The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

The Beautiful Miss Borgia

Originally published in Dime Detective Magazine, August 1952.

At just after ten that night, Bob Myrick entered the apartment house where his sister Pam lived. As apartment houses go, it wasn’t too fine a place. A thirty-five dollar a month walk-up, with worn carpets, the odor of everybody’s cooking in the downstairs hall, and the sounds of everybody’s living all through the building. On the second floor, Bob knocked on Pam’s door. Light, eager wings beat their way up in his chest, brought a smile to his face. It had been three years — but tonight he was a free man.

He heard the crisp sounds of Pam’s footsteps. She opened the door. She drew in a breath, said, “Bob! Bob you’re home!”

“Hi, sis.” He took her chin in his hand and kissed her on the cheek. A lump came to his throat. She was small and neatly built, and the light behind her made burnished copper of her hair. But there were tired lines about her eyes, almost hidden, almost unnoticeable.

As far back as Bob could remember, Pam had meant home to him. Since their folks had died, he and Pam had been alone. Pictures of her flashed through his mind. Pam bundling him in a sweater and sending him off to school, when she was still as young as a lot of high school seniors herself. Pam standing on her feet behind a bargain basement counter to earn money for their food and clothes, to pay their rent.

And later, Pam trying to keep him out of trouble, telling the police that he was only a wild kid, getting him another chance.

Until that last time. Not another chance then. He’d drawn three years. And at that he’d been lucky. Burglary was a serious charge.

Pam closed the living room door, touched his pale, gaunt face as if assuring herself he was really there. “It’s so good to see you, Bob. But I didn’t expect...”

“Time off for good behavior. I didn’t write. I wanted to make it a surprise.”

He was aware of a sound behind him, turned. In the doorway across the room stood Steve Ivey.

For a moment there was silence. The room chilled as Bob stood and looked at Steve and Steve looked at him. Bob shifted his gaze to Pam, saw the sudden strain in her face.

“Bob,” she said, her voice sounding quick, brittle in the silent room. “Steve and I — we were just throwing a snack together in the kitchen. Come on out and join us.”

He saw that her face was white. She was pleading with her eyes. Steve Ivey dropping by. It must be a pretty regular thing, Bob thought, if it had reached the stage of whipping up snacks together in her kitchen.

Bob could see Pam’s thoughts mirrored in her eyes: Please. Bob. Steve’s a regular guy. He hated to do what he did to you. But he was a cop. He had to.

Steve advanced across the room. “Glad to see you, Bob.”

Bob turned. Steve was holding out his hand. Touching his lips with his tongue. Bob took the proffered hand, shook it. Behind him, he sensed Pam’s faint gasp of relief.

Okay, Bob thought, if this was the way it had to be. He remembered the day Pam had met Steve Ivey. She’d come to headquarters to tell them again that Bob was a good kid, only wild. Steve had been in charge of the case, and had listened to her. But the sister plea hadn’t done any good that time. Steve had Peewee Darran’s statement; Peewee had ratted to save his own rotten skin. And Steve was a cop...

A crazy start for love’s beginnings, Bob thought bleakly.

They went out to the six-by-eight kitchen. The awkward moment endured, lengthened. Bob had the feeling that he’d like to shove the walls back, that the tiny kitchen was too small to hold the three of them.

He ate scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee that Steve prepared. Bob thought: I’ve always wanted this for Pam — a good guy to love her, care for her. But Steve Ivey? He watched Steve and wondered...

The same rawhide tallness, the same rugged, almost handsome face. That was Steve. But there it was — in his gray eyes. The coldness, the implacable light of the hunter. No human feeling; a hunk of stone where his heart should be. Human beings were mere pawns on his chessboard.

A guy like that for Pam?

They talked in spurts. Steve said he’d been promoted. He was on Homicide now, and had to catch his graveyard trick at midnight tonight.

Then at last Bob was rising, saying he had to run along. Pam followed him to the living room. He spoke softly, “You’re pretty sweet on that guy back in the kitchen, sis?”

She looked at him; he watched her swallow, saw her nod.

“Sure,” he said, managing a smile. “Luck, sis, and all the happiness.”

“But, Bob, you’re staying here! I thought...”

“No, sis. Got to look for a job. A guy or two I want to see.”

“Not Peewee Darran, Bob!”

The thought of the way Darran had sold him up the river knotted Bob’s stomach muscles, but he shook his head.

“And, Bob—” Her voice caught. “Not the Gilded Lily? You’re not going back there, to her? Please, Bob, stay away from the Gilded Lily.”

“Sure, sis.” He told her good night, gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and went out.

Down on the street, Bob stood with his back against the wall of the building. Night had dissipated little of the heat of the day. Traffic crawled; a few people sat like shadows here and there on front steps. Young couples passed, arm in arm. It was life and people and free air. But Bob’s senses failed to soak it up; the droplets of sweat on his forehead were not entirely from the heat.

His lips were flat, compressed. He kept thinking, She’s still there, at the Gilded Lily. Marcillene...

He spun on his heel so fast he almost bumped in an old lady. She said, “Mercy!” righted her hat and stared after the retreating back of the hurrying, pale young man.

Bob was opening and closing his hands. He’d had three years in which to think, and a man can do a lot of thinking in three years. He knew which road he wanted to take now. But he was going back to the Gilded Lily. Tonight. Something strong was driving him. He had to go back. He had to make sure he was cured.

The Gilded Lily was composed of equal parts of smoke, lights, darkness, shadowy people, the tinkle of glasses, and the low undulating buzz and hum of conversation. Bob’s eyes swept over it all; the long, crowded bar, glasses stacked before the back-bar mirror, chrome-framed tables and chairs, leather-upholstered booths. He lifted his gaze further, to the piano dais in back. But she wasn’t there. The bench was empty, the grand piano waiting in almost total darkness for her, waiting for the touch of Marcillene’s nimble fingers.

He moved on into the bar, feeling a little limp. For three years he’d been steeling himself against her. Telling himself she was no good, reminding himself that she hadn’t been to see him once. She was Harry Heintz’ girl. But his heart still beat thick and fast, filling his chest, whenever he thought of her.

He told himself that he’d built her up in his mind, made her a dream-like image of perfection. People are like that. Anything they can’t reach out and touch always seems different. More enticing. But he was out now, a free man. He could see her as she really was, tickling a piano keyboard, singing her sultry little songs in a second-rate bar. One look, he told himself, and he’d never again doubt that he was cured...

Bob crowded his way up to the bar and ordered a whiskey and water. He had the drink halfway to his lips when a voice behind him said, “As I live and gasp for air! Are these old eyes deceiving me, or is it really Bobby Myrick?”

Bob looked in the back-bar mirror, and in the mirror his gaze met two pale gray eyes set in a fat, blubbery face under a bald brow. In the dim lighting the face was innocent, and Bob searched a moment for a name. Then it came to him. “Banklin.”

“Right, lad.” Banklin punched him on the shoulder with a fat pink hand as Bob set down his drink and turned. “Glad to see you, Bobby. I saw you when you walked in, but it took a moment for it to sink in that I was really looking at Bob Myrick.” Banklin’s hand was on his arm. “Come on over to my booth and have a drink.”

“I got a drink.”

Banklin chuckled. “Sure. Bring it on over to my booth. I’ll stand you another.”

He was through with people like Banklin, Bob thought. It had cost Pam a lot of suffering and him three years behind bars, to make him see a few things sensibly. He was cured.

But he’d never be in the Gilded Lily again. Banklin was waiting. There was no real sense in insulting Banklin. “Okay,” Bob said. “One drink.”

He followed Banklin’s waddling hulk over to a booth. The big fat man had aged. It was Banklin’s boast that he’d been the finest con man in the country in his day. He’d posed as everything from a Western cattle baron to a stock broker. But his day was past, judging from present appearances. His suit was worn, needed cleaning. The back of his shirt collar, visible to Bob over his coat, was soiled and limp. They all fall on hard times sooner or later, Bob thought grimly.

With a wheezing sigh, Banklin worked his way in the booth. Bob sat down.

“Well, Bobby, how goes it? Any plans for the future?”

“A few.”

Banklin toyed with an empty glass. Without moving his head up, he cut his gaze up to Bob’s face. His voice came, fat and soft, “Plans for Peewee Darran, Bob?”

Cold washed down Bob’s spine. His face felt stiff. Slowly he made himself relax. “I’d like to wring Darran’s scrawny neck,” he admitted, “but the answer is no. I got no plans for Darran.”

Banklin chuckled. “Sure, I know. A lot of them feel like that when they first get out of stir. They’re going to be lone wolfs, plenty tough, cutting nobody in on their plans.”

“I told you the answer is no.” Bob’s voice sounded harsh and loud in his ears. “Darran and I broke in the pawnshop that night. I wanted to — buy nice things for a dame. Darran squealed when we got caught. He drew a suspended sentence, while I went up. But I’m not dirtying my hands with Darran. He’ll get his one of these days without me.”

Banklin’s fat shoulders shook again in that knowing chuckle. “Anyway, you’d have to find him, Bobby.” He jerked his gaze up, as if trying to catch whatever might be in Bob’s eyes. “You wouldn’t have heard, but about three weeks ago an old playboy geezer named Thad Berrywinkle got killed. This Berrywinkle had dough. He liked to get around, to see every kind of joint. As near as the cops can figure, somebody got some plenty hot blackmail stuff on Berrywinkle — the old geezer was married. Berrywinkle wouldn’t pay. He was about to turn in the blackmailer, and the blackmailer killed him.”

Bob started to speak, but Banklin stopped him with a gesture of his hand. “That’s where Pee wee Darran comes in. Rumor has it that Peewee knows the identity of Berrywinkle’s murderer. Darran has dropped out of sight, and if you wanted to do anything about Peewee, Bob, you’d have to find him first. It wouldn’t be easy. Peewee is well holed up.” He drummed on the table. His voice lowered. “It might be that I could give you an address, Bobby...”

“I’m not interested.”

“Hell,” Banklin chuckled. “I know that.” Then he pulled an old envelope from his pocket, tore off a piece of it, fished for a pencil. He wrote an address, stuffed the paper in Bob’s breast pocket. “Think it over, Bobby. I’m just trying to do you a favor.”

Bob passed his hand through his hair. “Are you going to order that drink, Banklin?” He was trembling a little.

Bob sensed a movement at his elbow. He looked up. Banklin, in the act of rising, retained his half-risen position. Harry Heintz was standing beside the booth. “Hello, Bob. Come back to steal my girl?”

Heintz dropped a glance at Banklin. “Sit down. I’ll buy.” He caught a waiter’s eye, told him to set up three over here.

Then he turned back to Bob. Heintz looked the same as ever. The same pinched shoulders, blown up by the well-tailored blue suit. The same pinched face, with the eyes close together over the nose. Crinkly blond hair. The same always-present imitation gardenia in the left lapel. He said, “Be around long, Bob?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought.” He used to fawn over this punk, Bob remembered. He used to think Heintz was hot stuff because he owned the Gilded Lily and wore expensive cloths and a gardenia in his buttonhole. And Bob was just a cheap sap to him. Send the young punk out on a job, let him risk his neck. It must have afforded Heintz many a laugh. And her — Marcillene — had she laughed with him when the young punk had gone?

The drinks came. Heintz fingered his. He looked at Bob, his eyes hard. Banklin shifted uneasily.

“Just one thing, Bob,” Heintz said. “I want you to get this straight, if you’re thinking of staying around town long. Keep away from Marcillene. I didn’t like the play you made for her before you went up the river, not a damned bit, Bob. The more I thought of it, the less I liked it.”

As if the mention of Marcillene’s name had brought her back, a rippled arpeggio came from the piano. The sounds were caressing, soft, but they crashed in Bob’s cars. His throat went tight. He gripped the edge of the table.

Over the top of the booth he could see her, sitting at the piano. A golden flash of loveliness. A flowing body beneath a clinging gown, a soft face touched by soft light, a blonde vision of hair with a feathery sort of white flower in it. She was looking out at the faces turned toward her, smiling. White teeth, blood-red lips. Blood-red nails rippling over the piano keyboard. Marcillene...

“See what I mean, Bob?” Heintz’ sardonic voice reached out to him. “My girl, Bob. Everything understood?”

“An angel,” Banklin sighed. “A golden angel!”

Bob barely heard their words. He was limp inside. He felt sweat crawling down the back of his neck. He knew what had driven his steps here. It wasn’t the desire to have a last look so he could forget her forever.

He tossed off his drink.

The liquor burned going down, but not enough to suit him. Three years of hating her because he’d once worshipped her. Hating her because she was identified in his mind with Heintz, the Gilded Lily, and its kind. With Peewee and Banklin, who’d once been Peewee’s closet friend but who now was willing to sic a revenge-hungry ex-con on him. Bob had wanted to break from it all, but now he could only watch the dim blue lights of the place blur in his vision, until only her face was clear before him.

She seemed to be fading. It scared him. He felt Banklin’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Bobby...”

“I feel a little sick. A breath of air... back in a moment.”

He made it to his feet, stumbled his way out of the bar. A strange cold feeling of suspension filled his mind. He wanted to heave; and lurched toward the alley beside the Gilded Lily. He wobbled down the dark tunnel of the alley, a numb terror growing in him. He knew that one or two drinks shouldn’t have made him feel like this.

He pitched forward on his face in the middle of the alley. No sound left his lips...

The dampness on his face brought Bob back to life, but it was a slow process. Strands of gray swirled in the dense blackness; then lights sparked against his clamped eyelids. He uttered a short, soft groan, stirred. He lifted one hand to brush away the moisture. He opened his eyes. Pale light was like steel wool against his eyeballs. He was conscious, but shadows still filled his brain. He sat up; the movement caused his stomach to roll and churn. He gasped, swallowing back the sickness.

Exterior objects began to come in focus. Pain crashed through his head. He was on the hard, bare floor of a room. His eyes picked out cheap, junky furnishings, dirty walls, a wan light bulb glowing in a cheap lamp on a rickety table. A movement beside him caught his eye. He jerked his gaze around. It was a dingy curtain, billowing out from the open window. He heard the faint patter of rain outside. The heat of the night had brought a shower. Droplets of moisture blowing through the open window had awakened him.

He remembered passing out in the alley. Now he was waking in a strange room. It didn’t make sense.

Drawing breath hard, he stumbled to his feet. His toe met an object, sent it clattering. Bob looked down. It took a moment for the fact to sink in that he’d kicked a knife. A long, keen and very bloody knife...

His throat constricted. He picked the knife up, dropped it as he saw his hand. His fingers were encrusted with splotches of dried blood.

His breathing shattered against the dirty walls of the room. He stood without moving an instant, afraid to turn toward the bed, his flesh prickling with horror as he guessed what he would see lying there.

His guess wasn’t wrong. In death, Peewee Darran looked smaller than ever. His thin, stooped body was in a twisted, queer huddle. The grimy sheets were mussed on the swaybacked bed, as if Peewee had struggled. His mouth was open, as if he’d tried to cry out, only to have the sound stopped by the knife that had razored its way across his plucked-chicken neck.

Bob clutched the footboard of the bed and stared at Peewee Darran. He’d hated Darran. Once he’d wanted to kill him. He’d got over that. Three years to think, to come to his senses. But...

Could he have regained partial consciousness there in the alley? Could the kill urge have come upon him, in his befuddled state, and crazed him momentarily? The address that Banklin had given him — had it led him to Darran... a knife... a struggle?

“Hell, no!” Bob choked. “I’m not going to think that. I wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t have!”

His gaze had come to rest on Darran’s left hand without, at first, noticing anything unusual. Then he realized that Darran’s hand was clenched, pulled up in an awkward position. He moved around the bed, took the chilling hand, pried the fingers open.

At first he thought the hand was empty. Then, almost invisible against the dead flesh, he saw the minute white piece of lint. Part of a feather? It had stuck to Darran’s sweaty flesh, but it could have easily been a piece of down that had worked its way partially from the lumpy pillow. In a last death spasm, Peewee must have clutched at the neatest thing, his pillow — jerking his hand away, still clenched, as death swooped over him.

Bob shook his head. He tried to think. His mind was muddled, the thoughts coming through like car lights stabbing heavy fog.

He looked toward the window. There might be a fire escape, a way that he could get out of here without being seen.

He was halfway to the window when the door behind him slammed open. It brought Bob around in a half crouch. Steve Ivey was standing in the doorway.

A dim light in the deserted hallway silhouetted him. Like a jungle cat, ready to pounce upon its prey, Steve moved forward. The light glinted dully on the gun in his hand.

“I’d stand still if I were you, Bob.” Steve heeled the door closed.

Bob’s mouth set in bitter lines. He looked from Steve to Darran’s body, back to Steve. “I guess you love this, don’t you?”

Steve ignored the question. “Why’d you do it, Bob? Damn you, don’t you know what this will do to her — to Pam? You think it’s worth all that just to get your revenge on Darran?”

“Talk on, copper. You’ll never believe I didn’t do it.”

He watched Steve’s face, the motions of his body. Neat tailored suit; neat, almost handsome face. Neat, inhuman efficiency.

A dumb punk found with a corpse. Caught red-handed. Another conviction for the fair-haired smart boy, the homicide cop. Steve might experience a momentary pang that it was his girl’s brother, but he’d flick it aside. Duty, he’d say. And at headquarters they’d pat him on the back, offer their sympathy, make a legend of him, and Steve would go on until maybe one day he’d become the commissioner.

Bob stood with a great empty space inside of him. He forced calmness into his voice. “How’d you get here, Ivey?”

“A phone call. Another tenant here in the house.”

Bob took a step toward him. “And where’s the tenant? It doesn’t strike you as funny, that kind of call, with the tenant not sticking around to see the excitement when you got here?”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Bob,” Steve said coldly. “Nobody likes to get drawn in murder, even as a material witness. A guy living in a neighborhood like this one wouldn’t stick around after reporting a murder.”

Bob took another step. His brow was hot and damp. A one-time loser already, with plenty of motive. Why look further? Why be silly and complicate a perfectly obvious killing?

He shivered a little, his mouth opening and closing. Steve laughed, smug and sure. “Give me your hands, Bob.”

Bob set his teeth against the cocksureness of the laugh, held out his left hand. Steve Ivey reached toward his back pocket for handcuffs.

Bob moved then, going in fast. His left hand grabbed the gun, swung it up. His right fist smashed Steve in the face. Steve cursed, held to the gun, brought his other hand up in a short, hard jab.

Bob took the blow on his mouth, tasting blood, seeing the swift flash of fire across his brain. He hit Steve again, and again.

He saw Steve’s head snap back, his eyes roll up in his head. Steve began to buckle at the knees, and Bob stepped back. He watched Steve crumple to the floor.

Breathing hard, Bob scooped up Steve’s gun, crossed the room, cracked the door. The hallway was still deserted. With a sob of relief Bob closed the door on Steve’s prone form and Darran’s corpse. He moved quickly toward the stairway that would lead him down to the black, rainy night outside.

The rain had slackened, but the street ahead of the cruising taxicab was still slick with moisture. The neighborhood was one of cheap shops, of old brick buildings with black, vacant-looking windows. Here and there one of the old buildings had been converted into an apartment building.

Before one of these, Bob’s cab pulled to a stop. He paid the driver, tipped sparingly. The driver muttered, pulled the hack away.

Bob stood on the sidewalk a moment. Banklin wasn’t living well, judging from the looks of his apartment. It had taken Bob an hour and a visit to two of Banklin’s old haunts to get this address.

He mounted the steps, entered the building. The vestibule was dimly lighted, thick with old mustiness. Stairs creaked here and there under his feet as he climbed to the second floor.

With the passing of the light shower, the heat had returned to the night. Sweat beaded on Bob’s forehead. Somewhere down the hall a man was snoring loudly.

Bob stopped before the doorway of Banklin’s room. A thread of light showed under the door. He put his ear against the panel, heard nothing at first. Then he heard Banklin’s heavy sigh and the clink of a glass against the neck of a bottle. Bob waited, but there was only that one clink, indicating that Banklin was probably alone.

Bob gripped the doorknob in his sweaty hand, turned it. He jammed the door wide, stepped into the room.

He got a flashing impression of a worn rug, a lumpy couch, a cheap radio almost buried in a mound of racing forms on a table. On the walls were photographs of prizefighters, ball players, night club entertainers: mocking, dusty reminders of Banklin’s better days.

Banklin was in a threadbare easy chair, his shirt open at the throat, a glass in his hand, a bottle beside the chair on the floor. He heaved himself up at the sight of Bob, his eyes bulging. Breath rushed out of him as he stared at the gun Bob had taken from Steve Ivey. He slipped back in his chair.

“Well...” Banklin wheezed, trying to gain a little composure. “I see you’re up late tonight, Bob. Have a drink?” He eyed the gun.

Bob advanced in the room. Banklin sat poised, his hands trembling faintly. He tossed off his drink, eased his bulk up out of his chair.

“Bobby pal, why the gun?”

“To make sure a little talk we’re going to have goes perfectly straight. I’ve got no time to beat around the bush. I saw Darran. He’s dead.”

Banklin’s face went slack; his jowls quivered. “Dead? Hell, Bobby, I never dreamed... I just thought you’d rough him up... Bobby, you’d better scram out of town fast!”

“Why?” Bob said harshly. “I didn’t kill him. I think you did, Banklin!”

Stark surprise whitened Banklin’s face. “What gave you that kind of idea, Bobby?”

“I think you were in that blackmail mess. Old Thad Berrywinkle, remember? You were shaking Berrywinkle down. He kicked. You’re the one who killed him. But Darran knew. You located him, but were trying to figure a way to kill him with safety. Then I walked into the picture. The perfect fall guy. The perfect way to kill Darran and never have the police even suspect you, because they’d already have a sucker to burn!”

Banklin’s mouth worked. “No, Bobby. You got it wrong. It wasn’t me behind the Berrywinkle killing. You know me better than that! I wouldn’t touch that kind of stuff. Not murder!”

Banklin backed up until he was against the wall. He could retreat no further. He was staring straight in Bob’s eyes. What he read there made him shudder. He sobbed out words:

“Bob, no — not the gun! You got to listen to me!”

“I will. For about ten seconds.”

Banklin was all blubber, slumped against the wall, his face oily-slick with sweat.

“Bob, here it is straight — you got to believe me! Darran had a little money stashed away, see? But he couldn’t get to it. He knew that the Berrywinkle killer was after him. He was afraid the killer might know about his nest egg, be watching it. So Peewee made a contact — with me. He told me where the dough was so I could get it to him. He had to have it. It was his only way of getting away, out of the killer’s reach.”

Hard lines grew in Bob’s face as he looked at Banklin. “I get it,” he said flatly. “You’re a big mass of slime, Banklin. Somebody ought to step on you and turn their heel hard. You were Darran’s closest friend. You got his dough. But you didn’t deliver it. You pulled about the lousiest double cross I’ve ever heard of. Then I walked into the picture and you sent me to Darran’s, hoping I’d either kill him or scare him so bad he’d he willing to swim the river to get out of town!”

Banklin stared at the floor, his face working. “I had to do it, Bob. You don’t know how rotten my luck has been. When I got my hands on that money, I couldn’t just hand it to Peewee.”

“Okay,” Bob said. “Maybe you’re telling the truth. It’s just the kind of lousy trick you’d pull. But that still leaves the fact that somebody carried me to Darran’s and left me there with his corpse. If you know anything else, talk, fat man, and talk fast.”

“Sure, Bobby! Look, I’m your pal. Soon’s you staggered out of the Gilded Lily, Harry Heintz left the booth. I sat there wondering what I could do for you, Bobby. I swear it! Then the girl, Marcillene, came up to the booth — asked if that hadn’t been you.”

“Marcillene?” Bob whispered.

“Sure, Bobby. She went back to the piano. But she only played one more tune. When I got up to leave, I noticed the piano bench was empty.”

“And Harry Heintz?”

“He was already gone, Bobby. I don’t know where the two of them went. It’s the truth, so help me!”

Bob said slowly, “You’re going to get a chance to prove it. Come on.”

“Sure, Bobby, sure. Where we going?”

“To see Harry Heintz. Is he still living at the same place?”

Banklin nodded jerkily. “In the Ardmore. The same swell apartment. I...” He hesitated. “One more drink. Bob? Time for that?”

“Sure, take your drink. You’re going to need it. I’m going to have the gun in my pocket, my fingers on the trigger. One phony move, Banklin, and you’ll do your drinking in hell. I already got one corpse around my neck. A big, fat, pink one extra wouldn’t matter a damn.”

“No,” Banklin squeezed out a laugh. “It wouldn’t, would it? But no phony moves, Bob, I swear it!”

Bob tossed the bottle to the thoroughly cowed man, waited for Banklin to pour his drink.

The Ardmore Apartments comprised the upper five stories of a six-story arcade building. The arcade on street level and mezzanine was given over to a drug store, cafeteria, hobby shop, a few suites of offices, and small, expensive dress shops.

The building was quiet, filled with the hush of darkness before the dawn as Bob and Banklin walked down the fourth floor corridor. Bob punched the fat man with the gun. “You know what to do, Banklin.” Banklin mopped his face and nodded. The terror of the gun so close to him was greater than the terror of leading Bob to Heintz’ apartment. Banklin pressed the buzzer beside Harry Heintz’ door. Seconds walked away on fast, pricking feet. Banklin buzzed again, and there were muffled footsteps in the apartment.

“Heintz?” Banklin said against the closed door. “Let me in. It’s Banklin. I got something you’ll want to know.”

Bob was over to one side, with Banklin’s bulk covering him. The knob clicked. The door opened a crack. Bob couldn’t see Harry Heintz’ face, but it was Harry’s voice. “This is a hell of time to be calling,” Heintz said to Banklin.

“I know, but this couldn’t keep. Let me in, Harry. It’s about Peewee Darran!”

A night chain rattled. The door swung back. Bob gave Banklin a heave that slammed him into Heintz and sent the two of them staggering. Bob stepped into the apartment quickly, closed the door. He leaned back against it, watching Harry’s face whiten when he saw the gun in Bob’s hand.

The living room was long and spacious, with wide windows at the far end. The carpet was pale tan and deep. Massive couches and chairs gave the plate a feeling of indolent comfort.

Heintz got a grip on himself. He straightened his coat, touched the knot of his tie, brushed his hand back over his blond hair. He looked from the gun in Bob’s hand to Banklin, eyes glittering.

“He made me do it!” Banklin said, almost in a sob. He sank in a chair, buried his shaking face in his palms.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Heintz turned his back on the gun, walked across the room, picked up a whiskey decanter from a scroll-legged table. “You got the gun, Bob. I hope you got some idea of what you’re doing.”

Before Bob could speak, a door opened across the room. Marcillene saw him, then the gun, and stood like a frozen bird.

He looked at her. She was wearing the same gown she’d worn earlier at the Gilded Lily. It hadn’t been long since the Gilded Lily had closed for the night, since she’d got off work. And there in her hair, the same feathery flower she’d worn at the piano. Bob’s mind received the crashing picture of a dead man’s hand. Pewee Darran clutching a tiny white piece of down, a feather that had stuck to his hand when he died...

Angel-face, Bob thought. Through long years of separate, suffering days and nights she hadn’t come once to see him. She’d never been Bob Myrick’s girl; she wouldn’t belong to a sucker.

She was moving toward him, trying to smile over her awareness of the gun.

“Stop, Marcillene!” he said harshly. “I mean it.”

“But, Bob...”

“I said, stand back! I just realized something, Marcillene. There has to be a woman in this. A woman, first, to get the goods to blackmail the old geezer, Berrywinkle. But why not a woman all the way? A woman to kill him, to track down Darran, and kill Darran too to silence him? It would be easy for her, with a hired hood, maybe, to lug the unconscious patsy to Darran’s so the killing wouldn’t come home to roost.”

“Darran,” she breathed. “Darran dead? I didn’t know!”

“Let’s can the act. In Darran’s hand was a tiny white feather. Did he snatch at the feathery flower in your hair? Did you take the flower from his dying hand, fluff it out, put it back in your hair?”

His voice snapped off. Heintz had moved over to the writing desk. His hand was near the desk drawer. “Hold it, Harry!” Bob said.

They stood that way during a frozen moment. Then Bob said:

“Your lapel, Harry. No imitation gardenia in your buttonhole right now. I’ve never seen you without it before. It’s always been as much a part of you as a toupee is to some men. So the bit of down in Darran’s palm didn’t come from the flower in a girl’s hair — but from the imitation gardenia you were wearing when you killed him! Darran snatched the flower, struggling with you, but you got the flower back. But not all of it, Harry. You left just enough.”

He jerked the gun up, but Heintz was moving fast, reading Bob’s face. Bob fired, missed. Heintz threw himself down and sideways with blinding speed. He scooped the gun from the desk drawer. He squeezed the trigger.

Banklin flung himself on the floor, rolling for the shelter of a chair. Marcillene screamed, dropped beside Banklin.

Bob fired again. Sweat was needling down into his eyes. He heard the crash of Heintz’s gun, felt the bite of the bullet in his shoulder. The impact knocked a cough from Bob. He was spun back, and the gun he’d taken from Steve Ivey slipped from his fingers.

In a haze, he saw Heintz’s gloating face. Heintz was bringing his gun up, taking his time... it was all so obvious now. Heintz behind the Berrywinkle mess, having to kill; Heintz, with his connections, inevitably locating Darran; Heintz finding a prime fall guy when Bob walked into the Gilded Lily, and making Bob drink a drugged drink and sleep for awhile with Darran’s corpse. And now Heintz was ready to kill again.

But there’d had to be a woman from the beginning. Marcillene. She’d got the blackmail goods on old Berrywinkle. She’d played her string with Heintz right on through the murder.

For a moment, the thought of her, the memory of her lips, drove unbearable pain through Bob. Then the pain began to die; for the gun before him was very real and she was pulling herself from the carpet, crawling toward Heintz.

The gun crashed. But the sound came from behind Bob, not from Heintz’ gun. Heintz jerked up on his toes, blood splashing down the side of his neck. His gun slipped from his grip, and he began a crazy, twisting fall to the carpet.

Bob turned. Steve Ivey was standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand. Big, competent, a hunter of men.

He pushed in the room. “You okay, Bob?”

“I’m all right,” Bob said. “He barked my shoulder just enough to knock the gun out of my hand. But how did you—?”

“I figured you’d come here,” Steve said, leaning over Heintz to watch him draw ragged breaths. “I was working on the Berrywinkle killing. Everything I’d dug up so far pointed to Heintz — old Berrywinkle’s keeping company with Marcillene before his death, Berrywinkle’s movements the day of his death... and of course Darran. We had a good idea that Darran was holing up because he’d been on the scene of the killing and knew who did it. So tonight, when I discovered Darran’s murder and let you get away, I’d already mentally tagged Heintz for it.”

“You let me get away?”

“I had the gun,” Steve said simply. “I could have blown your brain out.”

“But why? Why let me get away?”

“I knew you hadn’t killed Darran, Bob. No killer is going to hang around a murder long enough for the blood to dry on his hands. But if I’d hauled you in, I’d never have been able to tell that to the Inspector or the D. A. with the kind of case they’d have had against you. If I’d pulled you in, you’d have been their man. Another assignment for me, and I... Oh, hell, Bob, I know you think I’m nothing more than a guy out hunting with a gun and a badge. Maybe I am — but I always like to hunt the right man.”

Bob swallowed. Coldness in Steve’s eyes? Sure, for the guys who deserve it. But that didn’t mean it was part of the man. Pam had been right about Steve all the time...

A hand touched him. Bob turned. Marcillene was standing close beside him, looking up into his face, smiling.

“Bob,” she said. “There’s so much I’ve got to explain...”

It was there. A golden image of beauty. His for the taking. Heintz was down and he was top dog now. But Bob thought: I was right in the middle of it when Berrywinkle’s killer was brought down. I’ll be a stellar witness at the trial. Maybe she’s thinking that I can lie enough to save her lovely neck.

Her beauty shook him. He couldn’t deny that. But time would lessen the pain until it became only a vague memory. Time can change a man. Three years behind walls had shown him that, Bob thought.

Bob turned away from her and bent over Heintz. Heintz was groaning. The wound in the fleshy side of his neck was not too serious.

“Heintz,” Bob said, “can you hear me? She was your girl. You said it, remember? She’s been with you all the way, an accessory before and after the fact. But maybe, just maybe, you can tell it to them so she’ll get off a little lighter than you. You’d hate to sit in the hot seat and know that all this beauty is going to be the next customer, wouldn’t you, Heintz?”

Bob turned then and walked from the apartment. Steve didn’t try to stop him. As he pushed through the aroused, excited crowd outside the apartment, toward the clean outside air of the early morning, Bob knew that Steve understood.

It had been a tough road. But Bob had reached its ending. He was home at last.