The Mammoth Book of Pulp Action

I The Package

Changing his course, Barney Chance squeezed himself into the doorway of Klamer’s Dry Goods Store. The store was small, dark, and locked. The doorway was shelter, but not enough. He stood there impatiently, a briefcase in one sun-browned hand, an overnight bag in the other, water trickling off his hat-brim, the wet snow still reaching him.

He paused there only a moment. Barney Chance, as always, was in a hurry. He had certain important matters on his mind. From the overnight bag that had served his needs during a ten-day trip to Chicago, he removed his raincoat. He fought the coat until he had it buttoned on. Then his rangy stride carried him back along the sidewalk, his baggage again gripped tight, his head lowered against the stinging snow, a young man in no mood to let a little unexpected moisture hold him up.

The storm had struck without fair warning while he was heading towards the centre of town from the taxiless Pennswick station, where the 7:40 train had deposited him. Apparently its peak had been waiting for him to arrive. The full moon had greeted him by sneaking behind a black curtain of clouds — a high wind had commenced blowing down Main Street, lashing sleet and snow into huge drifts which piled against the store fronts. Barney looked like an animate snowman after walking the few blocks from the station.

The snowstorm, full-grown in seconds, had become one more minor item in a long list of tribulations that had been ganging up on Barney Chance for months past. But, like his business troubles, which had kept him in his home town of Pennswick much longer than he’d originally planned to stay, this snow had its good points.

It was pretty — fluffy white drifts in front of the lighted drugstore windows, red and violet icicles hanging from the familiar neon sign of the Pennswick Inn. It was ice crystals dancing on the sidewalk, cotton piling in the gutters. It was also like those instantaneous precipitations that had drenched him times without number in New Guinea, except that it was colder, this being southeastern Pennsylvania in early December.

The worst part of it had caught him only a block from his office. He was across State Street now, and it was letting up a little. So far as Barney Chance could see, only one other person had ventured out.

A man was standing at the mailbox just beyond the corner — standing none too steadily, hatless, his coat sagging open. The snow sprinkled on his curly black hair as he held onto the green box with one hand, balancing himself. His other hand held a long brown envelope poised, as if he were uncertain of getting it into the slot.

The man at the mailbox was Guy Farrish, who’d had the law practice of the firm of Lytham & Farrish all to himself since the death of his senior partner two months ago. Having known Guy as long as he’d known anyone, Barney wasn’t too surprised at his evident condition. Guy had always been a conscientious drinker and lately he’d been working at it even harder than usual.

“Take it easy, pal,” said Barney, who rarely took it easy himself.

Guy Farrish didn’t answer, but stood swaying slightly, the envelope still in his hand. Barney grinned back at him, swinging past, still in a hurry. He didn’t see Guy Farrish’s eyes shift slowly and become fixed on him — fixed and brighter, in spite of the weariness and pain in them, nor did he see Guy sprawl in the snow, then painfully pull himself erect again.

The Lytham Building stood halfway between State and Court Streets, an old-fashioned brick structure three storeys high. Its entrance was unlocked and the foyer lights were burning, indicating that someone was staying late in one of the six offices inside.

Barney climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, passed the door labelled Lytham & Farrish: Attorney’s-at-Law, turned to another on the opposite side of the hallway that said Filmore Electronic Corporation of Chicago: Eastern Representative, and used his key.

Switching on the lights and dropping his bag, he tossed his coat into a chair with his hat. He had a white scar in the tan of his forehead which gave his left eyebrow a quizzical lift. The Jap whose bullet had put it there hadn’t intended to make Barney look distinguished, but that was the effect.

He opened the briefcase at his desk. His big, awkward-looking hands moved decisively as he removed sheaves of memoranda, then a thick, folded mat of blueprints. They were the plans for a branch factory which the Filmore Corporation desired to construct for the postwar production of electronic equipment.

Mr Stewart Filmore, president of the firm, thought this an important project in his programme of expansion. Barney Chance agreed, particularly since it was he who had sold Mr Filmore on Pennswick as the location for the new plant, Pennswick being only two hours from New York City, forty minutes from Philadelphia and nearer still to Barney’s heart. His home town should be delighted to welcome a new industry of such vast potentialities, Barney felt, but to judge from the results he’d obtained so far, you’d never think so.

The site had been bought without a hitch during the first two weeks of Barney’s negotiations, but months had passed since then and still not a spadeful of earth had been broken. Ten days ago, Barney had journeyed back to the Chicago office to explain in detail just why this was. He’d left feeling frustrated, the reasons being obscure and involved, and only his powers of persuasion had postponed Mr Filmore’s decision to abandon Pennswick in favour of a more receptive community.

Having gone this far with it, and not being one to give up, Barney had made it entirely his own responsibility now. Tonight he’d returned to Pennswick, determined to butt his way through to the finish of the job, and, if necessary, to throttle a few short-sighted local bureaucrats with skeins of their own red tape.

As he pored over the plans, footsteps came haltingly to his door. Guy Farrish sidled in. He dropped into the chair facing Barney’s desk and his eyelids drooped heavily as he fumbled for something in his raincoat pocket.

“How’s it working, Guy?” Barney said. “I mean your programme for forgetting Eve. Make lots of money, spend it fast and drink enough, and losing her might not hurt so much. Does it work?”

Out of his coat pocket Guy Farrish pulled a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string. He leaned forward, extending it, his manner earnest.

“Give it to her, Barney,” he said.

Curiously, Barney took it. It bore no postage stamp, but it was addressed. Miss Eve Ranie, 646 East 54th Street, New York City.

“A peace offering?” Barney asked. “But why pass it on to me? Why don’t you mail it to her?”

“Give it to Eve,” Guy said with an effort. “Don’t mail it. She’ll come. You give it to her then. But don’t open it.”

Barney looked up, a little incensed. Guy, drunk or not, should know him better than that. He wasn’t the sort who’d poke into a package that had been entrusted to him, a forlorn gift from a man to the girl who was his fiancée no longer.

“Of course not, Guy,” Barney said. He put the package aside and reverted to business. “Just before I left for Chicago you told me why I’m having such a hell of a time getting the necessary permits for this new plant.”

Guy leaned back in his chair wearily. He didn’t seem to be listening.

“Did I get it straight?” Barney went on. “I’ve made the mistake of not greasing certain palms, is that it? You said I ought to see Chabbat.” His face showed his deep distaste. “In other words, the permits can be had, but at a price. First I’ve got to butter somebody’s popcorn.”

Holding himself in his chair, Guy seemed about to doze off.

“The hell with that!” Barney said emphatically. “I’ll get this plant built honestly or not at all.”

Guy roused himself and spoke without apparently having heard Barney at all. “And don’t tell anybody.” He was referring anxiously again to the little package. His intent manner said this was more important to him than Barney’s new plant. “Don’t tell anybody about it. Not anybody.”

“I won’t. But about—”

“Your word on that?”

Barney wanted to sock him. “I said it, Guy, didn’t I?” He rose impatiently. He’d always liked Guy, without approving of the man’s dog-eat-dog outlook on life, but he had work to do. “I’d better take you home to bed before you pass out cold.”

Guy sighed: “Get a doctor.”

Astonished, Barney rounded the desk. Guy had eased back in his chair, chin down. Barney could smell the liquor on him — it was powerful.

He was bending over Guy when he heard the furtive noise at the door. Turning his head, he saw a shadow on the pane, a faint dark blur cast by the hallway lights. Someone was just outside the office, evidently listening. And at that moment Guy took hold of himself enough to speak again.

“Remember, don’t open it. Don’t tell anybody, not anybody! Just give it to her.”

“Sure,” Barney said. “Sure, Guy.”

The shadow was gone now. Barney moved quietly to the door. When he eased it open, the corridor was empty, but there were sounds below. Someone was hurrying down the stairs.

Barney went to the window at the head of the hallway. A car was parked halfway between the Lytham Building and the corner of Court Street. It had been there a few minutes ago, when he’d come in, Barney remembered. It had been waiting. His bird’s-eye view told him little about the man who was just then ducking into it. Light coat, black hat and shiny shoes. That was all.

The man was inside the car now and the door on its opposite side was opening. A girl slid out. She had a red beanie on her honey-blonde hair, her coat was beige and her shoes black, spike-heeled, with cute, big black bows. She turned back to the man at the wheel, said something, and then, as the car veered from the kerb, she ran along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, from which Barney and Guy had come.

Barney tried to watch both the car and the girl at once. The car swung again at Court Street, heading into the parking space that fronted the inn. Barney couldn’t read its licence number before it passed from sight. Turning his head, he glimpsed the girl again just as she disappeared against the buildings near the State Street end of the block.

He retraced his steps and just inside his office he paused. Guy wasn’t there. The little package still sat on the desk where Barney had put it, but Guy had left.

Barney picked up the box curiously, wondering why Guy wasn’t taking care of it himself. Why had he said, “She’ll come,” meaning Eve Ranie, who hadn’t once visited Pennswick since leaving for New York immediately after breaking off her engagement to Guy? There was something strange about this business of the package, Barney felt, and somehow he didn’t like it.

He liked it still less, distinctly less, the moment he saw the dark spot on the floor.

The spot was directly beneath the chair Guy had occupied. It was wet to Barney’s touch, and red. It had dripped off the hem of Guy’s coat while he’d sat there.

Then Barney saw the other spots, smaller ones, a row of them, a dotted line leading out the door. He followed them diagonally across the hall, unconsciously carrying the little package with him into Guy’s office.

Guy was seated at his desk, his arms crossed on the blotter before him, his head resting on them. The red stuff was still dripping slowly from the hem of his coat. And Guy wasn’t alone here. Alma Remsen lay awkwardly against the wall in the far corner.

Barney hurried first to Alma. In his concern for her he was scarcely aware that he put the little package on the floor beside her. There were two large bruises on the left side of her face, both turning an ugly green-black. Her red hair was matted behind her left temple. The cut in her scalp there had parted its lips — it looked like a small snarling mouth. A steam radiator stood directly behind her. Evidently she’d struck her head against it when falling away from the brutal blows delivered to her face.

She was Guy’s secretary, but she couldn’t have been working with him tonight — she wasn’t dressed for it. Her gown was long and full-skirted, of sea-green tulle, and her satin evening pumps matched it. She had a coronet of gardenias pinned on her red hair — crushed now. The blow behind her left ear might have killed her, but she wasn’t dead. Barney found her pulse, a faint ragged beat.

He turned quickly to Guy, forgetting the package he’d left beside Alma. Guy hadn’t moved. There was no doubt at all about his pulse. He had none. He’d left Barney’s office to come back here to die at his own desk.

Barney peeled Guy’s coat open and found a smear inside it, the blood still dripping from a puncture high in Guy’s left side. Barney felt sick. He’d tried to talk business with a dying man. But then, he hadn’t known, hadn’t had a hint until Guy had asked for a doctor. Even Guy, perhaps sensing that his gunshot wound was fatal, had considered it less important than other things — for example, the little package he wanted Eve to have.

Barney didn’t go back to the package at once. He found his hands trembling and swore at himself for it. He thought he’d grown used to seeing dead men. In the South Pacific he’d seen them die every day. Yet this was different. Guy was an old and good friend, but that wasn’t it. Some of those Joes in New Guinea had been Barney’s friends, too. This was out of place. This wasn’t war. It was a peaceful little town which the war had scarcely touched. Now, suddenly, the terrors Barney had known seemed less far away. He found himself feeling that nowhere on earth was there security from attack and bloodshed and the relentlessness of death.

Because movement always helped his nerves in moments of stress, he circled the office once. He stopped at Guy’s telephone, wanting urgently to call a doctor for Alma, then the police, but he drew back, remembering the matter of fingerprints. He crossed the hall, leaving the little package still lying beside the unconscious girl, forgotten again.

His own telephone was ringing. He was inside his door, still moving fast, before he realised his office lights were out. He glanced around once, uneasily, but lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

No voice answered him. Instead, he heard music faintly, far away. It wasn’t the jive of a juke-box, as it would have been if this call were coming from a pay-station in a bar. It was solemn, celestial, the strains of an organ. What was the selection? O Promise Me.

“Hello!” Barney said again.

The music was cut off, the connection severed, and no voice had spoken.

Barney stood still, slowly lowering the instrument. Someone was behind him. He’d heard a movement in the darkness and now hard pressure came to the small of his back.

Barney’s reaction was not caution and fear, but swift counteraction. The feeling of a gun poked against his body was intolerable. Months ago, during those black, steamy nights in jungle clearings half a world away, when any sneaking sound or stir of motion might be a prowling Jap, he’d learned to strike first and look into it later. He turned quickly, but he’d lost some of his instinctive alertness during the eight months since his medical discharge. He turned not quite quickly enough.

The blow slashed across the base of his skull. Barney fell into a sort of helpless dream. He wasn’t entirely out, but could feel himself being pulled at and rolled, and he couldn’t do anything about it. After a vague interval, he heard someone running away. It was quiet now, and dark, but still not entirely calm, like a foxhole just after the last hostile plane has passed.

He found his chair, climbed into it and sat holding his head. After a few minutes he groped to the wall-switch. His desk was messed up, his papers scattered. Two of his pockets were hanging inside out. He went to the washbowl behind the screen in the rear corner and was splashing cold water into his numb face when he remembered.

The package! His attacker had come after the little package. There was nothing else here that anyone could possibly want.

Across the hall again, back in Guy’s office, he saw slight changes in the scene. Guy’s desk was also disturbed now. Barney felt the prowling presence that had come and quickly gone, and anger still smouldered in him. But the package was still there, still on the floor beside Alma. Barney gazed on it incredulously and took it up.

His shoulders were stubbornly set. Like all the comparatively less important difficulties he’d found in the way of the new Filmore plant, things were piling up on him without letting him know why. But he recognised there was no way of finding out at once, and this wasn’t helping Alma, who needed help.

Back at his own desk, he first put the package in a drawer and locked it in. Then he twirled the dial on his telephone. He had called Dr Whitlock and was spinning the dial again, when a voice spoke from the doorway.

“You calling the police now?”

Barney hadn’t heard the big man’s approach. The big man stood in the doorway, his head ducked so his hat wouldn’t brush the top of the jamb. He wore his clothes snugly. His face was square and his features blunt, yet peculiarly sensitive. Barney saw subtle, indefinable expressions coming and fading in his blue eyes and around his thin-lipped mouth.

The big man said it almost with a sigh: “Never mind calling. I’m the police.”

Barney turned, still dizzy. “How did you know? Who told you to come here?”

Instead of explaining, the big man identified himself. “Captain Craddock.” And as Barney rose: “You stay put. I’ll be back.”

“But — don’t you want to hear about it?” Barney asked in confusion. “There’s a dead man in the office across the hall, Guy Farrish. He was shot, murdered. Alma Remsen’s there, knocked out.”

Captain Craddock nodded, as if he already knew all that. Subtle glimmers of varying expressions continued to cross his face — hardness and grimness, intermingled with curious little flashes of tenderness. Barney told himself it was impossible to know just what kind of man this was, what his inner feelings were.

“I’m in charge,” Captain Craddock said. “We’ll have a talk about it. You stay right here.”

Barney listened to his slow, measured steps across the hall. The door of Guy’s office closed with a snap, a sharp sound of exclusion. Now Captain Craddock was moving about the dead man’s office, his sounds seeming secretive. There was something about the man, Barney felt — brusqueness, even a capacity for ruthlessness, mixed with a queer, compassionate sort of understanding — something that brought Barney a cold twinge of apprehension.

II Blonde in Distress

It was such an ordinary-looking little package. A four-inch cube, it was neither heavy nor light. Its contents rattled softly when Barney shook it, and it gave off a faint and pleasant odour, an Oriental sort of scent. Something exotically perfumed, he reflected, inside common brown paper and common red string — yet something uncommonly important.

Barney’s head ached as he examined it, and he wondered why he’d been slugged.

Before taking up the telephone, Barney listened down the hall. Low voices rumbled. Policemen had gone into Guy’s office, Dr Whitlock next, then two white-coated ambulance men who had carried Alma Remsen out on a litter. Nobody had come to ask Barney any questions. That was another disquieting thing about Captain Craddock. Without making inquiries, he seemed to know.

Barney asked the long-distance operator to get Miss Eve Ranie, at 646 East 54th Street, Manhattan. He heard the connections progress as far as New York exchange, where they were stymied. The operator reported: “There’s no phone listed under that name.”

“Miss Ranie may be staying with friends or renting a room in somebody’s apartment,” Barney said. “Ask the superintendent.”

Minutes later, the operator reported again. “Miss Ranie seems to be out, sir. Shall I leave a message for her to call you?”

“Yes, operator. It’s an emergency.”

He had time to get the package back into the desk drawer before Captain Craddock’s deliberate footfalls reached his door. Craddock was tracing the line of blood drops. One of his hands was covered by a handkerchief and on the flat of it he carried a blue revolver.

“What did Farrish want with you, Mr Chance?”

“It must have happened before I reached the building,” Barney said, disturbed by Captain Craddock’s quiet directness. He told how he’d passed Guy at the mailbox in the street, and how Guy had followed him in. “He asked me to get a doctor, then went across to his office. He didn’t explain anything. I thought—”

“But what else did he want with you?”

The package! Guy had said: “Don’t open it. Don’t tell anybody about it, not anybody!” Not even the police? Did Barney’s promise to Guy include the withholding of evidence in a murder case? “Give it to Eve when she comes, but don’t open it. Don’t tell anybody, not anybody!”

And Barney had said: “I won’t.” He hadn’t sworn it on a Bible — he’d simply said it. But that was enough, particularly if Guy had known instinctively he was close to death, as Barney believed.

“She’ll come,” Guy had told him, and he’d meant: “Because I’m going to die.”

Captain Craddock took keen notice of Barney’s hesitation. “You’re holding out.”

“I’m trying to get it straight. Somebody was sneaking around inside this building.” Barney was glad he had this information to add. Craddock’s steady gaze made him feel he was explaining it in too much detail, but it helped him to sidestep the subject of the package. Simultaneously, he conjectured about it — thought that Eve might tell the police about it herself, if she wished, after he’d delivered it to her — while talking about the attack in the dark. “He was gone when I pulled myself back together. I don’t know who he was.”

“Or what he was after?” Captain Craddock didn’t even allow Barney an opportunity to evade the question. “Better sleep on it. It isn’t smart to hold out. You can go now.”

“What the hell!” Finding himself brushed off, and outmatched in the technique of evasion, Barney was full of sudden resentment. “I walked right into the thick of this business, and that’s all you’re going to ask me about?”

Eyeing him astutely and turning back to the door, Craddock paused, reminded of the revolver lying on his handkerchief-covered palm. “Farrish’s. Found it under his desk. Shot with his own gun.” This secretive man was unexpectedly volunteering information, no doubt for purposes of his own. And he added enigmatically, in an edged tone: “If you can’t trust the police, Mr Chance, whom can you trust?”

Behind those last words, Barney sensed mockery.

Locking his office door behind him, Barney saw Marsha Barrow coming up the stairs. The daughter of the late Jonathan Lytham, formerly Guy Farrish’s senior partner, Marsha was married to Lieutenant Commander Wallace Barrow, who was seeing service in Barney’s old battle area. Her hair and eyes were vividly dark. Always blithely carefree, she sang out, “Why, hello, Barney!” and gave him her quick smile as she turned to the door behind which Guy sat dead.

Barney stopped her before she reached it. “What are you doing here, Marsha?”

“Why, Guy phoned me, Barney, dear.” She used terms of affection indiscriminately. They meant nothing more than generous friendliness. “Darling, you look so terribly burned up about something!”

Barney was, but he didn’t take time to explain. “When did Guy call you? What did he say?”

“It was less than an hour ago, and he said he had something for me, but he couldn’t bring it, so he wanted me to come right down. He was very mysterious about it, Barney, dear — wouldn’t tell me what it was, but said I should hurry, and he sounded so out of breath. I couldn’t rush right out, of course. First I had to find a girl who’d come in and sit with the children—”

Marsha’s voice faded, sparks of alarm in her dark eyes as she gazed over Barney’s shoulder. Captain Craddock had opened the door. His bulk, physical power and puzzling face were enough, Barney felt, to startle any woman at first glance.

Craddock startled Marsha further by taking her arm without a word and drawing her into the office. There was something overwhelming and uncompromising about his manner. It said she’d made the mistake of talking to the wrong man, and he’d have no more of that. Then the door was closed again and the office beyond was silent except for a throaty moan from Marsha.

To Barney, the legend on the pebbled pane seemed to warn, Keep Out — This Means YOU. Craddock wanted it that way, and Craddock was no man to buck inadvisedly, in Barney’s estimation. He went down the stairs with a frown, the little package now tucked inside his overnight bag.

The snow had almost stopped. Breathing the clean-washed air, Barney paused halfway to the State Street corner. It was here he’d seen the car parked, an unknown man getting in after eavesdropping at Barney’s door, an unknown girl getting out.

Barney picked a black object from the slush near the kerb. It was a bow of suede, apparently lost from one of the girl’s shoes — evidence of a sort, Barney surmised. He had no intention of going back to Craddock with it. Not to Craddock now. It could wait until the captain got around to him again. Barney pushed the suede bow into his raincoat pocket and strode on.

He had an apartment on Sycamore Street, only three blocks from his office. As a boy, he’d lived in this neighbourhood. He liked the reminiscent fragrance of its old gardens in the spring mornings, its midsummer tranquillity, its moon-shade these brisk winter nights. Tonight, however, it seemed unfamiliar and dark, too much like those tropical nights that had concealed stealthy dangers. Barney told himself he’d grown soft — he’d had enough for one night, and he’d rather not believe he was hearing footfalls behind him, quick footfalls trailing him.

He wasn’t sure just when the footsteps had started, but they were coming closer. Glancing back, he sensed rather than saw a figure nearing him, dodging along against the wet hedges.

Barney was keenly conscious of the little package shut inside his overnight bag. His immediate intention was to get it safely out of anyone else’s reach. He turned sharply to the left, ran up the stoop of the house where he lived, got his key out and slipped it into the lock.

He’d drawn the bolt open when he heard a girl’s gasping cry of fright. The footfalls became more distinct and quickened into a rapid tick-tick of high heels. Barney saw the girl halt on the sidewalk just beyond the stoop. She looked around quickly as if in desperate search for shelter, then broke towards him. Suddenly at Barney’s side on the stoop, she pressed herself against him, her eyes white flashes.

“Don’t let him get me!”

“You’re all right,” Barney said.

Necessarily, he lowered his bag, feeling he might need both hands free. He went down the steps and gazed back along the street. The sycamores stirred in the night wind and snow sprinkled off them. He took slow steps along the sidewalk. Presently he paused, shrugging. If someone had been trailing the girl there was no sign of him now.

Barney turned back. The girl was no longer on the stoop. He opened the door of his ground-floor apartment, swung his bag in, snapped the switch and, as he’d expected, rediscovered her. She was huddled against the wall just inside, looking less frightened now.

Her hair was honey-coloured, like that of the girl who had got out of the car in front of the Lytham Building, but in other ways she was different. She wasn’t, for example, wearing a red beanie — she was bare-headed. Her jacket wasn’t tan, but red plaid. Her high-heeled shoes were black suede, but they had no bows.

She gave him a strained smile of thanks, but Barney didn’t smile back. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen this girl before, earlier tonight, under circumstances that weren’t the sort to smile about.

“Who was he?” Barney asked. “What did he want?”

“I don’t know!” The girl’s eyes widened, very blue eyes trying to be very innocent. “If you hadn’t been here, I... I don’t know what would have happened!”

“Do you live on this street?”

She shook her head, estimating him. “I’ve got a room above Colby’s Market.”

That was four blocks from here. She added no explanation as to what she was doing alone in this neighbourhood. Not that it was dangerous territory, but even though someone else had evidently been following her, she may have been following Barney, and that possibility still troubled him. He turned uneasily to the telephone and as he spun the dial, she quickly came to his side.

“You calling the cops? Oh, please don’t do that!”

He eyed her. “Why not? If someone was after you—”

“Please.” She put her hand over the contact bar and held it down tightly. “It wouldn’t do any good.” He couldn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but her voice carried a strange note of sincere concern. “Please don’t.”

The telephone itself settled the argument by ringing at that moment. Lifting it, Barney heard the operator say: “Mr Chance? New York City calling.”

It was Eve Ranie. Barney looked up at the girl, wanting her out of here. “Do you mind?” She bit her lower lip as he indicated the bedroom. After she’d gone in, he noticed she’d left the door ajar. The little witch! He turned from the telephone long enough to pull it shut. What the hell, he wondered, was that girl up to? The package again?

“Barney?” Eve sounded shaken. “Barney, how did it happen?”

“You know already?” Barney had a feeling of events rushing ahead, always a little beyond his reach. “Who told you? How?”

“A Captain Craddock. He found my phone number in Guy’s address book. He wouldn’t tell me very much.” “But why should Craddock choose to call you?” Eve was softly crying. “I’m coming, Barney, of course.”

“Listen,” Barney said urgently. “Guy gave me something for you — a little package. It seems to be damned important, not only to Guy and you, but to others as well.” The ache in the back of his head wouldn’t let him forget that. “Any idea what’s in it?”

“No. Open it, Barney. Tell me now what it is.”

“Guy asked me not to open it,” Barney explained. “I don’t know why. But I told him I wouldn’t and I’ve funny ideas about keeping my word. Nobody else is even to know about it, Guy said. When will you be here, Eve?”

“The first through train in the morning.”

“I’ll meet you and give it to you then.” Despite their broken engagement, Barney knew she’d gone on loving Guy, just as he’d gone on loving her. Barney had never clearly understood what had separated them. “Chin up, Eve.”

Had the bedroom door moved just as Barney disconnected? He wasn’t sure of that, but he was certain he wanted to get rid of the blonde girl. He found her sitting on his bed, her trim feet tucked under her, looking too innocent again. He couldn’t waste time deciding what her game was. “This way, please.”

With a curious sort of obedience she followed him from the bedroom. He said, “Wait here,” took up his overnight bag and went back with it, closing the connecting door. After a quick glance around he decided that the bookcase was as good a hiding-place as any. He concealed Guy’s little package behind several technical works on electronics, then returned to the living room. The girl was waiting for him, puzzled, a pleading look in her eyes.

He took her arm and firmly escorted her out. The snow had stopped. Her steps were quicker than his as they went along the icy street. She gazed up at him questioningly, but let him direct her.

“My name’s Barney Chance,” he informed her, wondering if she didn’t already know. “What’s yours?”

“Dorelle Dale.”

He almost laughed. Dorelle Dale! It couldn’t be anybody’s real name.

“I’m a hostess at the Merry-Go-Round,” she added, seeming to feel herself that the name needed something to back it up.

She wasn’t the hard-skinned, catch-as-catch-can sort, Barney thought, but on the other hand a certain type of sucker would go for her. The Merry-Go-Round catered to war-plant workers with money to spend, and to well-heeled servicemen on furlough. It was a roadhouse located a mile outside of town, a glorified clip-joint operated by one Victor Gartin, as the Big Tent had been.

The recent, early-morning fire that had destroyed the Big Tent had also destroyed the lives of four army men. Charges of manslaughter and failure to maintain adequate fire protection had been brought against Gartin, but only this week the district attorney had dropped the case. It was a noisome affair, smelling to high heaven of hush-hush influences and bribery, overlaid with rumours that Gartin was merely the front man for someone bigger who couldn’t be touched. This might or might not be a power-behind-the-throne politician named Chabbat. By working for such crooks, Barney reflected, Dorelle Dale wasn’t recommending herself to the esteem of decent people.

“Where are you taking me?”

They were in the centre of town now, near the inn, and walking fast. “Home,” Barney said.

She stopped short. “But I can’t go home! I’d be alone there. I’d be scared!”

He eyed her again. “What’ve you got to be afraid of now?”

She didn’t answer, but stamped her foot a little, and seemed about to burst into furious tears. Barney took her arm again, regardless, and again she hurried along beside him, curiously but without resistance. He guided her across the porch of the pre-Revolutionary inn, past a row of empty rocking chairs and into the lobby. It was also deserted. George Sawyer, the proprietor, wasn’t behind the desk. Impatiently, Barney banged the bell on it, facing the girl with a frown.

“Who was with you,” he asked her flatly, “in the car that was parked near the Lytham Building at eight o’clock tonight?”

“Where?” Again her eyes were very large, very blue. “I wasn’t with anybody. I wasn’t there.”

She was pretty. She was lovely — a very lovely little liar, probably, Barney judged.

“Got money enough for a room? You’ll be safe here, won’t you — as safe as anywhere?”

She squinted at him through her eyelashes, her lips pursed. “I’ll be perfectly all right!” Barney couldn’t remember anyone having hated him so intensely on such short acquaintance. “You don’t need to bother about me. I’ll get along fine without any help from you, you big lug!”

“I think so, too,” Barney said, smiling wryly. “Good night,” and he left her.

III “If You Can’t Trust the Police...”

Captain Craddock was leaving the Lytham Building. Light-footed for one of his bulk, he walked rapidly along Court Street. Barney felt it was his turn to do a little trailing. It would be justified — he was certain Craddock’s purposes were not entirely official. “If you can’t trust the police,” the captain had said sourly, “whom can you trust?” Barney couldn’t trust the captain.

Craddock led him to the Pennswick Hospital. A low brick building sitting behind a broad lawn, most of its lights were out. As soon as Craddock had gone in, Barney crossed the waiting room and looked down the corridor. The captain had disappeared into one of the private rooms. No nurses were moving about. Barney went quietly down the hall, neither liking nor disliking the idea of eavesdropping. He simply couldn’t trust Craddock.

There were subdued voices behind one of the swinging doors. Tall enough to look over it, Barney took one quick glance. Dr Whitlock was still with Alma. She lay on the bed, gauze bandages bound around her red hair. An efficient, resourceful, tireless young woman, her stamina had brought her back quickly. Her eyes were clouded only a little as she gazed at Captain Craddock.

“Suzie’s wedding,” she was whispering. “Poor Suzie. I was going to be my little sister’s maid of honour — and I never got there.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Craddock said brusquely. “Suzie went ahead and married Neal Lytham anyway. They’re on their way here now. Did you stop into Farrish’s office on your way to the church?”

“Mr Farrish phoned me,” Alma Remsen whispered. “Said it was important — take only a few minutes. I thought he must have a wedding present for Suzie and Neal.” After a moment she resumed. “When I went in the office, Mr Farrish was sitting at his desk with a queer look on his face. He didn’t say anything. It scared me. Then all of a sudden the closet door opened — and a man rushed out.”

“Who was that man?”

Alma’s respiration quickened. She was reliving a moment of high emotional stress. Without answering Craddock, she carried it through. “He rushed at me like a wild man and hit me terribly hard.”

“Describe him,” Craddock insisted relentlessly.

She was silent another moment. “He had a handkerchief tied over his face — coat and hat — so I couldn’t see much. He moved like an animal, gliding, but very fast. He was heavy, powerful, big. The bigness of him as he came at me — it was awful.”

Barney straightened, the scar on his forehead giving his left eyebrow a twist of alarmed astonishment. Did Alma realise she was describing, vaguely yet accurately, too, the very man who was questioning her — Captain Craddock?

Someone else was coming into the hospital. Barney retreated along the corridor to the accident ward entrance. Outside, but looking in through a diamond-shaped pane, he saw a party of three hurrying towards Alma’s room. A slender, petulant-faced girl — Alma’s sister Suzie, Barney surmised — came between two men.

The man on her right was Neal Lytham, Marsha’s brother and Suzie’s husband as of tonight. The other was fat, short and pink-jowled — the Benson Chabbat whose name carried such overtones of obscure power in the county, and who was, in addition, Barney remembered now, the uncle of Suzie and Alma Remsen. Both men wore tails. A third man in a tuxedo, whom Barney didn’t recognise, stepped into the corridor behind them.

It was adding up somehow, Barney felt as he turned away, but in indefinable terms. Guy Farrish had been fatally shot, and Alma Remsen had been viciously knocked out, at almost the same time that Alma’s younger sister was marrying Neal Lytham with Ben Chabbat’s blessings. A strange juxtaposition of events, particularly since the wedding had gone on regardless, evidently with a substitute maid of honour. It must have significance, and Barney felt sure this business wasn’t yet finished. He was still mulling over it when he reached his apartment.

Leaving the door wide open, he halted to stare. His living room looked like something left behind by a high wind. The cushions of his couch were tossed about, the drawers of his desk were turned upside down on the floor, the rugs peeled up. In a chair in the midst of this shambles, her ankles bound to a rung, her wrists fixed together behind her and a gag in her mouth sat the girl who had called herself Dorelle Dale.

Dorelle Dale wriggled in her bonds, silently beseeching Barney to get her loose. She wasn’t hurt, he saw. Going past her, he found his bedroom also upset, a window open. A dozen volumes had been swept out of the bookcase. And the amazing thing, the thing that stunned Barney, was that Guy’s little package was still there.

He blinked over it. It was intact. The person, who had ransacked the apartment hadn’t bothered to open it, had shown no interest in it whatever!

In the living room, Dorelle Dale was squealing. Barney went back, wagged his head at her, then untied her. The strips of cloth he unwound had been a pair of his fanciest pyjamas. She glared at him spitefully, as if it were all his fault.

“Why did you come back here, Dorelle? How’d you get yourself into this fix?”

“There wasn’t any vacancy at the inn,” she told him, evidently considering this his fault also, “and somebody’d broken into my own room. I didn’t exactly want to stay there and get murdered in my bed. I had to go somewhere, didn’t I?”

Barney laughed outright. As an explanation it was ridiculous. Surely she had friends who would have taken her in for the night.

“If you think I came back because I like you, you’re crazy,” she said evenly, rubbing her ankles, her eyes flashing at him even more hotly because he’d laughed. “Your front door was locked, but one of the back windows was open, so I climbed in. First thing I knew, somebody grabbed me and did that to me. Holy cats, I was scared!”

Appraising her, Barney felt inclined to believe this much. “There’s a question that’s getting asked a lot tonight,” he said. “Who was that man?”

“My gosh, how should I know?” she flung at him. “It was dark. He used a flashlight and he was careful not to show me his face. After he got me all done up, he just went around, wrecking the place.”

“A big man?” Barney asked quietly.

“No, thin. I could see that much. He was thin, like—”

“Like someone you remember?”

“Like anybody who’s thin, for gosh sakes! What’re you staring at me for? What do you think I am anyway?”

“I wish I knew,” Barney said wryly, touching the scar on his forehead. It felt tight. “What about the police now? Don’t you want them in on this either?”

“What could they do about it now? You haven’t lost anything anyway. You’ve still got the package.”

Barney narrowed his eyes at her. “What package?”

She bounced up to face him indignantly. “Guy Farrish gave it to you tonight. I heard you saying so over the telephone. You’re being a perfect fool about it.”

Barney closed one fist.

“You’re a man of honour, aren’t you?” Dorelle said bitterly. “You promised Guy Farrish and you’re going to keep your word even if it kills you.” Now she challenged him. “What difference would it make to a dead man? Instead of being so disgustingly noble about it, you should have told people that Guy Farrish gave you just a little package and nothing else. Then you wouldn’t have girls getting tied up by burglars in your living room!”

It dazed Barney. She seemed to know so much and she was so vehement about it! Her knowing made him feel his trustworthiness was undermined, that somehow he’d failed Guy. This girl seemed to him to be a treacherous little snooper. He strongly desired to sock her on her wagging jaw, but he didn’t.

“It’s strictly none of your damned business,” he said. “You can clear out of here now. And this time stay out!”

She plumped herself down on his couch, gazing at him defiantly, almost tearfully. “I’m not going!”

“Oh, God!” Barney said. She was getting to be more than he wanted to take. “Will you please get the hell out of here?”

“I won’t.” More quietly, appealing to him, she added: “I can’t. I’m afraid to go. I’m in a jam.”

“What kind of a jam?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” She was scornful again. “Nobody’ll come back here. It ought to be safe. I know you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole, anyway. I’m not leaving and that’s that.”

She kicked her shoes off and tucked her stocking feet under her in a manner of finality. Barney made a gesture of despair. He couldn’t throw her out bodily. However, there was a simpler way of getting her out of his hair. He opened the outer door and left.

The Dutch Colonial house on Elder Street was the home of Marsha Barrow. But it wasn’t Marsha who answered Barney’s ring at the door. Her brother Neal looked out — first expectantly, Barney thought, then with an odd, tight sort of disappointment.

“Come in, Barney.”

Still wearing his white tie and tails, Neal had evidently come directly from the hospital. Rather handsome, he was lithe, sandy-haired and usually easy-mannered. The peculiar thing about Neal Lytham was that his mind seemed forever busy with speculations which he rarely divulged to anyone else.

His bride sat in Marsha’s living room, sobbing childishly. Pretty in a frail way, Suzie had been thoroughly pampered by her older sister, Alma, who had brought her up. Marsha, darkly beautiful and light-hearted as always, was trying to cheer her.

“Alma’s going to be perfectly all right, Suzie, darling. The doctor said she can go home tomorrow.”

“But what about me?” Suzie wailed. “My wonderful wedding all spoiled, and now my honeymoon plans all upset! It isn’t fair!” She went on sobbing, pitying herself.

Marsha turned from Suzie, her glance at Barney commenting that Neal had picked himself a choice little brat for a wife, hadn’t he? Neal himself seemed only slightly concerned for her. He moved about nervously, his mind elsewhere. He seemed to be listening for something.

Certainly Neal could have done better than this, so far as the girl herself went, Barney reflected. Why had Neal married this self-centred little nonentity? Because she was Ben Chabbat’s niece, of course. He had deliberately married into Chabbat’s power. Suzie, however, instead of sobbing her heart out over trifles, should consider herself fortunate. Upon the recent death of their father, Jonathan Lytham, Neal and Marsha had inherited his estate equally. An accruement of generations, it amounted to more than a million dollars for each of them.

Barney asked of Marsha: “What did you find at Guy’s office?”

“Nothing, Barney, dear.”

“He called you down there in a hurry, especially to give you something important, and there was nothing?”

“Not a thing that we could find, darling. I can’t imagine what it might have been.” Marsha gave her agitated brother a puzzled smile. “Queer sort of nuptials you’re having, Neal, dearest. Why on earth don’t you take Suzie somewhere?”

Neal sat. “We’re staying here.”

It precipitated a cross-fire of discussion. Suzie wailed, Marsha protested. Neal answered obdurately. In the midst of it Barney attempted to say good night, but nobody heard. He left with the impression that Neal, in spite of his bride and his sister, would spend his wedding night right here in Marsha’s room, for reasons he wouldn’t explain.

Barney entered his apartment again to find Dorelle curled up on his couch, apparently asleep. Crossing the room, he unintentionally kicked one of her shoes. He picked it up and noticed frayed threads. In an instant he was smouldering. Her coat, he discovered, was reversible — red plaid now, but beige when turned inside-out. From one of its pockets, he pulled a red beanie. Out of the other came a black suede bow exactly like the one he’d found in the street.

He turned on her angrily. She was sitting up now, warily watching him.

“You little liar! You deliberately changed your appearance, even to pulling the bow off your other shoe so nobody’d notice you’d already lost one.”

“I can explain,” Dorelle said contritely.

“I’ll bet you can,” Barney remarked, sounding sour. “You’ll do a beautiful job of explaining.”

“I didn’t want to get mixed up in it, that’s all,” she went on quickly. “Not with Vic.”

“Vic Gartin?”

She nodded, shivering a little. “Vic drove us — Alma and me. Suzie and Neal and Ben Chabbat were already at the church, but Alma had to stop at Guy Farrish’s office on the way. Vic didn’t go in with her. He waited in the car with me and a minute later we heard the shot.”

“The shot fired at Guy,” Barney said.

“We didn’t know what had happened,” Dorelle continued earnestly. “Guy Farrish went out of the building and down to the corner, then came back. We kept waiting for Alma, but she didn’t show up, so Vic went in to look for her.”

So it was Victor Gartin who had prowled in the building, Barney mused.

“Then Vic came out and told me there’d been a shooting, all right — probably Guy Farrish — and Alma looked dead, too. He wanted to get away from there fast. I wouldn’t go with him, wouldn’t leave Alma like that, so I got out of the car and Vic went on”.

“You weren’t too concerned for Alma,” Barney reminded her. “You didn’t go into the building.”

She studied him a moment, inimically, saying nothing. Remembering the organ music he’d heard over the telephone, Barney could fill in the rest of it. Vic Gartin had driven no farther than the inn. From there he’d phoned Ben Chabbat at the church. No doubt Chabbat had given Gartin certain instructions, for next he had returned to the building to search for something. That was why he had invaded Barney’s office, and why Chabbat had called Barney’s phone, expecting Gartin to answer and wanting urgently to learn whether the search had been successful.

If Barney was right about this, it was Gartin who had clipped him — a personal score still to be settled.

“A neat job you’ve done,” Barney said, giving Dorelle a sceptical smile. “It’s a wholesale alibi for Guy’s murder — an alibi for Gartin, Neal, Suzie and yourself, as well.”

She peered at him through her lashes. “That’s why I’m scared. I don’t know who or what’s behind all this. It must be something big and terrible. I’m afraid something else will happen now.”

She sank back on the couch, looking really frightened. “Having you around makes me feel safer somehow, you high-principled mule. We don’t like each other a nickel’s worth, and that helps. So I’m staying here tonight.”

Looking out his bedroom door next morning, Barney didn’t feel too surprised. Dorelle Dale had gone, but he’d rather expected that, and he was glad of it. In a way he was glad. She was nice to look at, but too damned disturbing.

He’d overslept. A glance at a Reading timetable hurried him. He had time to shave, shower and dress, but not breakfast, before Eve Ranie arrived.

The little package in his pocket, he drove into the Pennswick station yard half a minute late. The train had already pulled in. Still in his car, he saw Eve Ranie alighting from a coach — willowy, ash-blonde, photogenic Eve. She’d gone back to modelling after breaking her engagement to Guy. Everywhere she went she was recognised by those who’d seen her smiling from magazine covers and drug store windows, and this morning was no exception.

A man stepped towards her and turned his lapel. A detective, Barney thought, sent by Captain Craddock, of course. A station wagon in front of Barney held him up as he backed into a parking stall, and Eve didn’t hear him call her. The man — narrow-faced and sly-looking, Barney saw — escorted her to a waiting sedan. It swung into the street, accelerated and disappeared.

Barney stared after it with rising alarm. It hadn’t turned towards police headquarters, but had veered off in the opposite direction.

He blared his horn urgently and somehow squeezed through. Once in the street, he sighted the black sedan travelling almost a block ahead. Its licence plate was bright, new. He could make out the number — PD7-604. That much was right; all local police cars carried PD plates. But this one was taking Eve in the wrong direction and travelling too fast.

Suddenly Barney braked. Directly in front of him, a railroad-crossing watchman was wagging a red paddle, a bell was clanging a warning, the barrier was swinging down to close the street. Barney fumed because the other car was past and he glared at the freight train rumbling through endlessly.

Impatiently he U-turned. There was no quick way around the freight, but police headquarters sat on this side of it.

The police department occupied a building which in earlier days had been a fashionable home. Captain Craddock’s office overlooked Main Street from the second floor. The captain wasn’t there.

Pacing, Barney noticed a yellow sheet of paper on Craddock’s desk. It was a carbon copy letter addressed to Benson Chabbat and consisting of one terse sentence: As of this date our relationship as attorney and client is permanently terminated. The late Jonathan Lytham must have written that letter, Barney knew, and Craddock must have removed it from Lytham & Farrish’s files last night. Lytham, although conservative, had possessed an ability to touch pitch without becoming defiled by it, but apparently he’d been unwilling to handle Chabbat’s brand beyond a certain limit.

The date of the letter, August 17 of this year, stirred Barney’s memory. It was also the date of the Big Tent fire, and Jonathan Lytham’s death from chronic myocarditis had occurred only two days thereafter.

Barney heard Craddock’s deliberate footfalls and stepped back. Entering, Craddock immediately slipped the letter into a drawer. Again his face was shadowed by a series of fleeting expressions springing from secret causes.

“Where have you had Eve Ranie taken?” Barney asked bluntly. And as Craddock answered with lifted eyebrows, he insisted: “You sent a man to the station for her. He hasn’t brought her here.”

Those strange expressions flitting across Craddock’s face suggested astonishment, sympathy, ruthlessness. “On the phone last night Miss Ranie told me she’d go to Mrs Barrow’s home,” the captain said. “I’d intended to talk to her there.” He looked over Barney’s shoulder. “What is it, Kelsey?”

A man paused in the doorway. Seeing Barney, he mumbled, “Later,” and began to move off.

“Kelsey!”

Craddock’s hard tone forced the plain-clothesman to confess his embarrassment before a non-official witness. “Lost my badge. Don’t know what became of it. Gone, that’s all.”

Barney stepped closer to the desk. “That tears it. It was someone posing as a detective, using this man’s badge. Now he’s got Eve.”

Craddock’s eyes turned stony as he signalled Kelsey away.

“But he had an official car.” Barney pressed his hands on the desk. “I got the licence number. PD7-604.”

Craddock turned to a file cabinet. He looked at a typewritten list. “Sure you got that number right, Mr Chance?”

“I’m positive. A low-priced, black, two-door sedan, number PD7-604.”

Craddock’s face put a chill into Barney, it was so cold, his eyes so icy. “There’s no such licence number. It doesn’t exist.”

Watching him consulting the telephone directory, Barney felt an almost wild impulse to get out of here, to tackle this emergency on his own. Craddock called Marsha Barrow’s home, asked curt questions, then put the phone down with a thump.

“Miss Ranie isn’t there.” He looked as massive as a monolith and as feelingless, yet his voice sounded compassionate. “I’ll handle this. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating the danger to Miss Ranie. Kidnapping is a capital offence. There’ll be no worse penalty if she’s killed. Outside interference might cause her death. I’ll take care of this.” Then he said it again, with the same mocking twist of his mouth: “If you can’t trust the police, Mr Chance, whom can you trust?”

He trudged from the office, leaving Barney full of fighting resentment, brushed off again.

IV Suicides Are a Nuisance

Barney had left his car parked beside a sign reading, Police Parking Only. He sat in it, the scar itching above his left eyebrow, feeling he’d at least wasted precious time in seeing Craddock, suspecting that the captain meant to accomplish nothing. Minutes later, the right-hand door of his car opened. Dorelle Dale sat herself beside him, smiling too brightly.

“Hello,” she said, as if they were the best of pals.

She wore comfortable-looking moccasins and a red topper over a simple green dress, all of which made her look like a guileless school kid. The effect was calculated — Barney knew very well she was nothing of the sort.

“What do you want?”

“I thought you might drive me down to the Merry-Go-Round. Vic didn’t like the way I ran out on him last night, so I’d better try to square myself.” She added: “That is, if you’ve nothing better to do.”

“I have.” He studied her. “Why are you dogging me? What makes you tick? Whose team are you on?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m minding my own business, believe it or not. Why don’t you mind yours and let the rest alone? Why do you insist upon making it tougher?”

“Make what tougher? Make it tougher for whom? What is your business, Dorelle? Go on, let’s have it.”

“All I want from you,” she said, flicking him with a glance, “is a ride down to the Merry-Go-Round. But my gosh, I can walk.”

He caught her arm as she began to slide out. She didn’t resist — she slid right back in again. For some reason of her own she wanted to stay with him, but without giving him any information about herself. In one way she was like Craddock. He couldn’t decide what she was, whether friend or foe. Hers was a game two could play, however. While she watched him, he could watch her and sound her out.

Not starting the car, he sat in thought, and presently he said: “I need to find a sign painter.”

“A what?”

The question subjected her to a subtle sort of test. Before going on, Barney checked over his reasoning and felt it was sound. Eve Ranie had been spirited away in a car carrying a new licence plate with a non-existent number on it. The plate had to be a fake contrived for the purpose of covering Eve’s kidnapper. It was by no means a crude job. The bright paint and exact lettering indicated professional skill.

“A sign painter,” Barney repeated, alert for Dorelle’s reaction. “Somebody in town.”

“New night-clubs need painters and decorators,” she said thoughtfully. “Vic Gartin always uses the same firm. They sell second-hand bar equipment, too. It’s the Ajax Hotel Supply Company, on lower Ashland Street. Ben Chabbat owns it — through a dummy, of course.”

Barney stared at her. She looked pleased with herself, but slightly scared, too. Without another word, he swung his car from the kerb. On Ashland Street he parked again. The Ajax Hotel Supply Company occupied an old store now used as a warehouse. It’s dusty show-windows were crammed full of bar stools, gilded chairs and pin-ball games.

They watched it without speaking, and ten minutes later a light truck rolled out of the alleyway flanking the building. Barney started after it. Dorelle was curious and jittery, but she asked no questions. The truck turned south at Main Street and continued along the highway until, a mile outside of town, it pulled around to the rear of the Merry-Go-Round.

Barney stopped in the broad parking lot beside the roadhouse. The truck driver began unloading panels of heavy cardboard painted in circus colours.

“This is where I get off,” Dorelle said lightly. “Thanks for the ride.”

She hurried to the Merry-Go-Round’s front entrance. It was a sprawling frame building, old, flimsy of construction, which should have been condemned and razed long ago. Barney noted its few narrow doors, thought of what would happen in case of a panic and knew no crowd should ever be permitted inside it. Just as the Big Tent had been, it was not only sucker-bait but a fire-trap awaiting a spark, a new tragedy in the making, but flagrantly operating regardless.

The truck was emptied now and pulling away. About to start after it, Barney saw Dorelle hurrying back. She climbed in beside him, looking anxious. She kept her fist closed whitely over a little wad of currency, while Barney followed the truck back towards Pennswick.

“I’ve been fired.” She spoke too lightly. “In fact, I’m being run out of town. Vic gave me this money for a railroad ticket. He was very sweet — so sweet he made me shudder. I’d better make myself scarce or else.”

“Or else what?” She didn’t answer and Barney looked hard at her. “When are you leaving?”

“I’m not.” Her voice sounded peculiarly resolute but it shook a little. “I’m sticking around — only I wish I could get over being scared, more scared all the time.”

She meant that. She was really, deeply fearful. But, as before, she wasn’t saying why.

Barney stopped again on lower Ashland Street. The truck had returned to the Ajax storehouse. Empty time passed while Barney thought coldly and blankly of Eve, his hunch having come to nothing at all.

Night had fallen upon a day that had seemed years long. Dorelle had left Barney before noon, with another of her evasive excuses, and he’d doggedly gone on watching the Ajax warehouse. It was so much time lost. Now, aching with nerve-strain, he was again in Craddock’s office. For once the captain’s expression was explicit, a darkly hostile frown.

“This is the fifth time you’ve been in here today, Mr Chance. There’s still no news of Miss Ranie. When I find her I’ll let you know. I’m still trying.”

“Are you?” Barney said tersely. “Pennswick’s a small town. There aren’t many places where she might be hidden.”

“Tell me, Mr Chance.” Craddock’s voice was ugly. “Tell me how to do my job.”

Other voices spoke behind Barney. Two men were leaving an office directly across the hall. One, his uniform decorated with a gold shield, was moon-faced, bald-headed, unctuous in manner. The other was thin, sly-looking, and at sight of him Barney stiffened.

“That’s the man!”

Craddock drawled in a forbidding tone: “What man, Mr Chance?”

The pair in the hallway, having heard, gazed at Barney curiously. He stepped towards them, Craddock following.

“That’s the man who met Eve Ranie at the station this morning!”

“Him?” Craddock said heavily. “Vic Gartin?” He gestured in irritation towards Gartin’s uniformed companion. “Mr Chance, this is Chief of Police Blount.” And to Chief Blount he added: “I’m afraid Mr Chance has gone off half-cocked here.”

“I’m not mistaken.” Barney said it emphatically, but inwardly he was shaken. All day he’d scanned the faces of passers-by, hoping to spot Eve’s snatcher — and now he’d found him in police headquarters, of all places. Victor Gartin! Neither Gartin nor Chief Blount seemed in the least disturbed by Barney’s accusation. “I tell you, this is the man who grabbed Miss Ranie!” but Gartin looked smugly unmoved and Chief Blount blinked stupidly.

“Surprising, very surprising, I must say,” the chief rumbled. “Let’s see now. Miss Ranie arrived on the 9:50, didn’t she, Captain? Now, at 9:50, Mr Gartin, you were... ah—”

“At my home, gentlemen.”

This was a new voice, edged and commanding. A third man had stepped from the chief’s office. Benson Chabbat, as always, was expensively-groomed. His deep-set eyes were clouded for a moment, but then he produced his pink-cheeked smile. “At nine o’clock this morning, gentlemen, Mr Gartin came to my home to talk business, and he was there until eleven. This is Mr Chance, isn’t it? What were you saying, Mr Chance?”

“Mr Chance was jumping at conclusions, Mr Chabbat,” Captain Craddock put in quietly. “If Mr Gartin was with you at 9:50 this morning, he was with you, not somewhere else.”

Chief Blount was wagging his shiny ball-like head. “You should try to be more careful, young man. This sort of mistake could be serious. Fortunate, very fortunate indeed, that Mr Chabbat was able to nip it in the bud. I think you owe Mr Gartin an apology.”

Barney boiled. He still felt certain he was right, but even more certain that his position was hopeless. He suspected this incident had been prearranged, boldly and badly staged. He was staggered to find a chief of police glibly accepting an obviously falsified alibi. The police here were not an agency of the law, he told himself, but the instruments of criminals — they were not a bulwark of security, but the tools of predatory menaces.

Barney stood speechless as he watched Chief Blount deferentially escorting Gartin and Chabbat to the stairs, the three of them laughing together over the absurdity of Barney’s accusation. But Captain Craddock did not laugh. His face hinted a callous sort of regret, and inner fierceness.

“Get wise,” he said, his voice a subdued growl. “Keep quiet and get wise.”

Barney turned on his heel. He was overwhelmed with a sense of subtly hostile forces, of obscure and inimical powers, shutting him off from Eve. He felt terror in the realisation that there was no protection from evil here, no support to be found against it, no hope in fighting it.

Chabbat and Gartin had driven off. Barney sat in his car, weighed down by his sense of helplessness and his dark anxiety for Eve. He saw Captain Craddock leaving headquarters. More than ever, Craddock had become the focus of Barney’s suspicions. His mocking hardness, his deep secretiveness had become a challenge that Barney felt impelled to meet.

Craddock trudged purposefully as Barney followed him. He turned into Oak Street, a section of modest homes, and his pace slowed. In the darkness, he seemed to glide — and Barney remembered coldly Alma Remsen’s description of the masked assailant in Guy’s office.

Then Barney realised that Craddock was no longer moving along the shadowed sidewalk, no longer in sight.

Barney paused at the spot where Craddock had vanished. Nearby, a picket gate stood open and a path led to a bungalow that sat forward in a deep lawn. There was still no sign of Craddock, but light shone from a broad front window and Ben Chabbat and Vic Gartin were inside.

While Barney watched them, they talked unpleasantly, with sharp gestures. Gartin broke off the argument to lift his head, and listen, then step through a doorway towards the rear of the house. Chabbat sat alone, frowning, rolling a cigar in his lips. After a moment, not waiting for Gartin to return, Barney went to the front door.

Chabbat answered his knock. Chabbat was poised, calmly but enormously self-confident, not easily surprised. “Mr Chance again,” he said without rancour. “This is my niece’s home, so I suppose you’ve come to call on her?” He allowed Barney to step in. “Alma’s upstairs. I’m afraid she’s not seeing anyone.”

“I don’t know exactly why I’m here,” Barney answered, looking around at tasteful furnishings, at logs burning in the fireplace. “But it’s not to apologise.”

Chabbat chuckled. “That really isn’t necessary. We all make mistakes.” He gestured Barney to a chair, but Barney shook his head. “We haven’t met, Mr Chance, but I’ve heard of you. Building some kind of plant here, aren’t you?”

“Trying to,” Barney said briefly. “Firetraps like the Big Tent and the Merry-Go-Round get their permits without a hitch, but I can’t get them for a modern, fireproof factory.”

“Well... I,” Chabbat said, examining his cigar, “there are certain borough ordinances, Mr Chance. Some of them are out of date and pretty hard to get around. I’m not a holder of public office, you understand, so I wouldn’t know exactly what’s causing your trouble. But perhaps you haven’t gone about it the right way.”

“That’s right,” Barney agreed ironically. “I haven’t shelled it out your way, and I don’t intend to — but I’ll get that plant built.”

The first gunshot came without warning, a flat, slapping noise behind the house. Chabbat started, and Barney heard a sound of alarm from upstairs. The second report followed quickly, then, after an interval, the third.

The echoes hadn’t yet bounced away before Alma Remsen appeared on the stairs. She was barefoot, wearing a black lace nightgown. Bandages still bound the wound behind her left ear. She stared at Chabbat, deathly pale.

“Where’s Vic?”

Barney was first out the back door, with Chabbat close behind him and Alma fearfully trailing them both. The yard was deep and dark. Hurrying past the white garage, Barney heard the rippling of a brook. He came to it, a shallow, spring-fed stream, winding across the rear of the property. They found Vic Gartin sprawled on the bank, both legs immersed.

“Vic!” Alma screeched his name, fell to her knees beside him, tugged at him. “Vic, Vic!”

A single bullet had pierced Gartin’s right temple and the hole was blackly rimmed by a powder-burn. Both his hands clawed at the pain, smearing blood across his cheeks. Then they dropped, limp. Beside him in the wet gravel lay a revolver.

Barney stepped back while Chabbat attempted to pull the hysterical Alma off the dead man. He turned his head, listening. Foliage rustled faintly. Someone was stealing along the brook. Barney moved towards the street. He ran to the picket gate, paused there and saw a man appear on the sidewalk three houses below. It was a big man who glided away rapidly — Captain Craddock.

Barney went after him again. Nearing the lights of Main Street, Craddock slowed to his trudging stride. Swinging only one arm, he pressed the other against his body, as if holding something concealed under his coat. Barney’s sense of stunned incredulity mounted as he watched the captain turning to the entrance of headquarters.

Craddock was at his desk, sealing the flap of an official file envelope, when Barney stepped in. The telephone was ringing. Ignoring Barney, Craddock answered the call at once. He spoke in monosyllables, his face sad, his eyes flinty. Lowering the instrument, he gazed steadily at Barney.

“That was Mr Chabbat,” he said regretfully. “He tells me Vic Gartin is dead.”

“I was there at the house,” Barney said tersely.

“From what Mr Chabbat says, it looks like suicide.”

“There were three shots. I heard three.” Barney leaned over the desk. “But there’s only one hole in Gartin’s head.”

“Two bad tries, then,” Craddock said tonelessly. “It often happens. A man nicks his throat once or twice before he works up enough nerve to make a good cut. In the same way, Mr Gartin must have flinched the first two times.”

Then Craddock did a strange thing. From his hip he brought forwards a pocket holster containing his police gun. Swinging out its cylinder, he ejected the cartridges. There were six, all intact. Next he produced a short cleaning brush and a square of cotton cloth. He pushed the cloth through the bore and it came out white. Quite deliberately, he’d made Barney a witness to the fact that his gun had not been fired.

“Suicide!” Barney scoffed, unconvinced, feeling that this move of Craddock’s was evidence, instead, of shrewd and ruthless trickery. “Why should Vic Gartin kill himself?”

“Who knows?” Craddock returned his holstered gun to his hip. “Suicides don’t talk much about their reasons afterwards.”

His telephone rang again. This time he said only, “Craddock,” listened for several seconds, then hung up. Barney had faintly heard the voice on the wire — a young woman’s. Craddock’s eyes hardened again at him.

“As a business man, Mr Chance, you know the value of advice. You’ve got in my way. Don’t do it again. Keep out of my way, Mr Chance.” He seemed to smile mockingly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy. A suicide is a nuisance, but not as much of a nuisance as a murder.”

Leaving Barney standing there, he went out carrying the file envelope. Barney stared after him through the doorway, too dazed for a moment to move. In his mind he called Captain Craddock a killer, a killer behind the law.

V Will You be My Valentine?

This time Craddock turned at Court Street and went past the inn. If he were responding to Chabbat’s call, he was going a block out of his way. He paused beside a parked car, handed the file envelope into it, spoke and listened briefly, then trudged on.

Observing this, Barney also stopped to gaze into that car. Dorelle Dale sat behind the steering wheel. Her eyes lifted to his, startled. Then she hastily slipped something under the seat. Craddock’s envelope, of course. Barney felt sickened. All too plainly, the murderous police officer and this girl were conniving together.

Now she gazed past him, her lashes lowered. “Get in,” she whispered. “Get in!”

Barney looked over his shoulder at a man who was leaving the taproom of the inn. He recognised the truck driver for Ajax. With an exasperated “Oh, holy cats!” Dorelle opened the car door and tugged at his arm. “Will you get in?”

He did, frowning at her, immediately reaching beneath the seat. The envelope contained something flat and inflexible. Barney ripped it open and drew out an automobile licence plate. It felt slightly damp to his fingers. The number PD7-604, bright and new, had been painted over an old number which was embossed in the metal and still discernible on the reverse side. The old number, Barney realised, might be a valuable lead. And the plate somehow lay behind Craddock’s shooting of Vic Gartin.

Dorelle hadn’t attempted to interfere. Her interest was concentrated on the man who had just left the inn.

“I saw him in the A. & P. just before it closed. He was buying canned goods and milk — and candles.” She repeated significantly: “Candles.”

“I’m going to get this straight,” Barney said. “What’s Craddock to you? Why are you—”

“There he goes,” Dorelle interrupted, pressing one neat foot against the starter pedal.

The Ajax truck rolled unhurriedly along Court Street, then turned, not towards the warehouse. Dorelle kept her distance without losing sight of it.

“Let’s get this straight, I said,” Barney persisted. “You’re working with professional crooks, including the worst kind of crooked cop. You—”

“Oh, shut up!” Dorelle said with stinging vehemence. “You make me tired!”

Just what was there about him that made her “tired”, Barney wondered? The fact that he was actively concerned for a kidnapped young woman, a friend? The fact that he was fulfilling, as best he could, the mission entrusted to him by a dead man? That he was determined to buck a corrupt police department because it was a dangerous evil which he couldn’t decently shrug off?

Barney wished he knew exactly what the hell Dorelle Dale was. She possessed a quality of forthrightness that contradicted the rest of her suspicious makeup. She was lovely, spirited, she had a head on her, and she was full of deceit. At the Merry-Go-Round she’d functioned as sucker-bait for pay. To Barney she might be pure poison. He didn’t want her to be poisonous to him — and as for that, there was something reassuringly earnest and wholesome about her. He would like to figure her out, especially because he felt she really didn’t dislike him as much as she pretended, even though he was getting in her way — and Craddock’s.

She was trailing the Ajax truck skilfully. It was outside the main residential section and still rolling.

“Have you still got that little package?” she asked abruptly. “Of course you haven’t opened it!”

She’d put him on the defensive, made him the one who must explain himself. It angered him.

“Never mind that. I want to know what the devil I’m messed up in. Murder, kidnapping, God knows what else! I didn’t ask for any part of it. All I wanted was to build a factory.”

“You’ll never get it built as long as Chabbat’s running this show — not without paying plenty for the privilege. He won’t come to you! You’ll have to go to him. And don’t think he wants your money for himself. He doesn’t. He makes his in bigger ways. He wants his boys in office to get their cut.”

Barney knew that now, but he was startled to hear Dorelle putting it into words, wisely and earnestly.

“Chabbat’s no novelty in politics,” she went on. “There are thousands like him all over the country — the men who deliver the votes. But he’s smarter than most, he keeps his office-holders happy. For example, your plant would be a big thing for this town, but Chabbat wants it to be a big thing for his boys first. You can’t see it that way, so you’ll keep right on running into one impossible legal tangle after another, as long as Chabbat goes on ruling this roost.”

Gazing at her, Barney asked quietly: “What’s your real name?”

She didn’t answer. The Ajax truck was slowing now, turning into a driveway. It stopped behind a house of pointed stone that stood completely dark against the grove behind it. Barney opened his eyes at the house while Dorelle drove past. Guy Farrish had bought it, intending it to be his and Eve’s home, and it had remained empty ever since.

Dorelle swerved to the shoulder of the road and switched off the headlamps. After a few moments, the truck reappeared, turning in the opposite direction, towards town. Dorelle backed her car quickly, then swung it into the driveway and stopped short behind the house. Barney beside her, she ran to the rear door.

On the steps sat a carton containing groceries, left there by the Ajax driver. The door was locked. Barney thumped his shoulder against it. On the third thrust the old lock snapped. He stepped in and struck a paper match, Dorelle holding her breath at his side. They listened and heard not a sound.

Dust lay thick on the floor, marked by footprints leading to the cellarway. Barney and Dorelle followed them down. The darkness below was almost liquid. Under the rear of the house, and behind a heavy door of oak, there was a windowless, damp, stone-walled room that felt like a cell in a dungeon.

Eve Ranie huddled against a hand-hewn post, her wrists corded together behind it, her eyes flickering whitely in the unsteady shine of Barney’s match.

Shivering Eve shrank down in the seat between Barney and Dorelle. He kept his arm tight around her. She whispered, “I’m all right now, I’m all right,” but she couldn’t stop shivering.

She hadn’t been hurt physically, but she was nervously exhausted and the chill and the terror of that dark underground room clung to her. Dorelle, all solicitude, drove rapidly. Eve sighed with relief when the car stopped in front of Marsha Barrow’s home.

“Marsha’s there,” Barney said. “She’ll fix you up. A hot tub and a stiff drink will help.”

“Thanks... thanks for finding me,” Eve said, pressing one of her cold hands over Barney’s.

“Don’t thank me, Eve. Dorelle did it.”

“I did not!” Dorelle retorted. “You figured out the licence. The rest wasn’t anything.”

She was eager to avoid taking the credit, Barney suspected. What did that fact tell him about her? Had she led him to Eve with inside knowledge, because the purpose behind the kidnapping had then been accomplished or had failed? He intended to get those questions answered in a hurry, but his immediate concern was for Eve.

“Can you tell me about it now?” he asked gently.

Eve shivered again. “He wanted something — something he thought I had. He tried to find it in my hatbox and it wasn’t there. Then he tried to make me tell him what I’d done with it, but I had no idea what he meant.”

“Didn’t he tell you what it was he wanted to get his hands on?”

She shook her head. “But he wanted it desperately. He made me feel he’d stop at nothing to get it.”

“Eve, it couldn’t have been this.” Barney removed the little package from his coat pocket. “At first I thought this was the reason behind everything that’s happened, but now I know it isn’t. Still, it’s important. It was so important to Guy that he had to make sure you’d get it. That’s why it’s been so damned important to me, too.”

Eve gazed at the little package and took it into her hands almost tenderly. Barney and Dorelle watched her as she loosened the red string. The removal of the brown paper disclosed an ordinary small gift-box. Eve’s fingers trembled as she raised the lid. Then her head sank and she closed her eyes on sudden tears.

Dorelle squirmed to peek into the box and Barney stared, a frown darkening his face. First he saw a small cake of soap. That accounted for the scent. The lettering stamped on the cake was blurred, as if it had been used once or twice. Beside it lay one red lollipop. And underneath both was a cheap little heart-shaped greeting card that asked, Will You Be My Valentine?

Barney felt a crazy impulse to laugh, but the laugh wouldn’t come. Sharp bitterness choked it off. He felt Guy had tricked him trivially in the name of friendship, he felt betrayed by a ridiculous whim. This was the solemn trust Guy had placed in him! This was the mission Guy had asked him faithfully to complete, upon his word of honour — to deliver a cake of soap, a lollipop and a valentine!

Getting out of the car, Barney shut the door with an angry slam. Dorelle hurried ahead to the house. The entrance had scarcely opened before Marsha had her arms around Eve. There followed a flurry of anxious “darlings” and “dears” while Marsha rushed Eve upstairs. Barney found no opening to introduce Dorelle, but apparently it wasn’t necessary. Together, Marsha and Dorelle got Eve out of her damp dress, ignoring Barney in the process. In another moment she was wrapped in a warm robe and Marsha was bringing her a drink. She put it aside to gaze again at Guy’s little box, her chin quivering.

“Does it mean anything?” Barney asked, still fuming.

“A great deal, Barney,” Eve said quietly. “A very great deal.” She smiled wanly over the lollipop and valentine. “Guy and I didn’t know each other when we started going to the same school. He was such a bashful little boy, he couldn’t even say hello to me. He’d just smile and shy away, until one day he handed me a soiled envelope, then ran for dear life. Inside was an old valentine and a bright red lollipop — and it was weeks past Valentine’s Day. It was his way of telling me he liked me.”

There were tears in Eve’s eyes. “And much later he proposed to me in just the same way, by giving me a lollipop and a little card asking me to be his valentine for life.” Then she really burst into tears. “I know it’s silly, it’s terribly silly, but I adored it.”

Barney waited until she’d taken hold of herself. He understood now why Guy had wanted no one else to see the contents of the box. It was one of those intimate, closely-guarded bonds, personal and tender, cherished between a man and a woman in love, like a song first heard together, which someone else might injure with ridicule. To Barney it seemed no longer frivolous.

“And this time he was asking you to come back to him?”

“Yes,” Eve spoke softly. “The rest is something I’ve never told anyone before. I don’t like telling it before Marsha.”

“It probably won’t be news to me, Eve, dear,” Marsha said. “To begin with, nobody needs to tell me my darling brother is a stinker, but I’ve never let it bother me much.”

Eve’s eyes widened. She clasped Marsha’s hand and turned to Barney. “You know the kind of a man Guy had become — out for all he could get and not too particular about how he got it. But did you know that Guy’s senior partner, Jonathan Lytham — Marsha’s and Neal’s father — had cut loose from Ben Chabbat? And why? And that immediately after Mr Lytham’s death, Guy took Chabbat back as a client?”

“My father was a grumpy old darling,” Marsha put in. “A stubborn, close-mouthed old bear, but honest as they come. He hated his chiselling clients, Ben Chabbat most of all, and finally the old dear reached the point where he couldn’t stomach Chabbat another day. That was the day of the Big Tent fire.”

Barney listened intently as Eve went on. “I learned all this from Guy. Vic Gartin operated the Big Tent, acting as the owner’s front man. Chabbat wanted the charges against Gartin quashed, of course, and expected Mr Lytham to fix it. Mr Lytham wouldn’t. Then Chabbat tried to put pressure on him by revealing that the real owner of the Big Tent was his own son, Neal.”

Barney’s eyebrows went up. Marsha merely looked at him levelly, not at all surprised.

“That was one straw too many for Father,” she said simply. “He was perfectly furious — ordered Chabbat out and swore he’d never forgive Neal. He died only two days later — the emotional shock did it, I know — still detesting Neal for it.” Marsha added: “I loathe him, too, for using his inheritance for more of the same nasty sort of business. The Merry-Go-Round is only a new beginning. Terribly skunky, that darling brother of mine.”

“Neal’s money plus Chabbat’s influence, you see, Barney,” Eve said, “with Guy pulling the legal wires for them. When Guy took Chabbat back as a client, I considered it unforgivable, a betrayal of his old partner, but Guy just shrugged. Chabbat meant big fees. His first job was to get Vic Gartin off the manslaughter rap, which he later did. It was too much for me to take. I saw Guy heading into more and bigger dirty work, and I couldn’t decently go along with him.”

Eve’s eyes misted over as she gazed into the little box. “I was horribly disappointed in Guy. The showdown came in the apartment I had here. We were in a hopeless clash over it. I told Guy I wouldn’t marry him, and then I stepped into the bathroom, of all places, to cry it out where he wouldn’t see me. He came in anyway and begged me not to break off our engagement. Then I handed him this cake of soap, this same cake. It sounds melodramatic, but we were both worked up. I told Guy I still loved him, but I wouldn’t take him back until he could come to me with clean hands, and that was final. He turned away without another word and left the apartment, taking the cake of soap with him. It was fresh then, unused.”

Barney bounced up. “But now it’s been used. He used it and knew you’d see instantly what it meant. He’d cleaned his hands — for some reason he’d broken with Chabbat.” Barney sat again, overwhelmed by the significance suddenly acquired by this apparently trivial token. “And that’s why he was killed, Eve. Somehow, that’s why Guy was murdered.”

Eve broke then, sobbing unashamedly. Marsha promptly dispensed with Barney and Dorelle. They went down to the living room. There he faced her.

“I’ve got a hold on this thing now,” Barney said. “I’m going to get the right answers, and all of them — from you next.”

His tone, like a dash of cold water, caused her to draw a little gasp. “But telling you won’t do any good. It may do a lot of harm. This thing’s not finished yet, and somebody’s not stopping at murder. But you’ve just got to know regardless, don’t you?”

“I’ve got to know,” Barney said. “Especially about you, Dorelle.”

“That isn’t my name,” she answered, shaking her head very seriously. “It was my mother’s, sort of — her stage name when she was in musical comedy. One of the servicemen killed in the Big Tent fire was Private First Class Johnny Vernon. He was my kid brother. My name’s Jean.”

“Jean Vernon.” Barney liked the sound of it. “That’s much better. I hope the rest is as good.”

Her eyes clouded over. “I had to come here to identify Johnny’s body, and I stayed. Nobody in Pennswick knew me. I simply changed my name and got a job at the Merry-Go-Round because I wanted to learn who was really responsible. Now I’ve found out — the combination of Chabbat and Neal Lytham chiefly, but what can I do about it?”

Barney said quietly: “That’s not all of it. You’re holding something out.”

“Last night I got acquainted with you deliberately, if that’s what you mean,” she went on. “Nobody was following me. I just had to see what you added up to. Later, when I went back to your apartment, I was still trying to find out as much as I could from you. I did learn something was going terribly wrong for Chabbat and his inner circle. It was Vic Gartin who ransacked your place. He fired me from the Merry-Go-Round and warned me to make myself scarce because his finding me at your apartment had told him I was playing a game on my own.”

“You’re still holding out,” Barney insisted. “All this wasn’t your own idea. Somebody’s behind you.”

She pressed her lips together, and at that moment a knock sounded. The door opened at once. Captain Craddock took a gliding step inwards, his face enigmatically hinting a sense of regret which was somehow ominous.

A glance passed between him and the girl. It seemed to Barney to convey a mutual warning. Then Craddock closed the door and came closer. From inside his coat he produced a long brown envelope.

“Do you know what this is, Mr Chance?” he asked.

Barney’s gaze fixed on it. In one corner it bore the printed return address of Lytham and Farrish. Marsha Barrow’s name and address had been scrawled across it, but the ink had been almost entirely washed off while still fresh. There was no postmark. It had been slit open.

“Guy Farrish was mailing a letter like that when I first saw him last night,” Barney said cautiously. “How did you get hold of it?”

“He didn’t mail it,” Craddock said, sounding brusque. “He thought he did, but he missed the slot of the mailbox. It dropped to the wet sidewalk, but he didn’t know that and he left it there.”

“How did you get it?” Barney repeated. “What’s in it?”

“This young lady saw it fall,” the captain continued, while Barney suspected his purpose in revealing this.

“That’s why she left Vic Gartin’s car first chance she found. She went to pick it up. I’ve had it since last night and now I’m going to use it.”

“Use it for what?”

“Mr Chance,” Craddock said wearily but tensely, “we’re in a spot, the three of us. We’ve found out too much at a time when it was never more unhealthy to find out too much. If you and Miss Vernon should turn up dead—”

“Suicides?” Barney put in wryly.

“As murder victims,” Craddock went on softly, “the case will stay in the unsolved file — you can bank on that. As for me, one word from Chief Blount can break me. Then I’ll just be another casualty, powerless. In other words, we’d better be smart and careful. Now please get Mrs Barrow down here.”

The note of urgency in Craddock’s voice carried through Barney’s confusion. He called up to Marsha. Craddock approached her at the base of the stairs.

“Eve’s going to sleep now, I think,” she told Barney. “Captain Craddock? What is it?”

“Mrs Barrow, Guy Farrish was the executor of your father’s estate. Did he know the details of the will prior to Mr Lytham’s death?”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Marsha answered. “He didn’t even know he was to be the executor until a few hours before Father’s death. I remember Guy coming out of Father’s bedroom after hearing about it, and asking me if I knew about the will. I said, no, he’d never talked about it.”

“Did your brother Neal know?”

“Really, Father never mentioned his will to either of us. I’m sure he didn’t tell Neal anything at the last minute. He wouldn’t see Neal. Guy and I were with Father when he died, but Neal was downstairs, excluded, so—” Marsha broke off to ask: “Why are you asking me this?”

“You’ll soon know, Mrs Barrow. Thank you.”

Captain Craddock glanced at Jean Vernon, his darkened eyes commanding her. Both moved towards the door.

“Hold it,” Barney said, going after them. “Captain, you look to me like a man who’s trying his damnedest to hit the jackpot and dreading it. You don’t want me, but I’m in it too deep to get out now. Well? Don’t hang back on my account.”

VI Where There’s a Will There’s a Slay

Barney paused beside Craddock’s car. The captain was at the wheel, Jean Vernon beside him. She was frightened and trying not to show it. Craddock returned Barney’s gaze, tight-nerved.

“You killed Vic Gartin,” Barney said.

“Gartin was a suicide.”

“You killed him and tricked it up.”

Craddock seemed to sigh. “Have it your way. But don’t noise it around. Get in, if you’re coming.”

Despite his cold confusion, Barney felt determined to keep his hold on this thing. He slid onto the seat beside Jean and felt her trembling. Captain Craddock drove ponderously.

“You saw Gartin snatch Miss Ranie,” he said, “but you heard Chabbat alibi Gartin. There was no way around that. No legal way.”

Barney listened.

“Miss Ranie was taken away in a black sedan. Gartin’s own car was a sky-blue convertible. I wondered if he’d borrowed Alma Remsen’s black sedan without her knowledge while she was laid up. He was practically living at her place. That was the hunch I played.”

Craddock turned at a corner, still driving slowly.

“I found the fake licence plate in the brook, where Gartin had thrown it. The new number was painted over an old one registered in Gartin’s own name. He’d heard me prowling around and caught me fishing the plate out of the brook. He had a gun, so I had to jump him. His first shot missed me and the second went into the sky while we wrestled. Then I twisted the gun up to his temple.”

Craddock stopped the car.

“It was much better that way, Mr Chance. A cop doesn’t openly kill one of Chabbat’s boys and get away with it, even in performance of his duty. Suicide settles Gartin’s score and leaves me where I am, on the Force, still able to work at my job as I see it. I doubt that Chabbat’s satisfied, though. That’s why I’m calling the play tonight.”

Barney thought back. When fighting the Japs he hadn’t worried at all about doing it nor had the enemy. When a man is defending his life he doesn’t fret over the niceties of the Marquis of Queensberry rules. Barney could clearly see the parallel in Craddock’s position.

“There are only two ways a cop can crack a case honestly when his chief is a big-shot crook’s dummy, Mr Chance,” the captain added quietly. “One way is crack it so wide open that the whole thing falls apart, which is the hard way, the almost impossible way. The other is to chip away at it under cover. That’s more dangerous, because they can hit back under cover also. Until now it’s been my method. But it’s no good any longer. The covers are coming off.”

He trudged to the door of Alma Remsen’s home. Barney tried to doubt him no longer. It wasn’t easy. Craddock was a shrewd, ruthless man — courageous, admirably and selflessly devoted to his own code, but ruthless nevertheless — a hard man to take on faith.

Barney caught Jean Vernon’s arm and stopped her on the walk. “You’ve helped Craddock all along, beginning with the job he got you to take at the Merry-Go-Round. You sounded me out for him, you’re holding evidence and testimony for against the day when he might use it. But now you’re showing yourself with him here. Why?”

“He told you, Barney. We’ve got to face them openly now,” Jean said, keeping a grip on herself. “This is what we’ve worked for. This is it.”

The door had opened and Neal Lytham was looking out. Barney and Jean followed Craddock into the living room. Chabbat was seated before the warm fireplace with a cigar. He smoked as imperturbably as always, but Neal was inwardly agitated. Astonished, Barney noted a change in Craddock’s manner. The captain became almost apologetic.

“Sorry to disturb Miss Remsen,” Craddock murmured. “Just routine, for the record.”

Neal led them up the stairs, his weakly handsome face pale with apprehension. Alma Remsen was sitting up in bed. Bandages no longer bound her red hair — instead, a patch of gauze covered the wound behind her left ear.

Her sister, Suzie, was there, munching chocolates. Neal signalled Suzie out, and she complied pettishly. He watched from the foot of the bed while Craddock deferentially drew a chair.

“Just routine, Alma,” the captain said again, “and it won’t take long. You were Jonathan Lytham’s secretary until he died, then you became Guy Farrish’s. Tell me all you know about Mr Lytham’s last will.”

“You mean the one he wrote just a couple of days before he died?” Alma said, her greenish eyes becoming thoughtful. “But that one doesn’t even exist any more. Mr Lytham changed his mind again and destroyed it.”

“How do you know he did?”

“Mr Farrish told me Mr Lytham tore up the new one, and that made the old one good again.”

“Go on, Alma,” Captain Craddock encouraged her quietly. “Tell me how it all happened.”

Readily, Alma went back to the beginning. “It was the last day Mr Lytham was ever at the office. He was very upset because he’d had a terrible blow-up with Mr Chabbat that morning. He wasn’t feeling at all well, poor man, but before he left he dictated a new will.”

“One cutting off his son and leaving everything to his daughter?”

“Yes,” Alma said, gazing at Jonathan Lytham’s son. “In it he gave everything to Marsha and cut Neal off with only a dollar.”

Neal gestured disarmingly. “It doesn’t matter now. Alma told you my father had a change of heart and tore up that new will before he died.”

Craddock nodded. “Just for the record, Neal. Go on from there, please. Alma.”

“It was late in the afternoon,” Alma continued, “and the bank was closed. Mr Lytham couldn’t put the new will in his safety deposit box, or take the old one out, so instead he put the new one in the office safe. Then he went home to bed and he never got up again. Two days later he was dead. That was the day when Mr Farrish told me—”

She pushed herself higher against the pillows, as if in an effort to get every detail straight. “First Marsha phoned the office, saying Mr Lytham couldn’t live much longer and he wanted Mr Farrish to bring a certain envelope from the safe and come to the house. It was that new will. When Mr Farrish came back, he told me Mr Lytham had changed his mind about it and had torn it up. Then, after Mr Lytham was dead, Mr Farrish got the other one out of the safety deposit box — the old one leaving everything to Neal and Marsha equally. That’s all I can tell you. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

Barney saw Craddock shake his head. “No, Alma, it’s not all right. Farrish lied to you about the new will. Actually, Mr Lytham hadn’t forgiven his son. That’s proved by the fact that he died without allowing Neal to see him again.”

Alma’s lips parted as she gazed at Craddock.

“What Mr Lytham actually told Farrish was that a new will existed and he wanted it to stand. He didn’t destroy it. On the contrary, he gave it to Farrish, his executor, to be acted upon. But Farrish didn’t probate it. Instead, he betrayed the old friend and partner who’d trusted him to honour his dying wishes. Farrish concealed the new will, which gave everything to Marsha, and instead probated the old one, which divided the estate equally between Marsha and Neal. No doubt of it, Alma. You see—” again producing the long brown envelope from his coat, Craddock held it without opening it “—I have the new will right here.”

Barney swallowed, stunned by this revelation of trickery on Guy’s part, and stared at Neal. Neal’s face had turned waxy — he could say nothing.

“It was easy to do,” Craddock went on. “In Pennsylvania, no witnesses to a will are required. Mr Lytham was close-mouthed. He’d told no one about the new will, not even Marsha. Farrish made sure of that, which meant you were the only living person who knew about it, Alma, other than himself. So he simply told you Mr Lytham had torn up the new will, and you naturally believed him.”

“But—”

“Easy and simple,” Craddock added, gazing now at Neal, his face stony. “It dropped more than a million dollars into your lap, Neal, money not rightfully yours. Farrish wanted a good cut of it and started getting it. He showed you the new will and warned you he could ‘find’ it and probate it at any time. That would jerk the million right out of your lap again, except for one lone dollar. But as long as he kept the new will under wraps, both of you would collect — you directly, he through you. And that’s the way it went.”

Craddock rose heavily, the unopened envelope still in his hand. “That’s all, Alma, thank you,” and he turned to the stairs.

Barney followed Craddock, revolted and heartsick. Was this the extent of the captain’s purposes — to show that Guy Farrish, now dead, had turned crooked? Barney resented it, despite his conviction that Craddock was right, but when he went into the living room after Craddock he began to see its broader, deeper aspects. Actually, he realised now, the captain was striking at a cabal, at a conspiracy of powers — Neal’s dishonestly acquired wealth, unequalled in Pennswick except by Marsha’s, plus Chabbat’s entrenched influence.

Chabbat still sat comfortably before the burning logs in the fireplace, rolling his cigar in his lips. He must know what Craddock had done, Barney thought coldly, but he was still superbly unperturbed. Neal Lytham, in contrast, was profoundly shaken. Coming in after Jean Vernon, he stared fearfully at Craddock. He didn’t attempt to explain or defend himself — he couldn’t speak at all.

“Wait a minute,” Barney said. “Guy tried to mail the new will to Marsha. That means he was washing his hands of the whole dirty business.” His figure of speech recalled to Barney’s mind that strange but significant token which Guy had wanted Eve to see — the used cake of soap. “Guy was putting the whole thing straight again, and he was killed because somebody wanted to stop him.”

Craddock must know this, he reminded himself, but Craddock said nothing. For reasons of his own the captain was letting Barney take the lead. Barney sensed the danger in that. Chabbat’s silent scrutiny of him was more than ominous. Neal’s inner agitation was growing, threatening to break. In Jean’s widened eyes there was anxiety for Barney. But he couldn’t stop now.

“Why?” he said. “Why did Guy want to put it straight? He’d reached his limit, just as Jonathan Lytham had. Why? He’d got Vic Gartin off the manslaughter charges, in connection with the Big Tent fire. Do you mean that was too much for him to stomach once he’d done it?” Suddenly Barney felt he had the real answer. “The wedding. Neal’s marriage to Suzie. Ben Chabbat’s niece. Chabbat’s power married to Neal’s wealth. The founding of an evil dynasty.”

Craddock dourly permitted Barney to continue.

“And more. Guy must have seen himself becoming its victim. He had to keep the new will, because without it he’d have no hold on Neal, but his hold wasn’t secure. He could be sloughed off, frozen out, eliminated entirely, and he knew Chabbat and Neal would sooner or later do exactly that in order to consolidate and safeguard themselves. And Guy saw it coming.” Barney’s eyes opened wider. “He may even have seen that Neal was set up as a murder victim, because if Neal should die all his money would go to Suzie, a brainless little doll to be manipulated as Chabbat pleased.”

The skin around Neal’s eyes became dead white as he stared at the man seated before the log fire. Barney felt sure that until now Neal hadn’t realised his marriage might be turned into an instrument of treachery. Chabbat smiled faintly and smoked. And still Captain Craddock permitted Barney to hold the dangerous reins.

“Guy decided to strike first, to wreck Chabbat’s plans even while they were forming. He could do that very simply, by revealing the existence of the new will. Perhaps he hoped Marsha would never take legal action against him, but he must have known it would mean his finish at Chabbat’s hands — and he tried to do it anyway.”

Guy had tried and had been killed. Barney gazed from Chabbat to Neal, feeling suddenly at a loss. He remembered a statement of Jean’s which he’d doubted at the time but must believe now, a statement providing an alibi for Gartin, who had been with her when Guy was shot, for Neal and Chabbat — both of whom had been at the church, for—

A crash of glass came sharply. They turned — Barney, Jean, Craddock, Neal, and even Chabbat hoisted himself halfway from his chair, startled out of his complacency — to stare across the room. A figure stood outside the window, visible only from the waist up, looking both threatening and ridiculous. A shapeless felt hat pulled low on its head, a topcoat hung loosely across its thin shoulders and a handkerchief curtained its face, so that only a pair of eyes was visible in the shadow of the hat-brim.

But the gun pointing from its gloved hand was not ridiculous.

They were still until Chabbat sank slowly back into his chair. Jean moved closer to Barney’s side, her hand reaching for his. He saw tense alarm in Neal and knew it was real. Captain Craddock, also seated, turned quietly in his chair to face the figure outside the window.

The gun watched them through the hole broken in the glass. The handkerchief-mask puffed a little as the mouth behind it spoke in a disguised whisper.

“Get his gun.”

The eyes were peering at Barney and the voice meant Craddock. The captain moved a hand towards his hip but a warning exclamation from the window stopped him. Again the shadowed eyes commanded Barney. He complied. Reaching under Craddock’s coat, he removed the pocket-holster.

“Take the shells out.”

This was a preliminary, Barney knew. Something more was coming, but first the captain’s revolver must be made harmless. He told himself it must be the only weapon in the room, but he was forced to go on obeying. He swung out the cylinder and ejected the shells. They rolled on the rug, glittering.

“Fireplace,” the whisper ordered.

Barney looked at Craddock in despair. The captain shrugged slightly, his face picturing resignation mingled with a queer sort of tenacity. The other gun outside the window was shining a threat at Barney and turning on Jean.

Barney tossed Craddock’s revolver. It fell behind the burning logs, into a bed of red embers. In a few moments it would grow too hot to touch.

“Now that envelope.”

Craddock still holding it, didn’t stir.

“Throw it in the fire.”

Jean’s move startled Barney. Reaching to the envelope, she snatched it from Craddock’s fingers. Quickly she drew out and unfolded a single sheet of paper. Her chin lifted in defiance of the figure outside the window. She put it into Barney’s hands.

“Read it, Barney!”

The voice commanded again, hoarsely: “Throw that in the fire!”

“No, Barney, read it!”

Barney stared at the typewritten lines, fearful for Jean. The will was short, the terse pronouncement of an embittered man. “I, Jonathan Lytham, being of sound mind...” Exactly as Craddock had said, it disinherited Neal. Jonathan Lytham’s signature looked decisive, final.

“In the fire!” The voice carried a note of impatience, desperate impatience at the point of breaking. “Now!”

Jean’s next move startled Barney even more. She seized the will again. Turning, she crumpled it into a wad and threw it onto the logs. Before Barney could grasp what she had done, the paper was flaming up. He started towards it in dismay, but Jean tugged him back. Chabbat, smiling faintly again, grasped up the poker and stirred its ashes. Now it was hopelessly lost.

Barney stared at Jean, numbly cold, yet smouldering with a sense of betrayal. She didn’t glance at him, but gazed at the masked figure behind the window.

A new gleam had come into the shadowed eyes. The figure remained there, not moving, the gun steady. It was still purposeful. The realisation struck Barney that the destruction of the will wasn’t enough. Still more was coming. It could be only one thing — the destruction of witnesses in addition. To Barney that meant Jean, Craddock, too, himself, and perhaps Neal as well. The mere thought was incredible to Barney, but it was the purpose in a murderer’s mind, in the mind behind the gun at the window.

“There was a red smear on that will.” Barney heard himself speaking. “Guy’s blood. He was shot before he put it in that envelope.”

Barney wondered crazily why the gun in the window didn’t shoot. It was as if his words were keeping the bullets back. He hurried on, feeling Jean’s hand in his again.

“Guy was shot even before he phoned Marsha. That’s why he sounded so short of breath to her. He had something for her, but he couldn’t take it to her because he had a bullet in his body. She’d have to come down for it, he said. But then he felt his strength failing. Feeling he couldn’t wait any longer, he sealed the will inside an envelope, wrote Marsha’s address, stuck on stamps and actually went down to the mailbox. He thought that would get it safely to her after he was dead.”

A strange fascination seemed to have closed over the figure outside the window.

“Vic Gartin didn’t know that. He overheard Guy talking to me in my office. Guy said, ‘Give it to her,’ meaning the little package he intended for Eve, but Gartin thought he’d given me the will and that meant I should give it to Marsha. That’s why Gartin ransacked my office first, then my apartment — trying to get the will, so it could be destroyed, so Neal could stay dishonestly rich.”

Barney now spoke to Neal.

“But then you learned that Guy had gone about mailing the will. That’s why you stayed at Marsha’s house on your wedding night, Neal. You expected the postman to bring the will there. You meant to get hold of it before Marsha saw it. But it didn’t come. Then you decided Guy must have mailed it to Eve instead, so Eve could plead with Marsha on Guy’s behalf. So Gartin kidnapped her, but she didn’t have the will either. You were at your wits’ end, suspecting one another, preparing to back-stab one another for its sake, until just now, when you learned Craddock had it.”

Barney was conscious of a slight movement, not at the window, but behind him. Chabbat was easing forward in his chair. Barney didn’t shift his gaze from the slitted eyes in the shadow.

“The story you told doesn’t hang together, Alma,” he said. “You might have done better if you hadn’t been suffering from shock. Actually there wasn’t any masked man hiding in Guy’s office when you went in. The description was one you faked on the spur of the moment. If there had been such a man, he wouldn’t have left without the will, not with Guy already shot and you knocked unconscious. Guy attempted to mail it after you’d gone in. He decided on that because he couldn’t know how much longer he’d last, and he wanted most of all to keep it out of your hands.”

The handkerchief mask was swaying, moved by a succession of quick breaths.

“After Jonathan Lytham’s death you began suspecting that Guy had concealed the new will, Alma. For one thing, Guy was becoming too prosperous on too few cases. Soon you challenged him on it. A few words from you to the bar association and the income tax people would play hell with him, so he was forced to cut you in. You became one of the dynasty based on Neal’s crooked money — Neal himself, Chabbat, Guy and even Suzie, who was soon to marry Neal. Small wonder Guy wasn’t long reaching the limit of his dishonesty.”

The voice said sharply, recognizable as a young woman’s now: “That’s enough!”

“When Guy called you into his office just before the wedding, it was to give Neal and Suzie a gift, sure enough. The gift was dynamite, enough of it to blow up everything. He gave you fair warning that he meant to turn the new will over to Marsha at once. You had to stop that, Alma. You got Guy’s own gun out of his desk and over it you demanded the will.”

The eyes of Alma Remsen shone as hard as the metal of the weapon she held.

“He refused. The only way you could stop him now was to shoot him. With your bullet in his body, he hit you, knocked you down and took the gun away from you. Then he went on, first calling Marsha. Next, wanting to hurry, he put the will in the envelope. You saw him doing it when you got up off the floor. You tried to get at the gun again, but he knocked you down a second time, hard enough to keep you down. You see, Alma, you’re the only one who could have known of Guy’s intention to mail the will to Marsha, the only one who could have tipped off the others about that. Now we know all of it.”

Now it was coming.

“You, too, Neal,” Barney said. “When she starts shooting she won’t leave you out. Suzie will inherit then. She thinks she’s fairly sure of getting away with the whole thing with Chabbat’s help. She may be wrong on that point. Not even Chabbat can hush up so many murders—”

A gasp broke from Jean’s lips. Alma’s gun had swung at Neal. Craddock moved heavily, but in a quick glide, just as its hammer lifted. The report wasn’t loud, but the bullet carried a power that spun Craddock half around. He fell against Neal, holding his left shoulder with his right hand, while Neal braced against the wall, unhurt. Dazed, Barney knew Craddock had done it deliberately, had protected Neal Lytham with his own body.

The second gunshot broke behind Barney. Chabbat was out of his chair. In one hand he held his cigar, balancing a long ash on it, and in the other he held an automatic. Chabbat, the only man in the room who might consider himself safe from Alma’s fire, was turning his own gun on her. Because, as Barney had said, this madness of hers would be more than even he could hush up. Because the death of Alma Remsen, a proved murderess, done in what he would claim to be self-protection, would help him to preserve his power.

He had fired one shot and missed. The masked girl stood rigid outside the window, too stunned by Chabbat’s act to grasp its treacherous meaning. Craddock was heaving himself across the room again when Chabbat fired the second time. Alma screamed and fell away. Craddock took a grip on Chabbat’s automatic. He twisted it free and slashed Chabbat once across the face. Chabbat fell.

Barney found Jean suddenly in his arms. With an impulse of fear and gladness she’d thrown her arms around his neck — gladness because he was unhurt. He felt her body shaking and with equal suddenness she flung herself away.

Barney hurried out the door after her, with Captain Craddock trudging behind him. Neal was at the window now, still speechless, looking down at Alma Remsen.

With his one usable hand Craddock opened her coat. Beneath it she was wearing a nightgown. The stain was on her left side, just below the ribs. She was as unconscious as when Barney had first found her in Guy’s office.

“Bad,” Craddock said, rising with a sigh, “but it doesn’t have to be fatal. She knows Chabbat shot her and why, and she won’t forget it. She’s the hating kind. She’ll get back at him and talk.”

“And you, Neal,” Craddock added to the stricken man at the window. “You’ll talk, too, because you know what her plans for you were. Between the two of you, there’ll be no more Chabbat.”

For the first time Barney saw a smile on the captain’s face, a smile of bitter gratification. “I don’t see how we could have asked for anything better, Barney.” He looked like a man who had won without ever having really hoped to win.

Jean was in Barney’s arms again, her head pressed to his shoulder, sobbing a little.

“You burned the will,” Barney heard himself mumbling. He wasn’t sure of his voice but he was certain he was holding her tightly. “You burned it!”

“But it doesn’t matter, Barney!” She lifted her head, her eyes widened. “Really it doesn’t. You and I can swear to the authenticity of that will. Captain Craddock, too. The writing’s gone, but Jonathan Lytham’s last wish will remain in force. The court will uphold it.”

“How do you know that? You’re talking like a... a—”

“A law student? I am one, Barney. There just hasn’t been time for us to get really acquainted with each other, has there?” She put her head back on his shoulder, shivering.

Barney was dizzy. The small task that Guy had entrusted to him had become a mission fulfilled. And Jean. She surprised him endlessly. He wanted her to go on surprising him endlessly, although he knew he’d never get used to it.

“There’ll be time now, darling,” she said, and he freed one hand long enough to grip the strong, comradely hand of Captain Craddock.