The Mike Hammer Collection

For maybe ten minutes we sat like that, quietly, before the kid dried his eyes. He seemed older now. A thing like that will age anyone. His hand went to my arm. I patted his shoulder.

“Mike?”

“Yes, Ruston?”

“Do you think you can find the one who did it?”

“I’m going to try, kid.”

His lips tightened fiercely. “I want you to. I wish I were big enough to. I’d shoot him, that’s what I’d do!” He broke into tears again after that outburst. “Oh . . . Mike.”

“You lay there, kid. Get a little rest, then when you feel better get dressed and come downstairs and we’ll have a little talk. Think of something, only don’t think of . . . that. It takes time to get over these things, but you will. Right now it hurts worse than anything in the world, but time will fix it up. You’re tough, Ruston. After last night I’d say that you were the toughest kid that ever lived. Be tough now and don’t cry anymore. Okay?”

“I’ll try, Mike, honest, I’ll try.”

He rolled over in the bed and buried his face in the pillow. I unlocked his door to the hall and went out. I had to stick around now whether I wanted to or not. I promised the kid. And it was a promise I meant to keep.

Once before I made a promise, and I kept it. It killed my soul, but I kept it. I thought of all the blood that had run in the war, all that I had seen and had dripped on me, but none was redder or more repulsive than that blood I had seen when I kept my last promise.

CHAPTER 5

Their faces were those that stare at you from the walls of a museum: severe, hostile, expectant. They stood in various attitudes waiting to see what apology I had to offer for dragging them from their beds at this early hour.

Arthur Graham awkwardly sipped a glass of orange juice between swollen lips. His brother puffed nervously at a cigarette. The Ghents sat as one family in the far corner, Martha trying to be aloof as was Junior. Rhoda and her father felt conspicuous in their hurried dressing and fidgeted on the edge of their chairs.

Alice Nichols was . . . Alice. When I came into the living room she threw an eyeful of passion at me and said under her breath, “’Lo, lover.” It was too early for that stuff. I let the bags under my eyes tell her so. Roxy, sporting a worried frown, stopped me to say that there would be coffee ready in a few minutes. Good. They were going to need it.

I threw the ball from the scrimmage line before the opposition could break through with any bright remarks. “Rudolph York is dead. Somebody parted his hair with a cleaver up in Miss Grange’s apartment.”

I waited.

Martha gasped. Her husband’s eyes nearly popped out. Junior and Rhoda looked at each other. Arthur choked on his orange juice and William dropped his cigarette. Behind me Alice said, “Tsk, tsk.”

The silence was like an explosion, but before the echo died away Martha Ghent recovered enough to say coldly, “And where was Miss Grange?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” I laid it on the table then. “It’s quite possible that she had nothing to do with it. Could be that someone here did the slaughtering. Before long the police are going to pay us a little visit. It’s kind of late to start fixing up an alibi, but if you haven’t any, you’d better think of one, fast.”

While they swallowed that I turned on my heel and went out to the kitchen. Roxy had the coffee on a tray and I lifted a cup and carried it into Billy’s room. He woke up as soon as I turned the knob.

“Hi, Mike.” He looked at the clock. “What’re you doing up?”

“I haven’t been to bed yet. York’s dead.”

“What!”

“Last night. Got it with a cleaver.”

“Good night! What happens now?”

“The usual routine for a while, I guess. Listen, were you in the sack all this time?”

“Hell, yes. Wait a minute, Mike, you . . .”

“Can you prove it? I mean did anyone see you there?”

“No. I’ve been alone. You don’t think . . .”

“Quit worrying, Billy. Dilwick will be on this case and he’s liable to have it in for you. That skunk will get back at you if he can’t at me. He’s got what little law there is in this town on his side now. What I want to do is establish some way you can prove you were here. Think of any?”

He put his finger to his mouth. “Yeah, I might at that. Twice last night I thought I heard a car go out.”

“That’d be York then me.”

“Right after the first car, someone came downstairs. I heard ’em inside, then there was some funny sound like somebody coughing real softly, then it died out. I couldn’t figure out what it was.”

“That might do it if we can find out who came down. Just forget all about it until you’re asked, understand?”

“Sure, Mike. Geez, why did this have to happen? I’ll be out on my ear now.” His head dropped into his hands. “What’ll I do?”

“We’ll think of something. If you feel okay you’d better get dressed. York’s car is still downtown, and when the cops get done with it you’ll have to drive it back.”

I handed him the coffee and he drank it gratefully. When he finished I took it away and went into the kitchen. Harvey was there drying his eyes on a handkerchief. He saw me and sniffed, “It’s terrible, sir. Miss Malcom just told me. Who could have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Harvey. Whoever it was will pay for it. Look, I’m going to climb into bed. When the police come, get me up, will you?”

“Of course, sir. Will you eat first?”

“No thanks, later.”

I skirted the living room and pushed myself up the stairs. The old legs were tired out. The bedclothes were where I had thrown them, in a heap at the foot of the bed. I didn’t even bother to take off my shoes. When I put my head down I didn’t care if the house burned to the ground as long as nobody awakened me.

The police came and went. Their voices came to me through the veil of sleep, only partially coherent. Voices of insistence, voices of protest and indignation. A woman’s voice raised in anger and a meeker man’s voice supporting it. Nobody seemed to care whether I was there or not, so I let the veil swirl into a gray shroud that shut off all sounds and thoughts.

It was the music that woke me. A terrible storm of music that reverberated through the house like a hurricane, shrieking in a wonderful agony. There had never been music like that before. I listened to the composition, wondering. For a space of seconds it was a song of rage, then it dwindled to a dirge of sorrow. No bar or theme was repeated.

I slipped out of the bed and opened the door, letting the full force of it hit me. It was impossible to conceive that a piano could tell such a story as this one was telling.

He sat there at the keyboard, a pitiful little figure clad in a Prussian blue bathrobe. His head was thrown back, the eyes shut tightly as if in pain, his fingers beating notes of anguish from the keys.

He was torturing himself with it. I sat beside him. “Ruston, don’t.”

Abruptly, he ceased in the middle of the concert and let his head fall to his chest. The critics were right when they acclaimed him a genius. If only they could have heard his latest recital.

“You have to take it easy, kid. Remember what I told you.”

“I know, Mike, I’ll try to be better. I just keep thinking of Dad all the time.”

“He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”

“Everything. He taught me so many things, music, art . . . things that it takes people so long to get to know. He was wonderful, the best dad ever.”

Without speaking I walked him over to the big chair beside the fireplace and sat down on the arm of the chair beside him. “Ruston,” I started, “your father isn’t here anymore, but he wouldn’t want you to grieve about it. I think he’d rather you went on with all those things he was teaching you, and be what he wanted you to be.”

“I will be, Mike,” he said. His voice lacked color, but it rang earnestly. “Dad wanted me to excel in everything. He often told me that a man never lived long enough to accomplish nearly anything he was capable of because it took too long to learn the fundamentals. That’s why he wanted me to know all these things while I was young. Then when I was a doctor or a scientist maybe I would be ahead of myself, sort of.”

He was better as long as he could talk. Let him get it out of his system, I thought. It’s the only way. “You’ve done fine, kid. I bet he was proud of you.”

“Oh, he was. I only wish he could have been able to make his report.”

“What report?”

“To the College of Scientists. They meet every five years to turn in reports, then one is selected as being the best one and the winner is elected President of the College for a term. He wanted that awfully badly. His report was going to be on me.”

“I see,” I said. “Maybe Miss Grange will do it for him.”

I shouldn’t have said that. He looked up at me woefully. “I don’t think she will, not after the police find her.”

It hit me right between the eyes. “Who’s been telling you things, kid?”

“The policemen were here this morning. The big one made us all tell where we were last night and everything. Then he told us about Miss Grange.”

“What about her?”

“They found her car down by the creek. They think she drowned herself.”

I could have tossed a brick through a window right then. “Harvey!” I yelled. “Hey, Harvey.”

The butler came in on the double. “I thought I asked you to wake me up when the police got here. What the hell happened?”

“Yes, sir. I meant to, but Officer Dilwick suggested that I let you sleep. I’m sorry, sir, it was more an order than a request.”

So that was how things stood. I’d get even with that fat slob. “Where is everybody?”

“After the police took their statements he directed the family to return to their own homes. Miss Malcom and Parks are bringing Mr. York’s car home. Sergeant Price wished me to tell you that he will be at the headquarters on the highway this evening and he would like to see you.”

“I’m glad someone would like to see me,” I remarked. I turned to Ruston. “I’m going to leave, son. How about you go to your room until Roxy . . . I mean Miss Malcom gets here? Okay?”

“All right, Mike. Why did you call her Roxy?”

“I have pet names for everybody.”

“Do you have one for me?” he asked, little lights dancing in his eyes.

“You bet.”

“What?”

“Sir Lancelot. He was the bravest of the brave.”

As I walked out of the room I heard him repeat it softly. “Sir Lancelot, the bravest of the brave.”

I reached the low fieldstone building set back from the road at a little after eight. The sky was threatening again, the air chilly and humid. Little beads of sweat were running down the windshield on the side. A sign across the drive read, STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS, and I parked beside it.

Sergeant Price was waiting for me. He nodded when I came in and laid down the sheaf of papers he was examining. I threw my hat on an empty desk and helped myself to a chair. “Harvey gave me your message,” I said. “What’s the story?”

He leaned back in the swivel seat and tapped the desk with a pencil. “We found Grange’s car.”

“So I heard. Find her yet?”

“No. The door was open and her body may have washed out. If it did we won’t find it so easily. The tide was running out and would have taken the body with it. The river runs directly into the bay, you know.”

“That’s all supposition. She may not have been in the car.”

He put the pencil between his teeth. “Every indication points to the fact that she was. There are clear tire marks showing where the car was deliberately wrenched off the road before the guardrails to the bridge. The car was going fast, besides. It landed thirty feet out in the water.”

“That’s not what you wanted to see me about?” I put in.

“You’re on the ball, Mr. Hammer.”

“Mike. I hate titles.”

“Okay, Mike. What I want is this kidnapping deal.”

“Figuring a connection?”

“There may be one if Grange was murdered.”

I grinned. “You’re on the ball yourself.” Once again I went over the whole story, starting with Billy’s call when he was arrested. He listened intently without saying a word until I was finished.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Somebody’s going to a lot of trouble.”

“Do you smell a correlation between the two?”

I squinted at him. “I don’t know . . . yet. That kidnapping came at the wrong time. A kidnapper wants money. This one never got away with his victim. Generally speaking, it isn’t likely that a second try would be made on the same person, but York wanted the whole affair hushed up ostensibly for fear of the publicity it would bring. That would leave the kid open again. It is possible that the kidnapper, enraged at having his deal busted open, would hang around waiting to get even with York and saw his chance when he took off at that hour of the morning to see Grange.”

Price shook out a cig from his pack and offered me one. “If that was the case, money would not have been the primary motive. A kidnapper who has muffed his snatch wants to get far away fast.”

I lit up and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Sounds screwed up, doesn’t it?” He agreed. “Did you find out that York didn’t have long to live anyway?”

He seemed startled at the change of subject. “No. Why?”

“Let’s do it this way,” I said. “York was on the list. He had only a few years at best to live. At the bottom of every crime there’s a motive no matter how remote, and nine times out of ten that motive is cold, hard cash. He’s got a bunch of relations that have been hanging around waiting for him to kick the bucket for a long time. One of them might have known that his condition was so bad that any excitement might knock him off. That one arranges a kidnapping, then when it fails takes direct action by knocking off York, making it look like Grange did it, then kills Grange to further the case by making it appear that she was a suicide in a fit of remorse.”

Price smiled gently. “Are you testing me? I could shoot holes in that with a popgun. Arranging for a kidnapping means that you invite blackmail and lose everything you tried to get. York comes into it somewhere along the line because he was searching for something in that apartment. Try me again.”

I laughed. “No good. You got all the answers.”

He shoved the papers across the desk to me. “There are the statements of everybody in the house. They seem to support each other pretty well. Nobody left the house according to them so nobody had a chance to knock off York. That puts it outside the house again.”

I looked them over. Not much there. Each sheet was an individual statement and it barely covered a quarter of the page. Besides a brief personal history was the report that once in bed, each person had remained there until I called them into the living room that morning.

I handed them back. “Somebody’s lying. Is this all you got?”

“We didn’t press for information although Dilwick wanted to. Who lied?”

“Somebody. Billy Parks told me he heard someone come downstairs during the night.”

“Could it have been you?”

“No, it was before I followed York.”

“He made no mention of it to me.”

“Probably because he’s afraid somebody will refute it if he does just to blacken him. I half promised him I’d check on it first.”

“I see. Did York take you into his confidence at any time?”

“Nope. I didn’t know him that long. After the snatch he hired me to stick around until he was certain his son was safe.”

Price threw the pencil on the desk. “We’re climbing a tree,” he said tersely. “York was killed for a reason. Myra Grange was killed for the same reason. I think that for the time being we’ll concentrate our efforts on locating Grange’s body. When we’re sure of her death we can have something definite to work on. Meanwhile I’m taking it for granted that she is dead.”

I stood up to leave. “I’m not taking anything for granted, Sergeant. If she’s dead she’s out of it; if not the finger is still on her. I’m going to play around a little bit and see what happens. What’s Dilwick doing?”

“Like you. He won’t believe she’s dead until he sees her either.”

“Don’t underestimate that hulk,” I told him. “He’s had a lot of police work and he’s shrewd. Too shrewd, in fact, that’s why he was booted off the New York force. He’ll be looking out for himself when the time comes. If anything develops I’ll let you know.”

“Do that. See you later.”

That ended the visit. I went out to the car and sat behind the wheel a while, thinking. Kidnapping, murder, a disappearance. A house full of black sheep. One nice kid, an ex-stripper for a nurse and a chauffeur with a record. The butler, maybe the butler did it. Someday a butler would do it for a change. A distraught father who stuck his hand in a hole in the fireplace and found something gone. He sets out to kill and gets killed instead. The one he wanted to kill is gone, perhaps dead too. Mallory. That was the name that started the ball of murder rolling. But Mallory figured in the kidnapping.

Okay, first things first. The kidnapping was first and I’d take it that way. It was a hell of a mess. The only thing that could make it any worse was to have Grange show up with an airtight alibi. I hated to hold out on Price about Mallory, but if he had it Dilwick would have to get it too, and that would put the kibosh on me. Like hell. I promised the kid.

I shoved the car in gear and spun out on the highway. Initial clue, the cops call it, the hand that puts the hound on the trail, that’s what I had to have. York thought it was in Grange’s apartment. Find what he was searching for and you had the answer. Swell, let’s find it.

This time I parked around the block. The rain had started again, a light mist that you breathed into your lungs and that dampened matches in your pocket. From the back of the car I pulled a slicker and climbed into it, turning the collar up high. I walked back to Main Street, crossed over to the side of the street opposite the apartment and joined the few late workers in their dash toward home.

I saw what I was looking for, a black, unmarked sedan occupied by a pair of cigar-smoking gentlemen who were trying their best to remain unnoticed. They did a lousy job. I circled the block until I was behind the apartment. A row of modest one-family houses faced me, their windows lighted with gaiety and cheer. Each house was flanked by a driveway.

Without waiting I picked the right one and turned down the cinder drive, staying to the side in the shadow of a hedgerow where the grass partially muffled my feet. Somehow I slipped between the garage and the hedges to the back fence without making too much of a racket. For ten minutes I stood that way, motionless. It wasn’t a new experience for me. I remembered other pits of blackness where little brown men waited and threw jeers into our faces to draw us out. That was a real test of patience. This guy was easier. When another ten minutes passed the match lit his face briefly, then subsided into the ill-concealed glow of a cigarette tip.

Dilwick wasn’t taking any chances on Myra Grange slipping back to her apartment. Or anyone else for that matter.

Once I had him spotted I kept my eyes a few feet to the side of him so I wouldn’t lose him. Look directly at an object in the dark and you draw a blank spot. I went over the fence easily enough, then flanked the lookout by staying in the shadows again. By the time I reached the apartment building I had him silhouetted against the lights of another house. The janitor had very conveniently left a row of ash barrels stacked by the cellar entrance. I got up that close, at least. Six feet away on the other side of the gaping cavern of the entrance the law stood on flat feet, breathing heavily, cursing the rain under his breath.

My fingers snaked over the lip of a barrel, came away with a piece of ash the size of a marble. I balanced it on my thumb, then flipped it. I heard nothing, but he heard it and turned his head, that was all. I tried again with the same results. The next time I used a bigger piece. I got better results, too. He dropped the butt, ground it under his heel and walked away from the spot.

As soon as he moved I ducked around the barrels and down the stairs, then waited again, flattened against the wall. Finding nothing, the cop resumed his post. I went on tiptoes down the corridor, my hand out in front like a sleepwalker.

This part was going to take clever thinking. If they had both exits covered it was a sure bet that the apartment door was covered, too. I came to a bend in the tunnel and found myself in the furnace room. Overhead a dim bulb struggled against dust and cobwebs to send out a feeble glow. On the other side of the room a flight of metal steps led to the floor above. Sweet, but not practical. If I could make the roof I might be able to come down the fire escape, but that meant a racket or being seen by the occupants.

Right then I was grateful to the inventor of the dumbwaiter. The empty box yawned at me with a sleepy invitation. The smell was bad, but it was worth it. I climbed aboard and gave the rope a tentative pull to see if the pulleys squealed. They were well oiled. Danke schön, janitor. You get an A.

When I passed the first floor I was beginning to doubt whether I could make it all the way. Crouching there like that I had no leverage to bear on the ropes. It was all wrist motion. I took a hitch in the rope around the catch on the sliding door and rested a second, then began hauling away again. Somewhere above me voices passed back and forth. Someone yelled, “Put it on the dumbwaiter.”

I held my breath. Let them catch me here and I was sunk. Dilwick would like nothing better than to get me on attempted burglary and work me over with a few of his boys.

A moment went by, two, then, “Later, honey, it’s only half full.”

Thanks, pal. Remind me to scratch your back. I got another grip on the rope and pulled away. By the time I reached Myra’s door I was exhausted. Fortunately, one of the cops had forgotten to lock it after taking a peek down the well, not that it mattered. I didn’t care whether anyone was inside or not. I shoved the two-bit door open and tumbled to the floor. I was lucky. The house was quiet as a tomb. If I ever see that trick pulled in a movie and the hero steps out looking fresh as a daisy I’ll throw rocks at the screen. I lay there until I got my wind back.

The flash I used had the lens taped, so the only light it shed was a round disk the size of a quarter. I poked around the kitchen a bit taking it all in. Nobody had cleaned up since the murder as far as I could see. I went into the living room, avoiding the litter on the floor. The place was even worse than it was before. The police had finished what York had started, pulling drawers open further, tearing the pictures from the walls and scuffling up the rug.

But they hadn’t found it. If they had I wouldn’t’ve had to use the dumbwaiter to get in. Dilwick was better than shrewd. He was waiting for Grange to come back and find it for him.

Which meant that he was pretty certain Grange was alive. Dilwick knew something that Price and I didn’t know, in that case.

In the first half hour I went through every piece of junk that had been dragged out without coming across anything worthwhile. I kicked at the pile and tried the drawers in the desk again. My luck stunk; Grange didn’t go in for false bottoms or double walls. I thought of every place a dame hides things, but the cops had thought of them too. Every corner had been poked into, every closet emptied out. Women think of cute places like the hollows of bedposts and the inside of lamps, but the bedposts turned out to be solid and the lamps of modern transparent glass.

Hell, she had to have important things around. College degrees, insurance policies and that sort of stuff. I finally realized what was wrong. My psychology. Or hers. She only resembled a woman. She looked like one and dressed like one, physically, she was one, but Myra Grange had one of those twisted complexes. If she thought it was like a man. That was better. Being partially a woman she would want to secrete things; being part man she would hide them in a place not easily accessible, where it would take force, and not deduction, to locate the cache.

I started grinning then. I pulled the cabinets away from the walls and tried the sills of the doors. When I found a hollow behind the radiator I felt better. It was dust-filled and hadn’t been used for some time, mainly because a hand reaching in there could be burned if the heat was on, but I knew I was on the right track.

It took time, but I found it when I was on my hands and knees, shooting light along the baseboards under the bed. It wasn’t even a good job of concealment. I saw where a claw hammer had probably knocked a hole in the plaster behind it.

A package of envelopes held together by a large rubber band was the treasure. It was four inches thick, at least, with corners of stock certificates showing in the middle. A nice little pile.

I didn’t waste time going through them then. I stuck the package inside my coat and buttoned the slicker over it. I had one end of the baseboard in place when I thought what a fine joke it would be to pull on slobbermouth to leave a calling card. With a wrench I pulled it loose, laid it on the floor where it couldn’t be missed and got out to the kitchen. Let my fat friend figure that one out. He’d have the jokers at the doors shaking in their shoes by the time he was done with them.

The trip down was better. All I had to do was hang on and let the rope slide through my hands. Between the first floor and the basement I tightened up on the hemp and cut down the descent. It was a good landing, just a slight jar and I walked away from there. Getting out was easier than coming in. I poked my head out the cellar window on the side where the walk led around to the back and the concrete stared me in the face, gave a short whistle and called, “Hey, Mac.”

It was enough. Heavy feet came pounding around the side and I made a dash up the corridor, out the door and dived into the bushes before the puzzled cop got back to his post scratching his head in bewilderment. The fence, the driveway, and I was in my car pulling up the street behind a trailer truck.

The package was burning a hole in my pocket. I turned down a side street where the neon of an open diner provided a stopping-off place, parked and went in and occupied a corner booth. When a skinny waiter in an oversized apron took my order I extracted the bundle. I rifled through the deck, ignoring the bonds and policies. I found what I was after.

It was York’s will, made out two years ago, leaving every cent of his dough to Grange. If that female was still alive this put her on the spot for sure. Here was motive, pure, raw motive. A several-million-dollar motive, but it might as well be a can tied to her tail. She was a lucky one indeed if she lived to enjoy it.

Sloppy Joe came back with my hamburgers and coffee. I shelved the package while he dished out the slop, then forced it down my gullet, with the coffee as a lubricant. I was nearly through when I noticed my hands. They were dusty as hell. I noticed something else, too. The rubber band that had been around the package lay beside my coffee cup, stiff and rotted, and in two pieces.

Then I didn’t get it after all, at least not what York was searching for. This package hadn’t been opened for a hell of a long time, and it was a good bet that whatever had been in the fireplace had been there until the other night. The will had been placed in the package years ago.

Damn. Say it again, Mike, you outsmarted yourself that time. Damn.

CHAPTER 6

I set my watch by the clock on the corner while I waited for the light to change. Nine fifteen, and all was far from well. Just what the hell was it that threw York into a spasm? I knew damn well now that whatever it was, either Grange had it with her or she never had it at all. I was right back where I started from. Which left two things to be done. Find Mallory, or see who came downstairs the night of the murder and why that movement was denied in the statements. All right, let it be Mallory. Maybe Roxy could supply some answers. I pulled the will from the package and slipped it inside my jacket, then tossed the rest of the things in the back of the glove compartment.

Henry had the gates open as soon as I turned off the road. When he shut them behind me I called him over. “Anyone been here while I was gone?”

“Yes, sir. The undertaker came, but that was all.”

I thanked him and drove up the drive. Harvey nodded solemnly when he opened the door and took my hat. “Have there been any developments, sir?”

“Not a thing. Where’s Miss Malcom?”

“Upstairs, I believe. She took Master Ruston to his room a little while ago. Shall I call her for you?”

“Never mind, I’ll go up myself.”

I rapped lightly and opened the door at the same time. Roxy took a quick breath, grabbed the negligee off the bed and held it in front of her. That split second of visioning nudity that was classic beauty made the blood pound in my ears. I shut my eyes against it. “Easy, Roxy,” I said, “I can’t see so don’t scream and don’t throw things. I didn’t mean it.”

She laughed lightly. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, open them up. You’ve seen me like this before.” I looked just as she tied the wrapper around her. That kind of stuff could drive a guy bats.

“Don’t tempt me. I thought you’d changed?”

“Mike . . . don’t say it that way. Maybe I have gone modest, but I like it better. In your rough way you respected it too, but I can’t very well heave things at you for seeing again what you saw so many times before.”

“The kid asleep?”

“I think so.” The door was open a few inches, the other room dark. I closed it softly, then went back and sat on the edge of the bed. Roxy dragged the chair from in front of her vanity and set it down before me.

“Do I get sworn in first?” she asked with a fake pout.

“This is serious.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m going to mention a name to you. Don’t answer me right away. Let it sink in, think about it, think of any time since you’ve been here that you might have heard it, no matter when. Roll it around on your tongue a few times until it becomes familiar, then if you recognize it tell me where or when you heard it and who said it . . . if you can.”

“I see. Who is it?”

I handed her a cigarette and plucked one myself. “Mallory,” I said as I lit it for her. I hooked my hands around my knee and waited. Roxy blew smoke at the floor. She looked up at me a couple of times, her eyes vacant with thought, mouthing the name to herself. I watched her chew on her lip and suck in a lungful of smoke.

Finally she rubbed her hand across her forehead and grimaced. “I can’t remember ever having heard it,” she told me. “Is it very important?”

“I think it might be. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.” She leaned forward and patted my knee.

“Hell, don’t take it to heart. He’s just a name to me. Do you think any of the characters might know anything?”

“That I couldn’t say. York was a quiet one, you know.”

“I didn’t know. Did he seem to favor any of them?”

She stood up and stretched on her toes. Under the sheer fabric little muscles played in her body. “As far as I could see, he had an evident distaste for the lot of them. When I first came here he apparently liked his niece, Rhoda. He remembered her with gifts upon the slightest provocation. Expensive ones, too. I know, I bought them for him.”

I snubbed my butt. “Uh-huh. Did he turn to someone else?”

“Why, yes.” She looked at me in faint surprise. “The other niece, Alice Nichols.”

“I would have looked at her first to begin with.”

“Yes, you would,” she grinned. “Shall I go on?”

“Please.”

“For quite a while she got all the attention, which threw the Ghents into an uproar. I imagine they saw Rhoda being his heir and didn’t like the switch. Mr. York’s partiality to Alice continued for several months then fell off somewhat. He paid little attention to her after that, but never forgot her on birthdays or holidays. His gifts were as great as ever. And that,” she concluded, “is the only unusual situation that ever existed as far as I know.”

“Alice and York, huh? How far did the relationship go?”

“Not that far. His feelings were paternal, I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. Mr. York was long past his prime. If sex meant anything to him it was no more than a biological difference between the species.”

“It might mean something to Alice.”

“Of that I’m sure. She likes anything with muscles, but with Mr. York she didn’t need it. She did all right without it. I noticed that she cast a hook in your direction.”

“She didn’t use the right bait,” I stated briefly. “She showed up in my room with nothing on but a prayer and wanted to play. I like to be teased a little. Besides, I was tired. Did York know she acted that way?”

Roxy plugged in a tiny radio set and fiddled with the dial. “If he did he didn’t care.”

“Kitten, did York ever mention a will?”

An old Benny Goodman tune came on. She brought it in clearer and turned around with a dance step. “Yes, he had one. He kept the family on the verge of a nervous breakdown every time he alluded to it, but he never came right out and said where his money would go.”

She began to spin with the music. “Hold still a second, will you? Didn’t he hand out any hints at all?”

The hem of her negligee brushed past my face, higher than any hem had a right to be. “None at all, except that it would go where it was most deserving.”

Her legs flashed in the light. My heart began beating faster again. They were lovely legs, long, firm. “Did Grange ever hear that statement?”

She stopped, poised dramatically and threw her belt at me. “Yes.” She began to dance again. The music was a rhumba now and her body swayed to it, jerking rhythmically. “Once during a heated discussion Mr. York told them all that Miss Grange was the only one he could trust and she would be the one to handle his estate.”

There was no answer to that. How the devil could she handle it if she got it all? I never got a chance to think about it. The robe came off and she used it like a fan, almost disclosing everything, showing nothing. Her skin was fair, cream-colored, her body graceful. She circled in front of me, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. At the height of that furious dance I stood up.

Roxy flew into my arms. “Kiss me . . . you thing.”

I didn’t need any urging.

Her mouth melted into mine like butter. I felt her nails digging into my arms. Roughly, I pushed her away, held her there at arm’s length. “What was that for?”

She gave me a delightfully evil grin. “That is because I could love you if I wanted to, Mike. I did once, you know.”

“I know. What made you stop?”

“You’re Broadway, Mike. You’re the bright lights and big money . . . sometimes. You’re bullets when there should be kisses. That’s why I stopped. I wanted someone with a normal life expectancy.”

“Then why this?”

“I missed you. Funny as it sounds, someplace inside me I have a spot that’s always reserved for you. I didn’t want you to ever know it, but there it is.”

I kissed her again, longer and closer this time. Her body was talking to me, screaming to me. There would have been more if Ruston hadn’t called out.

Roxy slipped into the robe again, the cold static making it snap. “Let me go,” I said. She nodded.

I opened the door and hit the light switch. “Hello, Sir Lancelot.” The kid had been crying in his sleep, but he smiled at me.

“Hello, Mike. When did you come?”

“A little while ago. Want something?”

“Can I have some water, please? My throat’s awfully dry.”

A pitcher half full of ice was on the desk. I poured it into a glass and handed it to him and he drank deeply. “Have enough?”

He gave the glass back to me. “Yes, thank you.”

I gave his chin a little twist. “Then back to bed with you. Get a good sleep.”

Ruston squirmed back under the covers. “I will. Good night, Mike.”

“’Night, pal.” I closed the door behind me. Roxy had changed into a deep maroon quilted job and sat in the chair smoking a cigarette. The moment had passed. I could see that she was sorry, too. She handed me my deck of butts and I pocketed them, then waved a good-night. Neither of us felt like saying anything.

Evidently Harvey had retired for the night. The staircase was lit only by tiny night-lights shaped to resemble candle flames, while the foyer below was a dim challenge to the eyesight. I picked my way through the rooms and found Billy’s without upsetting anything. He was in bed, but awake. “It’s Mike, Billy,” I said.

He snapped on the bed lamp. “Come on in.”

I shut the door and slumped in a chair next to him. “More questions. I know it’s late, but I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mike. What’s new?”

“Oh, you know how these things are. Haven’t found Miss Grange yet and things are settling around her. Dilwick’s got his men covering her place like a blanket.”

“Yeah? What for? Ain’t she supposed to be drowned?”

“Somebody wants it to look that way, I think. Listen, Billy, you told me before that you heard someone come downstairs between York and me the night of the murder. It wasn’t important before except to establish an alibi for you if it was needed, but now what you heard may have a bearing on the case. Go over it again, will you? Do it in as much detail as you can.”

“Let’s see. I didn’t really hear York leave, I just remember a car crunching the gravel. It woke me up. I had a headache and a bad taste in my mouth from something York gave me. Pills, I think.”

“It was supposed to keep you asleep. He gave you a sedative.”

“Whatever it was I puked up in bed, that’s why it didn’t do me any good. Anyway, I lay here half awake when I heard somebody come down the last two stairs. They squeak, they do. This room is set funny, see. Any noise outside the room travels right in here. They got a name for it.”

“Acoustics.”

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s why nobody ever used this room but me. They couldn’t stand the noise all the time. Not only loud noises, any kind of noises. This was like whoever it was didn’t want to make a sound, but it didn’t do any good because I heard it. Only I thought it was one of the family trying to be quiet so they wouldn’t wake anyone up and I didn’t pay any attention to it. About two or three minutes after that comes this noise like someone coughing with their head under a coat and it died out real slow and that’s all. I was just getting back to sleep when there was another car tearing out the drive. That was you, I guess.”

“That all?”

“Yeah, that’s all, Mike. I went back to sleep after that.”

This was the ace. It had its face down so I couldn’t tell whether it was red or black, but it was the ace. The bells were going off in my head again, those little tinkles that promised to become the pealing of chimes. The cart was before the horse, but if I could find the right buckle to unloosen I could put them right back.

“Billy, say nothing to nobody about this, understand? If the local police question you, say nothing. If Sergeant Price wants to know things, have him see me. If you value your head, keep your mouth shut and your door locked.”

His eyes popped wide open. “Geez, Mike, is it that important?”

I nodded. “I have a funny feeling, Billy, that the noises you heard were made by the murderer.”

“Good Golly!” It left him breathless. Then, “You . . . you think the killer . . .”—he swallowed—“. . . might make a try for me?”

“No, Billy, not the killer. You aren’t that important to him. Someone else might, though. I think we have a lot more on our hands than just plain murder.”

“What?” It was a hoarse whisper.

“Kidnapping, for one thing. That comes in somewhere. You sit tight until you hear from me.” Before I left I turned with my hand on the knob and looked into his scared face again. “Who’s Mallory, Billy?”

“Mallory who?”

“Just Mallory.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.”

“Okay, kid, thanks.”

Mallory. He might as well be Smith or Jones. So far he was just a word. I navigated the gloom again half consciously, thinking of him. Mallory of the kidnapping; Mallory whose very name turned York white and added a link to the chain of crime. Somewhere Mallory was sitting on his fanny getting a large charge out of the whole filthy mess. York knew who he was, but York was dead. Could that be the reason for his murder? Likely. York, by indirect implication and his peculiar action, intimated that Myra Grange knew of him too, but she was dead or missing. Was that Mallory’s doing? Likely. Hell, I couldn’t put my finger on anything more definite than a vague possibility. Something had to blow up, somebody would have to try to take the corners out of one of the angles. I gathered all the facts together, but they didn’t make sense. A name spoken, the speaker unseen; someone who came downstairs at night, unseen too, and denying it; a search for a stolen something-or-other, whose theft was laid at the feet of the vanished woman. I muttered a string of curses under my breath and kicked aimlessly at empty air. Where was there to start? Dilwick would have his feelers out for Grange and so would Price. With that many men they could get around much too fast for me. Besides, I had the feeling that she was only part of it all, not the key figure that would unlock the mystery, but more like one whose testimony would cut down a lot of time and work. I still couldn’t see her putting the cleaver into York then doing the Dutch afterward. If she was associated with him professionally she would have to be brilliant, and great minds either turn at murder or attempt to conceive of a flawless plot. York’s death was brutal. It was something you might find committed in a dark alley in a slum section for a few paltry dollars, or in a hotel room when a husband returns to find his woman in the arms of her lover. A passion kill, a revenge kill, a crude murder for small money, yes, but did any of these motives fit here? For whom did York hold passion . . . or vice versa? Roxy hit it when she said he was too old. Small money? None was gone from his wallet apparently. That kind of kill would take place outside on a lonely road or on a deserted street anyway. Revenge . . . revenge. Grange said he had no enemies. That was now. Could anything have happened in the past? You could almost rule that out too, on the basis of precedent. Revenge murders usually happen soon after the event that caused the desire for revenge. If the would-be murderer has time to think he realizes the penalty for murder and it doesn’t happen. Unless, of course, the victim, realizing what might happen, keeps on the move. That accentuates the importance of the event to the killer and spurs him on. Negative. York was a public figure for years. He had lived in the same house almost twenty years. Big money, a motive for anything. Was that it? Grange came into that. Why did she have the will? Those things are kept in a safe-deposit box or lawyer’s files. The chief beneficiary rarely ever got to see the document much less have it hidden among her personal effects for so long a time. Damn, Grange had told me she had a large income aside from what York gave her. She didn’t care what he did with his money. What a very pretty attitude to take, especially when you know where it’s going. She could afford to be snotty with me. I remembered her face when she said it, aloof, the hell-with-it attitude. Why the act if it wasn’t important then? What was she trying to put across?

Myra Grange. I didn’t want it to, but it came back to her every time. Missing the night of the kidnapping; seen on the road, but she said no. Why? I started to grin a little. An unmarried person goes out at night for what reason? Natch . . . a date. Grange had a date, and her kind of dates had to be kept behind closed doors, that’s why she was rarely seen about. York wouldn’t want it to get around either for fear of criticism, that’s why he was nice about it. Grange would deny it for a lot of reasons. It would hurt her professionally, or worse, she might lose a perfectly good girlfriend. It was all supposition, but I bet I was close.

The night air hit me in the face. I hadn’t realized I was standing outside the door until a chilly mist ran up the steps and hugged me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked down the drive. Behind me the house watched with staring eyes. I wished it could talk. The gravel path encircled the gloomy old place with gray arms and I followed it aimlessly, trying to straighten out my thoughts. When I came to the fork I stood motionless a moment then followed the turn off to the right.

Fifty yards later the colorless bulk of the laboratory grew out of the darkness like a crypt. It was a drab cinder-block building, the only incongruous thing on the estate. No windows broke the contours of the walls on either of the two sides visible, no place where prying eyes might observe what occurred within. At the far end a thirty-foot chimney poked a skinny finger skyward, stretching to clear the treetops. Upon closer inspection a ventilation system showed just under the eaves, screened air intakes and outlets above eye level.

I went around the building once, a hundred-by-fifty-foot structure, but the only opening was the single steel door in the front, a door built to withstand weather or siege. But it was not built to withstand curiosity. The first master key I used turned the lock. It was a laugh. The double tongue had prongs as thick as my thumb, but the tumbler arrangement was as uncomplicated as a glass of milk.

Fortunately, the light pulls had tiny phosphorescent tips that cast a greenish glow. I reached up and yanked one. Overhead a hundred-watt bulb flared into daylight brilliance. I checked the door and shut it, then looked about me. Architecturally, the building was a study in simplicity. One long corridor ran the length of it. Off each side were rooms, perhaps sixteen in all. No dirt marred the shining marble floor, no streaks on the enameled white walls. Each door was shut, the brass of the knobs gleaming, the woodwork smiling in varnished austerity. For all its rough exterior, the inside was spotless.

The first room on the one side was an office, fitted with a desk, several filing cabinets, a big chair and a water cooler. The room opposite was its mate. So far so good. I could tell by the pipe rack which had been York’s.

Next came some sort of supply room. In racks along the walls were hundreds of labeled bottles, chemicals unknown to me. I opened the bins below. Electrical fittings, tubes, meaningless coils of copper tubing lay neatly placed on shelves alongside instruments and parts of unusual design. This time the room opposite was no mate. Crouched in one corner was a generator, snuggling up to a transformer. Wrist-thick power lines came in through the door, passed through the two units and into the walls. I had seen affairs like this on portable electric chairs in some of our more rural states. I couldn’t figure this one out. If the education of Ruston was York’s sole work, why all the gadgets? Or was that merely a shield for something bigger?

The following room turned everything into a cockeyed mess. Here was a lounge that was sheer luxury. Overstuffed chairs, a seven-foot couch, a chair shaped like a French curve that went down your back, up under your knees and ended in a cushioned foot rest. Handy to everything were magazine racks of popular titles and some of more obscure titles. Books in foreign languages rested between costly jade bookends. A combination radio-phonograph sat in the corner, flanked by cabinets of symphonic and pop records. Opposite it at the other end of the room was a grand piano with operatic scores concealed in the seat. Cleverly contrived furniture turned into art boards and reading tables. A miniature refrigerator housed a bottle of ice water and several frosted glasses. Along the wall several Petri dishes held agar-agar with yellow bacteria cultures mottling the tops. Next to them was a double-lensed microscope of the best manufacture.

What a playpen. Here anyone could relax in comfort with his favorite hobby. Was this where Ruston spent his idle hours? There was nothing here for a boy, but his mind would appreciate it.

It was getting late. I shut the door and moved on, taking quick peeks into each room. A full-scale lab, test tubes, retorts, a room of books, nothing but books, then more electrical equipment. I crossed the corridor and stuck my head in. I had to take a second look to be sure I was right. If that wasn’t the hot seat standing in the middle of the floor it was a good imitation.

I didn’t get a chance to go over it. Very faintly I heard metal scratching against metal. I pulled the door shut and ran down the corridor, pulling at the light cords as I went. I wasn’t the only one that was curious this night.

Just as I closed the door of Grange’s office behind me the outside door swung inward. Someone was standing there in the dark waiting. I heard his breath coming hard with an attempt to control it. The door shut, and a sliver of light ran along the floor, shining through the crack onto my shoes. The intruder wasn’t bothering with the overheads, he was using a flash.

A hand touched the knob. In two shakes I was palming my rod, holding it above my head ready to bring it down the second he stepped in the door. It never opened. He moved to the other side and went into York’s office instead.

As slowly as I could I eased the knob around, then brought it toward my stomach. An inch, two, then there was room enough to squeeze out. I kept the dark paneling of the door at my back, stood there in the darkness, letting my breath in and out silently while I watched Junior Ghent rifle York’s room.

He had the flashlight propped on the top of the desk, working in its beam. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He pulled out every drawer of the files, scattering their contents on the floor in individual piles. When he finished with one row he moved to another until the empty cabinet gaped like a toothless old man.

For a second I thought he was leaving and faded to one side, but all he did was turn the flash to focus on the other side of the room. Again, he repeated the procedure. I watched.

At the end of twenty minutes his patience began to give out. He yanked things viciously from place and kicked at the chair, then obviously holding himself in check tried to be calm about it. In another fifteen minutes he had circled the room, making it look like a bomb had gone off in there. He hadn’t found what he was after.

That came by accident.

The chair got in his way again. He pushed it so hard it skidded along the marble, hit an empty drawer and toppled over. I even noticed it before he did.

The chair had a false bottom.

Very clever. Search a room for hours and you’ll push furniture all over the place, but how often will you turn up a chair and inspect it? Junior let out a surprised gasp and went down on his knees, his fingers running over the paneling. When his fingernails didn’t work he took a screwdriver from his pocket and forced it into the wood. There was a sharp snap and the bottom was off.

A thick envelope was fastened to a wire clasp. He smacked his lips and wrenched it free. With his forefinger he lifted the flap and drew out a sheaf of papers. These he scanned quickly, let out a sarcastic snort, and discarded them on the floor. He dug into the envelope and brought out something else. He studied it closely, rubbing his hand over his stomach. Twice he adjusted his glasses and held them closer to the light. I saw his face flush. As though he knew he was being watched he threw a furtive glance toward the door, then shoved the stuff back in the envelope and put it in his side pocket.

I ducked back in the corridor while he went out the door, waited until it closed then snapped the light on and stepped over the junk. One quick look at the papers he had found in the envelope told me what it was. This will was made out only a few months ago, and it left three-quarters of his estate to Ruston and one-quarter to Alice. York had cut the rest out with a single buck.

Junior Ghent had something more important, though. I folded the will into my pocket and ran to the door. I didn’t want my little pal to get away.

He didn’t. Fifty yards up the drive he was getting the life beat out of him.

I heard his muffled screams, and other voices, too. I got the .45 in my hand and thumbed the safety off and made a dash for them.

Maybe I should have stayed on the grass, but I didn’t have that much time. Two figures detached themselves from the one on the ground and broke for the trees. I let one go over their heads that echoed over the grounds like the roiling of thunder, but neither stopped. They went across a clearing and I put on speed to get free of the brush line so I could take aim. Junior stopped that. I tripped over his sprawled figure and went flat on my kisser. The pair scrambled over the wall before I was up. From the ground I tried a snap shot that went wild. On the other side of the wall a car roared into life and shot down the road.

A woman’s quick, sharp scream split the air like a knife and caught me flat-footed. Everything happened at once. Briars ripped at my clothes when I went through the brush and whipped at my face. Lights went on in the house and Harvey’s voice rang out for help. By the time I reached the porch Billy was standing beside the door in his pajamas.

“Upstairs, Mike, it’s Miss Malcom. Somebody shot her!”

Harvey was waving frantically, pointing to her room. I raced inside. Roxy was lying on the floor with blood making a bright red picture on the shoulder of her nightgown. Harvey stood over me, shaking with fear as I ripped the cloth away. I breathed with relief. The bullet had only passed through the flesh under her arm.

I carried her to bed and called to the butler over my shoulder. “Get some hot water and bandages. Get a doctor up here.”

Harvey said, “Yes, sir,” and scurried away.

Billy came in. “Can I do anything, Mike? I . . . I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay, stay with her. I want to see the kid.”

I opened the door to Ruston’s room and turned on the light. He was sitting up, holding himself erect with his hands, his eyes were fixed on the wall in a blank stare, his mouth open. He never saw me. I shook him, he was stiff as a board, every muscle in his body as rigid as a piece of steel. He jerked convulsively once or twice, never taking his eyes from the wall. It took a lot of force to pull his arms up and straighten him out.

“Harvey, did you call that doctor?”

Billy sang out, “He’s doing it now, Mike.”

“Damn it, tell him to hurry. The kid’s having a fit or something.”

He hollered down the stairs to Harvey; I could hear the excited stuttering over the telephone, but it would be awhile before a medic would reach the house. Ruston began to tremble, his eyes rolled back in his head. Leaning over I slapped him sharply across the cheek.

“Ruston, snap out of it.” I slapped him again. “Ruston.”

This time his eyelids flickered, he came back to normal with a sob. His mouth twitched and he covered his face with his hands. Suddenly he sat up in bed and shouted, “Mike!”

“I’m right here, kid,” I said, “take it easy.” His face found mine and he reached for my hand. He was trembling from head to foot, his body bathed in cold sweat.

“Miss Malcom . . . ?”

“Is all right,” I answered. “She just got a good scare, that’s all.” I didn’t want to frighten him any more than he was. “Did someone come in here?”

He squeezed my hand. “No . . . there was a noise, and Miss Malcom screamed. Mike, I’m not very brave at all. I’m scared.”

The kid had a right to be. “It was nothing. Cover up and be still. I’ll be in the next room. Want me to leave the door open?”

“Please, Mike.”

I left the light on and put a rubber wedge under the door to keep it open. Billy was standing by the bed holding a handkerchief to Roxy’s shoulder. I took it away and looked at it. Not much of a wound, the bullet was of small caliber and had gone in and come out clean. Billy poked me and pointed to the window. The pane had spiderwebbed into a thousand cracks with a neat hole at the bottom a few inches above the sill. Tiny glass fragments winked up from the floor. The shot had come in from below, traveling upward. Behind me in the wall was the bullet hole, a small puncture head high. I dug out the slug from the plaster and rolled it over in my hand. A neat piece of lead whose shape had hardly been deformed by the wall, caliber .32. York’s gun had found its way home.

I tucked it in my watch pocket. “Stay here, Billy, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” He didn’t like me to leave.

“I got a friend downstairs.”

Junior was struggling to his feet when I reached him. I helped him with a fist in his collar. This little twerp had a lot of explaining to do. He was a sorry-looking sight. Pieces of gravel were imbedded in the flesh of his face and blood matted the hair of his scalp. One lens of his specs was smashed. I watched him while he detached his lower lip from his teeth, swearing incoherently. The belting he took had left him half dazed, and he didn’t try to resist at all when I walked him toward the house.

When I sat him in a chair he shook his head, touching the cut on his temple. He kept repeating a four-letter word over and over until realization of what had happened hit him. His head came up and I thought he was going to spit at me.

“You got it!” he said accusingly on the verge of tears now.

“Got what?” I leaned forward to get every word. His eyes narrowed.

Junior said sullenly, “Nothing.”

Very deliberately I took his tie in my hand and pulled it. He tried to draw back, but I held him close. “Little chum,” I said, “you are in a bad spot, very bad. You’ve been caught breaking and entering. You stole something from York’s private hideaway and Miss Malcom has been shot. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll talk.”

“Shot . . . killed?”

There was no sense letting him know the truth. “She’s not dead yet. If she dies you’re liable to face a murder charge.”

“No. No. I didn’t do it. I admit I was in the laboratory, but I didn’t shoot her. I . . . I didn’t get a chance to. Those men jumped on me. I fought for my life.”

“Did you? Were you really unconscious? Maybe. I went after them until I heard Miss Malcom scream. Did she scream because you shot her, then faked being knocked out all the while?”

He turned white. A little vein in his forehead throbbed, his hands tightened until his nails drew blood from the palms. “You can’t pin it on me,” he said. “I didn’t do it, I swear.”

“No? What did you take from the room back there?”

A pause, then, “Nothing.”

I reached for his pockets, daring him to move. Each one I turned inside out, dumping their contents around the bottom of the chair. A wallet, theater stubs, two old letters, some keys and fifty-five cents in change. That was all.

“So somebody else wanted what you found, didn’t they?” He didn’t answer. “They got it, too.”

“I didn’t have anything,” he repeated.

He was lying through his teeth. “Then why did they wait for you and beat your brains out? Answer that one.” He was quiet. I took the will out and waved it at him. “It went with this. It was more important than this, though. But what would be more important to you than a will? You’re stupid, Junior. You aren’t in this at all, are you? If you had sense enough to burn it you might have come into big dough when the estate was split up, especially with the kid under age. But no, you didn’t care whether the will was found and probated or not, because the other thing was more important. It meant more money. How, Junior, how?”

For my little speech I had a sneer thrown at me. “All right,” I told him, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Right now you look like hell, but you’re beautiful compared to what you’ll look like in ten minutes. I’m going to slap the crap out of you until you talk. Yell all you want to, it won’t do any good.”

I pulled back my hand. Junior didn’t wait, he started speaking. “Don’t. It was nothing. I . . . I stole some money from my uncle once. He caught me and made me sign a statement. I didn’t want it to be found or I’d never get a cent. That was it.”

“Yes? What made it so important that someone else would want it?”

“I don’t know. There was something else attached to the statement that I didn’t look at. Maybe they wanted that.”

It could have been a lie, but I wasn’t sure. What he said made sense. “Did you shoot Miss Malcom?”

“That’s silly.” I tightened up on the tie again. “Please, you’re choking me. I didn’t shoot anyone. I never saw her. You can tell, the police have a test haven’t they?”

“Yes, a paraffin test. Would you submit to it?”

Relief flooded his face and he nodded. I let him go. If he had pulled the trigger he wouldn’t be so damn anxious. Besides, I knew for sure that he hadn’t been wearing gloves.

A car pulled up outside and Harvey admitted a short, stout man carrying the bag of his profession. They disappeared upstairs. I turned to Junior. “Get out of here, but stay where you can be reached. If you take a powder I’ll squeeze your skinny neck until you turn blue. Remember one thing, if Miss Malcom dies you’re it, see, so you better start praying.”

He shot out of the chair and half ran for the door. I heard his feet pounding down the drive. I went upstairs.

“How is she?” The doctor applied the last of the tape over the compress and turned.

“Nothing serious. Fainted from shock.” He put his instruments back in his bag and took out a notebook. Roxy stirred and woke up.

“Of course you know I’ll have to report this. The police must have a record of all gunshot wounds. Her name, please.”

Roxy watched me from the bed. I passed it to her. She murmured, “Helen Malcom.”

“Address?”

“Here.” She gave her age and the doctor noted a general description then asked me if I had found the bullet.

“Yeah, it was in the wall. A .32 lead-nose job. I’ll give it to the police.” He snapped the book shut and stuck it in his bag. “I’d like you to see the boy, too, Doctor,” I mentioned. “He was in a bad way.”

Briefly, I went over what had happened the past few days. The doctor picked his bag up and followed me inside. “I know the boy,” he said. “Too much excitement is bad for any youngster, particularly one as finely trained as he is.”

“You’ve seen him before? I thought his father was his doctor.”

“Not the boy. However I had occasion to speak to his father several times in town and he spoke rather proudly of his son.”

“I should imagine. Here he is.”

The doctor took his pulse and I winked over his shoulder. Ruston grinned back. While the doctor examined him I sat at the desk and looked at nine-by-twelve photos of popular cowboy actors Ruston had in a folder. He was a genius, but the boy kept coming out around the seams. A few of the books in the lower shelves were current Western novels and some books on American geography in the 1800s. Beside the desk was a used ten-gallon hat and lariat with the crown of the skimmer autographed by Hollywood’s foremost heroic cattle hand. I don’t know why York didn’t let his kid alone to enjoy himself the way boys should. Ruston would rather be a cowboy than a child prodigy any day, I’d bet. He saw me going over his stuff and smiled.

“Were you ever out West, Mike?” he asked.

“I took some training in the desert when I was with Uncle Whiskers.”

“Did you ever see a real cowboy?”

“Nope, but I bunked with one for six months. He used to wear high-heeled boots until the sergeant cracked down on him. Some card. Wanted to wear his hat in the shower. First thing he’d do when he’d get up in the morning was to put on his hat. He couldn’t get used to one without a six-inch brim and was forever wanting to tip his hat to the Lieutenant instead of saluting.”

Ruston chuckled. “Did he carry a six-shooter?”

“Naw, but he was a dead shot. He could pick the eyes out of a beetle at thirty yards.”

The doctor broke up our chitchat by handing the kid some pills. He filled a box with them, printed the time to take them on the side and dashed off a prescription. He handed it to me. “Have this filled. One teaspoonful every two hours for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing wrong with him except a slight nervous condition. I’ll come back tomorrow to see Miss Malcom again. If her wound starts bleeding call me at once. I gave them both a sedative so they should sleep well until morning.”

“Okay, Doctor, thanks.” I gave him over to Harvey, who ushered him to the door.

Roxy forced a smile. “Did you get them, Mike?”

“Forget about it,” I said. “How did you get in the way?”

“I heard a gun go off and turned on the light. I guess I shouldn’t have done that. I ran to the window but with the light on I couldn’t see a thing. The next thing I knew something hit me in the shoulder. I didn’t realize it was a bullet until I saw the hole in the window. That’s when I screamed,” she added sheepishly.

“I don’t blame you, I’d scream too. Did you see the flash of the gun?”

Her head shook on the pillow. “I heard it I think, but it sounded sort of far off. I never dreamed . . .”

“You weren’t hurt badly, that’s one thing.”

“Ruston, how . . .”

“Okay. You scared the hell out of him when you yelled. He’s had too much already. That set him off. He was stiff as a fence post when I went in to him.”

The sedative was beginning to take effect. Roxy’s eyes closed sleepily. I whispered to Billy, “Get me a broom handle or something long and straight, will you?”

He went out and down the corridor. While I waited I looked at the hole the bullet had made, and in my mind pictured where Roxy had stood when she was shot. Billy came in with a long brass tube.

“Couldn’t find a broom, but would this curtain rod do?”

“Fine,” I said softly. Roxy was asleep now. “Stand over here by the window.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Figure out where that shot came from.”

I had him hold the rod under his armpit and I sighted along the length of it, lining the tube up with the hole in the wall and the one in the window. This done I told him to keep it that way then threw the window up. More pieces of glass tinkled to the floor. I moved around behind him and peered down the rod.

I was looking at the base of the wall about where the two assailants had climbed the top. That put Junior out of it by a hundred feet. The picture was changing again, nothing balanced. It was like trying to make a mural with a kaleidoscope. Hell’s bells. Neither of those two had shot at me, yet that was where the bullet came from. A silencer maybe? A wild shot at someone or a shot carefully aimed. With a .32 it would take an expert to hit the window from that range much less Roxy behind it. Or was the shot actually aimed at her?

“Thanks, Billy, that’s all.”

He lowered the rod and I shut the window. I called him to one side, away from the bed. “What is it, Mike?”

“Look, I want to think. How about you staying up here in the kid’s room tonight? We’ll fix some chair cushions up on the floor.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“I think it will be best. Somebody will have to keep an eye on them in case they wake up, and Ruston has to take his medicine,” I looked at the box, “every three hours. I’ll give Harvey the prescription to be filled. Do you mind?”

“No, I think I’ll like it here better’n the room downstairs.”

“Keep the doors locked.”

“And how. I’ll push a chair up against them too.”

I laughed. “I don’t think there will be any more trouble for a while.”

His face grew serious. “You can laugh, you got a rod under your arm.”

“I’ll leave it here for you if you want.”

“Not me, Mike. One more strike and I’m out. If I get caught within ten feet of a heater they’ll toss me in the clink. I’d sooner take my chances.”

He began pulling the cushions from the chairs and I went out. Behind me the lock clicked and a chair went under the knob. Billy wasn’t kidding. Nobody was going to get in there tonight.

CHAPTER 7

Downstairs I dialed the operator and asked for the highway patrol. She connected me with headquarters and a sharp voice crackled at me. “Sergeant Price, please.”

“He’s not here right now, is there a message?”

“Yeah, this is Mike Hammer. Tell him that Miss Malcom, the York kid’s nurse, was shot through the shoulder by a .32 caliber bullet. Her condition isn’t serious and she’ll be able to answer questions in the morning. The shot was fired from somewhere on the grounds but the one who fired it escaped.”

“I got it. Anything else?”

“Yes, but I’ll give it to him in person. Have they found any trace of Grange yet?”

“They picked up her hat along the shore of the inlet. Sergeant Price told me to tell you if you called.”

“Thanks. They still looking for her?”

“A boat’s grappling the mouth of the channel right now.”

“Okay, if I get time I’ll call back later.” The cop thanked me and hung up. Harvey waited to see whether I was going out or not, and when I headed for the door got my hat.

“Will you be back tonight, sir?”

“I don’t know. Lock the door anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

I tooled my car up the drive and honked for Henry to come out and open the gates. Although there was a light on in his cottage, Henry didn’t appear. I climbed out again and walked in the place. The gatekeeper was sound asleep in his chair, a paper folded across his lap.

After I shook him and swore a little his eyes opened, but not the way a waking person’s do. They were heavy and dull, he was barely able to raise his head. The shock of seeing me there did more to put some life in him than the shaking. He blinked a few times and ran his hand over his forehead.

“I’m . . . sorry, sir. Can’t understand myself . . . lately. These awful headaches, and going to sleep like that.”

“What’s the matter with you, Henry?”

“It’s . . . nothing, sir. Perhaps it’s the aspirin.” He pointed to a bottle of common aspirin tablets on the table. I picked it up and looked at the label. A well-known brand. I looked again, then shook some out on my palm. There were no manufacturer’s initials on the tablets at all. There were supposed to be, I used enough of them myself.

“Where did you get these, Henry?”

“Mr. York gave them to me last week. I had several fierce headaches. The aspirin relieved me.”

“Did you take these the night of the kidnapping?”

His eyes drifted to mine, held. “Why, yes. Yes, I did.”

“Better lay off them. They aren’t good for you. Did you hear anything tonight?”

“No, I don’t believe I did. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Mind if I take some of these with me?” He shook his head and I pocketed a few tablets. “Stay here,” I said, “I’ll open the gates.”

Henry nodded and was asleep before I left the room. That was why the kidnapper got in so easily. That was why York left and the killer left and I left without being heard at the gate.

It was a good bet that someone substituted sleeping tablets for the aspirins. Oh, brother, the killer was getting cuter all the time.

But the pieces were coming together one by one. They didn’t fit the slots, but they were there, ready to be assembled as soon as someone said the wrong word, or made a wrong move. The puzzle was closer to the house now, but it was outside, too. Who wanted Henry to be asleep while Ruston was snatched? Who wanted it so bad that his habits were studied and sleeping pills slipped into his aspirin bottle? If someone was that thorough they could have given him something to cause the headaches to start with. And who was in league with that person on the outside?

A wrong move or a wrong word. Someone would slip sometime. Maybe they just needed a little push. I had Junior where the hair was short now, that meant I had the old lady, too. Jump the fence to the other side now. Alice. She said tsk, tsk when I told them York was dead. Sweet thing.

I had to make another phone call to trooper headquarters to collect the list of addresses from the statements. Price still hadn’t come in, but evidently he had passed the word to give me any help I needed, for there was no hesitation about handing me the information.

Alice lived west of town in a suburb called Wooster. It was little less than a crossroad off the main highway, but from the size of the mansions that dotted the estates it was a refuge of the wealthy. The town itself boasted a block of storefronts whose windows showed nothing but the best. Above each store was an apartment. The bricks were white, the metalwork bright and new. There was an aura of dignity and pomp in the way they nestled there. Alice lived above the fur shop, two stores from the end.

I parked between a new Ford and a Caddy convertible. There were no lights on in Alice’s apartment, but I didn’t doubt that she’d want to see me. I slid out and went into the tiny foyer and looked at the bell. It was hers. For a good five seconds I held my finger on it, then opened the door and went up the steps. Before I reached the top, Alice, in the last stages of closing her robe, opened the door, sending a shaft of light in my face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she exclaimed. “You certainly pick an awful time to visit your friends.”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” I grinned.

“Silly, come on in. Of course I’m glad to see you.”

“I hate to get you up like this.”

“You didn’t. I was lying in bed reading, that’s all.” She paused just inside the door. “This isn’t a professional visit, is it?”

“Hardly. I finally got sick and tired of the whole damn setup and decided to give my mind a rest.”

She shut the door. “Kiss me.”

I pecked her on the nose. “Can’t I even take my hat off?”

“Oooo,” she gasped, “the way you said that!”

I dropped my slicker and hat on a rack by the door and trailed her to the living room. “Have a drink?” she asked me.

I made with three fingers together. “So much, and ginger.”

When she went for the ice I took the place in with a sweep of my head. Swell, strictly swell. It was better than the best Park Avenue apartment I’d ever been in, even if it was above a store. The furniture cost money and the oils on the wall even more. There were books and books, first editions and costly manuscripts. York had done very well by his niece.

Alice came back with two highballs in her hand. “Take one,” she offered. I picked the big one. We toasted silently, she with the devil in her eyes, and drank.

“Good?”

I bobbed my head. “Old stuff, isn’t it?”

“Over twenty years. Uncle Rudy gave it to me.” She put her drink down and turned off the overhead lights, switching on a shaded table lamp instead. From a cabinet she selected an assortment of records and put them in the player. “Atmosphere,” she explained impishly.

I didn’t see why we needed it. When she had the lamp at her back the robe became transparent enough to create its own atmosphere. She was all woman, this one, bigger than I thought. Her carriage was seduction itself and she knew it. The needle came down and soft Oriental music filled the room. I closed my eyes and visualized women in scarlet veils dancing for the sultan. The sultan was me. Alice said something I didn’t catch and left.

When she came back she was wearing the cobwebs. Nothing else.

“You aren’t too tired tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I said.

She sat down beside me. “I think you were faking the last time, and after all my trouble.”

Her skin was soft and velvety-looking under the cobwebs, a vein in her throat pulsed steadily. I let my eyes follow the contours of her shoulders and down her body. Impertinent breasts that mocked my former hesitance, a flat stomach waiting for the touch to set off the fuse, thighs that wanted no part of shielding cloth.

I had difficulty getting it out. “I had to be tired.”

She crossed her legs, the cobwebs parted. “Or crazy,” she added.

I finished the drink off in a hurry and held out the glass for another. I needed something to steady my nerves.

Ice clinked, glass rang against glass. She measured the whiskey and poured it in. This time she pulled the coffee table over so she wouldn’t have to get up again. The record changed and the gentle strains of a violin ran through the Hungarian Rhapsody. Alice moved closer to me. I could feel the warmth of her body through my clothes. The drinks went down. When the record changed again she had her head on my shoulder.

“Have you been working hard, Mike?”

“No, just legwork.”

Her hair brushed my face; soft, lovely hair that smelled of jasmine. “Do you think they’ll find her?”

I stroked her neck, letting my fingers bite in just a little. “I think so. Sidon is too small a town to try to hide in. Did you know her well?”

“Ummm. What? Oh, no. She was very distant to all of us.”

More jasmine. She buried her face in my shoulder. “You’re a thing yourself,” I grinned. “Shouldn’t you be wearing black?”

“No. It doesn’t become me.”

I blew in her ear. “No respect for the dead.”

“Uncle never liked all those post-funeral displays anyway.”

“Well, you should do something since you were his favorite niece. He left you a nice lump of cash.”

She ran her fingers through my hair, bending my head close to hers. “Did he?” Lightly, her tongue ran over her lips, a pink, darting temptation.

“Uh-huh.” We rubbed noses, getting closer all the time. “I saw his will. He must have liked you.”

“Just you like me, Mike, that’s all I want.” Her mouth opened slightly. I couldn’t take any more. I grabbed her in my arms and crushed her lips against mine. She was a living heartbeat, an endless fire that burned hot and deep. Her arms went about me, holding tightly. Once, out of sheer passion, she bit me like a cat would bite.

She tore her mouth away and pressed it against my neck, then rubbed her shoulders from side to side against my chest until the cobwebs slipped down her arms and pinioned them there. I touched her flesh, bruised her until she moaned in painful ecstasy, demanding more. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my coat. Somehow I got it off and draped it over a chair, then she started on my tie. “So many clothes, Mike, you have so many clothes.” She kissed me again.

“Carry me inside.” I scooped her off the couch, cradling her in my arms, the cobwebs trailing beneath her. She pointed with her finger, her eyes almost closed. “In there.”

No lights. The comforter was cool and fluffy. She told me to stay there and kissed my eyes shut. I felt her leave the bed and go into the living room. The record changed and a louder piece sent notes of triumph cascading into the room. Agonizing minutes passed waiting until she returned, bearing two half-full glasses on a tray like a gorgeous slave girl. Gone now were even the cobwebs.

“To us, Mike, and this night.” We drank. She came to me with arms outstretched. The music came and went, piece after piece, but we heard nothing nor cared. Then there was no sound at all except the breathing.

It was well into morning before we stirred. Alice said no, but I had to leave. She coaxed, but now the sight of her meant less and I could refuse. I found my shoes, laced them, and tucked the covers under her chin.

“Kiss me.” She held her mouth up.

“No.”

“Just one?”

“All right, just one.” She wasn’t making it any too easy. I pushed her back against the pillows and said good night.

“You’re so ugly, Mike. So ugly you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, so are you.” I waved and left her. In the living room I picked my coat up from the floor and dusted it off. My aim was getting worse, I thought I had it on the chair.

On the way out I dropped the night latch and shut the door softly. Alice, lovely, lovely Alice. She had a body out of this world. I ran down the stairs pulling on my slicker. Outside the sheen of the rain glimmered from the streets. I gave the brim of my hat a final tug and stepped out.

There were no flashes of light, no final moments of distortion. Simply that one sickening, hollow-sounding smash on the back of the head and the sidewalk came up and hit me in the face.

I was sick. It ran down my chin and wet my shirt. The smell of it made me sicker. My head was a huge balloon that kept getting bigger and bigger until it was taut and ready to burst into a thousand fragments. Something cold and metallic jarred my face repeatedly. I was cramped, horribly cramped. Even when I tried to move I stayed cramped. Ropes bit into my wrists leaving hempen splinters imbedded under the skin, burning like darts. Whenever the car hit a bump the jack on the floor would slam into my nose.

No one else was with me back there. The empty shoulder holster bit into my side. Nice going, I thought, you walked into that with your mouth open and your eyes shut. I tried to see over the back of the seat, but I couldn’t raise myself that far. We turned off the smooth concrete of the highway and the roadway became sloshy and irregular. The jack bounced around more often. First I tried to hold it down with my forehead, but it didn’t work, then I drew back from it. That was worse. The muscles in my back ached with the torture of the rack.

I got mad as hell. Sucker. That’s what I was. Sucker. Someone was taking me for a damn newcomer at this racket. Working me over with a billy then tossing me in the back of a car. Just like the prohibition days, going for a ride. What the hell did I look like? I had been tied up before and I had been in the back of a car before, but I didn’t stay there long. After the first time I learned my lesson. Boy Scout stuff, be prepared. Some son of a bitch was going to get his brains kicked out.

The car skidded to a stop. The driver got out and opened the door. His hands went under my armpits and I was thrown into the mud. Feet straddled me, feet that merged into a dark overcoat and a masked face, and a hand holding my own gun so that I was looking down the muzzle.

“Where is it?” the guy said. His voice carried an obvious attempt at disguise.

“What are you talking about?”

“Damn you anyway, what did you do with it? Don’t try to stall me, what did you do with it? You hid it somewhere, you bastard, it wasn’t in your pocket. Start talking or I’ll shoot your head off!”

The guy was working himself up into a kill-crazy mood. “How do I know where it is if you won’t tell me what you want?” I snarled.

“All right, you bastard, get smart. You stuck your neck out once too often. I’ll show you.” He stuck the gun in his pocket and bent over, his hands fastening in my coat collar and under my arm. I didn’t help him any. I gave him damn near two hundred pounds of dead weight to drag into the trees.

Twice the guy snagged himself in the brush and half fell. He took it out on me with a slap in the head and a nasty boot in the ribs. Every once in a while he’d curse and get a better grip on my coat, muttering under his breath what was going to happen to me. Fifty yards into the woods was enough. He dropped me in a heap and dragged the rod out again, fighting for his breath. The guy knew guns. The safety was off and the rod was ready to spit.

“Say it. Say it now, damn you, or you’ll never say it. What did you do with them . . . or should I work you over first?”

“Go to hell, you pig.”

His hand went up quickly. The gun described a chopping arc toward my jaw. That was what I was waiting for. I grabbed the gun with both hands and yanked, twisting at the same time. He screamed when his shoulder jumped out of the socket, screamed again when I clubbed the edge of my palm against his neck.

Feet jabbed out and ripped into my side, he scrambled to get up. In the middle of it I lost the gun. I held on with one arm and sank my fist into him, but the power of the blow was lost in that awkward position.

But it was enough. He wrenched away, regained his feet and went scrambling through the underbrush. By the time I found the gun he was gone. Time again. If I had had only a minute more I could have chased him, but I hadn’t had time to cut my feet loose. Yeah, I’d been on the floor of a car before with my hands tied behind my back. After that first time I have always carried a safety razor blade slipped through the open seam into the double layer of cloth under my belt. It works nice, very handy. Someday I’d get tied up with my hands in front and I’d be stuck.

The knots were soft. A few minutes with them and I was on my feet. I tried to follow his tracks a few yards, but gave it up as a bad job. He had fallen into a couple of soft spots and left hunks of his clothes hanging on some tree limbs. He didn’t know where he was going and didn’t care. All he knew was that if he stopped and I caught him he’d die in that swamp as sure as he was born. It was almost funny. I turned around and waded back through the tangled underbrush, dodging snaky low-hanging branches that tried to whip my eyes out.

At least I had the car. My erstwhile friend was going to have to hoof it back to camp. I walked around the job, a late Chevy sedan. The glove compartment was empty, the interior in need of a cleaning. Wrapped around the steering post was the ownership card with the owner’s name: Mrs. Margaret Murphy, age fifty-two, address in Wooster, occupation, cook. A hell of a note, lifting some poor servant’s buggy. I started it up. It would be back in town before it was missed.

When I turned around I plowed through the ruts of a country road for five minutes before reaching the main highway. My lights hit a sign pointing north to Wooster. I must have been out some time, it was over fifteen miles to the city. Once on the concrete I stepped on the gas. More pieces of the puzzle. I had something. I felt in my pocket; the later will was still there. Then what the hell was it? What was so almighty important that I’d been taken for a ride and threatened to make me talk?

Ordinarily I’m not stupid, on the contrary, my mind can pick up threads and weave them into whole cloth, but now I felt like putting on the dunce cap and sitting in the corner.

Nuts.

Twenty minutes to nine I was on the outskirts of Wooster. I turned down the first side street I came to, parked and got out of the car after wiping off any prints I might have made. I didn’t know just how the local police operated, but I wasn’t in the mood to do any explaining. I picked up the main road again and strode uphill toward Alice’s. If she was up there was no indication of it. I recovered my hat from the foyer, cast one look up to the shuttered window and got in my own car. Things were breaking all around my head and I couldn’t make any sense out of anything. It was like taking an exam with the answer sheet in front of you and failing because you forgot your glasses.

Going back to Sidon I had time to think. No traffic, just the steady hum of the engine and the sharp whirr of the tires. I was supposed to have something. I didn’t have it. Yet certain parties were so sure I did have it they put the buzz on me. It, it, for Pete’s sake, why don’t they name the name? I had two wills and some ideas. They didn’t want the wills and they didn’t know about the ideas. Something else I might have picked up . . . or didn’t pick up.

Of course. Of all the potted, tin-headed fools, I took the cake. Junior Ghent got more than the one will. That was all he had left after the two boys got done with him. They took something else, but whatever it was Junior didn’t want me messing in his plans by telling me about it. They took it all right, but somewhere between me and the wall they dropped that important something, and figuring me to be smarter than I should have been, thought I must have found it.

I grinned at myself in the rearview mirror. I’m thick sometimes, but hit me often enough and I get the idea. I didn’t even have to worry about Junior beating me to it. He knew they had it . . . he wouldn’t plan on them dropping it. My curiosity was getting tired of thinking in terms of its. This had better be good or I was going to be pretty teed off.

Nice, sweet little case. Two hostile camps. Both fighting each other, both fighting me. In between a lot of people getting shot at and Ruston kidnapped to boot. Instead of a logical starting place it traveled in circles. I kicked the gas pedal a little harder.

Harvey was waiting with the door open when I turned up the drive. I waved him inside and followed the gravel drive to the spot where Junior had taken his shellacking. After a few false starts, I picked out the trail the two had taken across the yard and began tracking. Here and there a footprint was still visible in the soft sod, a twig broken off, flower stalks bent, a stone kicked aside. I let my eyes read over every inch of the path and six feet to the sides, too. If I knew what I was looking for it wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, it took me a good twenty minutes to reach the wall.

That was where it was. Lying face up in full view of anybody who cared to look. A glaring white patch against the shrubbery, a slightly crinkled, but still sealed envelope.

The IT.

Under my fingers I felt a handful of what felt like postcards. With a shrug I shoved the envelope unopened into my pocket. Item one. I poked around in the grass and held the shrubs aside with my feet. Nothing. I got down on the ground and looked across the grass at a low angle, hoping to catch the sunlight glinting off metal. The rough calculations I took from Roxy’s room showed this to be the point of origin of the bullet, but nowhere could I see an empty shell. Hell, it could have been a revolver, then there would be no ejected shell. Or it could have been another gun instead of York’s. Nuts there. A .32 is a defensive weapon. Anybody who wants to kill uses a .38 or better, especially at that range. I checked the distance to Roxy’s window again. Just to hit the house would mean an elevation of thirty degrees. The lad who made the window was good. Better than that, he was perfect. Only he must have fired from a hole in the ground, because there was no place he could have hidden in this area. That is, if it wasn’t one of the two who went over the wall.

I gave up and went back to the car and drove around to the front of the house.

Dutiful Harvey stared at the dirt on my clothes and said, “There’s been an accident, sir?”

“You might call it that,” I agreed pleasantly. “How is Miss Malcom?”

“Fine, sir. The doctor was here this morning and said she was not in any danger at all.”

“The boy?”

“Still quite agitated after his experience. The doctor gave him another sedative. Parks has remained with them all this while. He hasn’t set foot out of the room since you left.”

“Good. Has anyone been here at all?”

“No, sir. Sergeant Price called several times and wants you to call him back.”

“Okay, Harvey, thanks. Think you can find me something to eat? I’m starved.”

“Certainly, sir.”

I trotted upstairs and knocked on the door. Billy’s voice cautiously inquired who it was, and when I answered he pulled a chair away from the door and unlocked it.

“Hi, Billy.”

“Hello, Mike . . . what the hell happened?”

“Somebody took me for a ride.”

“Cripes, don’t be so calm about it.”

“Why not? The other guy has to walk back.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Roxy was grinning at me from the bed. “Come over and kiss me, Mike.” I gave her a playful tap on the jaw.

“You heal fast.”

“I’ll do better if you kiss me.” I did. Her mouth was a field of burning poppies.

“Okay?”

“I want more.”

“When you get better.” I squeezed her hand. Before I went into Ruston’s room I dusted myself off in front of the mirror. He had heard me come in and was all smiles.

“Hello, Mike. Can you stay here awhile this time?”

“Oh, maybe. Feeling good?”

“I feel all right, but I’ve been in bed too long. My back is tired.”

“I think you’ll be able to get up today. I’ll have Billy take you for a stroll around the house. I’d do it myself only I have some work to clean up.”

“Mike . . . how is everything coming? I mean . . .”

“Don’t think about it, Ruston.”

“That’s all I can do when I lie here awake. I keep thinking of that night, and Dad and Miss Grange. If only there was something I could do I’d feel better.”

“The best you can do is stay right here until everything’s settled.”

“I read in books . . . they were books of no account . . . but sometimes in cases like this the police used the victim as bait. That is, they exposed a person to the advantage of the criminal to see if the criminal would make another attempt. Do you think . . .”

“I think you have a lot of spunk to suggest a thing like that, but the answer is no. You aren’t being the target for another snatch, not if I can help it. There’re too many other ways. Now how about you hopping into your clothes and getting that airing.” I peeled the covers back and helped him out of bed. For a few seconds he was a bit unsteady, but he settled down with a grin and went to the closet. I called Billy in and told him what to do. Billy wasn’t too crazy about the idea, but it being daylight, and since I said that I’d stick around, he agreed.

I left the two of them there, winked at Roxy and went downstairs in time to lift a pair of sandwiches and a cup of coffee from Harvey’s tray. Grunting my thanks through a mouthful of food I went into the living room and parked in the big chair. For the first time since I had been there a fire blazed away in the fireplace. Good old Harvey. I wolfed down the first sandwich and drowned it in coffee. Only then did I take the envelope out of my pocket. The flap was pasted on crooked, so it had to be the morning dew that had held it shut. I remembered that look on Junior’s face when he had seen what was in it. I wondered if it was so good mine would look the same way.

I ran my finger under the flap and drew out six pictures.

Now I saw why Junior got so excited. Of the two women in the photos, the only clothes in evidence were shoes. And Myra Grange only had one on at that. Mostly, she wore a leer. A big juicy leer. Alice Nichols looked expectant. The pictures were pornography of the worst sort. Six of them, every one different, both parties fully recognizable, yet the views were of a candid sort, not deliberately posed. No, that wasn’t quite it, they were posed, yet unposed . . . at least Myra Grange wasn’t posing.

I had to study the shots a good ten minutes before I got the connection. What I had taken to be a border around the pictures done in the printing was really part of the shot. These pics were taken with a hidden camera, one concealed behind a dresser, with the supposed border being some books that did the concealing. A hidden camera and a time arrangement to trip it every so often.

No, Myra Grange wasn’t posing, but Alice Nichols was. She had deliberately maneuvered for position each time so Grange was sure to be in perfect focus.

How nice, Alice. How very nicely you and York framed Grange. A frame to neutralize another frame. So?

I fired up a butt and shoved the pics back in my pocket. The outer rim of the puzzle was falling into the grooves in my mind now. Grange had an old will. Why? Would York have settled his entire estate on her voluntarily? Or could he have been forced into it? If Grange had something on her boss . . . something big . . . it had to be big . . . then she could call the squeeze play, and be reasonably sure of making a touchdown, especially when York didn’t have long to go anyway. But sometime later York had found out about Grange and her habits and saw a way out. Damn, it was making sense now. He played up to Rhoda Ghent, plied her with gifts, then asked her to proposition Grange. She refused and he dropped her like a hot potato then started on Alice. York should have talked to her first. Alice had no inhibitions anyway, and a cut of York’s will meant plenty of action to her. She makes eyes at Grange, Grange makes eyes at Alice and the show is on with the lights properly fed and the camera in position. Alice hands York the negatives, York has a showdown with Grange, threatening to make the pictures public and Grange folds up, yet holds on to the old will in the hope something would happen to make York change his mind. Something like a meat cleaver perhaps? It tied in with what Roxy told me. It could even explain the big play after the pictures. Junior had found out about them somehow, possibly from his sister. If he could get the shots in a law court he could prove how Alice came by her share and get her kicked right out of the show. At least then the family might have some chance to split the quarter of the estate. One hostile camp taken care of. Alice had to be the other. She had to have the pictures before Junior could get them . . . or anybody else for that matter. What could be better than promising a future split of her quarter if they agreed to get the pictures for her? That fit, too. Except that they came too late and saw Junior, knew that he had beaten them to it, so they waylay him, take the stuff and blow. Only I happened in at the wrong time and in the excitement the package gets lost.

I dragged heavily on the cigarette and ran over it again, checking every detail. It stayed the same way. I liked it. Billy and Ruston yelled to me on their way out, but I only waved to them. I was trying to reason out what it was that Grange had on York in the beginning to start a snowball as big as this one rolling downhill.

Flames were licking the top of their sooty cavern. Dante’s own inferno, hot, roasting, destroying. It would have been so nice if I could only have known what York had hidden in the pillar of the fireplace. York’s secret hiding place, that and the chair bottom. Why two places unless he didn’t want to have all his eggs in one basket? Or was it another ease of first things first? He could have put something in the fireplace years ago and not cared to change it.

With a show of impatience I flipped the remains of the butt into the flames, then stretched my legs out toward the fireplace. Secrets, secrets, so damn many secrets. I moved my head to one side so I could see the brick posts on the end of the smoke-blackened pit. It was well concealed, that cache. Curiosity again. I got up and looked it over more closely. Not a brick out of line, not a seam visible. Unless you saw it open you would never guess it to be there.

I went over every inch of it, rapping the bricks with my bare knuckles, but unlike wood, they gave off no sound. There had to be a trip for it somewhere. I looked again where the stone joined the wall. One place shoulder-high was smudged. I pressed.

The tiny door clicked and swung open.

Nice. It was faced with whole brick that joined with a fit in a recess of the concrete that the eye couldn’t discern. To get my hand in I had to hold the door open against the force of a spring. I fished around, but felt nothing except cold masonry until I went to take my hand out. A piece of paper caught in the hinge mechanism brushed my fingers. I worked it out slowly, because at the first attempt to dislodge it, part of the paper crumbled to dust. When I let the door go it snapped shut, and I was holding a piece of an ancient newspaper.

It was brown with age, ready to fall apart at the slightest pressure. The print was faded, but legible. It bore the dateline of a New York edition, one that was on the stands October 9, fourteen years ago. What happened fourteen years ago? The rest of the paper had been stolen, this was a piece torn off when it was lifted from the well in the fireplace. A dateline, nothing but a fourteen-year-old dateline.

I’m getting old, I thought. These things ought to make an impression sooner. Fourteen years ago Ruston had been born.

CHAPTER 8

Somehow, the library had an unused look. An ageless caretaker shuffled up the aisle carrying a broom and a dustpan, looking for something to sweep. The librarian, untrue to type, was busy painting her mouth an unholy red, and never looked up until I rapped on the desk. That got me a quick smile, a fast once-over, then an even bigger smile.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Maybe. Do you keep back copies of New York papers?”

She stood up and smoothed out her dress around her hips where it didn’t need smoothing at all. “This way, please.”

I followed her at a six-foot interval, enough so I could watch her legs that so obviously wanted watching. They were pretty nice legs. I couldn’t blame her a bit for wanting to show them off. We angled around behind ceiling-high bookcases until we came to a stairwell. Legs threw a light switch and took me downstairs. A musty odor of old leather and paper hit me on the last step. Little trickles of moisture beaded the metal bins and left dark stains on the concrete walls. A hell of a place for books.

“Here they are.” She pointed to a tier of shelves, stacked with newspapers, separated by layers of cardboard. Together we located the old Globe editions then began peeling off the layers. In ten minutes we both looked like we had been playing in coal. Legs threw me a pout. “I certainly hope that whatever you’re after is worth all this trouble.”

“It is, honey,” I told her, “it is. Keep your eyes open for October 9.”

Another five minutes, then, “This it?”

I would have kissed her if she didn’t have such a dirty face. “That’s the one. Thanks.”

She handed it over. I glanced at the dateline, then at the one in my hand. They matched. We laid the paper out on a reading desk and pulled on the overhead light. I thumbed through the leaves, turning them over as I scanned each column. Legs couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please . . . what are you looking for?”

I said a nasty word and tapped the bottom of the page.

“But . . .”

“I know. It’s gone. Somebody ripped it out.”

She said the same nasty word, then asked, “What was it?”

“Beats me, honey. Got any duplicates around?”

“No, we only keep one copy. There’s rarely any call for them except from an occasional high school history student who is writing a thesis on something or other.”

“Uh-huh.” Tearing that spot out wasn’t going to do any good. There were other libraries. Somebody was trying to stall me for time. Okay, okay, I have all the time in the world. More time than you have, brother.

I helped her stack the papers back on their shelves before going upstairs. We both ducked into washrooms to get years of dust off our skin, only she beat me out. I half expected it anyway.

When we were walking toward the door I dropped a flyer. “Say, do you know Myra Grange?” Her breath caught and held. “Why . . . no. That is, isn’t she the one . . . I mean with Mr. York?”

I nodded. She had made a good job of covering up, but I didn’t miss that violent blush of emotion that surged into her cheeks at the mention of Grange’s name. So this was why the vanishing lady spent so many hours in the library. “The same,” I said. “Did she ever go down there?”

“No.” A pause. “No, I don’t think so. Oh, yes. She did once. She took the boy . . . Mr. York’s son down there, but that was when I first came here. I went with them. They looked over some old manuscripts, but that was all.”

“When was she here last?”

“Who are you?” She looked scared.

My badge was in my hand. She didn’t have to read it. All she needed was the sight of the shield to start shaking. “She was here . . . about a week ago.”

Very carefully, I looked at her. “No good. That was too long ago. Let’s put it this way. When did you see her last?” Legs got the point. She knew I knew about Myra and guessed as much about her. Another blush, only this one faded with the fear behind it.

“A . . . a week ago, I told you.” I thanked her and went out. Legs was lying through her teeth and I couldn’t blame her.

The water was starting to bubble now. It wouldn’t be long before it started to boil. Two things to do before I went to New York, one just for the pleasure of it. I made my first stop at a drugstore. A short, squat pharmacist came out from behind the glass partition and murmured his greetings. I threw the pills I had taken from Henry’s bottle on the counter in front of me.

“These were being taken for aspirin,” I said. “Can you tell me what they are?”

He looked at me and shrugged, picking up one in his fingers. He touched a cautious tongue to the white surface, then smelled it. “Not aspirin,” he told me. “Have you any idea what they might be?”

“I’d say sleeping pills. One of the barbiturates.” The druggist nodded and went back behind his glass. I waited perhaps five minutes before he came back again.

“You were right,” he said. I threw two five-dollar bills on the counter and scooped up the rest of the pills. Very snazzy, killer, you got a lot of tricks up your sleeve. A very thorough guy. It was going to be funny when I had that killer at the end of my rod. I wondered if he was thorough enough to try to get rid of me.

Back and forth, back and forth. Like a swing. From kidnapping to murder to petty conniving and back to the kidnapping again. Run, run, run. Shuttle train stuff. Too many details. They were like a shroud that the killer was trying to draw around the original motive. That, there had to be. Only it was getting lost in the mess. It could have been an accident, this eruption of pointless crimes, or they might have happened anyway, or they could have been foreseen by the killer and used to his own advantage. No, nobody could be that smart. There’s something about crime that’s like a disease. It spreads worse than the flu once it gets started. It already had a good start when Ruston was kidnapped. It seemed like that was months ago, but it wasn’t . . . just a few short days.

I reviewed every detail on my way to Wooster, but the answer always came up the same. Either I was dumb or the killer was pretty cagey. I had to find Mallory, I had to find Grange, I had to find the killer if he wasn’t one of those two. So far all I found was a play behind the curtain.

Halfway there I gave up thinking and concentrated on the road. With every mile I’d gotten madder until I was chain-smoking right through my deck of butts. Wooster was alive this time. People walked along the streets in noisy contentment, limousines blared indignantly at lesser cars in front of them, and a steady stream of traffic went in and out of the shop doors. There was plenty of room in front of Alice’s house. I parked the car and went into the foyer, remembering vividly the crack on my skull.

This time the buzz was a short one. I took the stairs fast, but she was faster. She stood in the door with a smile, ready to be kissed. I said, “Hello, Alice,” but I didn’t kiss her. Her smile broke nervously.

“What’s the matter, Mike?”

“Nothing, kid, nothing at all. Why?”

“You look displeased about something.” That was putting it mildly.

I went inside without lifting my hat. Alice went to reach for the decanter, but I stopped her by throwing the envelope on the coffee table. “You were looking for these, I think.”

“I?” She pulled one of the pictures out of the wrapper, then shoved it back hastily, her face going white. I grinned.

Then I got nasty. “In payment for last night.”

“You can go now.”

“Uh-uh. Not yet.” Her eyes followed mine to the ashtray. There were four butts there, two of them had lipstick on them and the other two weren’t my brand.

Alice tried to scream a warning, but it never got past her lips. The back of my hand caught her across the mouth and she rolled into the sofa, gasping with the sting of the blow. I turned on my heels and went to the bedroom and kicked the door open. William Graham was sitting on the edge of the bed as nice as you please smoking a cigarette. His face was scratched in a dozen places and hunks torn out of his clothes from the briars in the woods.

Every bit of color drained out of his skin. I grabbed him before he could stand up and smashed him right in the nose. Blood spurted all over my coat. His arms flailed out, trying to push me away, but I clipped him again on the nose, and again, until there was nothing but a soggy, pulpy mass of flesh to hit. Then I went to work on the rest of his puss. Slapping, punching, then a nasty cut with the side of my hand. He was limp in my grasp, his head thrown back and his eyes wide open. I let him go and he sagged into a shapeless heap on the floor. It was going to take a thousand dollars worth of surgery to make his face the same.

Alice had seen and heard. When I went into the living room she was crouched in terror behind a chair. That didn’t stop me. I yanked her out; her dress split down the middle. “Lie to me, Alice,” I warned, “and you’ll look just like him. Maybe worse. You put him up to bumping me, didn’t you?”

All she could do was nod soundlessly.

“You told him he wasn’t in the will, but if he and his brother found the pictures and gave them to you you’d cut them in for your share?”

She nodded again. I pushed her back. “York made the will,” I said. “It was his dough and I don’t care what he did with it. Take your share and go to hell with it. You probably will anyway. Tell Arthur I’ll be looking for him. When I find him he’s going to look like his brother.”

I left her looking eighty years old. William was moaning through his own blood when I went out the door. Good party. I liked it. There would be no more rides from that enemy camp. The redskins have left, vamoosed, departed.

There was only one angle to the Graham boys that I couldn’t cover. Which one of them took the shot at Roxy and why? I’ll be damned if I heard a shot. They didn’t stop long enough to say boo far less than snap off a quickie. And they certainly would have shot at me, not toward the window. I wasn’t sure of anything, but if there was money on the table I’d say that neither one had used a gun at all that night. It was details like that that creased me up. I had to make a choice one way or the other and follow it to a conclusion. All right, it was made. The Graham boys were out. Someone else fired it.

New York was a dismal sight after the country. I hadn’t thought the grass and the trees with their ugly bilious color of green could have made such an impression on me. Somehow the crowded streets and the endless babble of voices gave me a dirty taste in my mouth. I rolled into a parking lot, pocketed my ticket, then turned into a chain drugstore on the stem. My first call was back to Sidon. Harvey answered and I told him to keep the kid in the room with Roxy and Billy until I got back and take any calls that came for me. My next dime got Pat Chambers, Captain of Homicide.

“Greetings, chum,” I said, “this is Uncle Mike.”

“It’s about time you buzzed me. I was beginning to think you cooled off another citizen and were on the fly. Where are you?”

“Right off Times Square.”

“Coming down?”

“No, Pat. I have some business to attend to. Look, how about meeting me on the steps of the library. West Forty-third Street entrance. It’s important.”

“Okay. Say in about half an hour. Will that do?”

I told him fine and hung up. Pat was tops in my book. A careful, crafty cop, and all cop. He looked more like a gentleman-about-town, but there it ended. Pat had a mind like an adding machine and a talent for police work backed up by the finest department in the world. Ordinarily a city cop has no truck with a private eye, but Pat and I had been buddies a long time with one exception. It was a case of mutual respect, I guess.

At a stand-up-and-eat joint I grabbed a couple dogs and a lemonade then beat it to the library in time to see Pat step out of a prowl car. We shook hands and tossed some remarks back and forth before Pat asked, “What’s the story?”

“Let’s go inside where we can talk.”

We went through the two sets of doors and into the reading room. Holding my voice down I said, “Ever hear of Rudolph York, Pat? ”

“So?” He had.

I gave him the story in brief, adding at the end, “Now I want to see what was attached to the rest of this dateline. It’ll be here somewhere, and it’s liable to turn up something you can help me with.”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know yet, but police records go back pretty far, don’t they? What I want to know may have happened fourteen years ago. My memory isn’t that good.”

“Okay, let’s see what we can dig up.”

Instead of going through the regular library routine, Pat flashed his shield and we got an escort to where the papers were filed. The old gentleman in the faded blue serge went unerringly to the right bin, pulled out a drawer and selected the edition I wanted all on the first try. He pointed to a table and pulled out chairs for us. My hands were trembling with the excitement of it when I opened the paper.

It was there. Two columns right down the side of the page. Two columns about six-inches long with a photo of York when he was a lot younger. Fourteen years younger. A twenty-four-point heading smacked me between the eyes with its implications.FATHER ACCUSES SCIENTIST OF BABY SWITCHHerron Mallory, whose wife gave birth to a seven-pound boy that died two days later, has accused Rudolph York, renowned scientist, of switching babies. Mallory alleged that it was York’s son, not his, who died. His claim is based on the fact that he saw his own child soon after birth, and recognized it again when it was shown to York, his own having been pronounced dead earlier. Authorities denied that such a mistake could have happened. Head Nurse Rita Cambell verified their denials by assuring both York and Mallory that she had been in complete charge during the two days, and recognized both babies by sight, confirming identification by their bracelets. Mrs. York died during childbirth.

I let out a long, low whistle. The ball had moved up to midfield. Pat suggested a follow-up and we brought out the following day’s sheet. On page four was a small, one-column spread. It was stated very simply. Herron Mallory, a small-time petty thief and former bootlegger, had been persuaded to drop the charges against Rudolph York. Apparently it was suspected that he couldn’t make any headway against a solid citizen like York in the face of his previous convictions. That was where it ended. At least for the time being.

York had a damn good reason then to turn green when Mallory’s name was mentioned. Pat tapped the clipping. “What do you think?”

“It might be the real McCoy . . . then again it might be an accident. I can’t see why York would pull a stunt like that.”

“There’re possibilities here. York was no young man when his son was born. He might have wanted an heir awfully bad.”

“I thought of that, Pat, but there’s one strike against it. If York was going to pull a switch, with his knowledge of genetics he certainly would have taken one with a more favorable family history, don’t you think?”

“Yes, if he made the switch himself. But if it were left up to someone else . . . the nurse, for instance, the choice might have been pretty casual.”

“But the nurse stated . . .”

“York was very wealthy, Mike.”

“I get it. But there’s another side too. Mallory, being a cheap chiseler, might have realized the possibilities in setting up a squawk after his own child died, and picked on York. Mallory would figure York would come across with some hard cash just to keep down that kind of publicity. How does that read?”

“Clever, Mike, very clever. But which one do you believe?”

The picture of York’s face when he heard the name Mallory flashed across my mind. The terror, the stark terror; the hate. York the strong. He wouldn’t budge an inch if Mallory had simply been trying some judicious blackmail. Instead, he would have been the one to bring the matter to the police. I said: “It was a switch, Pat.”

“That puts it on Mallory.”

I nodded. “He must have waited a long time for his chance. Waited until the kid was worth his weight in gold to York and the public, then put the snatch on him. Only he underestimated the kid and bungled the job. When York went to Grange’s place, Mallory followed him, thinking that York might have figured where the kidnapping came from and split his skull.”

“Did you try to trace the cleaver, Mike?”

“No, it was the kind you could buy in any hardware store, and it was well handled, besides. A tool like that would be nearly impossible to trace. There was no sense in my fooling around with it. Price will track it down if it’s possible. Frankly, I don’t think it’ll work. What’s got me now is why someone ripped out this clipping in the Sidon library. Even as a stall it wouldn’t mean much.”

“It’s bound to have a bearing.”

“It’ll come, it’ll come. How about trying to run down Mallory for me? Think you can find anything on him?”

“We should, Mike. Let’s go down to headquarters. If he was pinched at all we’ll have a record of it.”

“Roger.” We were lucky enough to nab a cab waiting for the red light on the corner of Fifth and Forty-second. Pat gave him the downtown address and we leaned back into the cushions. Fifteen minutes later we got out in front of an old-fashioned red brick building and took the elevator to the third floor. I waited in an office until Pat returned bearing a folder under his arm. He cleared off the desk with a sweep of his hand and shook the contents out on the blotter.

The sheaf was fastened with a clip. The typewritten notation read, Herron Mallory. As dossiers go, it wasn’t thick. The first page gave Mallory’s history and record of his first booking. Age twenty in 1927; born in New York City of Irish-Russian parents. Charged with operating a vehicle without a license. That was the starter. He came up on bootlegging, petty larceny; he was suspected of participating in a hijack-killing and a holdup. Plenty of charges, but a fine list of cases suspended and a terse “not convicted” written across the bottom of the page. Mr. Mallory either had a good lawyer or friends where it counted. The last page bore his picture, a profile and front view shot of a dark fellow slightly on the thin side with eyes and mouth carrying an inbred sneer.

I held it under the light to get a better look at it, studying it from every angle, but nothing clicked.

Pat said, “Well?”

“No good, chum. Either I never saw him before or the years have changed him a lot. I don’t know the guy from Adam.”

He held out a typewritten report. One that had never gotten past a police desk. I read it over. In short, it was the charges that Mallory had wanted filed against York for kidnapping his kid. No matter who Mallory was or had been, there was a note of sincerity in that statement. There was also a handwritten note on hospital stationery from Head Nurse Rita Cambell briefly decrying the charge as absolutely false. There was no doubt about it. Rita Cambell’s note was aggressive and assuring enough to convince anyone that Mallory was all wet. Fine state of affairs. I had never participated in the mechanics of becoming a father, but I did know that the male parent was Johnny-the-Glom as far as the hospital was concerned. He saw his baby maybe once for two minutes through a tiny glass plate set in the door. Sure, it would be possible to recognize your child even in that time, but all babies do look alike in most ways. To the nurse actually in charge of the child’s entire life, however, each one has the separate identity of a person. It was unlikely that she would make a mistake . . . unless paid for it. Damn, it could happen unless you knew nurses. Doubt again. Nurses had a code of ethics as rigid as a doctor’s. Any woman who gave her life to the profession wasn’t the type that would succumb to a show of long green.

Hell, I was getting all balled up. First I was sure it was a switch, now I wasn’t so sure. Pat had seen the indecision in my face. He can figure things, too. “There it is, Mike. I can’t do anything more because it’s outside my jurisdiction, but if I can help you in any way, say the word.”

“Thanks, kid. It really doesn’t make much difference whether it was a switch or not. Someplace Mallory figures in it. Before I can go any further I’ll have to find either Mallory or Grange, but don’t ask me how. If Price turns up Grange I’ll get a chance to talk to her, but if Dilwick is the one I’ll be out in the cold.”

Pat looked sour. “Dilwick ought to be in jail.”

“Dilwick ought to be dead. He’s a bastard.”

“He’s still the law, though, and you know what that means.”

“Yeah.”

Pat started stuffing the papers back in the folder, but I stopped him. “Let me take another look at them, will you?”

“Sure.”

I rifled through them quickly, then shook my head.

“Something familiar?”

“No . . . I don’t think so. There’s something in there that’s ringing a bell, but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh, nuts, put ’em away.”

We went downstairs together and shook hands in the doorway. Pat hailed a cab and I took the next one up to Fifty-fourth and Eighth, then out over to the parking lot. The day was far from being wasted; I was getting closer to the theme of the thing. On top of everything else there was a possible baby switch. It was looking up now. Here was an underlying motive that was as deep and unending as the ocean. The groping, the fumbling after ends that led nowhere was finished. This was meat that could be eaten. But first it had to be chewed; chewed and ground up fine before it could be swallowed.

My mind was hammering itself silly. The dossier. What was in the dossier? I saw something there, but what? I went over it carefully enough; I checked everything against everything else, but what did I forget?

The hell with it. I shoved the key in the ignition and stepped on the starter.

CHAPTER 9

Going back to Sidon I held it down to a slow fifty, stopping only once for a quick bite and a tank of gas. Someday I was going to get me a decent meal. Someday. Three miles from the city I turned off the back road to a cloverleaf, then swung onto the main artery. When I reached the state police headquarters I cut across the concrete and onto the gravel.

For once Price was in when I wanted him.

So was Dilwick.

I said hello to Price and barely nodded to Dilwick.

“You lousy slob!” he muttered softly.

“Shut up, pig.”

“Maybe you both better shut up,” Price put in quietly. I threw my hat on the desk and pushed a butt between my lips. Price waited until I lit it, then jerked his thumb toward the fat cop.

“He wants words with you, Mike.”

“Let’s hear ’em,” I offered.

“Not here, wise guy. I think you’d do better at the station. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

That was a nasty dig at Price, and the sergeant took it right up. “Forget that stuff,” he barked, “while he’s here he’s under my jurisdiction. Don’t forget it.”

For a minute I thought Dilwick was going to swing and I was hoping he would. I’d love to be in a two-way scramble over that guy. The odds were too great. He looked daggers at Price. “I won’t forget it,” he repeated.

Price led off. “Dilwick says you broke into the Grange apartment and confiscated something of importance. What about it, Mike?”

I let Dilwick have a lopsided grin. “Did I?”

“You know damn well you did! You’d better . . .”

“How do you know it was important?”

“It’s gone, that’s reason enough.”

“Hell.”

“Wait a minute, Mike,” Price cut in. “What did you take?”

I saw him trying to keep his face straight. Price liked this game of baiting Dilwick.

“I could say nothing, pal, and he couldn’t prove a thing. I bet you never found any prints of mine, did you, Dilwick?” The cop’s face was getting redder. “. . . and the way you had that building bottled up nobody should have been able to get in, should they?” Dilwick would split his seams if I kept it up any longer. “Sure, I was there, so what? I found what a dozen of you missed.”

I reached in my pocket and yanked out the two wills. Dilwick reached a shaking hand for them but I passed them to Price. “This old one was in Grange’s apartment. It isn’t good because this is the later one. Maybe it had better be filed someplace.”

Dilwick was watching me closely. “Where did the second one come from?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I was too slow. The back of Dilwick’s hand nearly rocked my head off my shoulders. The arm of a chair hit my side and before I could spill over into it Dilwick had my shirt front. Price caught his hand before he could swing again.

I kicked the chair away and pulled free as Price stepped between us. “Let me go, Price!” I yelled.

“Damn it, I said to turn it off!”

Dilwick backed off reluctantly. “I’ll play that back to you, Dilwick,” I said. Nobody was pulling that trick on me and getting by with it. It’s a wonder he had the nerve to start something after that last pasting I gave him. Maybe he was hoping I’d try to use my rod . . . that would be swell. He could knock me off as nice as anything and call it police business.

“Maybe you’ll answer the next time you’re spoken to, Hammer. You’ve pulled a lot of shady deals around here lately and I’m sick of it. As for you, Price, you’re treating him like he’s carrying a badge. You’ve got me hog-tied, but that won’t last long if I want to work on it.”

The sergeant’s voice was almost a whisper. “One day you’re going to go too far. I think you know what I mean.”

Evidently Dilwick did. His lips tightened into a thin line and his eyes blazed, but he shut up just the same. “Now if you have anything to say, say it properly.”

With an obvious attempt at controlling his rage, Dilwick nodded. He turned to me again. “Where did you get the other will?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I repeated.

“You letting him get away with this, Price?”

The trooper was on the spot. “Tell him, Mike.”

“I’ll tell you, Price. He can listen in. I found it among York’s personal effects.”

For a full ten minutes I stood by while the two of them went over the contents of the wills. Price was satisfied with a cursory examination, but not so Dilwick. He read every line, then reread them. I could see the muscles of his mouth twitch as he worked the thing out in his mind. No, I was not underestimating Dilwick one bit. There wasn’t much that went on that he didn’t know about. Twice, he let his eyes slide off the paper and meet mine. It was coming. Any minute now.

Then it was here. “I could read murder into this,” he grated.

Price turned sharply. “Yes?”

“Hammer, I think I’m going to put you on the spot.”

“Swell. You’d like that. Okay, go ahead.”

“Pull up your ears and get a load of this, Price. This punk and the Nichols dame could make a nice team. Damn nice. You didn’t think I’d find out about those pictures, did you, Hammer? Well, I did. You know what it looks like to me? It looks like the Nichols babe blackmailed Grange into making York change his will. Let York see those shots and Grange’s reputation would be shot to hell, she’d be fired and lose out on the will to boot. At least if she came through on the deal, all she’d lose was the will.”

I nodded. “Pretty, but where do I come in?”

“Right now. Grange got hold of those pictures somehow. Only Nichols pulls a fast one and tells York that Grange was the one who was blackmailing her. York takes off for Grange’s apartment in a rage because he had a yen for his pretty little niece, only Grange bumps him. Then Nichols corners you and you bump Grange and get the stuff off her, and the will. Now you turn it up, Nichols comes into a wad of cash and you split it.”

It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Dilwick had squeezed a lot of straight facts out of somebody, only he was putting it together wrong. Yeah, he had gotten around, all right. He had reached a lot of people to get that much and he’d like to make it stick.

Price said, “What about it, Mike?”

I grinned. “He’s got a real sweet case there.” I looked at the cop. “How’re you going to prove it?”

“Never mind,” he snarled, “I will, I will. Maybe I ought to book you right now on what I have. It’ll hold up and Price knows it, too.”

“Uh-uh. It’ll hold up . . . for about five minutes. Did you find Grange yet?”

He said nothing.

“Nuts,” I laughed, “no corpus delicti, no Mike Hammer.”

“Wrong, Hammer. After a reasonable length of time and sufficient evidence to substantiate death, a corpse can be assumed.”

“He’s right, Mike.”

“Then he’s got to shoot holes in my alibi, Price. I have a pretty tight one.”

“Where did you go after you left Alice’s apartment the other night?” Brother, I should have guessed it. Dilwick had put the bee on the Graham kid and the bastard copped a sneak. It was ten to one he told Dilwick he hadn’t seen me.

That’s what I get for making enemies. If the Graham kid thought he could put me on the spot he’d do it. So would Alice for that matter.

But there were still angles. “Go ahead and work on my alibi, Dilwick. You know what it is. Only I’ll give you odds that I can make your witness see the light sooner than you can.”

“Not if you’re in the can.”

“First get me there. I don’t think you can. Even if you did a good lawyer could rip those phonies apart on the stand and you know it. You’re stalling, Dilwick. What’re you scared of? Me? Afraid I’ll put a crimp in your doings?”

“You’re asking for it, punk.”

Price came back into the argument. “Skip it, Dilwick. If you have the goods on him then present it through the regular channels, only don’t slip up. Let you and your gang go too far and there’ll be trouble. I’m satisfied to let Mr. Hammer operate unhampered because I’m familiar with him . . . and you, too.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Dilwick jammed his hat on and stamped out of the room. If I wanted to get anywhere I was going to have to act fast, because my fat friend wasn’t going to let any grass grow under his feet finding enough dope to toss me in the clink. When the door slammed I let Price have my biggest smile. He smiled right back.

“Where’ve you been?”

“New York. I tried to get you before I left but you weren’t around.”

“I know. We’ve had a dozen reports of Grange being seen and I’ve been running them down.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing. A lot of mistaken identities and a few cranks who wanted to see the police in action. What did you get?”

“Plenty. We’re back to the kidnapping again. This whole pot of stew started there and is going to end there. Ruston wasn’t York’s kid at all. His died in childbirth and another was switched to take its place. The father of the baby was a small-time hoodlum and tried to make a complaint but was dissuaded along the line. All very nicely covered up, but I think it’s a case of murder that’s been brewing for fourteen years.”

During the next half hour I gave him everything I knew, starting with my trip to the local library. Price was a lot like Pat. He sat there saying nothing, taking it all in and letting it digest in his mind. Occasionally he would nod, but never interrupted until I had finished.

He said: “That throws the ball to this Mallory character.”

“Roger, and the guy is completely unknown. The last time he showed up was a few days after the switch took place.”

“A man can change a lot in fourteen years.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I agreed. “The first thing we have to do is concentrate on locating Grange. Alive or dead she can bring us further up to date. She didn’t disappear for nothing.”

“All right, Mike, I’ll do my share. I still have men dragging the channel and on the dragnet. What are you going to do?”

“There are a few members of the loyal York clan that I’d like to see. In the meantime do you think you can keep Dilwick off my neck?”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise much. Unfortunately, the law is made up of words which have to be abided more by the letter than the spirit therein, so to speak. If I can sidetrack him I will, but you had better keep him under observation if you can. I don’t have to tell you what he’s up to. He’s a stinker.”

“Twice over. Okay, I’ll keep in touch with you. Thanks for the boost. The way things are I’m going to have to be sharp on my end to beat Dilwick out of putting me up at the expense of the city.”

Dusk had settled around the countryside like a gray blanket when I left headquarters. I stepped into the car and rolled out the drive to the highway. I turned toward the full glow that marked the lights of Sidon and pulled into the town at suppertime. I would have gone straight to the estate if I hadn’t passed the library, which was still lit up.

It was just an idea, but I’ve had them before and they’d paid off. I slammed the brakes on, backed up and parked in front of the building. Inside the door I noticed the girl at the desk, but she wasn’t the same one I had spoken to before. This one had legs like a bridge lamp. Thinking that perhaps Legs was in one of the reading rooms, I toured the place, but aside from an elderly gentleman, two school-teacher types and some kids, the place was empty.

Just to be sure I checked the cellar, too, but the light was off and I didn’t think she’d be down there in the dark even if Grange was with her. Not with that musty-tomb odor anyway.

The girl at the desk said, “Can I help you find something, sir?”

“Maybe you can.”

“What book was it?”

I tried to look puzzled. “That is what I forgot. The girl that was here this morning had it all picked out for me. Now I can’t find her.”

“Oh, you mean Miss Cook?”

“Yeah,” I faked, “that’s the one. Is she around now?”

This time the girl was the one to be puzzled. “No, she isn’t. She went home for lunch this afternoon and never returned. I came on duty early to replace her. We’ve tried to locate her all over town, but she seems to have dropped from sight. It’s so very strange.”

It was getting hot now, hotter than ever. The little bells were going off inside my skull. Little bells that tinkled and rang and chimed and beat themselves into shattered pieces of nothing. It was getting hotter, this broth, and I was holding onto the handle.

“This Miss Cook. Where does she live?”

“Why, two blocks down on Snyder Avenue. Shall I call her apartment again? Perhaps she’s home now.”

I didn’t think she’d have any luck, but I said, “Please do.”

She lifted the receiver and dialed a number. I heard the buzz of the bell on the other end, then the voice of the landlady answering. No, Miss Cook hadn’t come in yet. Yes, she would tell her to call as soon as she did. Yes. Yes. Good night.

“She isn’t there.”

“So I gathered. Oh, well, she’s probably had one of her boyfriends drop in on her. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Very well, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

Sorry, everybody was being sorry. Pretty soon somebody was going to be so sorry they died of it. Snyder Avenue was a quiet residential section of old brownstone houses that had undergone many a face-lifting and emerged looking the same as ever. On one corner a tiny grocery store was squeezed in between buildings. The stout man in the dirty white apron was taking in some boxes of vegetables as he prepared to close up shop. I drew abreast of him and whistled.

When he stopped I asked, “Know a Miss Cook? She’s the librarian. I forgot which house it was.”

“Yeah, sure.” He pointed down the block. “See that car sitting under the streetlight? Well the house just past it and on the other side is the one. Old Mrs. Baxter is the landlady and she don’t like noise, so you better not honk for her.”

I yelled my thanks and went up the street and parked behind the car he had indicated. Except for the light in the first floor front, the place was in darkness. I ran up the steps and looked over the doorbell. Mrs. Baxter’s name was there, along with four others, but only one bell.

I pushed it.

She must have been waiting for me to make up my mind, because she came out like a jack-in-the-box.

“Well?”

“Mrs. Baxter?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m looking for Miss Cook. They . . .”

“Who ain’t been looking for her. All day long the phone’s been driving me crazy, first one fellow then another. When she gets back here I’m going to give her a good piece of my mind.”

“May I come in, Mrs. Baxter?”

“What for? She isn’t home. If she didn’t leave all her things here I’d say she skipped out. Heaven only knows why.”

I couldn’t stand there and argue with her. My wallet slipped into my palm and I let her see the glint of the metal. Badges are wonderful things even when they don’t mean a thing. Her eyes went from my hand to my face before she moistened her lips nervously and stood aside in the doorway.

“Has . . . has there been trouble?”

“We don’t know.” I shut the door and followed her into the living room. “What time did she leave here today?”

“Right after lunch. About a quarter to one.”

“Does she always eat at home?”

“Only her lunch. She brings in things and . . . you know. At night she goes out with her boyfriends for supper.”

“Did you see her go?”

“Yes. Well, no. I didn’t see her, but I heard her upstairs and heard her come down. The way she always takes the stairs two at a time in those high heels I couldn’t very well not hear her.”

“I see. Do you mind if I take a look at her room? There’s a chance that she might be involved in a case we’re working on and we don’t want anything to happen to her.”

“Do you think . . .”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mrs. Baxter. Where’s her room?”

“Next floor in the rear. She never locks her door so you can go right in.”

I nodded and went up the stairs with the old lady’s eyes boring holes in my back. She was right about the door. It swung in when I turned the knob. I shut the door behind me and switched on the light, standing there in the middle of the room for a minute taking it all in. Just a room, a nice, neat girl’s room. Everything was in its place, nothing was disarranged. The closet was well stocked with clothes including a fairly decent mink coat inside a plastic bag. The drawers in the dresser were the same way. Tidy. Nothing gone.

Son of a bitch, she was snatched too! I slammed the drawer shut so hard a row of bottles went over. Why didn’t I pick her up sooner? She was Myra Grange’s alibi! Of course! And somebody was fighting pretty hard to keep Myra Grange’s face in the mud. She didn’t skip out on her own . . . not and leave all her clothes here. She went out that front door on her way back to work and she was picked up somewhere between here and the library. Fine, swell. I’d made a monkey of myself by letting things slide just a little longer. I wasn’t the only one who knew that she and Grange were on more than just speaking terms. That somebody was either following me around or getting there on his own hook.

A small desk and chair occupied one corner of the room beside the bed. A small letter-writing affair with a flap front was on the desk. I pulled the cover down and glanced at the papers neatly placed in the pigeonholes. Bills, receipted bills. A few notes and some letters. In the middle of the blotter a writing tablet looked at me with a blank stare.

The first three letters were from a sailor out of town. Very factual letters quite unlike a sailor. Evidently a relative. Or a sap. The next letter was the payoff. I breezed through it and felt the sweat pop out on my face. Paragraph after paragraph of lurid, torrid love . . . words of endearment . . . more love, exotic, fantastic.

Grange had signed only her initials at the bottom.

When I slid the letter back I whistled through my teeth. Grange had certainly gone whole hog with her little partner. I would have closed the desk up after rifling through the rest of the stuff if I hadn’t felt that squeegy feeling crawling around my neck. It wasn’t new. I had had it in Pat’s office.

Something I was supposed to remember. Something I was supposed to see. Damn. I went back through the stuff, but as far as I could see there wasn’t anything there that I hadn’t seen before I came into the room. Or was there?”

Roger . . . there was! It was in my hand. I was staring at Grange’s bold signature. It was the handwriting that I had recognized. The first time I had seen it was on some of her papers I had taken from that little cache in her apartment. The next time I had seen it was on the bottom of a statement certifying that Ruston was York’s son and not Mallory’s, only that time the signature read Rita Cambell.

It hit me like a pile driver, hard, crushing. It had been dangling in front of my face all this time and I hadn’t seen it. But I wasn’t alone with the knowledge, hell no. Somebody else had it too, that’s why Grange was dead or missing and Cook on the lam.

Motive, at last the motive. I stood alone in the middle of the room and spun the thing around in my mind. This was raw, bitter motive. It was motive that incited kidnapping and caused murder and this was proof of it. The switch, the payoff. York taking Grange under his wing to keep the thing quiet. Crime that touched off crime that touched off more crime like a string of firecrackers. When you put money into it the thing got bigger and more scrambled than ever.

I had gotten to the center of it. The nucleus. Right on the target were Ruston and Grange. Somebody was aiming at both of them. Winged the kid and got Grange. Mallory, but who the hell was he? Just a figure known to have existed, and without doubt still existing.

I needed bait to catch this fish, yet I couldn’t use the kid; he had seen too much already. That is, unless he was willing. I felt like a heel to put it up to him. But it was that or try to track Grange down. Senseless? I didn’t know. Maybe a dozen cops had dragged the river, and maybe the dragnet was all over the state, but maybe they were going at it the wrong way. Sure, maybe it would be best to try for Grange. She was bound to have the story if anyone had, and I wouldn’t be taking a chance with the kid’s neck either.

Mrs. Baxter was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, wringing her hands like a nervous hen. “Find anything?” she asked.

I nodded. “Evidence that she expected to come back here. She didn’t just run off.”

“Oh, dear.”

“If anyone calls, try to get their names, and keep a record of all calls. Either Sergeant Price of the state police will check on it or me personally. Under no conditions give out the information to anyone else, understand?”

She muttered her assent and nodded. I didn’t want Dilwick to pull another fasty on me. As soon as I left, all the lights on the lower floor blazed on. Mrs. Baxter was the scary type, I guess.

I swung my heap around in a U-turn, then got on the main street and stopped outside a drugstore. My dime got me police headquarters and headquarters reached Price on the radio. We had a brief chitchat through the medium of the desk cop and I told him to meet me at the post in fifteen minutes.

Price beat me there by ten feet and came over to see what was up.

“You have the pictures of Grange’s car after it went in the drink?”

“Yeah, inside, want to see them?”

“Yes.”

On the way in I told him what had happened. The first thing he did was go to the radio and put out a call on the Cook girl. I supplied the information the best I could, but my description centered mainly about her legs. They were things you couldn’t miss. For a few minutes Price disappeared into the back room and I heard him fiddling around with a filing cabinet.

He came out with a dozen good shots of the wrecked sedan. “If you don’t mind, tell me what you’re going to do with these?”

“Beats me,” I answered. “It’s just a jumping-off place. Since she’s still among the missing she can still be found. This is where she was last seen apparently.”

“There’ve been a lot of men looking for her.”

I grinned at him. “Now there’s going to be another.” Each one of the shots I went over in detail, trying to pick out the spot where it went in, and visualizing just how it turned in the air to land like it did. Price watched me closely, trying to see what I was getting at.

“Price . . .”

“Yes.”

“When you pulled the car out, was the door on the right open?”

“It was, but the seat had come loose and was jammed in the doorway. She would have had some time trying to climb out that way.”

“The other door was open too?”

His head bobbed. “The lock had snapped when the door was wrenched open, probably by the force of hitting the water, although being on the left, it could have happened when her car was forced off the road.”

“Think she might have gotten out that way?”

“Gotten out . . . or floated out?”

“Either one.”

“More like it was the other way.”

“Was the car scratched up much?”

The sergeant looked thoughtful. “Not as much as it should have been. The side was punched in from the water, and the front fender partially crumpled where it hit the bottom, but the only new marks were short ones along the bottom of the door and on the very edge of the fender, and at that we can’t be sure that they didn’t come from the riverbed.”

“I get it,” I said. “You think that she was scared off the road. I’ve seen enough women drivers to believe that, even if she was only half a dame. Why not? Another car threatening to slam into her would be reason enough to make her jump the curb. Well, it’s enough for me. If she was dead there wouldn’t be much sense keeping her body hidden, and if it weren’t hidden it would have shown up by now, so I’m assuming that Grange is still alive somewhere and if she’s alive she can be found.”

I tossed the sheaf of pictures back to Price. “Thanks, chum. No reflection on any of you, but I think you’ve been looking for Grange the wrong way. You’ve been looking for a body.”

He smiled a bit and we said good night. What had to be done had to wait until morning . . . the first thing in the morning. I tooled my car back to town and called the estate. Harvey was glad to hear from me, yes, everything was all right. Billy had been in the yard with Ruston all day and Miss Malcom had stayed in her room. The doctor had been there again and there was nothing to worry about. Ruston had been asking for me. I told Harvey to tell the kid I’d drop up as soon as I could and not to worry. My last instructions still went. Be sure the place was locked up tight, and that Billy stayed near the kid and Roxy. One thing I did make sure of. Harvey was to tell the gatekeeper what was in the bottle that he thought contained aspirin.

When I hung up I picked up another pack of butts, a clean set of underwear, shirt and socks in a dry goods store, then threw the stuff in the back of the car and drove out around town until I came to the bay. Under the light of the half-moon it was black and shimmering, an oily, snaky tongue that searched the edges of the shore with frightened, whimpering sounds. The shadows were black as pitch, not a soul was on the streets. Three-quarters of a mile down the road one lone window winked with a yellow, baleful eye.

I took advantage of the swath Grange had cut in the restraining wire and pulled up almost to the brink of the drop-off, changed my mind, pulled out and backed in, just in case I had to get out of there in a hurry. When I figured I was well set I opened my fresh deck of butts, chain-smoked four of them in utter silence, then closed up the windows to within an inch of the top, pulled my hat down over my eyes and went to sleep.

The sun was fighting back the night when I woke up. Outside the steamed-up windows a gray fog was drifting up from the waters, coiling and uncoiling until the tendrils blended into a low-hanging blanket of haze that hung four feet over the ground.

It looked cold. It was cold. I was going to be kicking myself a long time if nothing came of this. I stripped off my clothes, throwing them into the car until I was standing shivering in my underwear. Well, it was one way to get a bath, anyway. I could think of better ways.

A quick plunge. It had to be quick or I would change my mind. I swam out to the spot I had fixed in my mind; the spot where Grange’s car had landed. Then I stopped swimming. I let myself go as limp as possible, treading water just enough to keep my head above the surface. You got it. I was supposed to be playing dead, or almost dead. Half knocked out maybe. The tide was the same, I had checked on that. If this had been just another river it wouldn’t have mattered, but this part was more an inlet than anything else. It emptied and filled with the tides, having its own peculiarities and eddies. It swirled and washed around objects long sunk in the cove of the bottom. I could feel it tug at my feet, trying to drag me down with little monkey hands, gentle, tugging hands that would mean nothing to a swimmer, but could have a noticeable effect on someone half dazed.

Just a few minutes had passed and I was already out of sight of the car around the bend. Here the shores drew away as the riverbed widened until it reached the mouth of the inlet opening into the bay. I thought that I was going to keep right on drifting by, and had about made up my mind to quit all this damn foolishness when I felt the first effect of the eddy.

It was pulling me toward the north shore. A little thrill of excitement shot through me, and although I was numb I felt an emotional warmth dart into my bones. The shore was closer now. I began to spin in a slow, tight circle as something underneath me kicked up a fuss with the water. In another moment I saw what was causing the drag. A tiny U-bend in the shoreline jutted out far enough to cause a suction in the main flow and create enough disturbance to pull in anything not too far out.

Closer . . . closer . . . I reached out and got hold of some finger-thick reeds and held on, then steadied myself with one hand in the mud and clambered up on the shore. There were no tracks save mine, but then again there wouldn’t be. Behind me the muck was already filling in the holes my feet had made. I parted the reeds, picking my way through the remains of shellfish and stubble. They were tough reeds, all right. When I let them go they snapped back in place like a whip. If anyone had come out of the river it would have been here. It had to be here!

The reeds changed into scrub trees and thorny brush that clawed at my skin, raking me with their needlepoints. I used a stick as a club and beat at them, trying to hold my temper down. When they continued to eat their way into my flesh I cursed them up and down.

But the next second I took it all back. They were nice briars. Beautiful briars. The loveliest briars I had ever seen, because one of them was sporting part of a woman’s dress.

I could have kissed that torn piece of fabric. It was stained, but fresh. And nobody was going to go through those reeds and briars except the little sweetheart I was after. This time I was gentler with the bushes and crawled through them as best I could without getting myself torn apart. Then the brush gave way to grass. That green stuff felt better than a Persian rug under my sore feet. I sat down on the edge of the clearing and picked the thorns out of my skin.

Then I stood up and shoved the tail end of my T-shirt down into my shorts. Straight ahead of me was a shack. If ever there was an ideal hiding place, this was it, and as long as I was going to visit its occupant I might as well look my charming best.

I knocked, then kicked the door open. A rat scurried along the edge of the wall and shot past my feet into the light. The place was as empty as a tomb. But it had been occupied. Someone had turned the one room into a shambles. A box seat was freshly splintered into sharp fragments on the floor, and the makeshift stove in the middle of the room lay on its side. Over in the corner a bottle lay smashed in a million pieces, throwing jagged glints of light to the walls. She had been here. There was no doubt of it. Two more pieces of the same fabric I held in my hand were caught on the frayed end of the wooden table. She had put up a hell of a fight, all right, but it didn’t do her any good.

When the voice behind me said, “Hey, you!” I pivoted on my heel and my hand clawed for the gun I didn’t have. A little old guy in baggy pants was peering at me through the one lens of his glasses, wiping his nose on a dirty hunk of rag at the same time.

“That’s not healthy, Pop.”

“You one of them there college kids?” he asked.

I eased him out the door and came out beside him. “No, why?”

“Always you college kids what go around in yer shorts. Seed some uptown once.” He raised his glasses and took a good look at my face. “Say . . . you ain’t no college kid.”

“Didn’t say I was.”

“Well, what you guys joining? I seed ya swimming in the crick, just like the other one.”

I went after that other one like a bird after a bug. “What other one?” My hands were shaking like mad. It was all I could do to keep my hands off his shirt and shake the facts out of him.

“The one what come up t’other day. Maybe it was yesterday. I disremember days. What ya joining?”

“Er . . . a club. We have to swim the river then reach the house without being seen. Guess they won’t let me join now that somebody saw me. Did you see the other guy too?”

“Sure. I seed him, but I don’t say nothing. I seed lotta funny things go on and I don’t ask no questions. It’s just that this was kinda funny, that’s all.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, I couldn’t see him too good. He was big and fat. I heered him puffing plenty after he come out of the weeds. Yeah, he was a big feller. I didn’t know who he was so I went back through the woods to my boat.”

“Just the other guy, that’s all you saw?”

“Yep.”

“Nobody else?”

“Nope.”

“Anybody live in that shack?”

“Not now. Comes next month and Pee Wee’ll move in. He’s a tramp. Don’t do nothing but fish and live like a pig. He’s been living there three summers now.”

“This other one you saw, did he have a mean-looking face, sort of scowling?”

“Ummmm. Now that you mention it, he looked kinda mad. Guess that was one reason why I left.”

Dilwick. It was Dilwick. The fat slob had gotten the jump on me again. I knew he was smart . . . he had to be to get along the way he did, but I didn’t think he was that smart. Dilwick had put the puzzle together and come out on top. Dilwick had found Grange in the shack and carted her off. Then why the hell didn’t he produce her? Maybe the rest of the case stunk, but this part raised a putrid odor to high heaven. Everybody under the sun wanted in on the act, now it was Dilwick. Crime upon crime upon crime upon crime. Wasn’t it ever going to end? Okay, fat boy, start playing games with me. You think you pulled a quickie, don’t you? You think nobody knows about this . . . T.S., junior, I know about it now, and brother, I think I’m beginning to see where I’m going.

“How can I get back to the bridge without swimming, Pop?”

He pointed a gnarled finger toward the tree line. “A path runs through there. Keeps right along the bank, but stick to it and nobody’ll see ya in ya jeans. Hope they let ya join that club.”

“I think I can fix it.” I batted away the bugs that were beginning to swarm around me and took off for the path. Damn Dilwick anyway.

CHAPTER 10

Going back was rough. My feet were bleeding at the end of the first hundred yards and the blue-tailed flies were making my back a bas-relief of red lumps. Some Good Samaritan had left a dirty burlap bag that reeked of fish and glinted with dried scales in the path and I ripped it in half and wrapped the pieces over my instep and around my ankles. It wasn’t so bad after that.

By the time I reached the bridge the sun was hanging well up in the sky and a few office workers were rolling along the road on their way to town. I waited until the road was clear, then made a dash across the bridge to the car and climbed into some dry clothes. My feet were so sore I could hardly get into my shoes, but leaving the laces open helped a little. I threw the wet shorts in the back with the rest of the junk and reached for a butt. There are times when a guy wants a cigarette in the worst way, and this was one of them.

I finished two, threw the car in gear and plowed out to the concrete. Now the fun began. Me and Dilwick were going to be as inseparable as clamshells. Grange was the key to unlock this mess. Only Dilwick had Grange. Just to be certain I pulled into a dog wagon and went to the pay phone. Sergeant Price was in again. It was getting to be a habit.

I said hello, then: “Get a report on Grange yet, Sergeant?”

He replied in the negative.

“How about the city cops?”

“Nothing there either. I thought you were looking for her?”

“Yeah . . . I am. Look, do me a favor. Buzz the city bulls and see if they’ve turned up anything in the last few hours. I’ll hold on.”

“But they would have called me if . . .”

“Go on, try it anyway.”

Price picked up another phone and dialed. I heard him ask the cop on the desk the question, then he slammed the receiver down. “Not a thing, Mike.”

“Okay, that’s all I want to know.” I grinned to myself. It was more than a feud between the city and the state police; it was monkey business. But it was all right with me. In fact, I was happier about it than I should have been. I was looking forward to kicking Dilwick’s teeth right down his big fat yap.

But before I did anything I was going to get some breakfast. I went through my first order, had seconds, then went for another round. By that time the counterman was looking at the stubble of the beard on my face and wondering whether or not I was a half-starved tramp filling my belly then going to ask to work out the check.

When I threw him a ten his eyes rolled a little. If he didn’t check the serial number of that bill to see if it was stolen I didn’t know people. I collected my change and glanced at the time. Ten fifteen. Dilwick would be getting to his office about now. Swell.

This time I found a spot on the corner and pulled in behind a pickup truck. I shut off the motor then buried my nose in a magazine with one eye on the station house across the street. Dilwick came waddling up five minutes later. He disappeared inside and didn’t show his face for two hours. When he did come out he was with one of the boys that had worked over Billy that night.

The pair stepped into an official car and drove down the street, turning onto Main. I was two cars behind. A half mile down they stopped, got out and went into a saloon. I took up a position where I could cover the entrance.

That was the way the day went: from one joint to another. By five o’clock I was dying for a short beer and a sandwich, and the two decided to call it quits. Dilwick dumped his partner off in front of a modern, two-story brick building, then cut across town, beating out a red light on the way. By the time I had caught up with him he was locking the car up in front of a trim duplex. He never saw me, not because I slouched down in my seat as I shot by, but because he was waving to a blonde in the window.

I only got a glimpse of her well-rounded shoulders and ample bust, but the look on her face told me that I had might as well go home because this was going to be an all-night affair.

No sense taking any chances. I bought a container of coffee and some sandwiches in a delicatessen then circled the block until I eased into the curb across the street and fifty yards behind the police buggy. The sandwiches went in a hurry. On top of the dash I laid out my cigs and a pack of matches, then worked the seat around until I was comfortable. At nine o’clock the lights went out in the duplex. Twenty cigarettes later they were still out. I curled up on the seat and conked off.

I was getting to hate the morning. My back ached from the swim yesterday and the cramped position behind the wheel. I opened the door and stretched my legs, getting a peek at myself in the rear-vision mirror. I didn’t look pretty. Dilwick’s car was still in front of the duplex.

“Have a rough night?”

I raised my eyebrows at the milkman. He was grinning like a fool.

“See a lot of you guys around this morning. Want a bottle of milk? It’s good and cold.”

“Hell yeah, hand one over.” I fished in my pocket and threw him a half.

“Someday,” he said, “I’m going to sell sandwiches on this route. I’ll make a million.”

He walked off whistling as I yanked the stopper out and raised the bottle to my lips. It was the best drink I ever had. Just as I reached the bottom the door opened in the duplex. A face came out, peered around, then Dilwick walked out hurriedly. I threw the empty bottle to the grass beside the curb then waited until the black sedan had turned the corner before I left my position. When I reached the intersection Dilwick was two blocks ahead. Tailing him was too easy. There were no cars out that early to screen me. When he stopped at a diner I kept right on going to the station house and got my old spot back, hoping that I hadn’t made a mistake in figuring that Dilwick would come back to his castle after he had breakfast.

This time I was lucky. He drove up a half hour later.

Forcing myself to be patient was brutal. For four solid hours Dilwick went through the saloon routine solo, then he picked up his previous companion. At two in the afternoon he acquired another rummy and the circus continued. I was never far behind. Twice, I hopped out and followed them on foot, then scrambled for my heap when they came out of a joint. Six o’clock they stopped in a chop suey joint for supper and I found a chance to get a shave and watch them at the same time from a spot on the other side of the avenue. If this kept up I’d blow my top. What the hell was Dilwick doing with Grange anyway? What goes on in a town where all the cops do is tour the bars and spend their nights shacking up with blondes? If Grange was such a hot potato why wasn’t Dilwick working on her? Or did he have her stashed away somewhere . . . ? Or what could be worse, maybe I was all wet in thinking Dilwick had her in the first place.

Nuts.

I had a coffee and was two cigarettes to the good when the trio came out of the restaurant, only this time they split up in front of the door, shaking hands all around. Dilwick got in the car, changed his mind and walked down to a liquor store. When he came out with a wrapped bottle under his arm the other two were gone. Good, this was better. He slid under the wheel and pulled out. I let a convertible get between us and went after him. No blonde tonight. Dilwick went through town taking his time until he reached the highway, stopped at one of those last chance places for a beer while I watched from the spacious driveway, unwrapped his bottle before he started again and had a swig.

By the time he was on the highway it was getting dark. What a day. Five miles out of Sidon he turned right on a black macadam road that wound around the fringes of some good-sized estates and snapped on his lights. I left mine off. Wherever he was going, he wasn’t in a hurry. Apparently the road went nowhere, twisting around hills and cutting a swath through the oaks lining the roads. After a while the estates petered out and the countryside, what was visible of it, became a little wild.

Ahead of me his taillight was a red eye, one that paced itself at an even thirty-five. On either side of me were walls of Stygian blackness, and I was having all I could do to stay on the road. I had to drive with one eye on the taillight and the other on the macadam, but Dilwick was making it easy for me by taking it slow.

Too easy. I was so busy driving I didn’t see the other car slide up behind me until it was too late. They had their lights out too.

I hit the brakes as they cut across my nose, my hand fumbling for my rod. Even before I stopped the guy had leaped out of the car and was reaching through my window for me. I batted the hand away from my neck then got slammed across my eyes with a gun barrel. The door flew open. I kicked out with my feet and somebody grunted. Somehow I got the gun in my hand, but another gun lashed out of the darkness and smashed across my wrist.

Damn, I was stupid! I got mousetrapped! Somehow I kicked free of the car and swung. A formless shape in front of me cursed and grunted. Then a light hit me full in the face. I kicked it out of a hand, but the damage had been done. I couldn’t see at all. A fist caught me high on the head as a pair of arms slipped around my waist and threw me into a fender. With all my strength I jerked my head back and caught the guy’s nose. The bone splintered and hot blood gushed down my collar.

It was kick and gouge and try to get your teeth in something. The only sounds were of fists on flesh and feet on the road. Heavy breathing. I broke free for a moment, ducked, and came in punching. I doubled one up when I planted my knuckles in his belly up to the wrist. A billy swooshed in the air, missed and swooshed again. I thought my shoulder was broken. I got so damn mad I let somebody have it in the shins and he screamed in pain when I nearly busted the bone with my toe. The billy caught me in the bad shoulder again and I hit the ground, stumbling over the guy who was holding his leg. He let go long enough to try for my throat, but I brought my knee up and dug it in his groin.

All three of us were on the ground, rolling in the dirt. I felt cold steel under my hand and wrapped my fingers around a gun butt as a foot nearly ripped me in half. The guy with the billy sent one tearing into my side that took the breath out of my lungs. He tried again as I rolled and grazed me, then landed full on my gut with both his knees. Outlined against the sky I could see him straddling me, the billy raised in the air, ready to crush in my skull. Little balls of fire were popping in my brain and my breath was still a tight knot in my belly when that shot-weighted billy started to come down.

I raised the gun and shot him square in the face, blowing his brains all over the road.

But the billy was too much to stop. It was pulled off course yet it managed to knock me half senseless when it grazed my temple. Before I went completely out I heard feet pounding on the road and an engine start up. The other guy wasn’t taking any chances. He was clearing out.

I lay there under a corpse for three-quarters of an hour before I had enough strength to crawl away. On my hands and knees I reached my car and pulled myself erect. My breath came in hot, jerky gasps. I had to bend to one side to breathe at all. My face felt like a truck went over it and I was sticky with blood and guts, but I couldn’t tell how much of it was my own. From the dash I pulled a flashlight and played its beam over the body in the road. Unless he had some identifying scars, nobody would ever be able to tell who he was. Ten feet away from his feet his brainpan lay like a gooey ashtray on the road.

His pockets held over a hundred bucks in cash, a wallet with a Sidon police shield pinned to it and a greasy deck of cards. The billy was still in his hand. I found my own gun, cleaned off the one I had used and tossed it into the bushes. It didn’t matter whether they found it or not. I was going to be number-one client in a murder case.

Lousy? It was stinking. I was supposed to have been rubbed out. All very legal, of course. I was suspiciously tailing a cop down a dark road with my lights out, and when ordered to halt put up a fight and during it got myself killed. Except it didn’t happen that way. I nailed one and the other got away to tell about it. Maybe Dilwick would like it better this way.

So they caught me. They knew I was trailing them all day and laid a lot of elaborate plans to catch me in the trap. I had to get out of there before that other one got back with reinforcements. I let the body stay as it was, then crawled under the wheel and drove onto the grass, swinging around the corpse, then back on the highway. This time I used my lights and the gas pedal, hightailing it away as fast as I could hold the turns. Whenever I reached an intersection I cut off on it, hoping it wasn’t a dead end. It took me a good two hours to circle the town and come out in the general vicinity of York’s place, but I couldn’t afford using the highway.

The car was in my way now; it could be spotted too easily. If they saw me it would be shoot to kill and I didn’t have the kind of artillery necessary to fight a gang war. Dilwick would have every cop in town on the lookout, reporting the incident to Price only after they cornered me somewhere and punched me full of holes, or the death of the cop was printed in the papers.

There was only one reason for all the hoodah . . . Grange was still the key, and Dilwick knew I knew he had her.

Trusting luck that I wasn’t too far from home, I ran the car off the road between the trees, pulling as far into the bushes as I could get. Using some cut branches for camouflage I covered up the hood and any part that could be seen by casual observation from the road. When I was satisfied I stepped out and began walking in a northerly direction.

A road finally crossed the one I was on with phone wires paralleling it. A lead from a pole a hundred yards down left the main line and went into the trees. When I reached it I saw the sleepy little bungalow hidden in the shadows. If my feet on the pavement didn’t wake the occupants, my sharp rapping did.

Inside someone said, “George . . . the door.”

Bedsprings creaked and the guy mumbled something then crossed the room to the door. A light went on overhead and when the guy in the faded bathrobe took a look at me he almost choked.

“I had an accident. Do you have a phone?”

“Accident? Yeah . . . yeah. Come in.”

He gulped and, glancing at me nervously, called, “Mary. It’s a man who’s had an accident. Anything I can do for you, mister? Anybody else hurt?”

The guy back there would never feel anything again. “No, nobody else is hurt.”

“Here’s the phone.” His wife came out while I dialed Price’s number. She tried to fuss around with a wet rag, wiping the blood off my face, but I waved her off. Price wasn’t there, but I got his home number. He wasn’t there, either, he had left for headquarters. The woman was too excited. I insisted that I didn’t need a doctor, but let her go over my battered face with the rag, then dialed headquarters again.

Price was there. He nearly exploded when he heard my voice. “What the hell happened? Where are you?”

“Out of town. What are you doing up at this hour?”

“Are you kidding? A police reporter slipped me the news that a cop was killed south of town. I got the rest from Dilwick. You’re in a jam now.”

“You’re not telling me anything new,” I said. “Has he got the police combing the town for me?”

“Everyone on the force is out. I had to put you on the Teletype myself. All the roads are blocked and they have a cordon around York’s house. Are you giving yourself up?”

“Don’t be silly. I’d be sticking my head in a noose. As far as Dilwick is concerned I have to be knocked off. It’s a screw pitch, pal, and I’m in it deep, but don’t believe all you hear.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

“You’re damn right. If I hadn’t it would have been me lying back there with my head in sections all over the ground. They squeezed me good. I was tailing Dilwick, but they got wise and tailed me. Like a damn fool I let Dilwick lead me out in the sticks and they jumped me. What was I supposed to do, take it lying down? They didn’t have orders to pick me up, they were supposed to knock me off.”

“Where are you? I’ll come out and get you.”

“No dice, buddy, I have work to do.”

“You’d better give yourself up, Mike. You’ll be safer in the custody of the law.”

“Like hell. Dilwick will have me held under his jurisdiction and that’s what he wants. He’ll be able to finish the job then.”

“Just the same, Mike . . .”

“Say, whose side are you on?”

He didn’t say a word for a full minute. “I’m a policeman, Mike. I’ll have to take you in.”

He was making it hard for me. “Listen, don’t be a sap, Price, something’s come up that I have to follow.”

“What?”

I glanced at the two faces that were taking in every word. “I can’t tell you now.”

“The police can handle it.”

“In a pig’s eye. Now listen. If you want to see this case solved you’ll have to stay off my back as much as you can. I know something that only the killer knows and I have to use it while it’s hot. If you take me in it’ll be too late for both of us. You know what Dilwick and his outfit are like. So I shot one of them. That’s hardly killing a cop, is it? Then don’t get so upset about me blasting a cheap crook. Do you want to see this case wrapped up or not?”

“Of course.”

“Then keep your boys out of this. I’m not worried about the rest.”

There was another silent period while he thought it over, then he spoke. “Mike, I shouldn’t do this; it’s against all rules and regulations. But I know how things stand and I still want to be a good cop. Sometimes to do that you have to fall in line. I’ll stay off you. I don’t know how long it will be before the pressure gets put on me, but until then I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, pal. I won’t run out on you.”

“I know that.”

“Expect to hear from me every once in a while. Just keep the calls under your hat. If I need you I’ll yell for help.”

“I’ll be around, Mike. You’d better steer clear of York’s place. That place is alive with city cops.”

“Roger . . . and thanks again.”

When I cradled the phone I could see a thousand questions getting ready to come my way. The guy and his wife were all eyes and ears and couldn’t make sense out of my conversation. It had to be a good lie to be believed.

I shoved my badge under their noses. “You’ve overheard an official phone conversation,” I said brusquely. “Under no circumstances repeat any part of it. A band of thieves has been operating in this neighborhood under the guise of being policemen and we almost got them. Unfortunately one got away. There’s been difficulty getting cooperation from the local police, and we have been operating undercover. In case they show up here you saw nothing, heard nothing. Understand?”

Wide-eyed, their heads bobbed in unison and I let myself out through the door. If they believed that one they were crazy.

As soon as I was in the shadows I turned up the road toward York’s estate. Cops or no cops I had to get in there someway. From the top of a knoll I looked down the surrounding countryside. In the distance the lights of Sidon threw a glow into the sky, and here and there other lights twinkled as invisible trees flickered between us in the night breeze. But the one I was interested in was the house a bare mile off that was ablaze with lights in every window and ringed with the twin beams of headlights from the cars patroling the grounds. Occasionally one would throw a spotlight into the bushes, a bright finger of light trying to pin down a furtive figure. Me.

The hell with them. This was one time I couldn’t afford a run-in with the bulls. I cut across the fields until the dark shape of a barn loomed ahead. Behind it was a haystack. It was either one or the other. I chose the stack and crawled in. It would take longer for the cows to eat me out than it would for some up-with-the-sun farmer to spot me shacking up with bossy. Three feet into the hay I shoved an armload of the stuff into the tunnel I had made, kicked my feet around until I had a fair-sized cave and went to sleep.

The sun rose, hit its midpoint then went down before I moved. My belly was rumbling with hunger and my tongue was parched from breathing chaff. If a million ants were inside my shirt I couldn’t have felt more uncomfortable. Keeping the stack between me and the house, I crawled through the grass to the watering trough and brushed away the dirt that had settled on top of the water. If I thought that last bottle of milk was the best drink I ever had, I was wrong. When I could hold no more I splashed my face and neck, letting it soak my shirt, grinning with pleasure.

I heard the back door of the house slam and took a flying dive to the other side of the trough. Footsteps came closer, heavy, boot-shod feet. When I was getting set to make a jump I noticed that the steps were going right on by. My breath came a little easier. Sticking my head out from behind the trough I saw the broad back of my host disappearing into the barn. He was carrying a pail in either hand. That could mean he was coming over to the trough. I had it right then. Trying to step softly, I ducked into a crouch and made a dash for the darkness of the tree line.

Once there I stripped to the skin and dusted myself off with my shirt. Much better. A bath and something to eat and I would feel almost human. Sometime during the night my watch had stopped and I could only guess at the time. I put it at an arbitrary nine thirty and wound it up. Still too early. I had one cigarette left, the mashed, battered remains of a smoke. Shielding the match I fired it up and dragged it down to my fingernails. For two hours I sat on a stump watching a scud of clouds blot out the stars and feeling little crawling things climb up my pants leg.

The bugs were too much. I’d as soon run the risk of bumping into a cordon of Dilwick’s thugs. When my watch said ten after eleven I skirted the edge of the farm and got back on the road. If anyone came along I’d see them a mile away. I found my knoll again. The lights were still on in York’s house, but not in force like they had been. Only one pair of headlights peered balefully around the grounds.

An hour later I stood opposite the east wall leaning over the edge of a five-foot drainage ditch with my watch in my hands. At regular six-minute intervals the outlines of a man in a slouch hat and raincoat would drift past. When he reached the end of the wall he turned and came back. There were two of them on this side. Always, when they met at the middle of the wall, there would be some smart retort that I couldn’t catch. But their pacing was regular. Dilwick should have been in the Army. A regular beat like that was a cinch to sneak through. Once a car drove by checking up on the men and tossing a spot into the bushes, but from that angle the ditch itself was completely concealed by the foot-high weeds that grew along its lip.

It had to be quick. And noiseless.

It took the guy three minutes to reach the end of the wall, three minutes to get back to me again. Maybe three-quarters of a minute if he ran. When he passed the next time I checked my watch, keeping my eyes on the second hand. One, two, two and a half. I gripped the edge of the ditch. Ten seconds, five . . . I crouched . . . now! Vaulting the ditch I ducked across the road to the wall. Ten feet away, the tree I had chosen waved to me with leafy fingers. I jumped, grabbed the lowest limb and swung up, then picked my way up until I was even with the wall. My clothes caught on spike-like branches, ripped loose, then caught again.

Feet were swishing the grass. Feet that had a copper over them. This was the second phase. If he looked up and saw me outlined against the sky I was sunk. I palmed the .45 and threw the safety off, waiting. They came closer. I heard him singing a tuneless song under his breath, swearing at briars that bit at his ankles.

He was under the tree now, in the shadows. The singing stopped. The feet stopped. My hand tightened around the butt of the gun, aiming it where his head would be. If he saw me he was held in his tracks. I would have let one go at him if I didn’t see the flare of the match in time. When his butt was lit he breathed the smoke in deeply then continued on his rounds. I shoved the gun back and put the watch on him again until it read another three minutes.

Button your coat . . . be sure nothing was going to jingle in your pockets . . . keep your watch face blacked out . . . hold tight . . . get ready . . . and jump. For one brief moment I was airborne before my fingers felt the cold stone wall. The corner caught me in the chest and I almost fell. Somehow I kicked my feet to the top and felt broken glass cemented in the surface shatter under my heels. Whether or not anybody was under me, I had to jump, I was too much of a target there on the wall. Keeping low I stepped over the glass and dropped off.

I landed in soft turf with hardly a sound, doubled up and rolled into a thorny rosebush. The house was right in front of me now; I could pick out Roxy’s window. The pane was still shattered from the bullet that had pierced it and nicked her.

Ruston’s window was lit, too, but the shade was drawn. Behind the house the police car stopped, some loud talking ensued, then it went forward again. No chance to check schedules now. I had to hope that I wasn’t seen. Just as soon as the car passed I ran for the wall of the building, keeping in whatever cover the bushes and hedgerows afforded. It wasn’t much, but I made the house without an alarm going off. The wrist-thick vine that ran up the side wasn’t as good as a ladder, but it served the purpose. I went up it like a monkey until I was just below Roxy’s window.

I reached up for the sill, grabbed it and as I did the damn brick pulled loose and tumbled down past me, landing with a raucous clatter in the bushes below and then bounced sickeningly into other bricks with a noise as loud as thunder in my ears. I froze against the wall, heard somebody call out, then saw a bright shaft of light leap out from a spot in someone’s hand below and watched it probe the area where the brick had landed.

Whoever he was didn’t look up, not expecting anyone above him. His stupidity was making me feel a little better and I figured I had it made. I wasn’t that lucky. There was too much weight on the vine and I felt it beginning to pull loose from wherever it was anchored in the wall above my head.

I didn’t bother trying to be careful. Down below a couple of voices were going back and forth and their own sounds covered mine. I scrambled up, reached and got hold of an awning hook imbedded in the concrete of the exterior frame of the window and hung on with one hand, my knee reaching for the sill before I could pull the hook out of the wall.

Down below everybody was suddenly satisfied and the lights went out. In the darkness I heard feet taking up the vigil again. I waited a full minute, tried the window, realized that it was locked then tapped on the pane. I did it again, not a frantic tapping, but a gentle signaling that got a response I could hear right through the glass. I hoped she wouldn’t scream, but would think it out long enough to look first.

She did.

There was enough reflected light from a bed lamp to highlight my face and I heard her gasp, reach for the latch and ease the window up. I rolled over the sill, dropped to the floor and let her shut the window behind me and pull down the blind. Only then did she snap on the light.

“Mike!”

“Quiet, kid, they’re all over the place downstairs.”

“Yes, I know.” Her eyes filled up suddenly and she half ran to me, her arms folding me to her.

Behind us there was a startled little gasp. I swung, pushed Roxy away from me, then grinned. Ruston was standing there in his pajamas, his face a dead white. “Mike!” he started to say, then swayed against the doorjamb. I walked over, grabbed him and rubbed his head until he started to smile at me.

“You take it easy, little buddy . . . you’ve had it rough. How about letting me be the only casualty around here? By the way, where is Billy?”

Roxy answered. “Dilwick took him downstairs and is making him stay there.”

“Did he get rough with him?”

“No . . . Billy said he’d better lay off or he’d get a lawyer that would take care of that fat goon and Dilwick didn’t touch him. For once Billy stood up for himself.”

Ruston was shaking under my hand. His eyes would dart from the door to the window and he’d listen attentively to the heavy footsteps wandering down in the rooms below. “Mike, why did you come? I don’t want them to see you. I don’t care what you did, but you can’t let them get you.”

“I came to see you, kid.”

“Me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“I have something big to ask you.”

The two of them stared at me, wondering what could be so great as to bring me through that army of cops. Roxy, quizzically; Ruston with his eyes filled with awe. “What is it, Mike?”

“You’re pretty smart, kid, try to understand this. Something has come up, something that I didn’t expect. How would you like to point out the killer for me? Be a target. Lead the killer to you so I can get him?”

“Mike, you can’t!”

I looked at Roxy. “Why not?”

“It isn’t fair. You can’t ask him to do that!”

I slumped in a chair and rubbed my head. “Maybe you’re right. It is a lot to expect.”

Ruston was tugging at my sleeve. “I’ll do it, Mike. I’m not afraid.”

I didn’t know what to say. If I missed I’d never be able to look at myself in the face again, yet here was the kid, ready and trusting me not to miss. Roxy sank to the edge of the bed, her face pale, waiting for my answer. But I couldn’t let a killer run around loose.

“Okay, Lancelot, it’s a deal.” Roxy was hating me with her eyes. “Before we go over it, do you think you can get me something to eat?”

“Sure, Mike. I’ll get it. The policemen won’t bother me.” Ruston smiled and left. I heard him going down the stairs, then tell the cop he was hungry and so was his governess. The cop growled and let him go.

Roxy said, “You’re a louse, Mike, but I guess it has to be that way. We almost lost Ruston once, and it’s liable to happen again if somebody doesn’t think of something. Well, you did. I just hope it works, that’s all.”

“So do I, kid.”

Ruston came running up the stairs and slipped into the room, bearing a pair of enormous sandwiches. I all but snatched them out of his hand and tore into them wolfishly. Once, the cop came upstairs and prowled past the door and I almost choked. After he went by, the two of them laughed silently at me standing there with my rod in my hand and the remains of a sandwich sticking out of my mouth.

Roxy went over and pressed her ear to the door, then slowly turned the key in the lock. “I suppose you’ll leave the same way you came in, Mike, so maybe that’ll give you more time if you have to go quickly.”

“Gee, I hope nothing happens to you, Mike. I’m not afraid for myself, I’m just afraid what those policemen will do. They say you shot a cop and now you have to die.”

“Lancelot, you worry too much.”

“But even if you find out who’s been causing all the trouble the police will still be looking for you, won’t they?”