one of Sid Wheeler’s tenants is a counterfeiter.”

West frowned. “All right, suppose it.”

“Sid could have picked up the rent on his way to his office this morning. That’s how he makes most of his collections. Say the rent is a hundred dollars. Might have been slightly more or less — but by mistake, sheer mistake, he gets paid in counterfeit money instead of genuine.

“No counterfeiter — it is obvious — would ever dare give out his own product in such a manner that it would directly trace back to him. It’s — uh—”

“Shoved,” said West. “I know how they work.”

“But as it happened, Sid wasn’t banking the money. He needed a hundred to give to Asbury along with the dog.

And—”

He broke off abruptly and his eyes got wider. “Lord,” he said, “it’s obvious!”

“What’s obvious?” West growled.

“Everything. It all spells Henderson.”

“Huh?”

“Henderson, the job printer on the floor below this. He’s the only printer-engraver among Wheeler’s tenants, to begin with. And Asbury stopped in there this morning, on his way here. Asbury paid him for some cards out of a ten-dollar bill he got from Wheeler! Henderson saw the other tens in Asbury’s wallet when he opened it, knew that Asbury had the money he’d given Wheeler for the rent.

“So he sent his torpedo — the tall thin man — to see Asbury, and the torpedo kills Asbury and then finds the money is gone — he’s given it to me. So he goes and kills Sid Wheeler — or thinks he does — so the money can’t be traced back to him from wherever Asbury spent it.

“And then—” Peter Kidd grinned wryly — “I put myself on the spot by dropping into Henderson’s office to get Asbury’s address, and explaining to him what it’s all about, letting him know I have the money and know Asbury got it from Wheeler. I even tell him where I’m going — to Asbury’s.

So the torpedo waits for me there. It fits like a gl— Wait, I’ve got something that proves even better. This—”

As he spoke he was bending over and opening the second drawer of his desk. His hand went into it and came out with a short-barreled Police Positive.

“You will please raise your hands,” he said, hardly changing his voice. “And, Miss Latham, you will please phone for the police.”

“But how,” demanded the blonde, when the police had left, “did you guess that he wasn’t a real detective?”

“I didn’t,” said Peter Kidd, “until I was explaining things to him, and to myself at the same time. Then it occurred to me that the counterfeiting gang wouldn’t simply drop the whole thing because they’d missed me once, and — well, as it happens, I was right. If he’d been a real detective, I’d have been making a fool out of myself, of course, but if he wasn’t, I’d have been making a corpse out of myself, and that would be worse.”

“And me, too,” said the blonde. She shivered a little.

“He’d have had to kill both of us!”

Peter Kidd nodded gravely. “I think the police will find that Henderson is just the printer for the gang and the tall thin fellow is just a minion. The man who came here, I’d judge, was the real entrepreneur.”

“The what?”

“The manager of the business. From the Old French entreprendre, to undertake, which comes from the Latin inter plus pren—”

“You mean the bigshot,” said the blonde. She was opening a brand-new ledger. “Our first case. Credit entry —one hundred dollars counterfeit. Debit — given to police — one hundred dollars counterfeit. And — oh, yes, one shaggy dog. Is that a debit or a credit entry?”

“Debit,” said Peter Kidd.

The blonde wrote and then looked up. “How about the credit entry to balance it off? What’ll I put in the credit column?”

Peter Kidd looked at the dog and grinned. He said, “Just write in ‘Not so damn shaggy!’ ”

Life and Fire

MR. HENRY SMITH rang the doorbell. Then he stood looking at his reflection in the glass pane of the front door. A green shade was drawn down behind the glass and the reflection was quite clear.

It showed him a little man with gold-rimmed spectacles of the pince-nez variety, wearing a conservatively cut suit of banker’s gray.

Mr. Smith smiled genially at the reflection and the reflection smiled back at him. He noticed that the necktie knot of the little man in the glass was a quarter of an inch askew; he straightened his own tie and the reflection in the glass did the same thing.

Mr. Smith rang the bell a second time. Then he decided he would count up to fifty and that if no one answered by then, it would mean that no one was home. He’d counted up to seventeen when he heard footsteps on the porch steps behind him, and turned his head.

A loudly checkered suit was coming up the steps of the porch. The man inside the suit, Mr. Smith decided, must have walked around from beside or behind the house. For the house was out in the open, almost a mile from its nearest neighbor, and there was nowhere else that Checkered Suit could have come from.

Mr. Smith lifted his hat, revealing a bald spot only medium in size but very shiny. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Smith. I—”

“Lift ‘em,” commanded Checkered Suit grimly. He had a hand jammed into his right coat pocket.

“Huh?” There was utter blankness in the little man’s voice. “Lift what? I’m sorry, really, but I don’t—”

“Don’t stall,” said Checkered Suit. “Put up your mitts and then march on into the house.”

The little man with the gold pince-nez glasses smiled. he raised his hands shoulder-high, and gravely replaced his hat.

Checkered Suit had removed his hand halfway from his coat pocket and the heavy automatic it contained looked — from Mr. Smith’s point of view — like a small cannon.

“I’m sure there must be some mistake,” said Mr. Smith brightly, smiling doubtfully this time. “I am not a burglar, nor am I—”

“Shut up,” Checkered Suit said. “Lower one hand enough to turn the knob and go on in. It ain’t locked. But move slow.”

He followed Mr. Smith into the hallway.

A stocky man with unkempt black hair and a greasy face had been waiting just inside. He glowered at the little man and then spoke over the little man’s shoulder to Checkered Suit.

“What’s the idea bringing this guy in here?” he wanted to know.

“I think it’s the shamus we been watching out for, Boss. It says its name’s Smith.”

Greasy Face frowned, staring first at the little man with the pince-nez glasses and then at Checkered Suit.

“Hell,” he said. “That ain’t a dick. Lots of people named Smith. And would he use his right name?”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “You gentlemen,” he said, with only the slightest emphasis on the second word, “seem to be laboring under some misapprehension. I am Henry Smith, agent for the Phalanx Life and Fire Insurance Company. I have just been transferred to this territory and am making a routine canvass.

“We sell both major types of insurance, gentlemen, life and fire. And for the owner of the home, we have a combination policy that is a genuine innovation. If you will permit me the use of my hands, so I can take my rate book from my pocket, I should be very pleased to show you what we have to offer.”

Greasy Face’s glance was again wavering between the insurance agent and Checkered Suit. He said “Nuts” quite disgustedly.

Then his gaze fixed on the man with the gun, and his voice got louder. “You half-witted ape,” he said. “Ain’t you got eyes? Does this guy look like—?”

Checkered Suit’s voice was defensive. “How’d I know, Eddie?” he whined, and the insurance agent felt the pressure of the automatic against his back relax. “You told me we were on the lookout for this shamus Smith, and that he was a little guy. And he coulda disguised himself, couldn’t he? And if he did come, he wouldn’t be wearing his badge in sight or anything.”

Greasy Face grunted. “Okay, okay, you done it now.

We’ll have to wait until Joe gets back to be sure. Joe’s seen the Smith we got tipped was coining up here.”

The little man in the gold-rimmed glasses smiled more confidently now. “May I lower my arms?” he asked. “It’s quite uncomfortable to hold them this way.”

The stocky man nodded. He spoke to Checkered Suit,

“Run him over, though, just to make sure.”

Mr. Smith felt a hand reach around and tap his pockets lightly and expertly, first on one side of him and then on the other. He noticed wonderingly that the touch was so light he probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the stocky man’s remark had not led him to expect it.

“Okay,” said Checkered Suit’s voice behind him. “He’s clean, Boss. Guess I did pull a boner.”

The little man lowered his hands, and then took a black leather-bound notebook from the inside pocket of his banker’s-gray coat. It was a dog-eared rate book.

He thumbed over a few pages, and then looked up smiling. “I would deduce,” he said, “that the occupation in which you gentlemen engage — whatever it may be — is a hazardous one. I fear our company would not be interested in selling you the life insurance policies for that reason.

“But we sell both kinds of insurance, life and fire. Does one of you gentlemen own this house?”

Greasy Face looked at him incredulously. “Are you trying to kid us?” he asked.

Mr. Smith shook his head and the motion made his pince-nez glasses fall off and dangle on their black silk cord.

He put them back on and adjusted them carefully before he spoke.

“Of course,” he said earnestly, “it is true that the manner of my reception here was a bit unusual. But that is no reason why — if this house belongs to one of you and is not insured against fire — I should not try to interest you in a policy.

Your occupation, unless I should try to sell you life insurance, is none of my business and has nothing to do with insuring a house. Indeed, I understand that at one time our company had a large policy covering fire loss on a Florida mansion owned by a certain Mr. Capone who, a few years ago, was quite well known as—” Greasy Face said, “It ain’t our house.”

Mr. Smith replaced his rate book in his pocket regretfully. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said.

He was interrupted by a series of loud but dull thuds, coming from somewhere upstairs, as though someone was pounding frantically against a wall.

Checkered Suit stepped past Mr. Smith and started for the staircase. “Kessler’s got a hand or a foot loose,” he growled as he went past Greasy Face. “I’ll go—”

He caught the glare in Greasy Face’s eyes and was on the defensive again. “So what?” he asked. “We can’t let this guy go anyway, can we? Sure, it was my fault, but now he knows we’re watching for cops and that something’s up. And if we can’t let him go, what for should we be careful what we say?”

The little man’s eyes had snapped open wide behind the spectacles. The name Kessler had struck a responsive chord, and for the first time the little man realized that he himself was in grave danger. The newspapers had been full of the kidnaping of millionaire Jerome Kessler, who was being held for ransom. Mr. Smith had noted the accounts particularly, because his company, he knew, had a large policy on Mr. Kessler’s life.

But the face of Mr. Smith was impassive as Greasy Face swung round to look at him. He stepped quite close to him to peer into his face, the gesture of a nearsighted man.

Mr. Smith smiled at him. “I hope you’ll pardon me,” he said mildly, “but I can tell that you are in need of glasses. I know, because I used to be quite nearsighted myself. Until I got these glasses, I couldn’t tell a horse from an auto at twenty yards, although I could read quite well. I can recommend a good optometrist in Springfield who can—”

“Brother,” said Greasy Face, “if you’re putting on an act, don’t overdo it. If you ain’t—” He shook his head.

Mr. Smith smiled. He said deprecatingly, “You mustn’t mind me. I know I’m talkative by nature, but one has to be to sell insurance. If one isn’t that way by nature, he becomes that way, if you get what I mean. So I hope you won’t mind my—”

“Shut up.”

“Certainly. Do you mind if I sit down? I canvassed all the way out here from Springfield today, and I’m tired. Of course, I have a car, but—”

As he talked, he had seated himself in a chair at the side of the hall; now, before crossing his legs, he carefully adjusted a trouser leg so as not to spoil the crease.

Checkered Suit was coming down the stairs again. “He was kicking a wall,” he said. “I tied up his foot again.” He looked at Mr. Smith and then grinned at Greasy Face. “He sold you an insurance policy yet?”

The stocky man glowered back. “The next time you bring in—”

There were footsteps coming up the drive, and the stocky man whirled and put his eye to the crack between the shade of the door and the edge of its pane of glass. His right hand jerked a revolver from his hip pocket.

Then he relaxed and replaced the revolver. “It’s Joe,” he said over his shoulder to Checkered Suit. He opened the door as the footsteps sounded on the porch.

A tall man with dark eyes set deep into a cadaverous face came in. Almost at once those eyes fell on the little insurance agent, and he looked startled. “Who the hell—?” Greasy Face closed the door and locked it. “It’s an insurance agent, Joe.

Wanta buy a policy? Well, he won’t sell you one, because you’re in a hazardous occupation.” Joe whistled. “Does he know—?”

“He knows too much.” The stocky man jerked a thumb at the man in the checkered suit. “Bright Boy here even pops out with the name of the guy upstairs. But listen, Joe, his name’s Smith — this guy here, I mean. Look at him close. Could he be this Smith of the Feds, that we had a tip was in Springfield?”

The cadaverous-faced man glanced again at the insurance agent and grinned. “Not unless he shaved off twenty pounds weight and whittled his nose down an inch, it ain’t.”

“Thank you,” said the little man gravely. He stood up.

“And now that you have learned I am not who you thought I was, do you mind if I leave? I have a certain amount of this territory which I intend to cover by quitting time this evening.”

Checkered Suit put a hand against Mr. Smith’s chest and pushed him buck into the chair. He turned to the stocky man.

“Boss,” he said, “I think this little guy’s razzing us. Can I slug him one?”

“Hold it,” said the stocky man. He turned to Joe. “How’s about — what you were seeing about? Everything going okay?”

The tall man nodded. “Payoff’s tomorrow. It’s airtight.”

He shot a sidewise glance at the insurance agent. “We gonna have this guy on our hands until then? Let’s bump him off now.”

Mr. Smith’s eyes opened wide. “Bump?” he asked. “You mean murder me? But what on earth would you have to gain by killing me?”

Checkered Suit took the automatic out of his coat pocket.

“Now or tomorrow, Boss,” he asked. “What’s the diff?”

Greasy Face shook his head. “Keep your shirt on,” he replied. “We don’t want to have a stiff around, just in case.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “The question,” he said, “seems to be whether you kill me now or tomorrow. But why should the necessity of killing me arise at all? I may as well admit that I recognized Mr. Kessler’s name and have deduced that you are holding him here. But if you collect the ransom tomorrow for him, you can just move on and leave me tied up here. Or release me when you release him. Or—”

“Listen,” said Greasy Face, “you’re a nervy little guy and I’d let you go if I could, but you can identify us, see? The bulls would show you galleries and you’d spot our mugs and they’d know who we are. We’ve been photographed, see? We ain’t amateurs. But we’ll let you stick around till tomorrow if you’ll only shut up and—”

“But hasn’t Mr. Kessler seen you also?” The stocky man nodded. “He gets it, too,” he said calmly. “As soon as we’ve collected.”

Mr. Smith’s eyes were wide. “But that’s hardly fair, is it?

To collect a ransom with the agreement that you will release him, and then fail to keep your part of the contract? To say the least, it’s poor business. I thought that there was honor among—er — it will make people distrust you.”

Checkered Suit raised a clubbed revolver. “Boss,” he pleaded, “at least let me conk him one.”

Greasy Face shook his head. “You and Joe take him down to the cellar. Cuff him to that iron cot and he’ll be all right. Yeah, tap him one if he argues about it, but don’t kill him, yet.”

The little man rose with alacrity. “I assure you I shall not argue about it. I have no desire to be—”

Checkered Suit grabbed him by an arm and hustled him toward the cellar steps. Joe followed.

At the foot of the steps, Mr. Smith stopped so suddenly that Joe almost stepped on him. Mr. Smith pointed accusingly at a pile of red cans.

“Is that gasoline?” He peered closer. “Yes, I can see that it is, and smell that it is. Keeping cans of it like that in a place like that is a fire hazard, especially when one of the cans is leaking. Just look at the floor, will you? Wet with it.”

Checkered Suit yanked at his arm. Mr. Smith gave ground, still protesting. “A wooden floor, too! In all the houses I’ve examined when I’ve issued fire policies, I’ve never seen—

“Joe,” said Checkered Suit, “I’ll kill him if I sock him, and the boss’ll get mad. Got your sap?”

“Sap?” asked the little man. “That’s a new term, isn’t it?

What is a—?” Joe’s blackjack punctuated the sentence.

It was very dark when Mr. Smith opened his eyes. At first, it was a swirling, confused, and thunderous darkness.

But after a while it resolved itself into the everyday damp darkness of a cellar, and there was a little square of moonlight coming in at a window over his head. The thunder, too, resolved itself into nothing more startling than the sound of footsteps on the floor above.

His head ached badly, and Mr. Smith tried to raise his hands to it. One of them moved only an inch or two before there was a metallic clank, and the hand couldn’t be moved any farther. He explored with the hand that was free and found that his right hand was cuffed to the side of the metal cot with a heavy handcuff.

He found, too, that there was no mattress on the bed and that the bare metal springs were cold as well as uncomfortable.

Slowly and painfully at first, Mr. Smith raised himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and began to examine the possibilities of his situation.

His eyes were by now accustomed to the dimness. The metal cot was a very heavy one. Another one just like it stood on end against the wall at the head of the cot to which Mr. Smith was handcuffed. At first glance it appeared ready to crash down on Mr. Smith’s head, but he reached out his left hand and found that it stood there quite solidly.

He heard the cellar door open and footsteps starting down. A light flashed on back by the steps and another at a work bench on the opposite side of the cellar. Checkered Suit appeared, and crossed to the work bench. He glanced over toward the dark corner where Mr. Smith was, but Mr. Smith was lying quietly on the cot.

After a moment at the bench he went back up the stairs.

The two lights remained on.

Mr. Smith rose to a sitting position again, this time slowly so the springs of the cot would make no noise. Once erect, however, he went to work rapidly. What he was about to attempt was, he knew, a long-shot chance, but he had nothing to lose.

With his free hand he pushed and pulled at the iron cot leaning against the wall, first grasping the frame as high as he could reach, then as low. It was heavy and hard to shift, but finally he got it off balance, ready to topple over on his head if he had not held it back. Then he got it back on balance again, by a hair. He moved his hand away experimentally.

The cot stood, a sword of Damocles over his head.

Then lifting a foot up to the edge of the cot on which he sat, he took out the lace of one of his shoes. It wasn’t easy, with one hand, to tie an end of the shoelace to the frame of the upended cot, but he managed. Holding the other end of the shoelace, he lay down again.

He had worked more rapidly than had been necessary. It was a full ten minutes before Checkered Suit returned to the cellar.

Through slitted eyes, the insurance agent saw that he carried several objects — a cigar box, a clock, dry-cell batteries. He put them down on the bench and started to work.

“Making a bomb?” Mr. Smith asked pleasantly.

Checkered Suit turned around and glowered. “You talking again? Keep your lip buttoned, or I’ll—”

Mr. Smith did not seem to hear. “I take it you intend to plant the bomb near that pile of gasoline cans tomorrow?” he asked. “Yes, I can sec now that I was hasty in criticizing it as a fire hazard. It’s all in the point of view, of course. You want it to be a fire hazard. Seeing things from the point of view of an insurance man, I can hardly approve. But from your point of view, I can quite appreciate—”

“Shut up!” Checkered Suit’s voice was exasperated.

“I take it you intend to wait until you have collected the ransom money for Mr. Kessler, and then, leaving him and me in the house — probably already dead — you will set the little bomb and take your departure.”

“That sock Joe gave you should have lasted longer,” said Checkered Suit. “Want another?”

“Not particularly,” Mr. Smith replied. “In fact, my head still aches from the last one I had from that — did you call it a ‘sap’?” He sighed. “I fear my knowledge of the slang of the underworld to which you gentlemen belong is sadly lacking—”

Checkered Suit slammed the cigar box back on the bench and took the automatic from his pocket. Holding it by the barrel, he stalked across the cellar toward Mr. Smith.

The little man’s eyes appeared to be closed, but he rambled on, “It is rather a coincidence, isn’t it, that I should call here to sell insurance — life and fire — and that you should be so sadly ill-qualified to receive either one? Your occupation is definitely hazardous. And—”

Checkered Suit had reached the bed. He bent over and raised the clubbed pistol. But apparently the little man’s eyes hadn’t been closed. He jerked up his free hand to ward off the threatened blow, and the hand held the shoestring. The heavy metal cot, balanced on end, toppled and fell.

It had gained momentum by the time a corner of it struck the head of Checkered Suit. Quite sufficient momentum. Mr. Smith’s long-shot chance had come off. He said “Oof” as Checkered Suit fell across him and the cot came on down atop Checkered Suit.

But his left hand caught the automatic and kept it from clattering to the floor. As soon as he caught his breath, he wormed his hand, not without difficulty, between his own body and that of the gangster. In a vest pocket, he found a key that unlocked the handcuff.

He wriggled his way out, trying to do so quietly. But the upper of the two cots slipped and there was a clang of metal against metal.

There were footsteps overhead and Mr. Smith darted around behind the furnace as the cellar door opened. A voice— it seemed to be the voice of the man they had called Joe-called out, “Larry!” Then the footsteps started down the stairs.

Mr. Smith leaned around the furnace and pointed Checkered Suit’s automatic at the descending gangster. “You will please raise your hands,” he said. Then he noticed that smoke curled upward from a lighted cigarette in Joe’s right hand. “And be very careful of that—”

With an oath, the cadaverous-faced man reached for a shoulder holster. As he did so, the cigarette dropped from his hand.

Mr. Smith’s eyes didn’t follow the cigarette to the floor, for Joe’s revolver had leaped from its holster almost as though by magic and was spitting noise and fire at him. A bullet nicked the furnace near Mr. Smith’s head.

Mr. Smith pulled at the trigger of the automatic, but nothing happened. Desperately, he pulled harder. Still nothing—

At the foot of the staircase a sheet of bright flame, started by Joe’s dropped cigarette, flared upward from the wooden floor, saturated with gasoline from the leaky can.

The sheet of flame leaped for the stack of cans, found the hole in the leaky one. Mr. Smith had barely time to jerk his head back behind the furnace before the explosion came.

Even though he was shielded from its force, the concussion sent him sprawling back against the steps that led to the outer door of the cellar. Behind him, as he got to his feet, half the cellar was an inferno of flames. He couldn’t see Joe — or Checkered Suit.

He ran up the steps and tried the slanting outside cellar door. It seemed to be padlocked from the outside. But he could see where the hasp of the padlock was. He put the muzzle of the automatic against the door there, and tried the trigger again. He brought up his other hand and tried the gun with both hands. It wouldn’t fire.

He glanced behind him again. Flames filled almost the entire cellar. At first he thought he was hopelessly trapped.

Then through the smoke and flame he saw that there was an outside window only a few yards away, and a chair that would give him access to it.

Still clinging to the gun that wouldn’t shoot, he got the window open and climbed out. A sheet of flame, drawn by the draft of the opened window, followed him out into the night.

He paused only an instant for some cool air and a quick look, to be sure his clothing wasn’t afire, and then ran around the house and up onto the front porch. Already the fire was licking upward. Through the first-floor windows he could see its red glare.

He ran up onto the front porch. The gun that wouldn’t shoot came in handy to knock the glass, already cracked by explosion, out of the front door so he could reach in and turn the key.

As he went into the hallway, Mr. Smith heard the back door of the house slam, and surmised that Greasy Face was making his getaway. But Mr. Smith’s interests lay upstairs; he didn’t believe that the fleeing criminal would have untied his captive.

The staircase was ablaze, but still intact. Mr. Smith took a handkerchief from his pocket, held it tightly over his mouth and nose, and darted up through the flames.

The hallway on the second floor was swirling with smoke, but not yet afire. He stopped only long enough to beat out the little flame that was licking upward from one of his trouser cuffs, and then began to throw open the doors that led from the hallway.

In the center room on the left, just down the hallway from the stairs, a bound and gagged man was lying on a bed.

Hurriedly Mr. Smith took off the gag and began to work on the ropes that were knotted tightly about his feet and ankles.

“You’re Mr. Kessler?” he asked.

The gray-haired man took a deep breath and then nodded weakly. “Are you the police or—?”

Mr. Smith shook his head. “I’m an agent for the Phalanx Life and Fire Insurance Company, Mr. Kessler. I’ve got to get you out of here, because the house is burning down and we’ve got a big policy on your life. Two hundred thousand, isn’t it?”

The ropes at the wrists of the prisoner gave way. “You rub your wrists, Mr. Kessler,” said Mr. Smith, “to get back your circulation, while I untie your ankles. We’ll have to work fast to get out of here. I hope we haven’t a policy on this house, because there isn’t going to be a house here in another fifteen or twenty minutes.”

The final knots parted. Over the crackling of flames, Mr.

Smith heard the cough of an automobile’s engine. He ran to the open window and looked out, while Mr. Kessler stood up.

Through the windshield of the car nosing out of the garage behind the house, he could see the face of the leader of the trio of kidnapers. The driveway ran under the window.

“The last survivor of your three acquaintances is leaving us,” said Mr. Smith over his shoulder. “I think the police would appreciate it if we slowed down his departure.”

He picked up a heavy metal-based lamp from the bureau beside the window and jerked it loose from its cord.

As he leaned out of the window, the car, gathering speed, was almost directly below him. Mr. Smith poised the lamp and slammed it downward.

It struck the hood just in front of the windshield. There was the sound of breaking glass, and the car swerved into the side of the house and jammed tightly against it. One wheel kept on rolling, but the car itself didn’t.

Greasy Face came out of the car door, and there was a long red gash across his forehead from the broken glass. He squinted up at the window as he stepped back, then raised a revolver and fired. Mr. Smith ducked back as a bullet thudded into the house beside the window.

“Mr. Kessler,” he said, “I’m afraid I made a mistake. I should have permitted him to depart. We’ll have to leave by the other side of the house.”

Kessler was stamping his foot to help bring his cramped leg muscles back to normal. Mr. Smith ran past him and opened the door to the hallway. He staggered back and slammed it shut again as a sheet of flame burst in.

The room was thick with smoke now, and on the inside edge, flames were beginning to lick through the floorboards.

“The hallway is quite impassable,” said the insurance agent. “And I fear the stairs are gone by now, anyway. I fear we shall have to—” He coughed from the smoke and looked around. There was no other door.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “perhaps our friend has—”

Two shots, as he appeared at the window, told him that Greasy Face was still there. One of them went through the upper pane of the window, near the top.

Mr. Smith leaped to one side, then peered cautiously out again. The leader of the kidnapers stood, revolver in hand, twenty feet back from the house, beyond the wrecked car under the window. His face was twisted with anger.

“Come out and get it, damn you,” he yelled. “Or stay in there and sizzle.”

The gray-haired man was coughing violently now.

“What can we—?”

Mr. Smith took the automatic from his pocket and glanced at it regretfully. “If only this thing — Mr. Kessler, do you know how many bullets a revolver holds? He’s shot three times. And lie’s nearsighted. Maybe—”

“Six, most of them, I think. But—” The gray-haired man was gasping now. Mr. Smith took a deep breath and stepped to the window, started to climb through it. If he could get the kidnaper to empty his revolver, probably he could bluff him with the automatic that wouldn’t shoot.

The gun below him barked and a bullet thudded into the window sill. Another; he didn’t know where it landed. The third shot went just over his head as he let go and dropped to the top of the wrecked car.

He whirled, jumped to the grass. It was farther than he thought and he fell, but still clung to the automatic. He was flat on his face in the grass only a few steps from the kidnaper.

Greasy Face didn’t wait to reload. He clubbed the revolver and stepped in. Mr. Smith rolled over hastily, bringing the automatic up, held in both hands. “Raise your—”

His grip on the weapon was tight with desperation and one thumb chanced to touch and move the safety lever. The automatic roared so loudly and suddenly that the unexpected recoil knocked it out of the insurance agent’s hands.

But there was a look of surprise on the face of the stocky man, and there was a hole in his chest. He turned slowly as he fell, and Mr. Smith felt slightly ill to see that there was a hole, much larger, in the middle of the kidnaper’s back.

Mr. Smith rose a bit unsteadily and hurried back to the car to help Mr. Kessler down to the ground. Over the crackling roar of the flames they could now hear the wail of approaching sirens.

The gray-haired man glanced apprehensively at the fallen kidnaper. “Is he—?”

Mr. Smith nodded. “I didn’t mean to shoot — but I told them they were in a hazardous occupation. Someone must have seen the blaze and reported it. Some of those sirens sound like police cars. They’ll be glad to know you’re safe, Mr. Kessler. They’ve been—”

Five minutes later, the gray-haired man was surrounded by a ring of excited policemen. “Yes,” he was saying, “three of them. The insurance chap says the other two are dead in the cellar. Yes, he did it all. No, I don’t know his name yet but that reward—”

The police chief turned and crossed the grass toward the little man in the rumpled banker’s-gray suit and the gold-rimmed glasses. Outlined in the red glare of the blazing house, he was talking volubly to the fireman on the front end of the biggest hose.

“And because we sell both life and fire insurance, we have special consideration for firemen. So instead of charging higher rates for them, as most companies do, we offer a very special policy, with low premiums and double indemnities, and—”

The chief waited politely. At long last he turned to a grinning sergeant. “If that little guy ever gets through talking,” he said, “tell him about the reward and get his name.

I’ve got to get back to town before morning.”

Teacup Trouble

GOOD MORNING, Mr. Gupstein. My name is Wilson. Some of my friends around at police headquarters call me Slip Wilson; you know how those things get started.

You see, Mr. Gupstein, my regular lawyer gave me your name and suggested I see you if I needed anything while he was away. And I need legal advice.

No, my lawyer isn’t on vacation, or not exactly. He’s in jail, Mr. Gupstein.

But here’s what I want to know. I’ve got a diamond stickpin with a stone about the size of a flashlight bulb. I want to find out if I can make a deal for nearly what it’s worth or whether I’ll have to push it through a fence for whatever I can get. The difference ought to amount to maybe a couple of grand, Mr. Gupstein.

How’d I get it? Well, in a manner of speaking, Mr.

Gupstein, it was given to me by a teacup. But that’s hard for you to understand so maybe I’d better start farther back.

I first saw this guy in the elevator at Brandon’s. He was a big bozo, about six feet between the straps of his spats and the band of his derby. And big all over. He wasn’t over twenty-five years old either.

But what made me notice him was his glims. He had the biggest, softest baby-blue eyes I ever saw. Honest, they made him look like a cherub out of a stained-glass window. I guess I mean a cherub — you know, one of those plump little brats with wings sprouting from behind the ears?

No, Mr. Gupstein, he didn’t have wings from behind his ears. I just mean he had that kind of eyes and that kind of a look in his face.

We both got off at the main floor, and I happened to reach into my pocket for a fag. And they weren’t there. I’d just put my cigarette case in that pocket when I’d got in the elevator, too. So I quick dived a hand into my inside pocket.

Yeah, my billfold was gone too.

I don’t know whether you can imagine just how that made me feel, Mr. Gupstein. Me, Slip Wilson, being picked clean like a visiting fireman! I hadn’t even been bumped into, either, and the elevator hadn’t been crowded. And I’d thought I was good!

Huh? Yeah, Mr. Gupstein, that’s my profession. Until I got out of that elevator, I thought I was the best leather-goods worker this side of the Hudson Tunnel. You can figure how I felt. Me, Slip Wilson, picked cleaner than a mackerel in a home for undernourished cats.

Well, I took a quick gander around and I spotted my companion of the elevator ride disappearing through the door to the street. I hightailed after him.

A block farther on, where it wasn’t so crowded, I caught up and asked him for a match. I’d forgotten for the moment that my cigarettes were gone and I didn’t have anything to light with it, but he didn’t seem to notice the difference.

I made a crack about the weather, and since we seemed to be going in the same direction, friendship ripened into thirst and I asked him to stop in at a tavern for a drink.

He paid for it, too, out of a wallet that needed reducing exercises. We agreed that the Scotch was lousy, so I invited him around to my apartment so I could show him the merits of my favorite brand. Funny, but we seemed to hit it off together from the start like bacon and eggs.

When we got there, he flops into my favorite chair, nearly breaking the springs, and makes himself at home.

“I say, old chap,” he says. “We haven’t introduced ourselves. My name is Cadwallader Van Aylslea.”

Well, Mr. Gupstein, you’ve heard of the Van Aylsleas; they own half this island and have a mortgage on more. Every time Old Man Van Aylslea stubs his toe getting out of bed after breakfast, the market drops ten points.

So I grinned sarcastic at him. “Glad to know you, Cadwallader,” I said. “I’m the Rajah of Rangoon.”

Without batting an eye, he pipes up that he’s glad to know me and how are things in my native land. For the first time, Mr. Gupstein, I began to suspect.

I’d been looking right into those baby-blue glims, and I could see he wasn’t spoofing. He took himself at face value and he took me that way too. And I began to add up a few other little things he’d said, and I saw he was off his trolley.

But trolley or no, I wanted my money back. So I sort of accidentally got a couple of kayo drops tangled in his next Scotch. And I steered clear of doubtful topics of conversation until he leaned back in the chair and blinked a few times, and then closed his eyes and exposed his tonsils to the afternoon breeze.

I waited a few minutes to be sure, and then I put everything in his pockets into a neat little pile on the table.

Listen, Mr. Gupstein. There were seven billfolds, four of them fat ones. There were five watches, my cigarette case, and an assortment of junk ranging from a pair of pink garters to a bag of glass marbles. Not mentioning jewelry.

The billfolds added up to almost a grand, and what of the other stuff was valuable would have brought half of that from any fence this side of Maiden Lane.

To top it off there is a rock in his cravat that looks to be worth ten times all the rest of the haul put together. I’d noticed it before, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be the McCoy. But when I looked at it close, you could have knocked me down with a busted flush. It wasn’t just a diamond, Mr. Gupstein. It was blue-white and flawless.

I put it with the rest and sat there looking at the pile goggle-eyed. If that was one day’s haul, he was one of the seven wonders of the Bronx.

And all I had to do was let him sleep. All I had to do was wrap up my toothbrush, fill my pockets with the dough and the jewelry on the table, and head for Bermuda. With a grand in cash to buy pancakes until I could get a market for the rock.

All I had to do was blow. And I didn’t.

I guess curiosity has hooked better guys than me, Mr.

Gupstein. I wanted to know what it was all about. I had a roscoe that I never carried, and I got it out of mothballs, looked to the priming, and sat down. I was determined to find out who and what he was, and damn the torpedoes.

I guess his big bulk helped him to throw off the shut-eye-juice sooner than most. It wasn’t but an hour before he sat up and opened his eyes and began to rub his forehead.

“Funny,” he muttered. “Sorry, but I must have dropped off. Horribly rude.”

Then he lamped the pile of boodle on the table, and I tightened the grip of my roscoe. But he merely blinked.

“Where’d all this stuff come from, Rajah?” His voice sounded as puzzled as his eyes looked. “Why, some of it is mine.” He reached over and picked up the fattest wallet, the diamond tiepin, and a few other trifles.

“It came out of your pockets, my fine-feathered friend,” I assured him. “Before that, it seems to have come from a number of places.”

He sighed. Then he looked at me like a dog that knows it needs a beating. “All right, Rajah,” he said. “I may as well admit it. I’m a kleptomaniac. I take things and don’t even know it. That’s why I’m not allowed out at home. This morning I got away from them.”

The eyes had me again. He was telling the truth, and he looked like a kid that expected to be told to go sit in a corner.

And if that was true…

I sat up suddenly. An electric light seemed to be turned on inside my head. “Let me see that wallet you say is yours,” I barked at him.

He handed it over like a lamb. I looked at the identification. Yes, Mr. Gupstein. Cadwallader Van Aylslea.

Plenty of identification to prove it.

“Listen, Rajah,” he was begging. “Don’t send me back.

They keep me a prisoner there. Let me stay here with you for a while anyway before I go back.”

By that time I was pacing up and down the room. I had an idea, and my idea was having pups.

I looked at him for a long minute before I opened up.

“Listen, Cadwallader,” I told him, “I’ll let you stay here on a few terms. One is that you never go out unless we go together. If you happen to pinch anything, I’ll take care of it and see that it goes back where it belongs. I’m a whiz at telling where things like that belong, Cadwallader.”

“Gee, that’s swell of you. I—”

“And another thing,” I went on. “If and when you’re found by your folks, you’ll never mention me. You’ll tell them you don’t remember where you’ve been. Same goes; for cops.

Okay?”

He wrung my hand so hard I thought I’d lose a finger.

I took all the stuff from the table, except what he said was his, out to the kitchen. I put all the currency in my own billfold, and put the empties and the junk in the incinerator. I put the jewelry where I usually keep stuff like that.

All in all, it was still nearly a thousand bucks. And he’d collected it in a couple of hours or so, I figured. I began to add figures and count unhatched chickens until I got dizzy.

“Cadwallader,” I said, when I came back to the living room. “I’ve got an errand downtown. Want to come with me?”

He did. Until almost dark I led him through crowded stores and gave him every chance; to acquit himself nobly.

And I kept him clear of counters where he might fill valuable space in his pockets with cheap junk.

It was something of a shock when I got in the taxi to take him back home with me, to discover my wallet was gone again. So were my cigarettes, but I had enough change loose in a trouser pocket to pay the cab.

I grinned to myself, Mr. Gupstein, but it was a grin of chagrin. Twice in one day I’d been robbed and hadn’t known it.

“Now, Cadwallader, my boy,” I said when we were safely in my apartment, “I’ll trouble you for my leather back, and if by any chance you collared anything else, give it to me and I’ll see that it is all returned where it belongs.”

He began to feel in his pockets and an embarrassed look spread over his face. He smiled but it was a sickly-looking smile.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got your wallet, Rajah,” he said after he’d felt all around. “If you say it’s gone, I must have taken it on the way downtown, but I haven’t it now.”

I remembered all the sugar in that billfold, and, Mr.

Gupstein, I must have let out a howl that could have been heard on Staten Island if it had been a clear night. I forgot he was more than twice my size, and I stepped right up and frisked him and I didn’t miss a bet.

Then I did it again. Every pocket was as empty as an alderman’s cigar box the day after election. I didn’t believe it, but there it was.

I pushed him back into a chair. I thought of getting my roscoe but I didn’t think I’d need it. I felt mad enough to peel the hide off a tiger bare-handed.

“What’s the gag?” I demanded. “Talk fast.”

He looked like a four-year-old caught with a jam pot.

“Sometimes, Rajah, but not often, my kleptomania works sort of backward. I put things from my own pockets in other people’s. It’s something I’ve done only a few times, but this must have been one of them. I’m awfully sorry.”

I sighed and sat down. I looked at him, and I guess I wasn’t mad any longer. It wasn’t his fault. He was telling the truth; I could see that with half an eye. And I could see, too, that he was just about three times as far off his rocker as I’d given him credit for.

Still and all, Mr. Gupstein, I still liked the guy. I began to wonder if I was getting mushy above the eyebrows myself.

Oh well, I thought, I can get the dough back by taking him out a few more times. He’d said his kleptomania didn’t go into reverse often. And if I’d start out broke each time, it couldn’t do any harm.

So that was that, but after I’d counted all those chickens it was a discouraging evening. You can see that, Mr. Gupstein. I got out a deck of cards and taught him how to play cribbage and he beat me every game until I began to get bored. I decided to pump him a bit.

“Listen, Cadwallader,” I began.

“Cadwallader?” he pops back. “That isn’t my name.” It caught me off guard. “Huh?” says I. “You’re Cadwallader Van Aylslea!”

“Who’s he? I fear there is a mistake of identity.”

He was sitting up straight, looking very intently at me, and his right hand had slid between the third and fourth buttons of his shirt. I should have guessed, of course, but I didn’t.

But I decided to humor him. “Who are you, then?”

A shrewd look came into his eyes as he swept back from his forehead a lock of hair that wasn’t there. “It escapes me for the moment,” he temporized. “But no, I shall not lie to you, my friend. I remember, of course, but it is best that I remain incognito.”

I began to wonder if I’d bit off more than I could handle.

I wondered if he had these spells often, and if so, how I should handle him.

“For all of me,” I said a bit disgustedly, “you can remain anything you want. I’m going out for a paper.”

It was time for the morning papers to be out, eleven-thirty, and I wanted to see if any mention was made of a search for a missing nut from the Van Aylslea tree. There wasn’t.

I hate to tell you about the next morning, Mr. Gupstein.

When I woke up, there was Cadwallader standing in his undershirt looking out of the window. His right hand was thrust inside his undershirt and he had a carefully coiled spitcurl on his forehead. When he heard me sit up in bed, he turned majestically.

“My good friend,” he said, “I have thought it over and I’ve decided that I may cast aside anonymity and reveal to you in confidence my true identity.”

Yeah, Mr. Gupstein, you guessed it. Why do so many nuts think they are Napoleon? Why don’t some of them pick on Eddie Cantor or Mussolini?

I didn’t know, and of course it would have been useless to ask him, whether this delusion was something temporary that he’d been through before, or whether it was here to stay.

I got dressed quick and after breakfast I locked him in to keep him safe from English spies, and I went out and sat in the park to think.

I could, of course, take him out and lose him somewhere and wash my hands of the matter. The cops would pick him up and he’d tell them he’d been staying with the Rajah of Rangoon, if he told them anything even that lucid. Stuff like that goes over big at headquarters.

But I didn’t want to do that, Mr. Gupstein. Funny as it sounds, I liked the guy, and I had a hunch that if he had right treatment he’d get over this stage and go back to good old kleptomania. And he belonged there, Mr. Gupstein. It would be a shame for technique like his to go to waste.

And I remembered, too, that if I could get him back to normal, such as normal was, I could clean up enough in a week or two to retire. As it was, I was out a couple of hundred bucks of my own dough.

Then I had my big idea. You can’t argue with a nut. Or maybe you can, Mr. Gupstein, because you’re a lawyer, but I couldn’t. But my idea was this: How could two guys both be Napoleon? If you put two Napoleons in the same cell, wouldn’t one of them outtalk the other? And wouldn’t the guy who had the delusion longest be the best talker?

I went around to the bank and drew some dough and then I hunted up a private sanitarium and a bit of fast talking got me an audience in private with the head cheese.

“Have you got any Napoleons here?” I asked him.

“Three of them,” he admitted, looking me over like he was wondering if I’d dispute their claims to that identity.

“Why?”

I leaned forward confidentially. “I have a very dear friend who has the same delusion. I think if he were shut up with another guy who has prior claim on the same idea, he might be talked out of it. They can’t both be Napoleon, you know.”

“Such a procedure,” he said, “would be against medical ethics. We couldn’t possibly—”

I took a roll of bills from my pocket and held them under his nose. “A hundred dollars,” I suggested, “for a three-day trial; win, lose, or draw.”

He looked offended. He opened his mouth to turn me down, but I could see his eyes on the frogskins.

“Plus, of course,” I added, “the regular sanitarium fees for the three days. The hundred dollars as an honorarium to you personally for taking an interest in the experiment.”

“It couldn’t possibly—” he began, and looked at me expectantly to see if I was going to cut in and raise the ante. I stood pat; that was all I wanted to invest. There was silence while I kept holding the bills out toward him.

“—do any harm,” he concluded, taking the money. “Can you bring your friend today?”

Cadwallader was under the bed when I got home. He said the spies had been closing in on the apartment. It took a lot of fast talking to get him out. I had to go and buy him a false mustache and colored glasses for a disguise. And I pulled the shades down in the taxi that took us to the sanitarium.

It took all my curiosity-tortured will power, Mr.

Gupstein, to wait the full three days, but I did it.

When I was shown into his office, the doctor looked up sadly.

“I fear the experiment was a dismal failure,” he admitted.

“I warned you. The patient still has paranoia.”

“I don’t give three shrieks in Hollywood if he still has pyorrhea,” I came back. “Does he or does he not still think he’s Napoleon?”

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t. Come on, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

We went upstairs and the doc waited outside while I went into the room to talk to Cadwallader.

The other Napoleon had already been moved on.

My blue-eyed wonder was lying on a bed with his head in his mitts, but he sprang up with delight when he saw me.

“Rajah, old pal,” he asked eagerly. “Have you a saucer?”

“A saucer?” I looked at him in bewilderment.

“A saucer.”

“What do you want with a saucer?”

The beginning wasn’t promising, but I plowed on. There was one thing interested me most.

“Are you Napoleon Bonaparte?” I asked him.

He looked surprised. “Me?”

I was getting fed up. “Yes, you,” I told him.

He didn’t answer, and I could see that his mind, what there was of it, wasn’t on the conversation. His eyes were roving around the room.

“What are you looking for?” I demanded.

“A saucer.”

“A saucer?”

“Sure. A saucer.”

The conversation was getting out of hand. “What on earth do you want with a saucer?”

So I can sit down, of course.”

“Huh?” I asked, startled.

“Naturally,” he replied. “Can’t you see that I’m a teacup?”

I gulped, and turned sadly to the door. Then for a moment he seemed to gather shreds of his sanity together. “I say, Rajah,” he piped up. I turned.

“If I don’t see you again, Rajah, I want you to have something to remember me by.” He reached for his tie and pulled out the stickpin with the rock the size of a postage stamp. I’d forgotten about it, no kidding. He handed it to me, and I thanked him. And I meant it.

“You’ll come again, though?” he asked wistfully.

“Sure I will, Cadwallader.” I turned to the door again.

Darned if I didn’t want to bawl, Mr. Gupstein.

I told the doctor he’d be sent for, and got out of the sanitarium safely. Then I looked the sparkler over carefully again, and I decided it’s worth at least five G’s. So I’ll come out ahead on the deal as soon as I cash in on it.

First, I was going to appraise the stone, so I trotted into one of the ritziest shops in town. I knew I’d have to pick an expensive joint to flash a rock that size without arousing too much suspicion.

There was only one clerk behind the counter and another customer was ahead of me. I began to look around, but when I caught part of the conversation, I froze.

“… and since then,” the clerk was saying, “you haven’t heard a word from or about your brother, Mr. Van Aylslea?”

The customer shook his head. “Not a word. We’re keeping it from the press, of course.”

I took a close look. The bloke was older and not so heavy, but I could see he resembled my kleptomaniac teacup.

So as quietly as though I was walking on eggs, I eased out of the shop. But I waited outside. I figured I might do Cadwallader a final favor. When Van Aylslea came out, I buttonholed him.

“Mr. Van Aylslea,” I whispered. “I’m Operative Fifty-three. Your brother is at Bide-a-Wee Sanitarium.”

His face lighted up, and he shook my hand and patted my shoulder like a long-lost brother. “I’ll get him right away,” he said.

“Better stop for a saucer,” I called after him as his car started, but I guess he didn’t hear me.

I drifted on. If that stone had belonged to the Van Aylsleas and if they traded at that particular shop, they might recognize it, so I figured I’d had a narrow squeak.

It occurred to me that it had been in my tie when I talked to Cadwallader’s brother, which had been a foolish chance to take, but I guess he didn’t notice it. He was too excited.

Well, that takes me up to a few minutes ago, Mr. Gupstein. I decided to skip the appraisal and come right to you for advice.

Are you willing to approach the Van Aylsleas for me and find out if they want to offer a reward for the rock? I understand, Mr. Gupstein, that you have handled deals like that very successfully, and I’d rather not risk trying to peddle it if they offer a good reward.

And the Van Aylslea guy I just left looked like a reasonable guy who—

Huh? You say you know the family and that the brother is almost as batty as Cadwallader, and that he’s a klepto too, at times?

Nix, Mr. Gupstein, you can’t make me believe that he’s slicker than his brother with the finger-work. That’s impossible. Mr. Gupstein. Nobody could be smoother than—

Oh, well, let’s not worry about that. The point is, are you willing to handle the deal for me?

The stickpin? Why, it’s right here in my tie, of course, where it’s been ever since…

Huh?

… Well, Mr. Gupstein, I’m sorry I took up your time.

But this decides me, Mr. Gupstein. When two amateur dips give me a cleaning the same week, I’m through.

I’ve got a brother-in-law who’s a bookie and wants to give me a good, honest job. And I’m taking it. I’ve lifted my last leather.

You’re darned right I mean it, Mr. Gupstein. And to prove it, here’s your billfold back. So long, Mr. Gupstein.

The Hat Trick

IN A sense, the thing never happened. Actually, it would not have happened had not a thundershower been at its height when the four of them came out of the movie.

It had been a horror picture. A really horrible one—not trapdoor claptrap, but a subtle, insidious thing that made the rain-laden night air seem clean and sweet and welcome. To three of them. The fourth—

They stood under the marquee, and Mae said, “Gee, gang, what do we do now, swim or take taxis?” Mae was a cute little blonde with a turned-up nose, the better for smelling the perfumes she sold across a department-store counter.

Elsie turned to the two boys and said, “Let’s all go up to my studio for a while. It’s early yet.” The faint emphasis on the word “studio” was the snapper. Elsie had had the studio for only a week, and the novelty of living in a studio instead of a furnished room made her feel proud and Bohemian and a little wicked. She wouldn’t, of course, have invited Walter up alone, but as long as there were two couples of them, it would be all right.

Bob said, “Swell. Listen. Wally, you hold this cab. I’ll run down and get some wine. You girls like port?”

Walter and the girls took the cab while Bob talked the bartender, whom he knew slightly, into selling a fifth of wine after legal hours. He came running back with it and they were off to Elsie’s.

Mae, in the cab, got to thinking about the horror picture again; she’d almost made them walk out on it. She shivered, and Bob put his arm around her protectively. “Forget it, Mae.” he said. “Just a picture. Nothing like that ever happens, really.”

“If it did—” Walter began, and then stopped abruptly.

Bob looked at him and said, “If it did, what?”

Walter’s voice was a bit apologetic. “Forget now what I was going to say.” He smiled, a little strangely, as though the picture had affected him a bit differently than it had affected the others. Quite a bit.

“How’s school coming, Walter?” Elsie asked.

Walter was taking a premed course at night school; this was his one night off for the week. Days he worked in a bookstore on Chestnut Street. He nodded and said, “Pretty good.”

Elsie was comparing him, mentally, with Mae’s boyfriend, Bob. Walter wasn’t quite as tall as Bob, but he wasn’t bad-looking in spite of his glasses. And he was sure a lot smarter than Bob was and would get further some day. Bob was learning printing and was halfway through his apprenticeship now. He’d quit high school in his third year.

When they got to Elsie’s studio, she found four glasses in the cupboard, even if they were all different sizes and shapes, and then she rummaged around for crackers and peanut butter while Bob opened the wine and filled the glasses.

It was Elsie’s first party in the studio, and it turned out not to be a very wicked one. They talked about the horror picture mostly, and Bob refilled their glasses a couple of times, but none of them felt it much.

Then the conversation ran down a bit and it was still early. Elsie said, “Bob, you used to do some good card tricks. I got a deck in the drawer there. Show us.”

That’s how it started, as simply as that. Bob took the deck and had Mae draw a card. Then he cut the deck and had Mae put it back in at the cut, and let her cut them a few times, and then he went through the deck, face up, and showed her the card, the nine of spades.

Walter watched without particular interest. He probably wouldn’t have said anything if Elsie hadn’t piped up, “Bob, that’s wonderful. I don’t see how you do it.” So Walter told her, “It’s easy; he looked at the bottom card before he started, and when he cut her card into the deck, that card would be on top of it, so he just picked out the card that was next to it.”

Elsie saw the look Bob was giving Walter and she tried to cover up by saying how clever it was even when you knew how it worked, but Bob said, “Wally, maybe you can show us something good. Maybe you’re Houdini’s pet nephew or something.”

Walter grinned at him. He said, “If I had a hat, I might show you one.” It was safe; neither of the boys had worn hats. Mae pointed to the tricky little thing she’d taken off her head and put on Elsie’s dresser. Walter scowled at it. “Call that a hat? Listen, Bob, I’m sorry I gave your trick away. Skip it; I’m no good at them.”

Bob had been riffling the cards back and forth from one hand to the other, and he might have skipped it had not the deck slipped and scattered on the floor. He picked them up and his face was red, not entirely from bending over. He held out the deck to Walter. “You must be good on cards, too,” he said. “If you could give my trick away, you must know some. G’wan, do one.”

Walter took the deck a little reluctantly, and thought a minute. Then, with Elsie watching him eagerly, he picked out three cards, holding them so no one else could see them, and put the deck back down. Then he held up the three cards, in a V shape, and said, “I’ll put one of these on top, one on bottom, and one in the middle of the deck and bring them together with a cut. Look, it’s the two of diamonds, the ace of diamonds, and the three of diamonds.”

He turned them around again so the backs of the cards were towards his audience and began to place them one on top the deck, one in the middle, and—

“Aw, I get that one,” Bob said. “That wasn’t the ace of diamonds. It was the ace of hearts and you held it between the other two so just the point of the heart showed. You got that ace of diamonds already planted on top the deck.” He grinned triumphantly.

Mae said, “Bob, that was mean. Wally anyway let you finish your stunt before he said anything.”

Elsie frowned at Bob, too. Then her face suddenly lit up and she went across to the closet and opened the door and took a cardboard box off the top shelf. “Just remembered this,” she said. “It’s from a year ago when I had a part in a ballet at the social centre. A top hat.”

She opened the box and took it out. It was dented and, despite the box, a bit dusty, but it was indubitably a top hat. She put it, on its crown, on the table near Walter. “You said you could do a good one with a hat, Walter,” she said. “Show him.”

Everybody was looking at Walter and he shifted uncomfortably. “I—I was just kidding him, Elsie. I don’t—I mean it’s been so long since I tried that kind of stuff when I was a kid, and everything. I don’t remember it.”

Bob grinned happily and stood up. His glass and Walter’s were empty and he filled them, and he put a little more into the girls’ glasses, although they weren’t empty yet. Then he picked up a yardstick that was in the corner and flourished it like a circus barker’s cane. He said, “Step this way, ladies and gentleman, to see the one and only Walter Beekman do the famous non-existent trick with the black top hat. And in the next cage we have—”

“Bob, shut up,” said Mae.

There was a faint glitter in Walter’s eyes. He said, “For two cents, I’d—”

Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. He took two pennies out and reached across and dropped them into the inverted top hat. He said, “There you are,” and waved the yardstick-cane again. “Price only two cents, the one-fiftieth part of a dollah! Step right up and see the greatest prestidigitatah on earth—”

Walter drank his wine and then his face kept getting redder while Bob went on spieling. Then he stood up. He said quietly, “What’d you like to see for your two cents, Bob?”

Elsie looked at him open-eyed, “You mean, Wally, you’re offering to take anything out of—”

“Maybe.”

Bob exploded into raucous laughter. He said, “Rats,” and reached for the wine bottle.

Walter said, “You asked for it.”

He left the top hat right on the table, but he reached out a hand toward it, uncertainly at first. There was a squealing sound from inside the hat, and Walter plunged his hand down in quickly and brought it up holding something by the scruff of the neck.

Mae screamed and then put the back of her hand over her mouth and her eyes were like white saucers. Elsie keeled over quietly on the studio couch in a dead faint; and Bob stood there with his cane-yardstick in midair and his face frozen.

The thing squealed again as Walter lifted it a little higher out of the hat. It looked like a monstrous, hideous black rat. But it was bigger than a rat should be, too big even to have come out of the hat. Its eyes glowed like red light bulbs and it was champing horribly its long scimitar-shaped white teeth, clicking them together with its mouth going several inches open each time and closing like a trap. It wriggled to get the scruff of its neck free of Walter’s trembling hand; its clawed forefeet flailed the air. It looked vicious beyond belief.

It squealed incessantly, frightfully, and it smelled with a rank fetid odor as though it had lived in graves and eaten of their contents.

Then, as suddenly as he had pulled his hand out of the hat, Walter pushed it down in again, and the thing down with it. The squealing stopped and Walter took his hand out of the hat. He stood there, shaking, his face pale. He got a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped sweat off his forehead. His voice sounded strange: “I should never have done it.” He ran for the door, opened it, and they heard him stumbling down the stairs.

Mae’s hand came away from her mouth slowly and she said, “T—take me home, Bob.”

Bob passed a hand across his eyes and said, “Gosh, what—” and went across and looked into the hat. His two pennies were in there, but he didn’t reach in to take them out.

He said, his voice cracking once, “What about Elsie? Should we—” Mae got up slowly and said, “Let her sleep it off.” They didn’t talk much on the way home.

It was two days later that Bob met Elsie on the street. He said, “Hi, Elsie.”

And she said, “Hi, there.” He said, “Gosh, that was some party we had at your studio the other night. We—we drank too much, I guess.”

Something seemed to pass across Elsie’s face for a moment, and then she smiled and said, “Well, I sure did; I passed out like a light.”

Bob grinned back, and said, “I was a little high myself, I guess. Next time I’ll have better manners.”

Mae had her next date with Bob the following Monday. It wasn’t a double date this time.

After the show, Bob said, “Shall we drop in somewhere for a drink?”

For some reason Mae shivered slightly. “Well, all right, but not wine. I’m off of wine. Say, have you seen Wally since last week?”

Bob shook his head. “Guess you’re right about wine. Wally can’t take it, either. Made him sick or something and he ran out quick, didn’t he? Hope he made the street in time.”

Mae dimpled at him. “You weren’t so sober yourself, Mr. Evans. Didn’t you try to pick a fight with him over some silly card tricks or something? Gee, that picture we saw was awful; I had a nightmare that night.”

He smiled. “What about?”

“About a—Gee, I don’t remember. Funny how real a dream can be, and still you can’t remember just what it was.”

Bob didn’t see Walter Beekman until one day, three weeks after the party, he dropped into the bookstore. It was a dull hour and Walter, alone in the store, was writing at a desk in the rear. “Hi, Wally. What you doing?”

Walter got up and then nodded toward the papers he’d been working on. “Thesis. This is my last year premed, and I’m majoring in psychology.”

Bob leaned negligently against the desk. “Psychology, huh?” he asked tolerantly. “What you writing about?”

Walter looked at him a while before he answered. “Interesting theme. I’m trying to prove that the human mind is incapable of assimilating the utterly incredible. That, in other words, if you saw something you simply couldn’t possibly believe, you’d talk yourself out of believing you saw it. You’d rationalize it, somehow.”

“You mean if I saw a pink elephant I wouldn’t believe it?”

Walter said, “Yes, that or a—Skip it.” He went up front to wait on another customer.

When Walter came back, Bob said, “Got a good mystery in the rentals? I got the week-end off; maybe I’ll read one.”

Walter ran his eye along the rental shelves and then flipped the cover of a book with his forefinger. “Here’s a dilly of a weird,” he said. “About beings from another world, living here in disguise, pretending they’re people.”

“What for?”

Walter grinned at him. “Read it and find out. It might surprise you.”

Bob moved restlessly and turned to look at the rental books himself. He said, “Aw, I’d rather have a plain mystery story. All that kind of stuff is too much hooey for me.” For some reason he didn’t quite understand, he looked up at Walter and said, “Isn’t it?”

Walter nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Good Night, Good Knight

THE BAR in front of him was wet and sloppy; Sir Charles Hanover Gresham carefully rested his forearms on the raised dry rim of it and held the folded copy of Stagecraft that he was reading up out of the puddles. His forearms, not his elbows; when you have but one suit and it is getting threadbare you remember not to rest your elbows on a bar or a table. Just as, when you sit, you always pull up the trouser legs an inch or two to keep the knees from becoming baggy.

When you are an actor you remember those things. Even if you’re a has-been who never really was and who certainly never will be, living — barely — off blackmail, drinking beer in a Bowery bar, hung over and miserable, at two o’clock on a cool fall afternoon, you remember.

But you always read Stagecraft.

He was reading it now. “Gambler Angels Meller,” a one-column headline told him; he read even that, casually. Then he came to a name in the second paragraph, the name of the playwright. One of his eyebrows rose a full millimeter at that name. Wayne Campbell, his patron, had written another play.

The first in three full years. Not that that mattered to Wayne, for his last play and his second last had both sold to Hollywood for very substantial sums. New plays or no, Wayne Campbell would keep on eating caviar and drinking champagne. And new plays or no, he, Sir Charles Hanover Gresham, would keep on eating hamburger sandwiches and drinking beer. It was the only thing he was ashamed of — not the hamburgers and the beer, but the means by which he was forced to obtain them. Blackmail is a nasty word; he hated it.

But now, possibly, just possibly-Even that chance was worth celebrating. He looked at the bar in front of him; fifteen cents lay there. He took his last dollar bill from his pocket and put it down on the one dry spot on the bar.

“Mac!” he said. Mac, the bartender, who had been gazing into space through the wall, came over. He asked,

“The same, Charlie?”

“Not the same, Mac. This time the amber fluid.”

“You mean whiskey?”

“I do indeed. One for you and one for me. Ah, with the Grape my jading life provide…”

Mac poured two shots and refilled Sir Charles’s beer glass. “Chaser’s on me.” He rang up fifty cents.

Sir Charles raised his shot glass and looked past it, not at Mac the bartender but at his own reflection in the smeary back-bar mirror. A quite distinguished-looking gentleman stared back at him. They smiled at one another; then they both looked at Mac, one of them from the front, the other from the back.

“To your excellent health, Mac,” they said — Sir Charles aloud and his reflection silently. The raw, cheap whiskey burned a warm and grateful path.

Mac looked over and said, “You’re a screwy guy, Charlie, but I like you. Sometimes I think you really are a knight. I dunno.”

“A Hair perhaps divides the False and True” said Sir Charles. “Do you by any chance know Omar, Mac?”

“Omar who?”

“The tentmaker. A great old boy, Mac; he’s got me down to a T. Listen to this:

Mac said, “I don’t get it.”

Sir Charles sighed. “Am I all awry, Mac? Seriously, I’m going to phone and make an important appointment, maybe.

Do I look all right or am I leaning all awry? Oh, Lord, Mac, I just thought what that would make me. Hamawry.”

“You look all right, Charlie.”

“But, Mac, you missed that horrible pun. Ham awry. Ham on rye.”

“You mean you want a sandwich?”

Sir Charles smiled gently. He said, “I’ll change my mind, Mac; I’m not hungry after all. But perhaps the exchequer will stand another drink.”

It stood another drink. Mac went to another customer.

The haze was coming, the gentle haze. The figure in the back-bar mirror smiled at him as though they had a secret in common. And they had, but the drinks were helping them to forget it — at least to shove it to the back of the mind. Now, through the gentle haze that was not really drunkenness, that figure in the mirror did not say, “You’re a fraud and a failure, Sir Charles, living on black mail,” as it so often and so accusingly had said. No, now it said, “You’re a fine fellow, Sir Charles; a little down on your luck for these last few — let us not say how many-years. Things are going to change. You’ll walk the boards; you’ll hold audiences in the palm of your hand. You’re an actor, man.”

He downed his second shot to that, and then, sipping his beer slowly, he read again the article in Stagecraft the actor’s Bible.

There wasn’t much detail, but there was enough. The name of the melodrama was The Perfect Crime, which didn’t matter; the author was Wayne Campbell, which did matter.

Wayne could try to get him into the cast; Wayne would try.

And not because of threat of blackmail; quite the converse.

And, although this didn’t matter either, the play was being backed by Nick Corianos. Maybe, come to think of it, that did matter. Nick Corianos was a plunger, a real bigshot.

The Perfect Crime wouldn’t lack for funds, not if Nick was backing it. You’ve heard of Nick Corianos. Legend has it that he once dropped half a million dollars in a single forty-hour session of poker, and laughed about it. Legend says many unpleasant things about him, too, but the police have never proved them.

Sir Charles smiled at the thought — Nick Corianos getting away with The Perfect Crime. He wondered if that thought had come to Corianos, if it was part of his reason for backing this particular play. One of life’s little pleasures, thinking such things. Posing, posturing, knowing you were ridiculous, knowing you were a cheat and a failure, you lived on the little pleasures — and the big dreams.

Still smiling gently, he picked up his change and went to the phone booth at the front of the tavern near the door. He dialed Wayne Campbell’s number. He said, “Wayne? This is Charles Gresham.”

“Yes?”

“May I see you, at your office?”

Now listen, Gresham, if it’s more money, no. You’ve got some coming in three days and you agreed, definitely agreed, that if I gave you that amount regularly, you’d—”

“Wayne, it’s not money. The opposite, my dear boy. It can save you money.”

“How?” He was cold, suspicious.

“You’ll be casting for your new play. Oh, I know you don’t do the actual casting yourself, but a word from you — a word from you, Wayne, would get me a part. Even a walk-on, Wayne, anything, and I won’t bother you again.”

“While the play runs, you mean?”

Sir Charles cleared his throat. He said, regretfully, “Of course, while the play runs. But if it’s a play of yours, Wayne, it may run a long time.”

“You’d get drunk and get fired before it got out of rehearsal.”

“No. I don’t drink when I’m working, Wayne. What have you to lose? I won’t disgrace you. You know I can act. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was grudging, but it was a yes. “All right —you’ve got a point if it’ll save me money. And it’s a cast of fourteen; I suppose I could—”

“I’ll be right over, Wayne. And thanks, thanks a lot.” He left the booth and went outside, quickly, into the cool, crisp air, before he’d be tempted to take another drink to celebrate the fact that he would be on the boards again. Might be, he corrected himself quickly. Even with help from Wayne Campbell, it was no certainty.

He shivered a little, walking to the subway. He’d have to buy himself a coat out of his next — allowance. It was turning colder; he shivered more as he walked from the subway to Wayne’s office. But Wayne’s office was warm, if Wayne wasn’t. Wayne sat there staring at him.

Finally he said, “You don’t look the part, Gresham.

Damn it all, you don’t look it. And that’s funny.”

Sir Charles said, “I don’t know why it’s funny, Wayne.

But looking the part means nothing. There is such a thing as make-up, such a thing as acting. A true actor can look any part.”

Surprisingly, Wayne was chuckling with amusement.

He said, “You don’t know it’s funny, Gresham, but it is.

I’ve got two possibilities you can try for. One of them is practically a walk-on; you’d get three short speeches. The other—”

“Yes?”

“It is funny, Gresham. There’s a blackmailer in my play.

And damn it all, you are one; you’ve been living off me for five years now.”

Sir Charles said, “Very reasonably, Wayne. You must admit my demands are modest, and that I’ve never increased them.”

“You are a very paragon of blackmailers, Gresham. I assure you it’s a pleasure — practically. But the cream of the jest would be letting you play the blackmailer in my play so that for the duration of it I wouldn’t be paying you blackmail.

And it’s a fairly strong supporting role; it’d pay you a lot more than you ask from me. But—”

“But what?”

“Damned if you look it. I don’t think you’d be convincing, as a blackmailer. You’re always so apologetic and ashamed about it — and yes, I know, you wouldn’t be doing it if you could earn your eats — and drinks — any other way.

But the blackmailer in my play is a fairly hard-boiled mug.

Has to be. People wouldn’t believe in anybody like you, Gresham.”

“Give me a chance at it, Wayne. Let me read the part.”

“I think we’d better settle for the smaller role. You said you’d settle for a walk-on, and this other part is a little better than that. You wouldn’t be convincing in the fat role. You’re just not a heavy, Gresham.”

“Let me read it. At least let me read it.”

Wayne Campbell shrugged. He pointed to a bound manuscript on a corner of his desk, nearer to Sir Charles than to him. He said, “Okay, the role is Richter. Your biggest scene, your longest and most dramatic speech is about two pages back of the first-act curtain. Go ahead and read it to me.”

Sir Charles’s fingers trembled just slightly with eagerness as he found the first-act curtain and thumbed back. He said, “Let me read it to myself first, Wayne, to get the sense of it.”

It was a longish speech, but he read it rapidly twice and he had it; memorizing had always been easy for him. He put down the manuscript and thought an instant to put himself in the mood.

His face grow cold and hard. Iris eyes hooded. He stood up and leaned his hands on the desk, caught Wayne’s eyes with his own, and poured on the speech, his voice cold and precise and deadly.

And it was a balm to his actor’s soul that Wayne’s eyes widened as he listened to it. He said, “I’ll be damned. You can act. Okay, I’ll try to get you the role. I didn’t think you had it in you, but you have. Only if you cross me up by drinking—”

“I won’t.” Sir Charles sat down; he’d been calm and cold during the speech. Now he was trembling a little again and he didn’t want it to show. Wayne might think it was drink or poor health, and not know that it was eagerness and excitement.

This might be the start of it, the comeback he’d hoped for —he hated to think how long it had been that he’d been hoping.

But one good supporting role, and in a Wayne Campbell play that might have a long run, and he’d be on his way. Producers would notice him and there’d be another and slightly better role when this play folded, and a better one after that.

He knew he was kidding himself, but the excitement, the hope was there. It went to his head like stronger drink than any tavern served.

Maybe he’d even have a chance to play again in a Shakespeare revival, and there are always Shakespeare revivals. He knew most of every major Shakesperean role, although he’d played only minor ones. Macbeth, that great speech of Macbeth’s—He said, “I wish you were Shakespeare, Wayne. I wish you were just writing Macbeth. Beautiful stuff in there, Wayne. Listen:

“Brief candle, et cetera. Sure, it’s beautiful and I wish, too, that I were Shakespeare, Gresham. But I haven’t got all day to listen.”

Sir Charles sighed and stood up. Macbeth had stood him in good stead; he wasn’t trembling any more. He said, “Nobody ever has time to listen. Well, Wayne, thanks tremendously.”

“Wait a minute. You sound as though I’m doing the casting and have already signed you. I’m only the first hurdle.

We’re going to let the director do the actual casting, with Corianos’s and my advice and consent, but we haven’t hired a director yet. I think it’s going to be Dixon, but it isn’t a hundred per cent sure yet.”

“Shall I go talk to him? I know him slightly.”

“Ummm — not till it’s definite. If I send you to him, he’ll be sure we are hiring him, and maybe he’ll want more money.

Not that it won’t take plenty to get him anyway. But you can talk to Nick; he’s putting up the money and he’ll have a say in the casting.”

“Sure, I’ll do that, Wayne.”

Wayne reached for his wallet. “Here’s twenty bucks,” he said. “Straighten out a little; get a shave and a haircut and a clean shirt. Your suit’s all right. Maybe you should have it pressed. And listen—”

“Yes?”

“That twenty’s no gift. It comes out of your next.”

“More than fair. How shall I handle Corianos? Sell him on the idea that I can handle the part, as I did you?”

Wayne Campbell grinned, lie said, “Speak the speech, I pray you, as you haw, pronounced it to me, trippingly on the tongue; but if you month it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the towncrier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air—

I can recite Shakespeare, too.”

“We’ll not mention how.” Sir Charles smiled. “Thanks a million, Wayne. Good-by.”

He got the haircut, which he needed, and the shave, which he didn’t really need — he’d shaved this morning. He bought a new white shirt and had his shoes shined and his suit pressed. He had his soul lifted with three Manhattans in a respectable bar — three, sipped slowly, and no more. And he ate — the three cherries from the Manhattans.

The back-bar mirror wasn’t smeary. It was blue glass, though, and it made him look sinister. He smiled a sinister smile at his reflection. He thought, Blackmailer. The role; play it to the hilt, throw yourself into it. And someday you’ll play Macbeth.

Should he try it on the bartender? No. He’d tried it on bartenders before.

The blue reflection in the back-bar mirror smiled at him.

He looked from it to the front windows and the front windows, too, were faintly blue with dusk. And that meant it was time. Corianos might be in his office above his club by now.

He went out into the blue dusk. He took a cab. Not for practical reasons; it was only ten blocks and he could easily have walked. But, psychologically, a cab was important. As important as was an oversize tip to the driver.

The Blue Flamingo, Nick Corianos’s current club, was still closed, of course, but the service entrance was open. Sir Charles went in. One waiter was working, putting cloths on tables. Sir Charles asked, “Will you direct me to Mr. Corianos’s office, please?”

“Third floor. There’s a self-service elevator over there.”

He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added, “Sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Charles.

He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors.

Only one door had a light behind it showing through the ground glass. It was marked “Private.” He tapped on it gently; a voice called out, “Come in.” He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.

One of them asked him, “Yeah?”

“Is either of you Mr. Corianos?”

“What do you want to see him about?”

“My card, sir.” Sir Charles handed it to the one who had spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick Corianos. “Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a matter in connection with the play he is backing?”

The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said,

“Okay,” and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door again; he said, “Okay.” Sir Charles went in.

Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate mahogany desk before him. He asked, “Is it a gag?”

“Is what a gag?”

“Sit down. Is it a gag, or are you really Sir Charles Hanover Gresham? I mean, are you really a — that would be a knight, wouldn’t it? Are you really a knight?”

Sir Charles smiled. “I have never yet admitted, in so many words, that I am not. Would it not be foolish to start now? At any rate, it gets me in to see people much more easily.”

Nick Corianos laughed. He said, “I see what you mean.

And I’m beginning to guess what you want. You’re a ham, aren’t you?”

“I am an actor. I have been informed that you are backing a play; in fact, I have seen a script of the play. I am interested in playing the role of Richter.”

Nick Corianos frowned. “Richter — that’s the name of the blackmailer in the play?”

“It is.” Sir Charles held up a hand. “Please do not tell me offhand that I do not look the part. A true actor can look, and can be, anything. I can be a blackmailer.”

Nick Corianos said, “Possibly. But I’m not handling the casting.”

Sir Charles smiled, and then let the smile fade. He stood up and leaned forward, his hands resting on Nick’s mahogany desk. He smiled again, but the smile was different. His voice was cold, precise, perfect. He said, “Listen, pal, you can’t shove me off. I know too much. Maybe I can’t prove it myself, but the police can, once I tell them where to look. Walter Donovan. Does that name mean anything to you, pal? Or the date September first? Or a spot a hundred yards off the road to Bridgeport, halfway between Stamford and there. Do you think you can—?”

“That’s enough,” Nick said. There was an ugly black automatic in his right hand. His left was pushing a buzzer on his desk.

Sir Charles Hanover Gresham stared at the automatic, and he saw it — not only the automatic, but everything. He saw death, and for just a second there was panic.

And then all the panic was gone, and there was left a vast amusement.

It had been perfect, all down the line. The Perfect Crime— advertised as such, and he hadn’t guessed it. He hadn’t even suspected it.

And yet, he thought, why wouldn’t — why shouldn’t —Wayne Campbell be tired enough of a blackmailer who had bled him, however mildly, for so many years? And why wouldn’t one of the best playwrights in the world be clever enough to do it this way?

So clever, and so simple, however Wayne had come across the information against Nick Corianos which he had written on a special page, especially inserted in his copy of the script. Speak the speech, I pray you—

And he had even known that he, Charles, wouldn’t give him away. Even now, before the trigger was pulled, he could blurt: “Wayne Campbell knows this, too. He did it, not I!”

But even to say that now couldn’t save him, for that black automatic had turned fiction into fact, and although he might manage Campbell’s death along with his own, it wouldn’t save his own life. Wayne had even known him well enough to know, to be sure, that he wouldn’t do that — at no advantage to himself.

He stood up straight, taking his hands off the desk but carefully keeping them at his sides, as the two big men came through the wide doorway that led to the outer office.

Nick said, “Pete, get that canvas mail sack out of the drawer out there. And is the car in front of the service entrance?”

“Sure, chief.” One of the men ducked back through the door.

Nick hadn’t taken his eyes — or the cold muzzle of the gun — off Sir Charles.

Sir Charles smiled at him. He said, “May I ask a boon?”

“What?”

“A favor. Besides the one you already intend to do for me. I ask thirty-five seconds.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve timed it; it should take that long. Most actors do it in thirty — they push the pace. I refer, of course, to the immortal lines from Macbeth. Have I your permission to die thirty-five seconds from now, rather than right at this exact instant?”

Nick’s eyes got even narrower. He said, “I don’t get it, but what’s thirty-five seconds, if you really keep your hands in sight?”

Sir Charles said, “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow—”

One of the big men was back in the doorway, something made of canvas rolled up under his arm. He asked, “Is the guy screwy?”

“Shut up,” Nick said.

And then no one was interrupting him. No one was even impatient. And thirty-five seconds were ample.

He paused, and the quiet pause lengthened.

He bowed slightly and straightened so the audience would know that there was no more. And then Nick’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The applause was deafening.

Hobbyist

“ I HEARD a rumor,” Sangstrom said, “to the effect that you—” he turned his head and looked about him to make absolutely sure that he and the druggist were alone in the tiny prescription pharmacy. The druggist was a gnarled gnomelike little man who could have been any age from fifty to one hundred. They were alone but Sangstrom dropped his voice just the same “to the effect that you have a completely undetectable poison.”

The druggist nodded. He came around the counter and locked the front door to the shop, then walked toward a doorway behind the counter. “I was about to take a coffee break,” he said. “come with me and have a cup.”

Sangstrom followed him around the counter and through the doorway to a back room ringed by shelves of bottles from floor to ceiling. The druggist plugged in an electric percolator, found two cups and put them on a table that had a chair on either side of it. He motioned Sangstrom to one of the chairs and took the other himself. “Now,” he said “Tell me. Whom do you want to kill, and why?”

“Does it matter?” Sangstrom asked. “Isn’t it enough that I pay for—”

“The druggist interrupted him with an upraised hand. “Yes, it matters. I must be convinced that you deserved what I can give you. Otherwise—” He shrugged.

“All right,” Sangstrom said. “The whom is my wife, the why —” he started a long story. Before he had quite finished, the percolator had finished its task and the druggist briefly interrupted to get coffee for them. Sangstrom finished his story.

The little druggist nodded. “Yes I occasionally dispense an undetectable poison. I do so freely; I do not charge for it, if I think a case is deserving. I have helped many murderers.

“Fine,” said Sangstrom, “Give it to me then”

The druggist smiled at him. “I already have by the time the coffee was ready I decided that you deserved it.

It was, as I said, free. But there is a price for the antidote.”

Sangstrom turned pale. But he had anticipated—not this, but the possibility of a double—cross or some form of blackmail. He pulled a pistol from his pocket.

The little druggist chuckled. “You daren’t use that. Can you find the antidote” —he waved at the shelves—”among those thousands of bottles? Or would you find a faster, more virulent poison? Or if you think I’m bluffing, that you are not really poisoned, go ahead and shoot. You’ll know the answer within three hours when the poison starts to work.”

“How much for the antidote?” Sangstrom growled.

“Quite reasonable. A thousand dollars. After all, a man must live. Even if his hobby is preventing murders, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t make money at it, is there?”

Sangstrom growled and put the pistol down, but within reach, and took out his wallet. Maybe after he had the antidote, he’d still use that pistol. He counted out a thousand dollars in hundred—dollar bills and put it on the table.

The druggist made no immediate move to pick it up. He said, “And one other thing—for your wife’s safety and mine. You will write a confession of your intention—your former intention, I trust— to murder your wife. Then you will wait till I go out and mail it to a friend of mine on the homicide detail. He’ll keep it as evidence in case you do decide to kill your wife. Or me, for that matter”

“When it is in the mail it will be safe for me to return here and give you the antidote. I’ll give you paper and pen…”

“Oh, and one other thing—although I do not absolutely insist on it. Please help spread the word about my undetectable poison, will you? One never knows, Mr. Sangstrom. The life you save, if you have any enemies, just might be your own.”

Hound of Hell

THE SEED of murder was planted in the mind of Wiley Hughes the first time he saw the old man open the safe.

There was money in the safe. Stacks of it.

The old man took three bills from one orderly pile and handed them to Wiley. They were twenties.

“Sixty dollars even, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “And that’s the ninth payment.” He took the receipt Wiley gave him, closed the safe, and twisted the dial.

It was a small, antique-looking safe. A man could open it with a cold chisel and a good crowbar, if he didn’t have to worry about how much noise he made.

The old man walked with Wiley out of the house and down to the iron fence. After he’d closed the gate behind Wiley, he went over to the tree and untied the dog again.

Wiley looked back over his shoulder at the gate, and at the sign upon it: “Beware of the Dog.”

There was a padlock on the gate too, and a bell button set in the gatepost. If you wanted to see old man Erskine you had to push that button and wait until he’d come out of the house and tied up the dog and then unlocked the gate to let you in.

Not that the padlocked gate meant anything. An able-bodied man could get over the fence easily enough. But once in the yard he’d be torn to pieces by that hound of hell Erskine kept for a watchdog.

A vicious brute, that dog.

A lean, underfed hound with slavering jaws and eyes that looked death at you as you walked by. He didn’t run to the fence and bark. Nor even growl.

Just stood there, turning his head to follow you, with his yellowish teeth bared in a snarl that was the more sinister in that it was silent.

A black dog, with yellow, hate-filled eyes, and a quiet viciousness beyond ordinary canine ferocity. A killer dog.

Yes, it was a hound of hell, all right.

And a beast of nightmare, too. Wiley dreamed about it that night. And the next.

There was something he wanted very badly in those dreams. Or somewhere he wanted to go. And his way was barred by a monstrous black hound, with slavering jowls and eyes that looked death at you. Except for size, it was old man Erskine’s watchdog. The seed of murder grew.

Wiley Hughes lived, as it happened, only a block from the old man’s house. Every time he went past it on his way to or from work he thought about it. It would be so easy. The dog? He could poison the dog. There were some things he wanted to find out, without asking about them. Patiently, at the office, he cultivated the acquaintance of the collector who had dealt with the old man before he had been transferred to another route. He went out drinking with the man several times before the subject of the old man crept into the conversation — and then, after they’d discussed many other debtors. “Old Erskine? The guy’s a miser, that’s all. He pays for that stock on time because he can’t bear to part with a big chunk of money all at once. Ever see all the money he keeps in—?”

Wiley steered the conversation into safer channels. He didn’t want to have discussed how much money the old man kept in the house.

He asked, “Ever see a more vicious dog than that hellhound of his?”

The other collector shook his head. “And neither did anybody else. That mutt hates even the old man. Can’t blame him for that, though; the old geezer half starves him to keep him fierce.”

“The hell,” said Wiley. “How come he doesn’t jump Erskine then?”

“Trained not to, that’s all. Nor Erskine’s son — he visits there once in a while. Nor the man who delivers groceries.

But anybody else he’d tear to pieces.”

And then Wiley Hughes dropped the subject like a hot coal and began to talk about the widow who was always behind in her payments and who always cried if they threatened to foreclose.

The dog tolerated two people besides the old man. And that meant that if he could get past the dog without harming it, or it harming him, suspicion would be directed toward those two people.

It was a big if, but then the fact that the dog was underfed made it possible. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, why not the way to a dog’s heart?

It was worth trying.

He went about it very carefully. He bought the meat at a butcher shop on the other side of town. He took every precaution that night, when he left his own house heading into the alley, that no one would see him.

Keeping to the middle of the alley, he walked past old man Erskine’s fence, and kept walking. The dog was there, just inside the fence, and it kept pace with him, soundlessly.

He threw a piece of meat over the fence and kept walking.

To the corner and back again. He walked just a little closer to the fence and threw another piece of meat over. This time he saw the dog leave the fence and run for the meat.

He returned home, unseen, and feeling that things were working out his way. The dog was hungry; it would eat meat he threw to it. Pretty soon it would be taking food from his hand, through the fence.

He made his plans carefully, and omitted no factor. The few tools he would need were purchased in such a way that they could not be traced to him. And wiped off fingerprints; they would be left at the scene of the burglary. He studied the habits of the neighborhood and knew that everyone in the block was asleep by one o’clock, except for two night workers who didn’t return from work until four-thirty.

There was the patrolman to consider. A few sleepless nights at a darkened window gave him the information that the patrolman passed at one and again at four.

The hour between two and three, then, was the safest.

And the dog. His progress in making friends with the dog had been easier and more rapid than he had anticipated. It took food from his hand, through the bars of the alley fence.

It let him reach through the bars and pet it. He’d been afraid of losing a finger or two the first time he’d tried that.

But the fear had been baseless.

The dog had been as starved for affection as it had been starved for food.

Hound of hell, hell! He grinned to himself at the extravagance of the descriptive phrase he had once used.

Then came the night when he dared climb over the fence.

The dog met him with little whimpers of delight. He’d been sure it would, but he’d taken every precaution possible. Heavy leather leggings under his trousers. A scarf wrapped many times around his throat. And meat to offer, more tempting than his own. There was nothing to it, after that.

Friday, then, was to be the night. Everything was ready.

So ready that between eight o’clock in the evening and two in the morning, there was nothing for him to do. So he set and muffled his alarm, and slept.

Nothing to the burglary at all. Or the murder.

Down the alley, taking extra precautions this time that no one saw him. There was enough moonlight for him to read, and to grin at, the “Beware of the Dog” sign on the back gate.

Beware of the dog! That was a laugh, now. He handed it a piece of meat through the fence, patted its head while it ate, and then he vaulted over the fence and went up toward the house.

His crowbar opened a window, easily.

Silently he crept up the stairs to the bedroom of the old man, and there he did what it was necessary for him to do in order to be able to open the safe without danger of being heard.

The murder was really necessary, he told himself.

Stunned — even tied up — the old man might possibly have managed to raise an alarm. Or might have recognized his assailant, even in the darkness.

The safe offered a bit more difficulty than he had anticipated, but not too much. Well before three o’clock —with an hour’s factor of safety — he had it open and had the money.

It was only on his way out through the yard, after everything had gone perfectly, that Wiley Hughes began to worry and to wonder whether he had made any possible mistake. There was a brief instant of panic.

But then he was safely home, and he thought over every step he had taken, and there was no possible clue that would lead the police to suspect Wiley Hughes.

Inside the house, in sanctuary, he counted the money under a light that wouldn’t show outside. Monday he would put it in a safe deposit box he had already rented under an assumed name.

Meanwhile, any hiding place would serve. But he was taking no chances; he had prepared a good one. That afternoon he had spaded the big flower bed in the back yard.

Now, keeping close under cover of the fence, so he could not be seen in the remotely possible case of a neighbor looking from a window, lie scooped a hollow in the freshly spaded earth.

No need to bury it deep; a shallow hole, refilled, in the freshly turned soil would be best, and could never on earth be detected by human eyes. He wrapped the money in oiled paper, buried it, and covered the hole carefully, leaving no trace whatsoever.

By four o’clock he was in bed, and lay there thinking pleasantly of all the things that he could do with the money once it would be safe for him to begin spending it.

It was almost nine when he awakened the next morning.

And again, for a moment, there was reaction and panic. For seconds that seemed hours he lay rigidly, trying to recall everything he had done. Step by step he went over it and gradually confidence returned.

He had been seen by no one; he had left no possible clue.

His cleverness in getting past the dog without killing it would certainly throw suspicion elsewhere.

It had been easy, so easy, for a clever man to commit a crime without leaving a single lead. Ridiculously easy. There was no possible—

Through the open window of his bedroom he heard voices that seemed excited about something. One of them sounded like the voice of the policeman on the day shift.

Probably, then, the crime had been discovered. But why—?

He ran to the window and looked out.

A little knot of people were gathered in the alley behind his house, looking into the yard.

His gaze turned more directly downward and he knew then that he was lost. Across the freshly turned earth of the flower bed, strewn in wild profusion, was a disorderly array of banknotes, like flat green plants that had sprouted too soon.

And asleep on the grass, his nose beside the torn oiled paper in which Wiley had brought him the meat and which Wiley had used later to wrap the banknotes, was the black dog.

The dangerous, vicious, beware-of-the-dog, the hound of hell, whose friendship he had won so thoroughly that it had dug its way under the fence and followed him home.

Little Boy Lost

THERE WAS a knock on the door. Gram put the sock she was mending back into the work basket in her lap and then moved the work basket to the table, ready to get up.

But by that time Ma had come out of the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, opened the door. Her eyes went hard.

The smile of the sleek young man in the hallway outside the door showed two gold teeth. He shoved his hat back from his forehead and said: “How ya, Mrs. Murdock? Tell Eddie I’m-”

“Eddie ain’t here.” Ma’s voice was hard like her eyes.

“Ain’t, huh? Said he’d be at the Gem. Wasn’t there so I thought—”

“Eddie ain’t here.” There was finality in Ma’s repetition.

A tense finality that the man in the hallway couldn’t pretend to overlook.

His smile faded. “If he comes in, you remind him. Tell him I said nine-thirty’s the time.”

“The time for what.” There wasn’t any rising inflection in Ma Murdock’s voice to stamp those four words as a question.

There was a sudden narrowing of the eyes that looked at Ma. The man with the gold teeth said: “Eddie’ll know that.”

He turned and walked to the stairs.

Ma closed the door slowly.

Gram was working on the sock again. Her high voice asked: “Was that Johnny Everard, Elsie? Sounded a bit like Johnny’s voice.”

Ma still faced that closed door. She answered without turning around. “That was Butch Everard, Gram. No one calls him Johnny any more.”

Gram’s needle didn’t pause.

“Johnny Everard,” she said. “He had curls, Elsie, a foot long. I ‘member when his dad took him down to the barber shop, had ‘em cut off. His ma cried. He had the first scooter in the neighborhood, made with roller-skate wheels. He went away for a while, didn’t he?”

“He did,” said Ma. “For five years. I wish—”

“Used to be crazy about chocolate cake,” said Gram.

“When he’d leave our paper, I’d give him a slice every time I’d baked one. But, my, he was in eighth grade when Eddie was just starting in first. Isn’t he a bit old to want to play with Eddie? I used to say your father—”

The querulous voice trailed off into silence. Ma glanced at her. Poor Gram, living in a world that was neither past nor present, but a hodgepodge of them both. Eddie was a man now — almost. Eddie was seventeen. And sliding away from her. She couldn’t seem to hold him any longer.

Butch Everard and Larry and Slim. Yes, and the crooked streets that ran straight, and the dark pool halls that were brightly lighted, and the things that Eddie hid from her but that she read in his eyes. There were things you didn’t know how to fight against.

Ma walked to the window and looked down on the street three floors below. A few doors down, at the opposite curb, stood Eddie’s recently acquired jalopy. He’d told her he’d bought it for ten bucks, but she knew better than that. It wasn’t much of a car, as cars go, but it had cost him at least fifty.

And where had that money come from?

Steady creak-creak of Gram’s rocker. Ma almost wished she were like Gram, so she wouldn’t lie awake nights worrying herself sick until she had to take a sleeping powder to get some sleep. If there was only some way she could make Eddie want to settle down and get a steady job and not run around with men like—

Gram’s voice cut across her thoughts. “You ain’t lookin’ so well, Elsie. Guess none of us are, though. It’s the spring, the damp air and all. I made up some sulphur and molasses for us. Your pa, he used to swear by it, and he never had a sick day until just the week before he died.”

Ma’s tone was lifeless. “I’m all right, Gram. I — I guess I worry about Eddie. He—”

Gram nodded her gray head without looking up. “Has a cold coming on. He don’t get outdoors enough daytimes. Boy ought to play out more. But you look downright peaked, Elsie.

Used to be the purtiest girl on Seventieth Street. You worry about Eddie. He’s a good boy.”

Ma whirled. “Gram, I never said I thought he wasn’t—”

Gram chuckled. “Brought home a special merit star on his report card, didn’t he? And I met his teacher on the street, and she say, says she: ‘Mrs. Garvin, that there grandson of yours — ‘ ”

Ma sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. Gram was back in the past again. It was eight years ago, when he was nine, that Eddie’d brought home that report card with the special merit star on it. That was when she’d hoped Eddie would—“Elsie, you take a big spoonful of that sulphur ‘n’ molasses. Over the sink there. I took mine for today a’ready.”

“All right, Gram.” Ma’s steps lagged. Maybe she’d failed Eddie; she didn’t know. What else could she do? How could she make Butch Everard let him alone? What did Butch want with him?

There was a dull ache in her head and a heavy weight in her chest. She glanced up at the clock over the door of the kitchen, and her feet moved faster. Eight-forty, and she wasn’t through with the supper dishes.

Eddie Murdock awoke with a start as the kitchen door closed. It was dark. Golly, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He lifted his wrist quick to look at the luminous dial of his watch, and then felt a quick sense of relief. It was only eight-forty.

He had time. Then he grinned in the darkness, a bit proud that he had been able to take a nap. Tonight of all nights, and he’d been able to fall asleep.

Why, tonight was the night. Lucky he’d waked up. Butch sure wouldn’t have liked it if he’d been late or hadn’t showed up. But if it was only eight-forty he had lots of time to meet the boys. Nine-thirty they met, and ten o’clock was it.

Suppose his wrist watch was wrong, though. It was a cheap one. With a sudden fear he jumped off the bed and ran to the window to look at the big clock across the way. Whew!

Eight-forty it was — on the dot.

Everything was ducky then. Golly, if he’d overslept or anything, Butch would have thought he was yellow. And —why, he wasn’t even worried. Hell, he was one of the gang now, a regular, and this was his first crack at something big.

Real money.

Well, not big money, maybe, but that box office ought to have enough dough to give them a couple hundred apiece.

And that wasn’t peanuts.

Butch had all those angles figured. He’d picked the best night, the night the most dough came in that window, and he’d timed the best hour — ten o’clock — just before the box office closed. Sure, they were being smart, waiting until all the money had come in that was coming in. And the getaway was a cinch, the way Butch had planned it.

Eddie turned on the light and then crossed over to the mirror and examined himself critically as he straightened his necktie and ran the comb through his hair. He rubbed his chin carefully, but he didn’t seem to need a shave.

He winked at his reflection in the glass. That was a smart guy in there looking back at him. A guy that was going places. If a guy proved to Butch that he was a right guy and had the nerve, he could get in on all kinds of easy money.

He pulled out the shoe box from under his dresser and gave his already shiny shoes another lick with the polisher to make them shinier. The leather was a little cracked on one side. Well, after tonight he’d get new shoes and a couple of new suits. A few more jobs, and he’d get a new car like Butch’s and scrap the old jalopy.

Then — although the door of his room was closed — he looked around carefully before he reached down into the very bottom of the shoe box and took out something which was carefully concealed by being wrapped in the old polishing cloth, the one that wasn’t used any more.

It was a little nickel-plated thirty-two revolver, and he looked at it proudly. It didn’t matter that the plating was worn off in a few spots. It was loaded and it would shoot all right.

Just yesterday Butch had given it to him. “ ‘Sall right, kid,” Butch had said. “It’ll do for this here job. There ain’t gonna be no shootin’ anyway. Just one bozo in the box office that’ll fold up the minute he sees guns. He’ll shell out without a squawk. And outa your share get yourself something good.

A thirty-eight automatic like mine maybe, and a shoulder holster.”

The gun in his hand felt comfortingly heavy. Good little gun, he told himself. And his. He’d sure keep it even after he’d got himself a better one.

He dropped it into his coat pocket before he went out into the living room. As he walked through the door, the revolver in his pocket hit the wooden door frame with a metallic clunk that the cloth of his coat muffled. He straightened up and buttoned his coat shut. He’d have to watch that. Good thing it happened the first time where it didn’t matter.

Ma came in out of the kitchen. She smiled at him and he grinned back. “Hiya, Ma. Didn’t think I’d drop off. Should have told you to wake me, but ‘sall right. I got time.”

Ma’s smile faded. “Time for what, Eddie?”

He grinned at her. “Heavy date.” The grin faded a bit.

“What’s the matter, Ma?”

“Must you go out, Eddie? I — I just got through the dishes and I thought maybe you’d play some double solitaire with me when you woke up.”

It was her tone of voice that made him notice her face. It came to him, quite suddenly, that Ma looked old. He said, “Gee, Ma, I wish I could, but—” Gram’s rocker creaked across the silence.

“Johnny was here, Eddie,” said Gram’s voice. “He said—”

Ma cut in quickly. She’d seen the puzzled look on Eddie’s face at the name “Johnny.” He didn’t know who Johnny was; and Gram thought Butch Everard was still little Johnny, who’d played out front in a red wagon—

“Johnny Murphy,” said Ma, blanketing out whatever Gram was going to say. “He’s — you don’t know him, I guess.

Just here on an errand.” She tried to make it sound casual. She managed a smile again. “How about that double solitaire, Eddie boy? Just a game or two.”

He shook his head. “Heavy date, Ma,” he said again.

He really felt sorry he couldn’t. Well, maybe from now on he’d be able to make it up to Ma. He could buy her things, and — well, if he really got up there he could buy a place out at the edge of town and put her and Gram in it, in style.

Bigshots did things like that for their folks, didn’t they?

Gram was walking out to the kitchen. Eddie’s eyes followed her because they didn’t quite want to meet Ma’s eyes, and then Eddie remembered what Gram had started to say about some Johnny.

“Say,” he said, “Johnny — Gram didn’t mean Butch, did she? Was Butch here for me?”

Ma’s eyes were on him squarely now, and he forced himself to meet them. She said, “Is your ‘heavy date’ with Butch, Eddie? Oh, Eddie, he’s—” Her voice sounded a little choked.

“Butch is all right, Ma,” he said with a touch of defiance.

“He’s a good guy, Butch is. He’s—”

He broke off. Damn. He hated scenes.

“Eddie boy,” Gram spoke from the kitchen doorway.

It was a welcome interruption. But she had a tablespoon of that awful sulphur and molasses of hers. Oh, well, good old Gram’s goofy ideas were saving him from a scene this time.

He crossed over and took the vile stuff off the spoon.

“Thanks, Gram. ‘Night, Ma. Don’t wait up.” He started for the door. But it wasn’t that easy. She caught at his sleeve. “Eddie, please. Listen—”

Hell, it would be worse if he hung around and argued. He jerked his sleeve free and was out of the door before she could stop him again. He could have hung around for half an hour almost, but not if Ma was going to take on like that. He could sit in the jalop’ till it was time to go meet the bunch.

Ma started for the door and then stopped. She put her hands up to her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. If she could only bawl or— But she couldn’t talk to Gram. She couldn’t share her troubles, even.

“You take your tonic, Elsie?”

“Yeah,” said Ma dully. Slowly she went to the table and sat down before it. She took a deck of cards from its drawer and began to pile them for a game of solitaire. She knew there was no use her even thinking about trying to go to bed until Eddie came home. No matter how late it was.

Gram came back and went over to the window.

Sometimes she’d look out of that window for an hour at a time. When you’re old it doesn’t take much to fill in your time.

Ma looked at Gram and envied her. When you were old you didn’t mind things, because you lived mostly in the past, and the present went over and around you like water off a duck’s back.

Almost desperately, Ma tried to keep her mind on beating the solitaire game. There were other games you didn’t know how to try to beat.

She failed. Then she played out a game. Then she was stuck without even an ace up. She dealt them out again.

She was putting a black ten on a red jack, and then her hand jerked as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Was Eddie coming back?

But no, not Eddie’s footsteps. Ma glanced up at the clock before she turned back to the game. Ten-thirty. It was about Gram’s bedtime.

The footsteps that weren’t Eddie’s were coming toward the door. They stopped outside. There was a heavy knock.

Ma’s hand went to her heart. She didn’t trust her legs to stand on. She said, “Come in.”

A policeman came in and closed the door behind him.

Ma saw only that uniform, but she heard Gram’s voice:

“It’s Dickie Wheeler. How are you, Dickie?”

The policeman smiled briefly at Gram. “Captain Wheeler now, Gram,” he said, “but I’m glad it’s still Dickie to you.”

Then his face changed as he turned to Ma. “Is Eddie here, Mrs. Murdock?”

Ma stood up slowly. “No — he—” But there wasn’t any answer she could make that was as important as knowing.

“Tell me! What?”

“Half hour ago,” said Captain Wheeler, “four men held up the Bijou box office, just as it was closing. Squad car was going by, and — well, there was shooting. Two of the men were killed, and a third is dying. The other got away.”

“Eddie-”

He shook his head. “We know the three. Butch Everard, Slim Ragoni, a guy named Walters. The fourth one— They were wearing masks. I hoped I’d find Eddie was home. We know he’s been running with those men.”

Ma stood up. “He was here at ten. He left just a few minutes ago. He—”

Wheeler put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that, Ma.” He didn’t call her Mrs. Murdock now, but neither of them noticed. “The man who got away was wounded, in the arm. If Eddie comes home sound, he won’t need any alibi.”

“Dickie,” Gram said, and the rocker stopped creaking.

“Eddie — he’s a good boy. After tonight he’ll be all right.”

Captain Wheeler couldn’t meet her eyes. After tonight— well, he hadn’t told them quite all of it. One of the squad-car cops had been killed too. The man who got away would burn for that.

But Gram’s voice prattled on. “He’s just a little boy, Dickie. A little boy lost. You take him down to headquarters and he’ll get a scare. Show him the men who were killed. He needs a lesson, Dickie.”

Ma looked at her. “Hush, Gram. Don’t you see, it’s—

Why didn’t I stop him tonight, somehow?”

“He had a gun in his pocket tonight, Elsie,” said Gram.

“When he came out of his room I heard it hit the door. And with what you said about Johnny Everard—”

“Gram,” said Ma wearily, “go to bed.” There wasn’t any room left in Ma for anger. “You’re just making it worse.”

“But, Elsie. Eddie didn’t go. I’m trying to tell you. He’s in his car, right across the street, right now. He’s been there.”

Wheeler looked at her sharply. Ma wasn’t quite breathing.

Gram nodded. There were tears in her eyes now. “I knew we had to stop him,” she said. “Those sleeping powders you have, Elsie. I put four of them in that sulphur ‘n’ molasses I gave him. I knew they’d work quick, and I watched out the window. He stumbled going across the street, and he got in his car, but he never started it. Go down and get him, Dickie Wheeler, and when you get him awake enough you do like I told you to.”

Whistler's Murder

THE ANCIENT but highly polished automobile turned in at the driveway of the big country house. It came to a stop exactly opposite the flagged walk that led to the porch of the house.

Mr. Henry Smith stepped from the car. He took a few steps toward the house and then paused at the sight of a wreath on the front door. He murmured something to himself that sounded suspiciously like, “Dear me,” and stood for a moment. He took off his gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses and polished them carefully.

He replaced the glasses and looked at the house again.

This time his gaze went higher. The house had a flat roof surmounted by a three-foot parapet. Standing on the roof behind the parapet, looking down at Mr. Smith, was a big man in a blue serge suit. A gust of wind blew back the big man’s coat and Mr. Smith saw that he wore a revolver in a shoulder holster. The big man pulled his coat together, buttoned it shut, and stepped back out of sight. This time, quite unmistakably, Mr. Smith said, “Dear me!”

He squared his gray derby hat, went up onto the porch, and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, the door opened.

The big man who had been on the roof opened it, and frowned clown at Mr. Smith. He was well over six feet tall, and Mr. Smith was a scant five-six.

“Yeah?” said the big man.

“My name is Henry Smith,” answered Mr. Smith. “I would like to see Mr. Walter Perry. Is he home?”

“No.”

“Is he expected back soon?” asked Mr. Smith. “I… ah…have an appointment with him. That is, not exactly an appointment. I mean, not for a specific hour. But I talked to him on the telephone yesterday and he suggested that I call sometime this afternoon.” Mr. Smith’s eyes flickered to the funeral wreath on the open door. “He isn’t… ah—”

“No,” said the big man. “His uncle’s dead, not him.”

“Ah, murdered?”

The big man’s eyes opened a little more widely. “How did you know that? The papers haven’t—”

“It was just a guess,” Mr. Smith said. “Your coat blew back when you were on the roof and I saw you were wearing a gun. From that and your… ah… general appearance, I surmise that you are an officer of the law, possibly the sheriff of this county. At least, if my guess of murder is correct, I hope that you are an officer of the law and not…ah—”

The big man chuckled. “I’m Sheriff Osburne, not the murderer.” He pushed his hat back farther on his head. “And what was your business with Walter Perry, Mr… uh-?”

“Smith,” said Mr. Smith. “Henry Smith, of the Phalanx Insurance Company. My business with Walter Perry concerned life insurance. My company, however, also handles fire, theft, and casualty insurance. We’re one of the oldest and strongest companies in the country.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the Phalanx. Just what did Walter Perry want to see you about? Wait, come on in. No use talking in the doorway. There’s nobody here.”

He led the way across the hall, into a large, luxuriously furnished room in one corner of which stood a mahogany Steinway grand. He waved Mr. Smith to an overstaffed sofa and perched himself on the bench of the piano.

Mr. Smith sat down on the plush sofa and placed his gray derby carefully beside him. “The crime,” he said, “I take it, would have occurred last night. And you suspect Walter Perry, are holding him?”

The sheriff’s head tilted slightly to one side. “And from what,” he wanted to know, “do you take all that?”

“Obviously,” said Mr. Smith, “it had not occurred when I talked to Walter Perry late yesterday, or he would certainly have mentioned it. Then, if the crime had occurred today, I would expect more activity about, coroners, undertakers, deputies, photographers. The discovery must have occurred no later than early this morning for all that to be over with, and the… ah… remains taken away. I take it that they are, because of the wreath. That would indicate that a mortician has been here. Did you say we had the house to ourselves?

Wouldn’t an estate of this size require servants?”

“Yeah,” answered the sheriff. “There’s a gardener somewhere around and a groom who takes care of the horses— Carlos Perry’s hobby was raising and breeding horses. But they aren’t in the house — the gardener and the groom, I mean. There were two inside servants, a housekeeper and a cook. The housekeeper quit two days ago and they hadn’t hired a new one yet, and the cook— Say, who’s questioning who? How did you know we were holding Walter on suspicion?”

“A not illogical inference, Sheriff,” said Mr. Smith. “His absence, your manner, and your interest in what he wanted to see me about. How and when was Mr. Carlos Perry killed?”

“A little after two o’clock, or a little before, the coroner says. With a knife, while he was in bed asleep. And nobody in the house.”

“Except Mr. Walter Perry?”

The sheriff frowned. “Not even him, unless I can figure out how— Say, who’s questioning who, Mr. Smith? Just what was your business with Walter?”

“I sold him a policy — not a large one, it was for three thousand dollars — a few years ago while he was attending college in the city. Yesterday, I received a notice from the main office that his current premium had not been paid and that the grace period had expired. That would mean loss of the policy, except for a cash surrender value, very small, considering that the policy was less than three years old.

However, the policy can be reinstated within twenty-four hours after expiration of the grace period, if I can collect his premium and have him sign a statement that he is in good health and has had no serious illness since the policy date.

Also, I hoped to get him to increase the amount… ah —Sheriff, how can you possibly be certain that there was no one else in the house at the time Mr. Perry was killed?”

“Because,” said the big man, “there were two men on the house.”

“On the house? You mean, on the roof?”

The sheriff nodded glumly. “Yeah,” he answered. “Two private detectives from the city, and they not only alibi each other — they alibi everybody else, including Mr. Addison Simms of Seattle.” He grunted. “Well, I hoped your reason for seeing Walter would tie in somewhere, but I guess it doesn’t.

If anything comes up, I can reach you through your company, can’t I?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Smith. He made no move to go.

The sheriff had turned around to the keyboard of the Steinway grand. With a morose finger, he picked out the notes of “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.”

Mr. Smith waited patiently until the concert was finished.

Then he asked, “Why were two detectives on the roof, Sheriff? Had there been a warning message or a threat of some sort?”

Sheriff Osburne turned around on the piano bench and regarded the little insurance agent glumly.

Mr. Smith smiled deprecatingly. He said, “I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, but can’t you see that it’s part of my job, part of my duty to my company, to solve this crime, if I can?”

“Huh? You didn’t have insurance on the old guy, did you?”

“No, just on young Walter. But the question arises — is Walter Perry guilty of murder? If he is, I would be doing my employer a disservice to go out of my way to renew his policy. If he is innocent, and I do not remind him that his policy is about to lapse, I am doing a disservice to a client. So I hope you see that my curiosity is not merely… ah… curiosity.”

The sheriff grunted.

“There was a threat, a warning?” Mr. Smith asked.

The sheriff sighed deeply. “Yeah,” he said. “Came in the mail three days ago. Letter saying he’d be murdered unless he made restitution to all the people he’d gypped out of money on songs he’d stolen — pirated, I think they call it in that game— from them. He was a song publisher, you know.”

“I recall his nephew having mentioned it. Whistler and Company, isn’t it? Who is Mr. Whistler?”

“There ain’t any,” replied the sheriff. “It’s a long— All right, I might as well tell you. Carlos Perry used to be in vaudeville, a solo act, whistling. Way back when, when there was vaudeville. When he took on a girl assistant, he billed himself as Whistler and Company, instead of using his name.

See?”

“And then he got into song publishing, and used the same name for a company name. I see. And did he really cheat his clients?”

The sheriff said, “I guess he did, all right. He wrote a couple songs himself that went fairly well, and used the money he got from ‘em to set himself up in publishing. And I guess his methods were crooked, all right. He was sued about a dozen times, but usually came out on top and kept right on making hay. He had plenty. I wouldn’t say he was a millionaire, but he must have been half of one, anyway.

“So three days ago, this threatening letter comes in the mail, and he showed it to us and wanted protection. Well, I told him we’d work on finding out who sent the letter, but that the county couldn’t afford to assign anybody to permanent protection duty at his place and if he wanted that, he’d have to hire it done. So he went to the city and hired two men from an agency.”

“A reputable one?”

“Yeah, the International. They sent Krauss and Roberts, two of their best men.”

The sheriff’s hand, resting on the keyboard, struck what he probably intended as a chord. It wasn’t. Mr. Smith winced slightly.

“Last night,” the sheriff went on, “as it happened, nobody was in or around the place here except the boss — I mean, Carlos Perry — and the two International ops. Walter was staying overnight in the city, went to see a show and stayed at a hotel, he says. We’ve checked. He went to the hotel all right, but we can’t prove he stayed in his room, or that he didn’t. Checked in about midnight, and left a call for eight. He could’ve made it here and back, easy.

“And the servants — well, I’d told you the housekeeper had quit and not been replaced yet. Just coincidence the other three all happened to be away. The cook’s mother’s critically sick; she’s still away. It was the gardener’s night off; he spent it with his sister and her husband in Dartown, like he always does. The other guy, the horse trainer or groom or whatever the devil you’d call him, went to town to see a doctor about an infected foot he’d got from stepping on a nail. Drove in in Perry’s truck and the truck broke down. He phoned and Perry told him to have it fixed at an all-night garage, sleep in town, and bring it back in the morning. So, outside of horses and a couple cats, the only people around last night were Perry and the two private ops.”

Mr. Smith nodded gravely. “And the coroner says the murder happened around two o’clock?”

“He says that’s fairly close, and he’s got something to go by, too. Perry turned in about midnight, and just before he went to his room, he ate a snack out of the refrigerator. One of the ops, Roberts, was in the kitchen with him and can verify what he ate and when. So — you know how a coroner can figure time of death, I guess — how far digestion has proceeded. And—”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Smith.

“Let’s go up on the roof,” suggested the sheriff. “I’ll show you the rest of it, easier’n I can tell you.”

He got up from the piano bench and went toward the stairs, Mr. Smith following him like a very small tail on a very large comet. The sheriff talked back over his shoulder:

“So at midnight Perry turns in. The two ops search the place thoroughly, inside and out. There ain’t nobody around then. They’ll swear to that, and like I said, they’re good men.”

“And,” said Mr. Smith cheerfully, “if someone was already hiding on the premises at midnight, it couldn’t have been Walter Perry. You verified that he checked in at a hotel at midnight.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff rumbled. “Only, there wasn’t nobody around. Roberts and Krauss say they’ll turn in their licenses if there was. So they went up, this way, to the roof, because it was a moonlight night and that’s the best place to watch from.

Up here.”

They had climbed the ladder from the back second-floor hallway through the open skylight and now stood on the flat roof. Mr. Smith walked over to the parapet.

Sheriff Osburne waved a huge hand. “Lookit,” he said, “you can see all directions for almost a quarter of a mile, farther than that most ways. There was moonlight, not bright enough to read by, maybe, because the moon was low in the sky, but both the International men were on this roof from around midnight to half past two. And they swear nobody crossed any of those fields or came along the road.”

“They were both watching all that time?”

“Yeah,” the sheriff answered. “They were gonna take turns, and it was Krauss’s turn off first, but it was so nice up there on the roof, and he wasn’t sleepy, that he stuck around talking to Roberts instead of turning in. And while they weren’t watching all directions every second — well, it’d take anybody time to cross the area where they could’ve seen him.

They say it couldn’t have been done.”

“And at two-thirty?”

The sheriff frowned. “At two-thirty Krauss decided to go downstairs and take a nap. He was just going through the skylight there when the bell started to ring — the telephone bell, I mean. The phone’s downstairs, but there’s an extension upstairs and it rings both places.

“Krauss didn’t know whether to answer it or not. He knew out in the country here, there are different rings for different phones and he didn’t know whether it was Perry’s ring or not. He went back up on the roof to ask Roberts if he knew, and Roberts did know, and it was Perry’s ring on the phone, so Krauss went down and answered it.

“It wasn’t anything important; it was just a misunderstanding. Merkle, the horse guy, had told the all-night garage he’d phone to find out if the truck was ready; he meant when he woke up in the morning. But the garage-man misunderstood and thought he was to call when he’d finished working on the truck. And he didn’t know Merkle was staying in the village. He phoned out to the house to tell ‘em the truck was ready. He’s a kind of dumb guy, the one that works nights in the garage, I mean.”

Sheriff Osburne tilted his hat back still farther and then grabbed at it as a vagrant breeze almost removed it entirely.

He said, “Then Krauss got to wondering how come the phone hadn’t waked Perry, because it was right outside his bedroom door and he knew Perry was a light sleeper; Perry’d told him so. So he investigated and found Perry was dead.”

Mr. Smith nodded. He said, “Then, I suppose, they searched the place again?”

“Nope. They were smarter’n that. Good men, I told you.

Krauss went back up and told Roberts, and Roberts stayed on the roof, watching, figuring maybe the killer was still around and he could see him leaving, see? Krauss went downstairs, phoned me, and while I was getting around here with a couple of the boys, he searched the place again, Roberts watching all the time. He searched the house and the barns and everywhere, and then when we got here, we helped him and went all over it again. There wasn’t nobody here. See?”

Mr. Smith nodded again, gravely. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and polished them, then walked around the low parapet, studying the landscape.

The sheriff followed him. He said, “Look, the moon was low in the northwest. That meant this house threw a shadow across to the barns. A guy could get that far, easy, but to and from the barns, he’d have to cross that big field as far as the clump of trees way down there at the edge of the road. He’d stick out like a sore thumb crossing that field.

“And outside of the barns, that there chunk of woods is the nearest possible cover he could’ve come from. It’d take him ten minutes to cross that field, and he couldn’ta done it.”

“I doubt,” observed Mr. Smith, “that any man would have been so foolish as to try. The moonlight works both ways. I mean, he could have seen the men on the roof, easily, unless they were hiding down behind the parapet. Were they?”

“Nope. They weren’t trying to trap anybody. They were just watching, most of the time sitting on the parapet, one facing each way, while they talked. Like you say, he could’ve seen them just as easy as they could’ve seen him.”

“Um-m-m,” said Mr. Smith. “But you haven’t told me why you’re holding Walter Perry. I presume he inherits — that would give him a motive. But, according to what you tell me about the ethics of Whistler and Company, a lot of other people could have motives.”

The sheriff nodded glumly. “Several dozen of ‘em.

Especially if we could believe that threatening letter.”

“And can’t you?”

“No, we can’t. Walter Perry wrote it and mailed it to his uncle. We traced the typewriter he used and the stationery.

And he admits writing it.”

“Dear me,” declared Mr. Smith earnestly. “Does he say why?”

“He does, but it’s screwy. Look, you want to see him anyway, so why don’t you get his story from him?”

“An excellent idea, Sheriff. And thank you very much.”

“It’s all right. I thought maybe thinking out loud would give me some idea how it was done, but it ain’t. Oh, well. Look, tell Mike at the jail I said you could talk to Walter. If Mike don’t take your word for it, have him phone me here. I’ll be around for a while.”

Near the open skylight, Mr. Henry Smith paused to take a last look at the surrounding country. He saw a tall, thin man wearing denim coveralls ride out into the field from the far side of the barn.

“Is that Merkle, the trainer?” he asked. “Yep,” said the sheriff. “He exercises those horses like they was his own kids.

A good guy, if you don’t criticize his horses — don’t try that.”

“I won’t,” said Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith took a last lingering look around, then went down the ladder and the stairs and got back into his car. He drove slowly and thoughtfully to the county seat.

Mike, at the jail, took Mr. Smith’s word that Sheriff Osburne had given permission for him to talk to Walter Perry.

Walter Perry was a slight, grave young man who wore horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. He smiled ruefully at Mr. Smith. He said, “It was about renewing my policy that you wanted to see me, wasn’t it? But you won’t want to now, of course, and I don’t blame you.”

Mr. Smith studied him a moment. He asked, “You didn’t… ah… kill your uncle, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then,” Mr. Smith told him, “just sign here.” He produced a form from his pocket and unscrewed the top of his fountain pen. The young man signed, and Mr. Smith folded the paper carefully and put it back in his pocket.

“But I wonder, Mr. Perry,” said Mr. Smith, “if you would mind telling me just why you… ah — Sheriff Osburne tells me that you admit sending a letter threatening your uncle’s life. Is that right?”

Walter Perry sighed. He said, “Yes, I did.”

“But wasn’t that a very foolish thing to do? I take it you never intended to carry out the threat.”

“No, I didn’t. Of course it was foolish. It was crazy. I should have seen that it would never work. Not with my uncle.” He sighed again and sat down on the edge of the cot in his cell. “My uncle was a crook, but I guess he wasn’t a coward. I don’t know whether that’s to his credit or not. Now that he’s dead, I hate to—”

Mr. Smith nodded sympathetically. He said, “Your uncle had, I understand, cheated a great many song writers out of royalties from their creations. You thought you might frighten him into making restitution to the ones he had cheated?”

Walter Perry nodded. “It was silly. One of those crazy ideas one gets. It was because he got well.”

“Got well! I’m afraid I don’t—”

“I’d better tell you from the beginning, Mr. Smith. It was two years ago, about the time I graduated from college — I worked my way through; my uncle didn’t foot the bill — that I first learned what kind of an outfit Whistler and Company was. I happened to meet some former friends of my uncle —old-time vaudeville people who had been on the circuits with him. They were plenty bitter. So I started investigating, and found out about all the lawsuits he’d had to fight, and — well, I was convinced.

“I was his only living relative, and I knew I was his heir, but if his money was crooked money — well, I didn’t want it.

He and I had a quarrel and he disinherited me, and that was that. Until a year ago, I learned—”

He stopped, staring at the barred door of the cell. “You learned what?” Mr. Smith prompted.

“I learned, accidentally, that my uncle had some kind of cardiac trouble and didn’t have long to live, according to the doctor. Probably less than a year. And — well, it’s probably hard for anybody to believe that my motives were good, but I decided that under those circumstances I was missing a chance to help the people my uncle had cheated — that if I was still his heir, I could make restitution after his death of the money he had stolen from them. You see?”

Walter Perry looked up at the little insurance agent from his seat on the cot, and Mr. Smith studied the young man’s face, then nodded.

“So you effected a reconciliation?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Smith. It was hypocritical, in one way, but I thought it would enable me to square off those crimes. I didn’t want his money, any of it. But I was sorry for all those poor people he’d cheated and — well, I made myself be hypocritical for their sake.”

“You know any of them personally?”

“Not all, but I knew I could find most of the ones I didn’t know through the records of the old lawsuits. The ones I met first were an old vaudeville team by the name of Wade and Wheeler. I met a few others through them, and looked up a few others. Most of them hated him like poison, and I can’t say I blame them.”

Mr. Smith nodded sympathetically. He said, “But the threatening letter. Where does that fit in?”

“About a week ago, I learned that his heart trouble was much better. They’d discovered a new treatment with one of the new drugs, and while he’d never be in perfect health, there was every chance he had another twenty years or so to live —he was only forty-eight. And, well, that changed things.”

The young man laughed ruefully. He went on, “I didn’t know if I could stand up under the strain of my hypocrisy for that long, and anyway, it didn’t look as though restitution would come in time to do any good to a lot of the people he owed money to. Wade and Wheeler, for instance, were older than my uncle, a few years. He could easily outlive them, and some of the others. You see?”

“So you decided to write a letter threatening his life, pretending to come from one of the people he’d cheated, thinking it might scare him into giving them their money now?”

“Decided,” said Walter Perry, “is hardly the word. If I’d thought about it, I’d have realized how foolish it was to hope that it would do any good. He just hired detectives. And then he was murdered, and here I am in a beautiful jam. Since he knows I wrote that letter, I don’t blame Osburne for thinking I must have killed him, too.”

Mr. Smith chuckled. He told him, “Fortunately for you, the sheriff can’t figure out how anybody could have killed him. Ah… did anyone know about your hoax, the threatening letter? That is, of course, before the sheriff traced it to you and you admitted writing and sending it?”

“Why, yes. I was so disappointed in my uncle’s reaction to receiving it that I mentioned it to Mr. Wade and Mr. Wheeler, and to a few of the others my uncle owed royalties to. I hoped they could suggest some other idea that might work better. But they couldn’t.”

“Wade and Wheeler — they live in the city?”

“Yes, they’re out of vaudeville now, of course. They get by doing bit parts on television.”

“Um-m-m,” said Mr. Smith. “Well, thank you for signing the renewal on your policy. And when you are out of here, I’d like to see you again to discuss the possibility of your taking an additional policy. You are planning to be married, you mentioned yesterday?”

“I was, yesterday,” replied Walter Perry. “I guess I still am, unless Osburne pins a murder on me. Yes, Mr. Smith, I’ll be glad to discuss another policy, if I get out of this mess.”

Mr. Smith smiled. He said, “Then it seems even more definitely to the interest of the Phalanx Insurance Company to see that you are free as soon as possible. I think I shall return and talk to the sheriff again.”

Mr. Henry Smith drove back to the Perry house even more slowly and thoughtfully than he had driven away from it. He didn’t drive quite all the way. He parked his ancient vehicle almost a quarter of a mile away, at the point where the road curved around the copse of trees that gave the nearest cover.

He walked through the trees until, near the edge of the copse, he could see the house itself across the open field. The sheriff was still, or again, on the roof.

Mr. Smith walked out into the open, and the sheriff saw him almost at once. Mr. Smith waved and the sheriff waved back. Mr. Smith walked on across the field to the barn, which stood between the field and the house itself.

The tall, thin man whom he had seen exercising the horse was now engaged in currying a horse.

“Mr. Merkle?” asked Mr. Smith, and the man nodded.

“My name is Smith, Henry Smith. I am… ah… attempting to help the sheriff. A beautiful stallion, that gray. Would I be wrong in guessing that it is a cross between an Arabian and a Kentucky walking horse?”

The thin man’s face lighted up. “Right, mister. I see you know horses. I been having fun with those city dicks all week, kidding ‘em. They think, because I told ‘em, that this is a Clyde, and that chestnut Arab mare is a Percheron. Found out yet who killed Mr. Perry?”

Mr. Smith stared at him. “It is just possible that we have, Mr. Merkle. It is just barely possible that you have told me how it was done, and if we know that—”

“Huh?” said the trainer. “I told you?”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Smith. “Thank you.”

He walked on around the barn and joined the sheriff on the roof.

Sheriff Osburne grunted a welcome. He said, “I saw you the minute you came out into the open. Dammit, nobody could have crossed that field last night without being noticed.”

“You said the moonlight was rather dim, did you not?”

“Yeah, the moon was low, kind of, and — let’s see, was it a half moon?”

“Third quarter,” said Mr. Smith. “And the men who crossed that field didn’t have to come closer than a hundred yards or more until they were lost in the shadow of the barn.”

The sheriff took off his hat and swabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. He said, “Sure, I ain’t saying you could recognize anybody that far, but you could see— Hey, why’d you say the men who crossed that field? You mean, you think—”

“Exactly,” cut in Mr. Smith, just a bit smugly. “One man could not have crossed that field last night without being noticed, but two men could. It seems quite absurd, I will admit, but by process of elimination, it must have been what happened.”

Sheriff Osburne stared blankly.

“The two men,” said Mr. Smith, “are named Wade and Wheeler. They live in the city, and you’ll have no difficulty finding them because Walter Perry knows where they live. I think you’ll have no difficulty proving that they did it, once you know the facts. For one thing, I think you’ll find that they probably rented the… ah… wherewithal. I doubt if they have their own left, after all these years off the stage.”

“Wheeler and Wade? I believe Walter mentioned those names, but—”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Smith. “They knew the setup here.

And they knew that if Walter inherited Whistler and Company, they’d get the money they had coming, and so they came here last night and killed Mr. Carlos Perry. They crossed that field last night right under the eyes of your city detectives.”

“I’m crazy, or you are,” declared Sheriff Osburne.

“How?”

Mr. Smith smiled gently.

He said, “On my way up through the house just now, I verified a wild guess. I phoned a friend of mine who has been a theatrical agent for a great many years. He remembered Wade and Wheeler quite well. And it’s the only answer.

Possibly because of dim moonlight, distance, and the ignorance of city-bred men who would think nothing of seeing a horse in a field at night when the horse should be in the barn. Who wouldn’t, in fact, even see a horse, to remember it.”

“You mean Wade and Wheeler—”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Smith, this time with definite smugness in his voice. “Wade and Wheeler, in vaudeville, were the front and back ends, respectively, of a comedy horse.”

Satan One-and-a-Half

MAYBE YOU you know how it is, when a man seeks solitude to do some creative work. As soon as he gets solitude, he finds it gives him the willies to be alone. Back in the middle of everything, he thought, “If I could only get away from everybody I know, I could get something done.” But let him get away-and see what happens.

I know; I’d had solitude for almost a week, and it was giving me the screaming meamies. I’d written hardly a note of the piano concerto I intended composing. I had the opening few bars, but they sounded suspiciously like Gershwin.

Here I was in a cottage out at the edge of town, and that cottage had seemed like what the doctor ordered when I rented it. I’d given my address to none of my pals, and so there were no parties, no jam sessions, no distractions.

That is, no distractions except loneliness. I was finding that loneliness is worse than all other distractions combined.

All I did was sit there at the piano with a pencil stuck behind my ear, wishing the doorbell would ring. Anybody.

Anything. I wished I’d had a telephone put in and had given my friends the number. I wished the cottage would turn out to be haunted. Even that would be better.

The doorbell rang.

I jumped up from the piano and practically ran to answer it.

And there wasn’t anybody there. I could see that without opening the door, because the door is mostly glass. Unless someone had rung the bell and then run like hell to get out of sight.

I opened the door and saw the cat. I didn’t pay any particular attention to it though. Instead, I stuck my head out and looked both ways. There wasn’t anybody in sight except the man across the street mowing his lawn.

I turned to go back to the piano, and the doorbell rang again.

This time I wasn’t more than a yard from the door. I swung around, opened it wide, and stepped outside.

There wasn’t anybody there, and the nearest hiding place— around the corner of the house — was too far away for anybody to have got there without my seeing him. Unless the cat.

I looked down for the cat and at first I thought it, too, had disappeared. But then I saw it again, walking with graceful dignity along the hallway, inside the house, toward the living room. It was paying no more attention to me than I had paid to it the first time I’d looked out the door.

I turned around again and looked up and down the street, and at the trees on my lawn, at the house next door on the north, and at the house next door on the south. Each of those houses was a good fifty yards from mine and no one could conceivably have rung my bell and run to either of them.

Even leaving out the question of why anyone should have done such a childish stunt, nobody could have.

I went back in the house, and there was the cat curled up sound asleep in the Morris chair in the living room. He was a big, black cat, a cat with character. Somehow, even asleep, he seemed to have a rakish look about him.

I said, “Hey,” and he opened big yellowish-green eyes and looked at me. There wasn’t any surprise or fear in those handsome eyes; only a touch of injured dignity. I said, “Who rang that doorbell?” Naturally, he didn’t answer.

So I said, “Want something to eat, maybe?” And don’t ask me why he answered that one when he wouldn’t answer the others. My tone of voice, perhaps. He said, “Miaourr…” and stood up in the chair.

I said, “All right, come on,” and went out into the kitchen to explore the refrigerator. There was most of a bottle of milk, but somehow my guest didn’t look like a cat who drank much milk. But luckily there was plenty of ground meat, because hamburgers are my favorite food when I do my own cooking.

I put some hamburger in a bowl and some water in another bowl and put them both on the floor under the sink.

He was busily working on the hamburger when I went back into the front hallway to look at the doorbell.

The bell was right over the front door, and it was the only bell in the house. I couldn’t have mistaken a telephone bell because I didn’t have a phone, and there was a knocker instead of a bell on the back door. I didn’t know where the battery or the transformer that ran the bell was located, and there wasn’t any way of tracing the wiring without tearing down the walls.

The push button outside the door was four feet up from the step. A cat, even one smart enough to stand on its hind legs, couldn’t have reached it. Of course, a cat could have jumped for the button, but that would have caused a sharp, short ring. Both times, the doorbell had rung longer than that.

Nobody could have rung it from the outside and got away without my seeing him. And, granting that the bell could be short-circuited from somewhere inside the house, that didn’t get me an answer. The cottage was so small and so quiet that it would have been impossible for a window or a door to have opened without my hearing it.

I went outside again and looked around, and this time I got an idea. This was an ideal opportunity for me to get acquainted with the girl next door — an opportunity I’d been waiting for since I’d first seen her a few days ago.

I cut across the lawn and knocked on the door.

Seeing her from a distance, I’d thought she was a knockout. Now, as she opened the door and I got a close look, I knew she was.

I said, “My name is Brian Murray. I live next door and I-”

“And you play with Russ Whitlow’s orchestra.” She smiled, and I saw I’d underestimated how pretty she was.

Strictly tops. “I was hoping we’d get acquainted while you were here. Won’t you come in?”

I didn’t argue about that. I went in, and almost the first thing I noticed inside was a beautiful walnut grand piano. I asked, “Do you play, Miss—?”

“Carson. Ruth Carson. I give piano lessons to brats with sticky fingers who’d rather be outside playing ball or skipping rope. When I heard Whitlow on the radio a few nights ago, the piano sounded different. Aren’t you still—?”

“I’m on leave,” I explained. “I had rather good luck with a couple of compositions a year ago, and Russ gave me a month off to try my hand at some more.”

“Have you written any?”

I said ruefully, “To date all I’ve set down is a pair of clef signs. Maybe now…” I was going to say that maybe now that I’d met her, things would be different. But that was working too fast, I decided.

She said, “Sit down, Mr. Murray. My uncle and aunt will be home soon, and I’d like you to meet them. Meanwhile, would you care for some tea?”

I said that I would, and it was only after she’d gone out into the kitchen that I realized I hadn’t asked the question I’d come to ask. When she came back, I said:

“Miss Carson, I came to ask you about a black cat. It walked into my house a few minutes ago. Do you know if it belongs to anybody here in the neighborhood?”

“A black cat? That’s odd. Mr. Lasky owned one, but outside of that one, I don’t know of any around here.”

“Who is Mr. Lasky?”

She looked surprised. “Why, didn’t you know? He was the man who lived in that cottage before you did. He died only a few weeks ago. He — he committed suicide.”

The faintest little shiver ran down my spine. Funny, in a city, how little one knows about the places one lives in. You rent a house or an apartment and never think to wonder who has lived there before you or what tragedies have been enacted there.

I said, “That might explain it. I mean, if it’s his cat. Cats become attached to people. It would explain why the cat—”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” she said. “The cat is dead, too. I happened to see him bury it in your back yard, under the maple tree. It was run over by a car, I believe.”

The phone rang, and she went to answer it. I started thinking about the cat again. The way it had walked in, as though it lived there — it was a bit eerie, somehow. If it were my predecessor’s cat, that would explain its apparent familiarity with the place. But it couldn’t be my predecessor’s cat. Unless he’d had more than one…

Ruth Carson came back from the hallway. She said,

“That was my aunt. They won’t be home until late tonight, so probably you won’t get to meet them until tomorrow. That means I’ll have to get my own dinner, and I hate to eat alone.

Will you share it with me, Mr. Murray?”

That was the easiest question I’d ever had to answer in my life.

We had an excellent meal in the breakfast nook in the kitchen. We talked about music for a while, and then I told her about the cat and the doorbell.

It puzzled her almost as much as it had puzzled me. She said, “Are you sure some child couldn’t have rung it for a prank, and then ducked out of sight before you got there?”

“I don’t see how,” I said. “I was just inside the door the second time it rang. Tell me about this Mr. Lasky and about his cat.”

She said, “I don’t know how long he lived there. We moved here just a year ago, and he was there then. He was rather an eccentric chap, almost a hermit. He never had any guests, never spoke to anyone. He and the cat lived there alone. I think he was crazy about the cat.”

“An old duck?” I asked.

“Not really old. Probably in his fifties. He had a gray beard that made him look older.”

“And the cat. Could he possibly have had two black cats?”

“I’m almost positive he didn’t. I never saw more than the big black torn he called Satan. And there was no cat around during the week after it was killed.”

“You’re positive it died?”

“Yes. I happened to see him burying it, and it wasn’t in a box or anything. And it was almost the only time I ever heard him speak; he was talking to himself, cursing about careless auto drivers. He took it hard. Maybe—”

She stopped, and I tried to fill in the blank. “You mean that was why he committed suicide a week later?”

“Oh, he must have had other reasons, but I imagine that was a factor. He left a suicide note, I understand. It was in the papers, at the time. There was one particularly unhappy circumstance about it. He wrote the note and then took poison. But before the poison had taken effect, he regretted it or changed his mind; he telephoned the police and they rushed an ambulance and a doctor — but he was dead when they got there.”

For an instant I wondered how he could have phoned the police from a house in which there was no telephone. Then I remembered that there had been one, taken out before I moved in. The rental agency had told me so, and that the wiring was already there in case I wanted one installed. For privacy’s sake I’d decided against having it done.

We’d finished our meal, and I insisted on helping with the dishes. Then I said, “Would you like to meet the cat?”

“Of course,” she said. “Are you going to let him stay?”

I grinned. “The question seems to be whether he’s going to let me stay. Come on; maybe you can give me a recommendation.”

We were right by her kitchen door, so we cut across the back yards into my kitchen. All the hamburger I’d put under the sink was gone. The cat was back in the Morris chair, asleep again. He blinked at us as I turned on the light.

Ruth stood there staring at him. “He’s a dead ringer for Mr. Lasky’s Satan. I’d almost swear it’s the same. But it couldn’t be!”

I said, “A cat has nine lives, you know. Anyway, I’ll call him Satan. And since the question arises whether he’s Satan One or Satan Two, let’s compromise. Satan One-and-a-Half.

So, Satan One-and-a-Half, you’ve got the only comfortable chair in this room. Mind giving it up for a lady?”

Whether he minded or not, I picked him up and moved him to a straight chair. Satan One-and-a-Half promptly jumped down to the floor from his straight chair, went back to the Morris, and jumped up on Ruth’s lap.

I said, “Shall I shut him in the kitchen?”

“No, don’t. Really, I like cats.” She was stroking his fur gently, and the cat promptly curled into a black ball of fur and went to sleep.

“Anyway,” I said, “he’s got good taste. But now you’re stuck. You can’t move without waking him, and that would be rude.”

She smiled. “Will you play for me? Something of your own, I mean. Did you mean it literally when you said you’d composed nothing since you’ve been here, or were you being modest?”

I looked down at the staff paper on the piano. There were a few bars there, an opening. But it wasn’t any good. I said, “I wasn’t being modest. I can compose, when I have an idea. But I haven’t had an idea since I’ve been here.”

She said, “Play the ‘Black Cat Nocturne.’ ”

“Sorry, I don’t know—”

“Of course not. It hasn’t been written yet.”

Then I got what she was talking about, and it began to click.

She said, “A doorbell rings, but nobody is there. The ghost of a dead black cat walks in and takes over your house.

It—”

“Enough,” I said, very rudely. I didn’t want to hear anymore. All I needed was the starting point.

I hit a weird arpeggio in the base, and it went on from there. Almost by itself, it went on from there. My fingers did it, not my mind. The melody was working up into the treble now, with a soft dissonant thump-thump in the accompaniment that was like a cat walking across the skin of a bass drum and— The doorbell rang.

It startled me and I hit about the worst discord of my career. I’d been out of the world for maybe half a minute, and the sudden ring of that bell was as much of a jolt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me.

I saw Ruth’s face; it, too, was startled looking. And the cat lying in her lap had raised its head. But its yellow-green eyes, slitted against the light, were inscrutable.

The bell rang again, and I shoved back the piano bench and stood up. Maybe, by playing, I’d hypnotized myself into a state of fright, but I was afraid to go to that door. Twice before, today, that doorbell had rung. Who, or what, would I find there this time?

I couldn’t have told what I was afraid of. Or maybe I could, at that. Down deep inside, we’re all afraid of the supernatural. The last time that doorbell had rung, maybe a dead cat had come back. And now — maybe its owner.

I tried to be casual as I went to the door, but I could tell from Ruth’s face that she was feeling as I did about it. That damn music! I’d picked the wrong time to get myself into a mood. If I went to the door and nobody was there, I’d probably be in a state of jitters the rest of the night.

But there was someone there. I could see, the moment I stepped from the living room into the hallway, that there was a man standing there. It was too dark for me to make out his features, but, at any rate, he didn’t have a gray beard.

I opened the door.

The man outside said, “Mr. Murray?”

He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a very round face. Right now it was split by an ingratiating smile. He looked familiar and I knew I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place him. I did know that I didn’t like him; maybe I was being psychic or maybe I was being silly, but I felt fear and loathing at the sight of him.

I said, “Yes, my name is Murray.”

“Mine’s Haskins. Milo Haskins. I’m your neighbor across the street, Mr. Murray.”

Of course, that was where I’d seen him. He’d been mowing the lawn over there this afternoon, when the cat came.

He said, “I’m in the insurance game, Mr. Murray.

Sometime I’d like to talk insurance with you, but that isn’t what I came to see you about tonight. It’s about a cat, a black cat.”

“Yes?”

“It’s mine,” he said. “I saw it go in your door today, just before I went in the house. I came over just as soon as I could to get it.”

“Sorry, Mr. Haskins,” I told him. “I fed it and then let it out the back door. Don’t know where it went from here.”

“Oh,” he said. He looked as though he didn’t know whether or not to believe me. “Are you sure it didn’t come back in a window or something? Would you mind if I helped you look around?”

I said, “I’m afraid I would mind, Mr. Haskins. Good night.”

I stepped back to close the door, and then something soft rubbed against my leg. At the same instant, I saw Haskins’s eyes look down and then harden as they came up and met mine again.

He said, “So?” He bent and held out a hand to the cat.

“Here, kitty. Come here, kitty.”

Then it was my turn to grin, because the cat clawed his fingers.

“Your cat, eh?” I said. “I thought you were lying, too, Haskins. That’s why I wouldn’t give you the cat. I’ll change my mind now; you can have him if he goes with you willingly. But lay a hand on him, and I’ll knock your block off.”

He said, “Damn you, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing but leave. I’ll stand here, with the door open, till you’re across the street. The cat’s free to follow you, if he’s yours.”

“It’s my cat! And damn it, I’ll—”

“You can get a writ of replevin, tomorrow,” I said. “That is, if you can prove ownership.”

He glared a minute longer, opened his mouth to say something, then reconsidered and strode off down the walk. I closed the door, and the cat was still inside, in the hallway.

I turned, and Ruth Carson was in the hallway too, behind me. She said, “I heard him say who he was and what he wanted, and when the cat jumped down and went toward the door, I—”

“Did he see you?” I asked.

“Why, yes. Shouldn’t I have let him?”

“I — I don’t know,” I said. I did know that I wished he hadn’t seen her. Somehow, somewhere, I sensed danger in this. There was danger in the very air. But to whom, and why?

We went back into the living room, but I didn’t sit on the piano bench this time; I took a chair instead. Music was out for tonight. That ringing doorbell and the episode that had followed had ended my inclination to improvise as effectively as though someone had chopped up the piano with an ax.

Ruth must have sensed it; she didn’t suggest that I play again.

I said, “What do you know about our pleasant neighbor, Milo Haskins?”

“Very little,” she said. “Except that he’s lived there since before we moved into the neighborhood last year. He has a wife — a rather unpleasant woman — but no children. He does sell insurance. Mostly fire insurance, I believe.”

“Does he own a cat, that you know of?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen one. I’ve never seen any black cat in this neighborhood except Mr. Lasky’s, and—”

She turned to look at Satan One-and-a-Half, who was lying on his back on the rug, batting a fore-paw, at nothing apparently.

I said, “Cat, if you could only talk. I wish I knew whether—” I stood up abruptly. “To what side of that maple tree and how far from it did Mr. Lasky bury that cat?”

“Are you going to… ?”

“Yes. There’s a trowel and a flashlight in the kitchen, and I’m going to make sure of something, right now.”

“I’ll show you, then.”

“No,” I said. “Just tell me. It might not be pleasant. You wait here.”

She sat down again. “All right. On the west side of the tree, about four feet from the trunk.”

I found the trowel and the flashlight and went out into the yard.

Five minutes later I came in to report.

“It’s there,” I told her, without going into unpleasant details. “As soon as I wash up, I’d like to use your phone. May I?”

“Of course. Are you going to call the police?”

“No. Maybe I should — but what could I tell them?” I tried to laugh; it didn’t quite go over. This wasn’t funny.

Whatever else it was, it wasn’t funny. I said, “What time do you expect your aunt and uncle home?”

“No later than eleven.”

I said, “For some reason, this Haskins is interested in that cat. Too interested. If he sees us leave here, he might come in and get it, or kill it, or do whatever he wants to do with it. I can’t even guess. We’ll sneak out the back way and get to your place without his seeing us, and we’ll leave the lights on here so he won’t know we’ve left.”

“Do you really think something is — is going to happen?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Maybe it’s just because the things that have happened don’t make sense that I have an idea it isn’t over yet. And I want you out of it.”

I washed my hands in the kitchen, and then we went outside. It was quite dark out there, and I was sure we couldn’t be seen from the front as we cut across the lawn between the houses.

We’d left the light burning in her kitchen. I said, “I noticed before where your phone is. I’ll use it without turning on the light. I just want to see if I can get any information that will clear this up.”

I phoned the News and asked for Monty Billings who is on the city desk, evenings. I said, “This is Murray. Got time to look up something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“Guy named Lasky. Committed suicide at 4923

Deverton Street, three or four weeks ago. Everything you can find out. Call me back at—” I used my flashlight to take the number off the base of the phone — “at Saunders 4848.”

He promised to call back within half an hour and I went out into the kitchen again. Ruth was making coffee for us.

“I’m going back home after that phone call comes,” I told her. “And you’d better stay here. Your uncle has a key, of course?”

She nodded.

“Then lock all the doors and windows when I leave. If you hear anyone prowling around or anything, phone for the police, or yell loud enough so I can hear you.”

“But why would anyone—?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, except that Haskins knows you were at my place. He might think the cat is here, or something. I haven’t anything to work on except a hunch that something’s coming. I don’t want you in on it.”

“But if you really think it’s dangerous, you shouldn’t…”

We’d argued our way through two cups of coffee apiece by the time the phone rang.

It was Monty. He said, “It was three weeks ago last Thursday, on the fourteenth at around midnight. Police got a frantic call from a man who said he’d taken morphine and changed his mind and would they rush an ambulance or a doctor or something. Gave his name as Colin Lasky, and the address you mentioned. They got there within eight minutes, but it was too late.”

“Left a suicide note, I understand. What was in it?”

“Just said he was tired of living and he’d lost his last friend the week before. The police figured out he meant his cat. It had been killed about that time, and nobody knew of him having any friend but that. He’d lived there over ten years and hadn’t made any friends. Hermit type, maybe a little wacky. Oh, yeah — and the note said he preferred cremation and that there was enough money in a box in his bureau to cover it.”

“Was there?”

“Yes. There was more than enough; five hundred and ten dollars, to be exact. There wasn’t any will, and there wasn’t any estate, except the money left over after the cremation, and some furniture. The landlord, the guy who owned the house and had rented it to Lasky, made the court an offer for the furniture and they accepted it. Said he was going to leave it in the house, and rent the place furnished.”

I asked, “What happens to the money?”

“I dunno. Guess if no heir appears and no claims are made against the estate, the state keeps it. It wouldn’t amount to very much.”

“Did he have any source of income?”

“None that could be found. The police guess was that he’d been living on cash capital, and the fact that it had dwindled down to a few hundred bucks was part of why he gave himself that shot of morphine. Or maybe he was just crazy.”

“Shot?” I asked. “Did he take it intravenously?”

“Yes. Say, the gang’s been asking about you. Where are you hiding out?”

I almost told him, and then I remembered how close I had come this evening to getting a composition started. And I remembered that I wasn’t lonesome any more, either.

I said, “Thanks, Monty. I’ll be looking you up again some of these days. If anyone asks, tell ‘em I’m rooming with an Eskimo in Labrador. So long.”

I went back to Ruth and told her. “Everything’s on the up and up. Lasky’s dead, and the cat is dead. Only the cat is over in my living room.”

I went across the back way, as I had come, and let myself in at the kitchen door. The cat was still there, asleep again in the Morris chair. He looked up as I came in, and damn if he didn’t say “Miaourr?” again, with an interrogative accent.

I grinned at him. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I only wish you could talk, so you could tell me.”

Then I turned out the lights, so I could see out better than anyone outside could see in. I pulled a chair up to the window and watched Ruth’s house.

Soon the downstairs light went out, and an upstairs one flashed on. Shortly after that I saw a man and woman who were undoubtedly Ruth’s uncle and aunt let themselves in the front door with a key. Then, knowing she was no longer alone over there, I made the rounds of my own place.

Both front and back doors were locked, with the key on the inside of the front door, and a strong bolt in addition to the lock was on the back door. I locked all the windows that would lock; two of them wouldn’t.

On the top ledge of the lower pane of each of those two windows, I set a milk bottle, balanced so it would fall off if anyone tried to raise the sash from the outside. Then I turned out the lights.

Yellow eyes shone at me from the seat of the Morris chair. I answered their plain, if unspoken, question. “Cat, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe I’m crazy. But I think you’re bait, for someone, or something. I aim to find out.”

I groped my way across the room and sat down on the arm of his chair. I rubbed my hand along his sleek fur until he purred, and then, while he was feeling communicative, I asked him, “Cat, how did you ring that doorbell?” Somehow there in the quiet dark I would not have been too surprised if he had answered me.

I sat there until my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and I could see the furniture, the dark plateau of the grand piano, the outlines of the doorways. Then I walked over to one of the windows and looked out. The moon was on the other side of the house; I could see into the yard, but no one outside would be able to see me standing there.

Over there, diagonally toward the alley, in the shadow of the group of three small linden trees— Was that a darker shadow? A shadow that moved slightly as though a man were standing there watching the house?

I couldn’t be sure; maybe my eyes and my imagination were playing tricks on me. But it was just where a man would stand, if he wanted to keep an eye on both the front and back approaches of the cottage.

I stood there for what seemed to be a long time, but at last I decided that I’d been mistaken. I went back to the Morris chair. This time I put Satan One-and-a-Half down on the floor and used the chair myself. But I’d scarcely settled myself before he had jumped up in my lap. In the stillness of the room, his purring sounded like an outboard motor. Then it stopped and he slept.

For a while there were thoughts running through my mind. Then there were only sounds — notes. My fingers itched for the piano keys, and I wished that I hadn’t started this damnfool vigil. I had something, and I wanted to turn on the lights and write it down. But I couldn’t do that, so I tried memorizing it.

Then I let my thoughts drift free again, because I knew I had what I’d been trying to get. But my thoughts weren’t free, exactly. They seemed to belong to the girl, Ruth Carson…

I must have been asleep, because she was sitting there in the room with me, but she wasn’t paying any attention to me.

We were both listening respectfully to the enormous black cat which was sitting on the piano while it told us how to ring doorbells by telekinesis.

Then the cat suggested that Ruth come over and sit on my lap. She did. A very intelligent cat. It stepped down from the top of the piano onto the keyboard and began to play, by jumping back and forth among the keys. The cat led off with

“La Donna e Mobile” and then — of all tunes to hear when the most beautiful girl in the world is sitting on your lap — he started to play “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Of course Ruth stood up. I tried to stand, too, but I couldn’t move. I struggled, and the struggle woke me.

My lap was empty. Satan One-and-a-Half had just jumped off. It was so quiet that I could hear the soft pad of his feet as he ran for the window. And there was a sound at the window.

There was a face looking through the glass — the face of a man with a white beard!

My hunch had been right. Someone had come for the cat.

Lasky, who was dead of morphine, had come back for his black cat which had been run over by an auto and was buried in the back yard. It didn’t make sense, but there it was. I wasn’t dreaming now.

For an instant I had an eerie feeling of unreality, and then I fought through it and jumped to my feet. The cat, at least, was real.

The window was sliding upward. The cat was on its hind feet, forepaws on the window sill. I could see its alert head with pointed black ears silhouetted against the gray face on the other side of the window.

Then the precariously balanced milk bottle fell from the upper ledge of the window. Not onto the cat, for it was in the center, and I’d made the bottle less conspicuous by putting it to one side. While the window was still open only a few inches, the milk bottle struck the floor inside. It shattered with a noise that sounded, there in the quiet room, like the explosion of a gigantic bomb.

I was running toward the window by now, and jerking the flashlight out of my pocket as I ran. By the time I got there, the man and the cat were both gone. His lace had vanished at the sound of the crash, and the cat had wriggled itself through the partly open window and vanished after him.

I threw the window wide, hesitating for an instant whether or not to vault across the sill into the yard. The man was running diagonally toward the alley, and the cat was running with him. Their course would take them past the linden trees where I’d thought, earlier, I’d seen the darker shadow of a watcher.

Half in and half out of the window, still undecided whether this was my business or not, I flipped the switch of my flashlight and threw its beam after the fleeing figure.

Maybe it was my use of that flashlight that caused the death of a man. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

Maybe the man with the beard would have run past the watcher in the trees without seeing him. And certainly, as we learned afterward, the watcher had no good reason to have made his presence known.

But there he was, in the beam of my flashlight — the second man, the one who’d been hiding among the lindens. It was Milo Haskins.

The bearded man had been running away from the house; now at the sight of Haskins standing there between him and the alley, directly in his path, he pulled up short. His hand went into a pocket for a gun.

So did Haskins’s hand, and Haskins fired first. The bearded man fell.

There was a black streak in the air, and the cat had launched itself full at the pasty moonface of Milo Haskins. He fired at the cat as it flew through the air at his face, but he shot high; the bullet shattered glass over my head. The bearded man’s gun was still in his hand, and he was down, but not unconscious. He raised himself up and carefully shot twice at Haskins.

I must have got out of the window and run toward them, for I was there by that time. Haskins was falling. I made a flying grab at the bearded man’s automatic, but the man with the beard was dead. He’d fired those last two shots, somehow, on borrowed time.

I scooped up Haskins’s revolver. The cat had jumped clear as he had fallen; it crouched under the tree.

I bent over Haskins. He was still alive but badly hurt.

Lights were flashing on in neighboring houses, and windows were flying up. I stepped clear of the trees and saw Ruth Carson’s face, white and frightened, leaning out of an upper window of her house.

She called, “Brian, are you all right? What happened?”

I said, “I’m all right. Will you phone for a police ambulance?”

“Aunt Elsa’s already phoning the police. I’ll tell her.”

We didn’t learn the whole story until almost noon the next day, when Lieutenant Decker called. Of course we’d been making guesses, and some of them were fairly close.

I let Lieutenant Becker in and he sat down — not in the Morris chair — and told us about it. He said, “Milo Haskins isn’t dying, but he thought he was, and he talked. Lasky was Walter Burke.” He stopped as though that ought to make sense to us, but it didn’t, so he went on:

“He was famous about fifteen years ago — Public Enemy Number Four. Then no one heard of him after that. He simply retired, and got away with it.

“He moved here and took the name of Lasky, and became an eccentric cuss. Not deliberately; he just naturally got that way, living alone and liking it.”

“Except for the cat,” I said.

“Yeah, except for the cat. He was nuts about that cat.

Well, a year or so ago, this Haskins found out who his neighbor across the street was. He wrote a letter to the police about it, put the letter in a deposit box, and started in to blackmail Lasky, or Burke.”

“Why a letter to the police?” Ruth asked. “I don’t see—”

I explained that to her. “So Lasky couldn’t kill him and get clear of the blackmail that way. If he killed Haskins, the letter would be found. Go on, Lieutenant.”

“Burke had to pay. Even if he ran out, Haskins could put the police on his trail and they might get him. So he finally decided to fool Haskins — and everybody else — into thinking he was dead. He wanted to take the cat with him, of course, so the first thing he did was to fake its death. He boarded it out to a cat farm or cat kennel or whatever it would be, and got another black cat, killed it, and buried it so people would notice. Also that gave color to the idea of his committing suicide. Everybody knew he was crazy about the cat.

“Then, somewhere, maybe by advertising, he found a man about his age and build, and with a beard. He didn’t have to resemble Lasky otherwise, the way Lasky worked it.

“I don’t know on what kind of a story Lasky got the other guy here, but he did, and he killed him with morphine.

Meanwhile, he’d written the suicide note, timed his phone call to the police telling them he’d taken morphine, and then ducked out — with, of course, the balance of his money.

When the police got here, they found the corpse.”

“But wouldn’t they have got somebody to identify it?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “I suppose, technically, they should have. But there wasn’t any relative or friend to call in. And there didn’t seem to be any doubt. There was the suicide note in Lasky’s handwriting, and he’d phoned them. I guess it simply never occurred to anyone that further identification was necessary.

“And none of his neighbors, except maybe Haskins, knew him very well. He’d probably trimmed the other guy’s beard and hair to match his, and probably if any neighbor had been called down to the morgue, they might have made identification. A man always looks different anyway, when he’s dead.”

I said, “But last night why did Haskins—?”

“Coming to that,” said the lieutenant. “Somehow the cat got lost from Lasky. I mean Burke. Maybe he just got around to calling for it where it’d been boarded, and found it had got away, or maybe he lost it himself, traveling, before it got used to a new home. Anyway, he figured it’d find its way back here, and that’s why he took the risk of coming back to get it.

See?”

“Sure. But what about Haskins?” I asked.

“Haskins must have seen the cat come back,” said the lieutenant.

I nodded, remembering that Haskins had been mowing his lawn when I’d gone to the door.

“He realized it was Lasky’s cat and that Lasky had tricked him. If the cat was alive, probably Lasky was too.

He figured Lasky would come back for the cat, and he watched the house for that reason. First he tried to get you to give him the cat by saying it was his. He figured he’d have an ace in the hole if he had the cat himself.

“He didn’t intend to kill Lasky; he had no reason to. He just wanted to follow him when he left, and find out where he was and under what identity, so he could resume the blackmail. But Lasky saw him there when you turned on the flashlight. Lasky went for a gun. Haskins had brought one because he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man. He beat Lasky, I mean Burke, to the draw. That’s all.”

That explained everything — except one thing. I said,

“Haskins was too far away to have rung my doorbell. Burke wasn’t there. Who rang it?”

“The cat,” said Lieutenant Becker simply.

“Huh? How? The button was too high for it to—”

The lieutenant grinned. He said, “I told you Lasky was crazy about that cat. It had a doorbell of its own, down low on one side of the door frame, so when he let it out it wouldn’t have to yowl to get back in. It could just ring the bell with its paw. He’d taught it to do that when it wanted in.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “If I’d thought to look—”

“Black cats look pretty much alike,” said the lieutenant, “but that was how Haskins knew this was Lasky’s cat. From across the street he saw it ring that trick doorbell.”

I looked at the cat and said, “Satan,” and he opened his eyes. “Why didn’t you explain that, damn you?” He blinked once, and then went back to sleep. I said, “The laziest animal I ever saw. Say, Lieutenant, I take it nobody’s going to claim him.”

“Guess not. You and your wife can buy a license for him if you want to keep him.”

I looked at Ruth to see how she liked being mistaken for my wife. There was a slight flush in her cheeks that wasn’t rouge.

But she smiled and said, “Lieutenant, I’m not—”

I said, “Can’t we get two licenses while we’re at it?” I wasn’t kidding at all; I meant it. And Ruth looked at me and I read something besides surprise in her face — and then remembered the lieutenant was still around.

I turned to him. “Thanks for starting this, Lieutenant, but I don’t need a policeman to help me the rest of the way — if you know what I mean.”

He grinned, and left.

Tell 'em, Pagliaccio!

POP WILLIAMS rolled them out and they came snake-eyes again. He spoke eloquently and bitterly about the matter while he watched Whitey Harper pick up the two quarters and the jig next to him pick up the two dimes.

Pop reached for the dice, and then looked into his left hand to see how much of his capital remained. A dime and a quarter were there.

He tossed down the two-bit piece and Whitey covered it.

Pop rolled a five-three. “Eighter from Decatur,” he said.

“Shoot the works.” He dropped the other coin in his hand, and the jig covered. Pop whispered softly to the cubes and let them travel.

Four and a trey for seven.

He grunted and stood up.

Valenti, the daredevil, had been leaning against a quarter-pole, watching the crap game with bland amusement.

He said, “Pop, you ought to know better than to buck those dice of Whitey’s.”

Whitey, the dice in his hand, looked up angrily, and his mouth opened, then went shut again at the sight of those shoulders on Valenti. Shoulders whose muscles bulged through the thin polo shirt he wore. Valenti would have made two of Whitey Harper, who ran the penny-pitch, and he’d have made three of Pop Williams.

But Valenti said, “I was just kidding, Whitey.”

“Don’t like that kind of kidding,” said Whitey. He looked for a moment as though he were going to say something more, and then he turned back to the game.

Pop Williams went on out of the tent and leaned against the freak-show picket fence, looking down the midway. Most of the fronts were dark, and all the rides had closed down. Up near the front gate, a few of the ball games and wheels were still running to a few late suckers.

Valenti was standing beside him. “Drop much, Pop?”

Pop shook his head. “A few bucks.”

“That’s a lot,” said Valenti, “if it’s all you had. That’s the only time it’s fun to gamble. I used to be dice-nutty. Now I got a few G’s ahead and a few tied up in that stuff—” he waved a hand toward the apparatus for the free show in the center of the midway — “and so there’s no kick in shooting two bits.”

Pop grunted. “You can’t say you don’t gamble, though, when you high-dive off a thing like that, into practically a goldfish bowl.”

“Oh, that kind of gambling, sure. How’s the old girl?”

“Lil? Swell. Blast old man Tepperman—” He broke off into grumbling.

“Boss been riding you again about her?”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “Just because she’s been cantankerous for a few days. Sure, she gets cantankerous once in a while.

Elephants are only human, and when Tepperman gets seventy-five years old, he’s not going to be as easygoing as old Lil is, drat him.”

Valenti chuckled.

“ ‘Tain’t funny,” said Pop. “Not this time. He’s talking about selling her off.”

“He’s talked like that before, Pop. I can see his point of view. A tractor—”

“He’s got tractors,” said Pop bitterly. “And none of ‘em can shove a wagon outta mud like Lil can. And a tractor can’t draw crowds like a bull can, neither. You don’t see people standing around watching a tractor. And a tractor ain’t got flash for parades, not like a bull has.”

To circus and carney, all elephants are bulls, regardless of sex.

Valenti nodded. “There’s that. But look what happened in the last parade. She gets out of line, and goes up on a parking lot and—”

“That damn Shorty Martin. He don’t know how to handle a bull, but just because he’s dark and you put a turban on him and he looks like a mahout, the boss puts him on Lil for the parade. Lil can’t stand him. She told me— Aw, nuts.”

“You need a drink,” said Valenti. “Here.” He held out a silver-plated flask. Pop drank. “Smooth,” he said. “But kind of weak, ain’t it?”

Valenti laughed. “Hundred-proof Scotch. You must be drinking that stuff they sell two bits a pint at the jig show.”

Pop nodded. “This ain’t got enough fusel oil, or something.

But thanks. Guess I’ll go see if Lil’s okay.”

He went around back of the Dip-a-Whirl to where he’d staked the bull. Lil was there, and she was peacefully asleep.

She opened little piggy eyes, though, as Pop walked up to her.

He said, “Hiya, girlie. G’wan back to shuteye. We got to tear-down tomorra night. You won’t get much then.” His hand groped in his pocket and came out with the two lumps of sugar he’d swiped from the cookhouse.

The soft, questing tip of her trunk nuzzled his palm and took the sugar.

“Damn ya,” Pop said affectionately.

He stared at the huge dim bulk of the bull. Her eyes had closed again.

“Trouble with you,” he said, “you got temperament. But listen, old girl, you can’t have temperament no more. That’s for prima donnas, that is, and you’re a working bull.”

He pretended she’d said something. “Yeah, I know. You didn’t used to be— But then me, I wasn’t always a bull man, either. Me, I was a clown once. Remember, baby?

“And now you’re just an ol’ hay-burner for shoving wagons; and me, I ain’t so young myself. I’m fifty-eight, Lil.

Yeah, I know you got fifteen years on me, and maybe more’n that if the truth was known, but you don’t get drunk like I do, and that makes us even.”

He patted her trunk and the big ears flapped once, in lazy appreciation.

“That there Shorty Martin,” said Pop. “Baby, does he tease you, or anything? Wish I could ride you in the parade, drat it. You’d be all right then, wouldn’t you, baby?”

He grinned. “Then that there Shorty would be mahout of a job!”

But Lil didn’t appreciate puns, he realized. And jokes didn’t change the fact that pretty soon he was going to be out of a job because Tepperman Shows was going to sell Lil. If they could find a place to sell her. If they couldn’t— Well, he didn’t want to think about that.

Disconsolately, he walked over to the jig village back of the Harlem Casino.

“Hi, Mista’ Pop,” said Jabez, the geek. “Lookin’ kinda low.”

“Jabe,” said Pop, “I’m so low I could wear stilts and walk under a sidewall ‘thout lifting it.”

Jabez laughed, and Pop got a pint on the cuff.

He took a swig and felt a little better. That stuff had authority to it. More you paid for liquor, the weaker it was.

He’d tasted champagne once, even, and it had tasted like soda pop. This stuff—

“Thanks, Jabe,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

He strolled back to the crap game. Whitey Harper stood up as Pop came under the sidewall.

“Bust,” Whitey said. “Keep track of those dice for me, Bill. I’ll get ‘em later. Hi, Pop. Stake me to Java?”

Pop shook his head. “But have a slug of what’s good for what ails you. Here.”

Whitey took the offered drink and headed for the cookhouse. Pop borrowed a quarter from Bill Rendelman, the merry-go-round man, who was now winner in the crap game.

He took two come-bets, one for fifteen and one for ten, and lost both.

Nope, tonight wasn’t his night.

Somewhere toward town, a clock boomed midnight. Pop decided he might as well turn in and call it a night. He could finish what was left of the pint in his bunk.

He was feeling swell now. And, as always, when he was in that first cheerful, happy stage of inebriation, he sang, as he crossed the deserted midway, the most lugubrious song he knew. The one and only grand opera song he knew.

The aria from Pagliaccio.

Yeah, that guy Pagliaccio was a clown, too, and he knew what it was all about. Life was beautifully sad for a clown; it was more beautifully sad for an ex-clown, and most sadly beautiful of all for a drunken ex-clown.

He’d finished the third full rendition by the time, still fully dressed except for his shoes, he’d crawled into his bunk under the No. 6 wagon back of the Hawaiian show. He forgot all about finishing what was left of the liquor.

Overhead the dim, gibbous moon slid out of sight behind skittering clouds, and the outside ring of the lot, shielded by tents from the few arcs left burning on the midway, became black mystery. Blackness out of which the tents rose like dim gray monsters in the still, breathless night. The murderous night—

Someone was shaking him. Pop Williams opened one eye sleepily. He said, “Aw, ri’. Wha’ time zit?” And closed the eye again.

But the shaking went on. “Pop! Wake up! Lil killed—”

He was sitting bolt upright then. His eyes were wide, but they wouldn’t focus. The face in front of them was a blur, but the voice was Whitey Harper’s voice.

He grabbed at Whitey’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Huh? You said—”

“Your bull killed Shorty Martin. Pop! Wake up!”

Wake up? Hell, he was wider awake than he’d ever been in his life. He was out of bed, almost falling on Whitey as he clambered down from the upper bunk. He jammed his feet into his shoes so that their tongues doubled back over the instep; he didn’t stop to pull or tie the laces. And he was off, running.

There were other people running, too. Quite a few of them. Some of them from the sleeping cars, some of them from tents along the midway where a good many slept in hot weather. Some running from the brightly lighted cookhouse up at the front of the midway.

When he got to the Hawaiian show, Pop stole a glance around behind him to see if Whitey Harper were in sight. He wasn’t.

So Pop ducked under the Hawaiian show sidewall, and came out at the side of the tent instead of the front of it, and doubled back to Tepperman’s private trailer. Of course, Tepperman’s wife might still be there, but there was something Pop had to do and had to do quick, before he went to the bull. And in order to do it, he had to gamble that the boss’s trailer would be empty.

It was. And it took him only a minute to find the high-powered rifle he was after. Holding it tight against his body, he got it under the Hawaiian show top without being seen.

And hid it under the bally cloth of the platform.

It wasn’t a very good hiding place. Someone would find it by tomorrow noon, but then again by tomorrow noon it wouldn’t matter. They’d be able to get another gun by then.

But this one was the only one available tonight that was big enough.

And then a minute later, Pop was pushing his way through the ring of people around old Lil. A ring that held a very respectful distance from the elephant.

Pop’s first glance was for Lil, and she was all right.

Whatever flare of temper or cantankerousness she’d had, it was gone now. Her red eyes were unconcerned and her trunk swung gently.

Doc Berg was bending over something that lay on the ground a dozen feet from the bull. Tepperman was standing looking on. Someone called out something to Pop, and Tepperman whirled.

His voice was shrill, almost hysterical. “I told you that damn bull—” He broke off and stood there glaring.

“What happened?” Pop asked mildly.

“Can’t you see what happened?” He looked back down at Doc Berg, and Berg’s glasses caught and reflected the beam of somebody’s flashlight as he nodded.

“Three ribs,” he said. “Neck dislocated, and the skull crushed where it hit against that stake. Any one of those things could’ve killed him.”

Pop shook his head, whether in grief or negation he didn’t know himself.

He asked again, “What happened? Was Shorty tormentin’ her?”

“Nobody saw it,” Tepperman snapped.

“Hm-m-m,” said Pop. “That where you found him? Don’t seem likely Lil’d have throwed him that far if she did it.”

“What do you mean, if she did it?” Tepperman asked coldly. “No, he was lying with his head against the stake, if you got to know.”

“He must’ve been teasin’ her,” Pop insisted. “Lil ain’t no killer. Maybe he give her some pepper to eat, or—”

He walked up to Lil and patted her trunk. “You shouldn’ta done it, old girl. But— Damn, I wisht you could talk.”

The carney proprietor snorted. “Better stay away from that bull till we shoot her.”

Pop winced. That had been the word he’d been waiting for, and it had come.

But he didn’t argue it; he knew there wasn’t any use, now. Maybe later, when Tepperman’s anger had cooled, there’d be a chance. An outside chance.

Pop said, “Lil’s all right, Mr. Tepperman. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. If she did… uh… do that, she sure had some reason. Some good reason. There was something wrong about that there Shorty. You should’ve never let him ride her in the parade, even. She never did like—” And realizing that, by emphasizing Lil’s dislike of Shorty, he was damaging his own case, Pop let it die there.

There was, blocks away, the clang of an ambulance bell.

Tepperman had turned back to the doc. He asked, “Had Shorty been drinking, Doc?”

But Berg shook his head. “Don’t seem to be any smell of liquor on him.”

Pop’s hopes went lower. If Shorty’d been drunk, it would have made it more likely he’d been teasing the bull deliberately. Still, if he hadn’t, why’d he gone by there at all?

Especially, at that time of—

“What time is it?” Pop asked.

“Almost one.” It was the doctor who answered. Earlier than Pop thought; he must have barely gone to sleep when it happened. No wonder so many of the carneys were still awake.

The ambulance drove up, collected the thing on the ground, and drove off again. Some of the crowd was drifting away already

Pop tried again. “That Shorty was a crook anyway, Mr. Tepperman. Didn’t he get hisself arrested when we was playin’ Brondale a few days ago?”

“What are you driving at, Pop?”

Pop Williams scratched his head. He didn’t know. But he said, “Only that if Lil did anything to him, she musta sure had a reason. I don’t know what, but—”

The carney owner glowered him to silence.

“Wait here,” he said, “and keep an eye on that bull. I’m going to shoot her before she kills anybody else.”

He strode off.

Pop patted the rough hide of Lil’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, old girl. He won’t find it.” He said it softly, so none of the other carneys would hear. He tried to make his voice cheerful, but he knew he’d given Lil only a stay of execution.

If Tepperman hadn’t found that gun by daylight, he could easily get another at one of the local stores.

Somebody called out, “Better stay away from that bull, Pop.”

It was Whitey Harper’s voice.

Pop said, “Nuts. Lil wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Then, so he wouldn’t have to yell, he walked over to where Whitey was standing at a safe distance from the bull. He said, “Whitey, what was it Shorty Martin was pinched for back in Brondale early this week?”

“Nothing. Suspicion, that’s all. They let him go right away.”

“Suspicion of what?”

“There was a snatch that the coppers were all excited about. They were picking up every stranger wandering down the stem. Lot of carneys got questioned.”

“They find the guy who got snatched?”

“It was a kid — the banker’s kid. Haven’t found him yet that I heard about. Why?”

“I dunno,” said Pop. He was trying to find a straw to grasp at, but he didn’t know how to explain that to Whitey. He asked, “Did Shorty have any enemies? On the lot, I mean.”

“Not that I know of, Pop. Unless it was Lil. And you.”

Pop grunted disgustedly, and went back to Lil. He said,

“Don’t worry, old girl,” quite unnecessarily. Lil didn’t seem to be worrying at all. But Pop Williams was.

Tepperman came back. Without the rifle.

He said, “Some blankety-blank stole my gun, Pop. Won’t be able to do anything till morning. Can you stay here and keep an eye on the bull?”

“Sure, Mr. Tepperman. But listen, do you got to—?”

“Yes, Pop, we got to. When a bull once kills it doesn’t pay to take any more chances. It wasn’t your fault though, Pop; you can stay on and help with canvas or—”

“Nope,” said Pop Williams. “Beckon I’m quitting, Mr. Tepperman. I’m strictly a bull man. I’m quitting.”

“But you’ll stay till tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “I’ll stay till tomorrow.” He watched Tepperman walk away.

Yeah, he’d stay till tomorrow all right. Just let anybody try to get him off the lot, while there was a chance to save the old gal. A Chinaman’s chance.

After that— Oh, hell, why worry about after that? The arcs on the midway were blurring a bit, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes. And then, because he knew Tepperman was right, and because he had to blame somebody he muttered, “That damn Shorty!” What business had Shorty to come monkeying around Lil when she was asleep for the night, and what had he done to her?

He turned to look at her, and she was sleeping as peacefully as a baby. Old Lil a killer?

Hey, wait! Maybe she wasn’t! He’d argued against it, but suddenly he realized that he’d really believed, down inside, that she had killed Shorty.

But would she have? Lil had a temper, all right. But when she got mad, she trumpeted. She hadn’t let out a yip tonight. Drunk or sober, asleep or awake, he’d have heard her.

He said, “Lil, didn’t you—?”

She opened her little red eyes sleepily and then closed them again. Damn, if she could only talk.

Who’d found Shorty’s body, and where had Shorty been before that and what had he been doing? Maybe the answers to those questions could be important. Nobody else was asking them, either. Everybody else was going on — what did the coppers call it? — circumstantial evidence. Pop looked around for someone to ask those questions of, and there wasn’t anybody there. He was alone, with Lil.

Somewhere a clock struck two.

He took a look at Lil’s leg chain and at the stake it was fastened to. They were all right.

Walking softly, so as not to waken her, he picked his way through the dimness, around the Dip-a-Whirl and into the midway. On the soggy shavings of the path, he headed for the cookhouse.

Half a dozen carneys were sitting at tables or at the counter.

Whitey was there, and Whitey said, “Hi, Pop. Have cuppa Java?”

Pop nodded and sat down. He found he was sitting gingerly, as though the seat were hot, and realized it was because he was afraid Tepperman would see him here, when he’d promised to stay by the bull. But what if the boss did see him? This was his last night anyway, wasn’t it? You can’t fire a man who’s already quit.

He made himself relax, and the hot coffee helped. He asked, “Anybody see what happened back there? I mean, what Shorty was doin’ to the bull, or how come he went over there in the first place?”

“Nope,” said Whitey Harper. “Shorty was in the freak-show top just after you left. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Did he get in the game?” Pop asked. “Nope. Just watched a few minutes. Let’s see; I came up here and borrowed a buck and went back. Shorty was there then, and left a few minutes later, somewhere around midnight. I dunno where he went from there.”

One of the ride-boys at the counter said, “That must’ve been when I seen him. Coming out of the freak-show top, and he went over toward the Ferris wheel. Pete Boucher was working on the diesel. I guess maybe he was going to talk to Pete.”

“Was he sober?”

“Far as I could see,” said the ride-boy. And Whitey nodded.

Pop finished his coffee and shambled out to look for Pete Boucher. He had no trouble finding him; Pete was still working on the recalcitrant engine.

“Hi, Pop,” he said. “They gonna shoot the bull?”

“I guess so,” said Pop. “Tepperman can’t find his rifle, or he woulda done it tonight. Shorty stopped to talk to you a little after midnight, didn’t he, Pete?”

“Yeah. Guess it was about then.”

“Did he say anything about the bull, or about going over there?”

Boucher shook his head. “We just talked about tomorrow, whether it’s going to be a good day or not. He wasn’t here long. A few minutes.”

“Say where he was going, maybe?”

“Nope. But I happened to notice. He went on across the midway and cut in between the dog stand and the geek show.

Valenti’s trailer’s over there, back of the geek show. I guess he was maybe heading for Valenti’s trailer.”

Pop nodded. Getting close, he thought. From the trailer, Shorty must have gone direct to Lil, and no one would have seen him make that last lap of the journey. He’d have gone around the curve at the end of the midway, probably, in the darkness back of the tents.

He said, “I can’t figure out why Lil — Pete, what kind of mood was Shorty in when he was talkin’ to you?”

“Cheerful. Kidding around. Said he was going to be rich tomorrow.”

“He didn’t… uh… sound like he meant anything by it, did he?”

“Naw. What th’ hell could he mean? Say, Pop, what are you gonna do after they shoot Lil?”

“I dunno, Pete. I dunno.”

Pop strolled on across the soggy midway, past the big tank and the eighty-foot tower from which Valenti dived once an evening. Pop didn’t look up at the tower. He had a touch of acrophobia — fear of heights. Enough to give him the willies at the thought of that dive.

He went back past the dog stand toward Valenti’s trailer.

It was dark, and he hesitated. Maybe Valenti and Bill Gruber, his partner, had both turned in and were asleep. Must be after two-thirty by now.

The trailer itself was a black shadow in the darkness.

Pop stood at the door, wondering whether he dared call out or knock. Maybe they weren’t asleep yet.

He said, “Valenti,” softly. Not loud enough to wake anyone already asleep, but loudly enough, he hoped, to be heard if either Valenti or Gruber were in there, and still awake.

There wasn’t any answer. He was listening carefully, and he heard a sound he’d never have noticed otherwise. A soft and irregular breathing that puzzled him, because it didn’t sound like an adult at all. Sounded like a kid. But neither Valenti nor Gruber had a kid. What would one be doing in the trailer?

That breathing wasn’t normal, either, or he’d never be able to hear it, even in the dead silence of the night. But why—?

He hadn’t heard the footsteps behind him.

Valenti’s voice demanded, “Who’s—? Oh, it’s you, Pop.

What you want?”

“Is that a kid in the trailer, Valenti?” Pop asked. “Sounds like one with the croup or something.”

Valenti laughed. “You’re hearing things, Pop. That’s Bill.

He’s got a helluva cold, along with his asthma. Wait till I tell him you thought it was croup. What did you want?”

Pop shuffled his feet uneasily. “I… I just wanted to ask you a question or two about Shorty.” He lowered his voice.

“Say, maybe we oughtn’t to talk here. If Bill’s sick and asleep, we better not wake him.”

“Sure,” said Valenti. “Want to go up to the cookhouse?”

“I was just there. I better get back by the bull. Let’s walk over that way.”

Valenti nodded, and together they picked their way through the high, wet grass back of the tents, following, probably, the same path Shorty Martin had taken an hour or two ago. Maybe, Pop thought, Valenti could tell him—

In sight of the sleeping elephant, they stopped. Pop said,

“I’m still trying to figure out what happened tonight, Valenti.

Why Shorty came over here at all, and what made Lil grab him — if she did.”

“What do you mean, if she did?”

“I dunno,” said Pop, honestly. “Just that — well, she never done anything like that before. Pete Boucher said Shorty was heading for your trailer sometime after twelve.

Did you see him then?”

Valenti nodded. “He wanted to know if Bill and I would go uptown with him. Neither of us wanted to. Then he went on over this way; that’s the last I saw of him. Last anybody saw of him, I guess.”

“Did he say why he was—?”

Pop’s eyes, as he started the question, had been straining past Valenti, out toward the edge of the lot. Someone was coming from that direction, and he couldn’t quite make out who it was.

And then, right in the middle of the question, his voice trailed off into silence and his eyes went wide with bewilderment.

Valenti had been lying to him. Bill Gruber, Valenti’s partner, wasn’t asleep in the trailer. Because it was Bill Gruber who was cutting across the lot toward them.

Valenti had lied, and there was a kid—

“What’s the matter, Pop?” asked Valenti. “You look like you saw—” And then Valenti turned to see what Pop was looking at.

Bill’s voice cut through the sudden silence, unconcernedly. “Hi, Pop, how ya? Finally found a drugstore open, Val. I got— Say, what’s wrong with you guys?”

Valenti laughed as he turned back. “Pop, I was kidding you about—”

And those few words bridged the gap of his turning, and kept Pop off guard during the second when he might have yelled for help or started to run. And then that second was over, and Valenti’s huge hand was over his mouth while Valenti swung him around.

And then, while Valenti’s arm was tightening crushingly around his ribs, and Valenti’s hand over Pop’s mouth was bending his head backward, Pop knew what had happened to Shorty, and why. Too late now, he knew why Shorty had expected to be “rich” tomorrow. Shorty had found out that Valenti was holding the kid in the trailer and had gone to demand a cut on the ransom.

Yes, everything fell into place all at once. Banker’s kid snatched at Brondale. Held, probably doped, in the trailer.

Valenti, the only man with the carney strong enough to kill, as Shorty had been killed. And as Pop Williams was going to be killed right now. So the blame would fall on Lil.

Why, when he didn’t really believe Lil had killed Shorty, hadn’t he thought of Valenti? Valenti, who wouldn’t shoot dice because it wasn’t enough of a gamble for him. Who was strong enough to wring a man’s neck like a farmer would wring a chicken’s. Who had the nerve to dive eighty feet into a shallow tank every day—

And only a second ago, he could have yelled. He could have waked Lil, and she’d have pulled her stake and come running.

Too late, now. That hand over his mouth was like the iron jaw of a vise. His ribs and his neck-Only his feet were free. Frantically, he kicked backward with his heels.

Frantically, he tried to make some sort of noise loud enough to wake Lil or to summon other help.

One heel caught Valenti’s ankle, hard, but then the shoe fell off Pop’s foot. He still hadn’t taken time to tie them on after that desperate rush to get out of bed and hide Tepperman’s rifle.

As the crushing pressure around his ribs tightened, he tried again to yell. But it was only a faint squeak, not so loud as their voices, which, in normal conversation a moment ago, had not disturbed the sleeping elephant.

Help, adequate help, ten feet away directly in front of him — but sound asleep.

And Valenti was standing with his legs braced wide apart. Pop couldn’t even kick at the ankles of the man who was killing him. He tried, and almost lost his other shoe.

Then, in extremity, a last, desperate hope.

He kicked forward, instead of backward, with all that remained of his strength. And at the end of the kick, straightened his foot and let the shoe fly off.

Miraculously, it went straight. Lil grunted and awoke as the shoe thudded against her trunk.

For just an instant, her little eyes glared angrily at the tableau before her. Angry merely at being awakened, in so rude a manner.

And then — possibly from the helpless kicking motions of Pop’s bare feet, or possibly from mere animal instinct, or because Pop had never hit her — it got across to her that Pop, whom she loved, was in trouble.

She snorted, trumpeted. And charged forward, jerking her stake out of the ground as though it had been embedded in butter.

Valenti dropped Pop Williams and ran. There’s a limit to what even a daredevil can face, and a red-eyed, charging elephant is past that limit. Way past.

Pop managed to gasp, “Atta girl,” as Lil ran on over him, with that uncanny ability of elephants to step over things they cannot see. “Atta girl. Go get him” — as Pop scrambled to his feet behind her and wobbled after.

Around the Dip-a-Whirl and alongside the Hawaiian-show top, and Valenti was only a few yards in front, toward the midway. Valenti ducking under the ropes and Lil walking through them as though they were cobwebs. She trumpeted again, a blast of sound that brought carneys running from all parts of the lot and from the cars back on the railroad siding behind it.

There was terror on Valenti’s face as he ran out into the open of the midway. Death’s hot breath was on the back of his neck as he reached the area in the center of the midway where stood the tank and the diving tower. He scrambled up the ladder of the tower, evading by inches the trunk that reached up to drag him down.

Then Tepperman was there, and the carney grounds cop with a drawn revolver in his hand. And Pop was explaining, the instant he had Lil quieted down. Somebody brought news that Bill Gruber was back of the Hawaiian-show top, out cold.

Running, he’d apparently taken a header over a tent stake and smacked into a prop trunk.

Doc Berg started that way, but by that time enough of Pop’s story was out and Tepperman sent him to Valenti’s trailer instead. No hurry about reviving a man who was going to burn anyway; the kid came first.

The cop yelled to Valenti to come down and surrender.

But Valenti had his nerve back now. Pop had a hunch what was going to happen next, and made the excuse of taking Lil back where she belonged. He did it while Valenti was thumbing his nose at the cop, and before Valenti poised himself on the diving platform — over the drained, empty tank eighty feet below.

Pop Williams’s voice, off-key and cracking, but plenty loud, preceded him along the path from the lot to the carnival cars. It was almost dawn, but what was that to a man who’d been told by the boss to sleep as late as he wanted to sleep.

And who’d been given a ten-buck advance on an increased wage and had spent it all. Scotch wasn’t bad stuff, after all, although it took a lot of it.

Whitey was with him, and Whitey had tried Scotch, too.

Whitey asked, “Who’s this P-Pally-achoo you’re yowling about, Pop?”

“A clown, like me, Whitey. Di’ I tell you Tepperman’s gonna let me ride Lil in th’ parade, in clown cos-coschume?”

“Only fifty times you told me.”

“Oh,” said Pop, and his voice boomed out again.

A beautiful sentiment, no doubt, but not quite true. He hadn’t been happier in fifty years.

Nothing Sinister

NO ONE who lives a reasonably sane, law-abiding life ever thinks seriously of murder in connection with himself.

Nemesis is a gal who follows somebody else, follows him and catches up with him somewhere, and you read about it over your morning coffee. The name of the victim is just a name you never heard of. It couldn’t be yours.

Or could it?

Take Carl Harlow. He was an ordinary-enough guy. And right up to the time the bullet hit him, he didn’t know Nemesis was after him. He didn’t guess it even then, until the second bullet — the one that missed — whined past his ear like a steel-jacketed hornet out of hell.

You couldn’t blame Carl Harlow for not knowing.

Certainly, there hadn’t been any buildup to murder. No warning note printed on cheap stationery. When he’d driven home from the poker game the night before, no specters had perched gibbering on his radiator cap. No black cats had crossed his path. Nothing sinister.

In fact, he’d won seventeen dollars. Doubly sweet because most of it was Doc Millard’s money and although he liked Doc a lot, it served him right for the outrageous bills he’d sent. And a couple of bucks had been Tom Pryor’s, and bank officers deserved robbing if anybody did.

True, he’d drunk too much. But he was used to that, and took it in his stride, now. He’d got up early this morning —Saturday morning — just as early as ever, and at breakfast he’d gone so far in righteousness as to split his winnings with Elsie, his wife. But maybe that was because Elsie would probably find out, from one of the other fellow’s wives, how much he had won. Wilshire Hills has a grapevine system that is second to none.

Nor did he see anything sinister in the fact that his boss— or rather, one of his two bosses — had assigned him to write copy for the Eternity Burial Vault account. Carl Harlow sat down and began to study the selling points of those vaults, and he waxed enthusiastic.

“Lookit, Bill,” he said, “these burial vaults really are something! When you come to think about it, an ordinary coffin must disintegrate pretty darned quick. But these things are made of concrete—”

“Like your head!” snapped Bill Owen. “Don’t sell me on the things; write it down— Oh, hell, Carl, I’m sorry I’m so irritable. But you know why. Have you told Elsie yet?” Carl Harlow nodded soberly. “Told her last week, Bill. She took it like a sport, of course. Said I’d get another job as good or better. Wish I was that confident myself. It’s hell to work for a place for twenty years and then have it fold up under you.

Course, I’ve got savings, but — I suppose it’s certain for the first of the month?”

“All too certain,” said Bill Owen.

Carl took the Eternity account folders over to his desk and sat down to make a rough layout. And to write a catch line, something about eternal peace, only you could not use the word “eternal” because that was too close to the name of the company. And you shouldn’t make any direct mention of corpses or death or decomposition. Nothing sinister.

It was tough copy to write. There was a dull throb in his head, too. A thump-thump-thump that Carl didn’t recognize as the footsteps of Nemesis. Few of us recognize those footsteps.

All they meant to Carl Harlow was: “I’ve been drinking too much. I’ve got to cut down.” Even though he knew he wouldn’t.

He knew that once you got the pick-me-up habit you were pretty near a goner. If, when you woke up after a bit of too much, your first thought was to reach for a drink, then the stuff had you. But otherwise you stayed in a fog. And things went thump-thump.

He’d had his eye-opener this morning, of course, the first minute out of bed — but apparently it hadn’t been enough. He took another now, from the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk.

It cleared his head, and his hand became steadier. Hell, he had it already — an angle the Eternity account had never used! He thought it could be handled so they’d go for it in a big way. He started on the layout. Old English type for the catch line. His pencil went faster.

At ten-thirty he showed it to Bill Owen. “How’s this?”

“Mm-m-m! Pretty good, I’d say. I’ll send it around to them, in just that form.”

“Okay, Bill. Anything else important? Bank closes at-noon today, and I got something to do there and thought I’d toddle along about eleven.”

“Sure! Leave now, if you want.”

“Say, Doc Millard and I are playing golf at two. Want to make it a threesome?”

Bill Owen grinned. “Where was your mind at the poker game? Tom Pryor and I mentioned we were dated in a foursome teeing off at three o’clock.”

“Oh, sure, I forgot that. Well, guess I will run along now, instead of eleven. Elsie is going to her mother’s this morning, for overnight, and I got to forage my own food. Well, see you at the nineteenth hole.”

He straightened his desk, and then decided to try calling home. Not that there was any real reason. “Oh, hello, honey,” he said when Elsie answered. “Thought I might catch you before you left. Have a good weekend.”

“I will, Carl; thanks for calling. Don’t forget to take care of Tabby.”

Carl Harlow chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll put out the clock and wind the cat. Don’t worry about me… ‘By.”

And at the bank, the teller at the window boggled a bit at the check Carl handed in at the window. Carl had expected him to boggle; it was a ten-thousand-dollar check, and he would have been a bit disappointed if the money had been handed over without comment.

The teller said, “Just a minute, sir,” and left his cage.

When he came back, it was without the check, and he said,

“Mr. Pryor would like to see you in his office, sir.”

Carl Harlow went through the gate in the railing and back to Pryor’s office. He said, “Hi, Tom! Suppose you want to inquisition me about that check.” He dropped his hat on Pryor’s littered desk and sat down in the chair the fat-and-forty little cashier waved him to.

He grinned at Tom. “Okay, okay,” he said. “It’s for an investment. I’m going to start a farm — to raise angleworms.

With all the fishing that’s done every summer, I figure I ought to clear—”

“Now, Carl, be serious,” said Pryor. “First place, we usually require ten days’ notice on savings withdrawals. We never invoke that rule for any reasonable amounts, of course, but—”

Carl Harlow stirred impatiently. “Be a good fellow, Tom, and let me have the money.”

Tom Pryor looked at him keenly. “We might,” he admitted, “but that isn’t all I wanted to say. Second place, ten thousand dollars is a lot of money for you, Carl. Your account here — checking and savings together — is ten thousand four hundred, which means you’re practically closing it out. And I know you well enough to know that’s everything you’ve got in the world, except an equity in your house, two automobiles, and ten or fifteen thousand life insurance.”

Carl nodded. “But listen, Tom, I’m not drawing it out to go on a bat or anything. I suppose I might as well tell you.

You’ve heard the Keefe-Owen Agency isn’t doing so well, I suppose. Well, it’s worse than that. It’s on the rocks!

“And if it goes under, well — I don’t know what I’ll do. I want to try to buy out Roger Keefe. Owen’s good, but Keefe is the bottleneck there. If Bill Owen and I could run it together, without that damned— Well, you know what I mean.

Incidentally, this is confidential. Not even Bill — nor Keefe, either, as yet — knows what I have in mind.”

Tom whistled softly. “Taking a big risk, Carl!”

“Maybe it is, but I’m sure Bill Owen and I can make a go of that agency, with Keefe out. If I can talk Keefe into letting me buy his share.”

“But, Carl, why the cash? People do business otherwise.

And you’ll have to carry the money, besides maybe keeping it overnight. Why take that risk?”

Carl Harlow nodded. “There’s that, of course. But I have a small safe at home. And nobody’s going to know I got the money except you and the teller outside. I don’t think either of you would try burglary — although after one or two of the bluffs you tried to run in that poker game last night—”

Pryor chuckled. “It’s an idea. Ten thousand is a lot of money. A year’s salary for me, Carl; I’m not a high-priced advertising executive like you and Bill. But granting there’s little risk of losing it, I still don’t see why you want cash.”

“You bankers!” said Carl Harlow. “Got to know everything, don’t you? All right — and this is off the record.

Keefe is being hounded by creditors. They’ll grab off whatever he gets, if it shows. He might be able to give me a better price if half of it goes under the table.

“I mean, we might make out the papers for four thousand, and the other four on the side — where a referee in bankruptcy wouldn’t find it. I have a hunch he’d take eight thousand that way, rather than a check for ten thousand. Now, I hope you’re satisfied!”

“Um-m-m,” said Pryor. “Satisfied to the extent I wish I hadn’t asked you. That’s hardly legal. Well—” he shrugged his shoulders — “it’s none of my business. Have you an appointment with Keefe?”

Carl Harlow shook his head. “I’ll just run up there tomorrow.”

“He’s out of town a lot, weekends. Why not ring him up from here and make a date? If he can’t see you this weekend, then you won’t have to carry that cash out.”

“It’s an idea,” Harlow agreed. He called up Keefe’s home, and a minute later put the phone back on Pryor’s desk in disgust. “You were right,” he said. “His brother says Roger’s in New York till Monday.”

“Carl, that gives you the weekend to think this over.

Monday, if you still want to go through with it, I’ll waive the bank rules and let you have the money.”

“Okay, Tom.” Carl Harlow stood up and started for the door, then turned around. “Oh, the check. You’d better—”

Pryor picked up the check lying on a corner of his desk and held it out. “Here, tear it up and don’t carry it around endorsed. Write a new one Monday, if you still want to.”

Harlow tore the check twice across and dropped it into the wastebasket. He said, “At that, maybe six thousand will be enough to take in cash. We can use a check for the aboveboard part of the deal.”

“Damn it,” said Pryor, “quit telling me about that! I told you I wished I hadn’t asked you! Don’t make me an accessory; forget you told me. Have you talked this over with the other half of your family?”

“Nope. I’ll tell Elsie if it goes through; otherwise, she needn’t know and then be disappointed. Well, so long, and thanks.”

He drove home slowly, wondering if maybe he should talk this over with Bill Owen. Well, he could see Bill after the golf this afternoon and think it over meanwhile.

And then there was the empty house. With Elsie gone, it didn’t seem home at all, except for his own room. He wasn’t hungry, but he made himself a sandwich in the kitchen and then went up to change clothes for golf.

It was too soon to leave, and he had a quick one out of the decanter of rye on his bureau to wash down the sandwich.

He even had time to sit down at the typewriter in his room and bat out a copy idea for the Krebbs Hardware account. Not a brilliant one, but worth putting on paper before he forgot it.

Then it was time to drive out to the golf club.

Nemesis was still after him, but it was Swender, the golf pro, who met him in the doorway of the locker room. He said,

“Doc Millard phoned, Mr. Harlow. He tried to get you at your office, but you’d left. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get here.”

“Why not?” said Carl. “Did he say?”

“A baby case. Mrs. Nordhoff.”

“Nordhoff? Oh, Tom’s cousin. These inconsiderate women, breaking up a perfectly good golf date just because—

Say, how’s about you playing around with me? You can give me a lift on those chip shots.”

“Sorry, Mr. Harlow.” The regret in the pro’s voice was genuine. “Sprained an ankle yesterday and I’m on the shelf.

I’m a clubhouse fixture for about three days.”

Carl Harlow stared down the inviting fairway gloomily.

This course, like a lot of other small, private courses, was never crowded Saturday afternoons, because Saturday afternoon was proverbially busy and no one came around unless they’d made reservation. Like he and Doc had done for two o’clock.

If he waited an hour, there’d be Owen and Pryor — but that was a full foursome already and he could not butt in.

Well, now that he was here and dressed for it, he might as well play around alone. The exercise would do him good.

Playing alone wasn’t much fun; there’s little satisfaction in a beautiful approach, with just enough back spin to hold the green four feet from the pin, when there’s no one watching you make it. And, paradoxically, it’s even more disgusting to flub a would-be explosion shot out of a sand trap when there’s nobody around to tell you how lousy you are.

He’d just flubbed that explosion shot — with a sweet new No. 9 iron which, for its effectiveness at that moment, might as well have been an umbrella handle — when the bullet came.

The first sensation was like somebody drawing a sharp-edged piece of ice across his side. He jerked involuntarily and said, “What the—” And looked down and saw the horizontal rip in his sweater, along the course of the rip, begin to turn red instead of white.

Then, and only then, did he realize that he’d heard the sound of the shot.

He looked up in the direction from which the shot had seemed to come — up on the hillside that flanked the fairway ahead, past the green he’d been approaching out of the trap.

Up there near the top, in among the scrub pine maybe two or three hundred yards away, he thought he caught a gleam of sun on metal that might have been a rifle barrel.

Somebody up there was being damned careless with a rifle, shooting out over the golf course! Some fool hunter, and that wasn’t hunting land, anyway. Carl Harlow yelled, “Hey!

You with the gun—” wondering if his voice would carry that far.

And then that second bullet whined somewhere between his shoulder and ear, and he knew that he was being shot at.

Deliberately! Probably by someone with a gun with telescopic sights, if they were shooting at that distance.

The first bullet, the one that had raked his side, could have been an accident. But that second shot was something else again.

Carl Harlow had never been shot at before, but it didn’t take him long to figure out the best thing to do. He dropped flat into the sand. There wasn’t a bunker to duck behind, but the sand trap itself was a slight depression, maybe eight inches in the center below the fairway.

He dropped down flat, trying to accomplish two things.

First, to fall naturally, as though that second bullet had been a fatal hit, and second, to fall so that most of him would be in the deepest part of the trap and would present as poor a target as possible to the distant marksman.

There were two more shots, but he didn’t know where the bullets went except that they didn’t hit him. Then, for a space of time that was probably twenty minutes but seemed like hours, nothing happened and there weren’t any more shots.

Carl Harlow lay there, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. His side hurt him, but not badly. The bullet had taken off a streak of hide and ruined a good sweater, but that was all.

Then there was a yell, “Carl!” and there was Doc Millard running toward him. Doc’s golf bag lay a couple hundred yards back along the fairway, where he’d dropped it when he’d seen the prone figure in the sand trap.

Then Doc saw the crimson streak on the sweater, and he said, “What the hell?”

Carl Harlow got up slowly. His first glance was at the hillside, but there was no gleam of sun on metal, and there was no further shot.

Millard said, “Stand still,” and pulled up the sweater and the shirt underneath it, and looked at the wound and said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Then he commandeered Harlow’s handkerchief and his own to improvise a bandage. The story and the bandage got finished about the same time.

“Superficial,” said Doc. “Have to clean it and put on a decent bandage when we get back to the clubhouse, but—

You say you heard four shots? Listen, Carl, it must have been some kid up there with a twenty-two, whanging at a target on a tree or something. You stroll on in to the clubhouse; I’ll go over there and take a look around.”

“No,” said Carl Harlow, who was getting his nerve back,

“I’ll go with you. This scratch doesn’t amount to anything, and it certainly doesn’t stop me from walking. Besides, the guy’s gone.”

Then he looked at Millard strangely. “Doc, I don’t know anything about guns, but would a twenty-two carry that far?”

“A twenty-two long rifle’ll carry a mile, would kill at about two hundred and fifty yards. That’s what it must have been. And you could have imagined hearing that second bullet whiz so close. Maybe it was a bee or a hornet or something you heard. And the third and fourth shots might have been fired in the opposite direction.”

“Can’t you tell from the wound what size bullet—?”

Doc shook his head. “If it’d gone in, sure. But not from just a scrape.” He stopped suddenly, looking at Carl Harlow.

“Say, is there any reason why somebody would be taking pot shots at you?”

Harlow shook his head. It did seem absurd when you put it that way, particularly now that he was almost at the fence that bounded the course and within a hundred yards of where he thought the rifleman had been. Hell’s bells, why would anybody be taking pot shots at him?

He said, “Well — no. But, damn it, I did hear that second bullet whiz by! It wasn’t a bee!”

They were climbing the fence. Doc Millard said, “Well, if you’re that sure— But people don’t go around shooting at other people without some reason.”

They were going up the hill now. Carl said, “Of course, the guy could have taken two shots at a sitting bird and both of them missed the bird but come pretty close together.”

They found nothing of interest or importance on the hillside. Reaching the top, they saw that a side road wound by just beyond, but there were no cars, parked or moving, in sight on it.

Carl said hesitantly, “Do you think we ought to report it, just in case—?”

Doc Millard snorted. “Report it? You’re darned well right we’ll report it! I’d lose my license if I treated a gunshot wound of any kind without reporting it. Golf’s off, of course, so we’ll go back to the clubhouse. Don’t take any exercise for a few days. Walking’s all right, but I mean nothing that uses your arms.”

Carl Harlow grinned. “No two-fisted drinking, huh?

Well, it’s my left side, and I guess I can make out with one hand. Gosh, I could use a drink right now! My nerves are playing ring-around-the-rosy!”

After the clubhouse and the inevitable explanations and not too many drinks, because they’d have to go to the police station, Carl found himself talking about it to Captain Wunderly.

By that time, Carl was sure it had been a kid with a twenty-two and it sounded silly to admit that he’d been scared enough to lie there doggo for nearly half an hour. But Captain Wunderly, just the same, sent a couple of men out to look around.

And then Carl and Doc stopped in at a bar and had a few, and Carl wanted to keep on going. But Doc Millard insisted that Carl was drunk already — although it was only dusk —and that he should go home and sleep it off. Especially because he was wounded, and that made him a patient.

Carl Harlow had argued, and then capitulated.

He really was feeling quite a bit woozy by the time he got home. He’d forgotten that Elsie wouldn’t be there, but the decanter of rye on his bureau was still there. After a while, there wasn’t much in it.

But that didn’t matter. It was quite dark outside and he was getting sleepy. He remembered about the clock and the cat, and decided he’d better take care of them, just in case he dropped off and stayed asleep.

He couldn’t find the cat. He stuck his head out of the back door and called, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty—” and was pleased as Punch that he could still articulate those rather difficult syllables. But no cat.

Lots of shadows on the lawn, though. Dark shadows.

Those shadows might have worried him, perhaps, had he noticed the hole in his golf bag. An inconspicuous hole near the bottom, but definitely the size of a thirty-thirty rather than a twenty-two. And kids don’t hunt squirrels or birds with thirty-thirty rifles. Old Lady Nemesis, maybe—

Yes, still on the job, this gal Nemesis. For twenty awful minutes during the afternoon, Carl Harlow had felt her presence. Carl Harlow, though, had forgotten. Nemesis hadn’t.

It was Carl Harlow who shut the back door, but it might have been Nemesis who left it unlocked. Not because murder pauses long before a locked door, but its being unlocked would make things easier.

Carl went up the stairs, and the staircase was pitching under him like the deck of a wallowing ship. The drinks were getting at him now. This was the unpleasant stage; it had been pleasant up to now, and pretty soon he’d feel better again. This was the in-between period — when things went around and stood not upon the order of their going.

He got to his room with something of the feeling of a storm-tossed ship reaching a safe harbor, a harbor in which the angry waves still lapped, but less high, less deadly. Where the rocking of the ship becomes almost a friendly thing, like the rocking of a cradle.

Being home. It’s a lot different from being out in the open of a field, with no cover and bullets whizzing around you. He sank into the Morris chair and for a while seemed to live over again those terrible minutes of dread out there under the dead-blue sky. The horrible open sky. There on the flat trap of the ground, held by gravity as a fly is held upon flypaper.

And after a while he shook his head and remembered that it had been a kid with a twenty-two.

Getting to feel better now. He got up, holding on to the arm of the chair until he was sure he could walk without lurching, and crossed over to the bureau. He had another drink; it was really wonderful rye, smooth and mellow and golden.

That left enough for only one more drink, and he’d want it the minute he waked up, if he dropped off. He poured it carefully into the glass and put the glass on the little table near the chair.

He looked around the room, feeling there was something else he’d ought to do. He stared at the typewriter a while. He almost had an impulse to sit down at it and write out how it felt to be shot at. Maybe sell it somewhere, to a magazine. Oh, to hell with it!

Sleepy, and the Morris chair was too comfortable. His head went back and his eyelids weighed a stone apiece, and there was a gentle glow in the room and in the whole house.

He could see it through his closed eyelids. He could — or thought he could — hear the cat walking in the back yard —so plainly that he almost got up and went down to call it again at the back door.

Then, of course, it came to him that he was dreaming.

One damn thing after another. The cat was on the roof. It came down the chimney and mewed in the grate, and pointed a rifle at him and said, in Doc Millard’s voice, “Now this isn’t going to hurt much,” and pulled the trigger and the gun seemed to shoot backward and shot the cat back up the chimney.

And Bill Owen was there, and saying, “Carl, Tommy Pryor tells me the bank is out of money and can’t give you your five million dollars, and so Roger Keefe and I have decided to give you the agency free. All yours, Carl, and I’ll work for you if you want me to, and there are new orders coming in like wildfire and you’ll be able to sell out for a billion in a year.”

And then Bill Owen’s friendly smile seemed gradually to freeze into a gargoyle grimace, and he pulled a rifle out of his pocket, a toy rifle, and said, “Twenty-three, skiddoo,” and it was Keefe who had the rifle, grinning like a fiend, and he told Carl he was going to use it for a mashie to make a hole in one, and wanted Carl to guess in one what. And then he wasn’t there any more.

It was all very strange and confusing. Elsie was there, too, and she said, “Why do you drink so much, Carl?” and he looked at her owlishly and wanted to say that he was sorry, but that she just didn’t understand, and that he loved her and was sorry. And she told him that she loved him, anyway, and she danced around the room.

And sat down at his typewriter and wrote something on it, with the keys going clickety-click like a twenty-two but faster. Just like when she’d been a stenographer at the agency so long ago, and he couldn’t move out of the chair and take her in his arms and tell her what an awful fool he was. And she said, “Good-by, Carl, and don’t forget your eye-opener when you wake up.”

And then there was Doc Millard again, pointing to the fireplace and explaining that “eternal” was an overworked word and that the Eternity Burial Vault Company was now making their vaults disguised as fireplaces, so the worms wouldn’t know — and would he change the copy to explain that, but to be very careful not to let it out to the worms.

“It’s just a scratch,” he added… But then it was different. It seemed later, a long time later, because there was a two-o’clock feeling in the air, and the door was opening, and a man was walking into the room, and this was real.

The man was standing there, and Carl Harlow opened his eyes and looked at him without having to look through his eyelids this time, and it was Tom Pryor. His friend. Really there, with a pistol in his hand.

Carl said thickly, “T-Tom! What—?”

Yes, the man with the revolver was really there, really Tom Pryor. Tom said, “Damn!” And then, “Why didn’t you stay asleep? God, I hate to—”

Carl said, “The golf course? You?” and Tom nodded. He said, “I… I had to. I mean have to. I was six thousand short, and when you tore up the wrong check and didn’t notice—”

“When I — what?”

Tom’s face was whiter than paper, his voice strange.

“Carl, it wasn’t planned. I picked up the wrong check, one of my own. You took it and tore it up and didn’t look, and you walked out and left me your own check for ten thousand dollars. And with the examiners nearly due — I put it through.

“With you dead, Carl, nobody’ll ever know you didn’t take the money today. I’m sorry, Carl, but…it’s me or you.”

“My friend,” said Carl Harlow, surprised that he was grinning just a little. Because he was still more than a little drunk, and all of this was still less than completely real.

The gun muzzle lifted. It shook. Tom was saying, almost plaintively, “You want to… to pray or anything, Carl? I…there isn’t any hurry—”

It was like a scene in a play. Any minute the audience would start applauding. It wasn’t really happening, Carl knew.

Murder happens to John Smith, and you read about it in the paper. Nemesis is a gal who follows somebody else—

But he stared owlishly at Tom Pryor. Tom was waiting there to see if he was going to say something. Had to say something.

He grinned a little again. He said, “Give Elsie my love, Tom. Tell her I’m sorry I—”

Tom said, “Your wife? She wants you out of the way —dead — as much as I do! We’re going away together with the balance of this money! I thought you knew! Oh, hell, why am I telling you now? Here goes. Good luck!”

What a damn silly thing to say! — that last part. But the first part of what Tom had said was sinking in slowly and Harlow was going rigid with anger, only he couldn’t move.

Now he wanted to kill Tom Pryor, and the gun muzzle yawned in his face, but out of reach. Tom’s hand held the gun, and his pudgy fingers were white at the knuckles.

The trigger hadn’t pulled yet, and there was sweat beaded on Tom’s forehead. Tom said, “Hell, I—” and his free hand reached out for the glass of whiskey on the little table near the Morris chair. Dutch courage.

He tossed it down neat.

Or started to. The whiskey spilled, and Tom made a horrible strangling sound and the gun went off wild — with a roar in the confined space of the room that sounded like the end of the world.

A cannonlike roar that brought Carl Harlow to his feet out of the Morris chair. Watching Tom on the carpet.

Standing there looking down at Tom, and wishing in that awful moment that Tom had killed him.

For Carl Harlow was cold sober now. And going cold, cold, all over — as the hideous pieces fell into place. As he bent over dead Tom Pryor and caught the strong scent of bitter almonds. And then, like a man hypnotized, turned and saw the white sheet of paper in the typewriter, and knew before he read it what it was.

The typewriter that had gone clickety-click while he had slept and had typed out a farewell note from Carl Harlow to the world. The typewriter that had gone clickety-click while he had slept, and while Elsie had really been here and had typed that note and put the prussic acid in the waiting pick-me-up shot of whiskey!