This Way for a Shroud

I

MOE GLEB flicked a fried egg on to his plate, added two thick rashers of ham, dropped the hissing fry-pan into the sink and carried the plate to the table.

He was a thickset, undersized youth with a mop of sandy-coloured hair. His small, heart-shaped face was as white as fresh mutton fat; his small, deep-set eyes, his pinched thin mouth were hard and vicious. He looked what he was: a young hoodlum fighting with no holds barred to get into the money, as dangerous and as savage as a treed wild cat.

He sat down at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and began to eat ravenously.

From the window, Peter Weiner watched him.

“For cryin’ out loud!” Moe snarled, looking up suddenly. “Wadjer starin’ at? Ain’t yuh seen a guy eat before?”

“I was admiring your appetite,” Pete said quietly. “You’ve eaten twelve eggs and two pounds of ham since nine o’clock last night.”

“So wad? I gotta do somethin’ while we wait, ain’t I? Why the hell don’t yuh eat?”

Pete shrugged.

“I guess I’m not hungry. How much longer do you think we’ve got to wait like this?”

Moe eyed him; a sudden shrewd expression crossed his face.

This guy was queer, he was thinking. Not that he could blame him. If he had that port wine stain spread over his puss like Pete had, he’d be queer himself.

“Until that bum Louis sez we can go.” He shovelled ham into his mouth, chewed for a moment, reached for his coffee and took a long drink. “Wad gets up my bugle is why the hell yuh should be the guy to hit the frill. Why pick on yuh? Wad’s the matter wid me? I’ve hit scores of guys. Yuh ain’t hit any yet, have yuh?”

Pete shook his head.

“I’ve got to start some time.” He leaned forward and picked up Frances Coleman’s photograph and stared at it. “I wish it hadn’t to be her.”

“Jay-sus!” Moe said, grinning. “That’s right. I could do plenty to her without hittin’ her. Plenty!”

Pete stared at the photograph. The girl’s face had a queer effect on him. It wasn’t that she was so pretty; she was pretty, but not more than the average girl you saw around Pacific City. There was something in her eyes that moved him: an eager, joyous expression of someone who found life the most exciting adventure.

Moe watched him. He took in the neat grey flannel suit, the brown brogue shoes and the white shirt and neat blue and red stripe tie. The guy, Moe thought a little enviously, looked like a freshman from some swank college: he talked like one, too.

He couldn’t have been much older than Moe himself; around twenty-two or three. If it hadn’t been for the birth-mark, he would have been good-looking enough to get on the movies, Moe decided, but that stain would have put paid to the best-looking movie actor in the world: bad enough to haunt a house with. Moe told himself.

“Did Seigel say why we had to do this job, Moe?” Pete asked abruptly.

“I didn’t ask him. Yuh only ask that bum a question once, and then yuh go an’ buy yuhself a new set of teeth.” Moe poured himself more coffee. “It’s a job, see? Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. Yuh know how to do it, don’t yer?”

“Yes, I know,” Pete said, and a frozen, hard expression came over his face. As he stood in the light from the window, his eyes staring down into the street, Moe felt an uneasy twinge run through him. This guy could be tough, he told himself. Sort of crazy in the head. When he looked like that Moe didn’t like being in the same room with him.

Just then the telephone bell began to ring.

“I’ll get it,” Moe said, and dived out of the room to the pay booth in the passage.

Pete again looked at the photograph. He imagined how she would regard him when she saw him. That lively look of excitement and interest would drain out of her eyes and would be replaced by the flinching, slightly disgusted look all girls gave him when they came upon him, and he felt a cold hard knotting inside him; a sick rage that made the blood beat against his temples. This time he wouldn’t pretend not to notice the look; he wouldn’t have to force a smile and try to overcome the first impression she would have of him; not that he had ever succeeded in overcoming any first impression; they had never given him the chance.

As if he were some freak, some revolting object of pity, they would hurriedly look away, make some excuse — anything so long as they didn’t have to stay facing him, and she would do that, and when she did, he would kill her.

Moe charged back into the room.

“Come on! Let’s go! We’ve exactly half an hour to get there, do the job and get away, and the goddamn joint’s the other side of the town.”

Pete picked up a bundle of magazines, checked to make sure the three-inch, razor-sharp ice-pick was in its sheath under his coat, and followed Moe at a run down the dirty rickety stairs and out to the ancient Packard parked at the kerb.

Although it looked old, the Packard’s engine was almost as good as new under Moe’s skilful handling, and the car shot away from the kerb with a burst of speed that always surprised Pete.

“Here’s what we do,” Moe said, talking out of the side of his mouth. “I stay wid the heep and keep the engine running. Yuh ring the bell. If she comes to the door, give her the spiel about the magazines, and get her to invite yuh in. If someone else comes to the door, ask for her: Miss Coleman, see? Get her alone. Make out yer coy or something, see? Then give it to her. Hit her hard, and she won’t squeal. Then beat it. Use yer rod if yuh have to. Get back in the heep. We beat it to Wilcox an’ 14th Street and ditch the heep. Dutch’ll pick us up and take us to the club. We take a speed-boat to Reid Key an’ an airplane to Cuba.”

“Okay,” Pete said irritably. “I know all that by heart.”

“Yeah, so do I, but it don’t hurt to run over it again. The worse spot’ll be getting to the club. If we get there, it’s a cinch. Cuba! Gee! Yuh ever been to Cuba? I seen pictures of the dump. Terrific! And the women… !” He pursed his thin mouth and gave a shrill whistle. “Brother! Just wait until I get among those brown-skinned honies!”

Pete didn’t say anything. He was scarcely listening. He was thinking that he was at last approaching the climax of his life. For months now he had thought about this moment: the moment when he would take a life; when he would inflict on someone something worse than had been inflicted on him, and he felt the cold knot tighten inside him.

“This is it,” Moe said after five minutes’ driving. “Lennox Avenue. She’s staying with some frill called Bunty Boyd. I dunno wad yuh do about her. Hit her too if yuh have to.” He slowed down to a crawl and drove the car past a long row of four-storey houses. “There it is, across the way.” He swung the car across the road and pulled up. That’s the one; three houses up. I’ll wait here. I’ll have the heep movin’ towards yuh as yuh come out.”

Pete picked up his bundle of magazines, opened the car door and got out. He had a sick feeling inside him, and his hands felt like ice.

“Yuh okay?” Moe asked, staring at him through the car window. “This is important, Pete.”

“I’m okay,” Pete said. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was two minutes past half-past ten. He had twenty-one minutes to do the job and get clear.

He walked quickly towards the house, emptying his mind of thought. It would be all right, he told himself, when he saw the look in her eyes. This sick feeling would go away then, and he would enjoy doing what he had come to do.

As he walked up the path that ran between two small lawns, he saw the curtain of one of the ground-floor windows move. He mounted the steps leading to the front door. There were four name-plates and four bells by the side of the door. As he read the name-plates and found Bunty Boyd’s apartment was on the second floor, he felt he was being watched, and he looked round sharply in time to see the curtain of the ground-floor window drop hurriedly into place and the dim shadow of a man move away.

Pete rang the second-floor apartment bell, opened the front door and walked across the small hall and climbed the stairs. As he reached the second floor he heard a radio playing swing music. He crossed the landing as the front door of the apartment jerked open.

He felt his mouth suddenly turn dry and his heart skip a beat, then he found himself looking at a blonde-haired girl, wearing a white beach frock, whose young, animated face had a chocolate-box prettiness. She came forward, smiling, but the moment she caught sight of his face she came to an abrupt standstill, and her eyes opened wide and her smile went away.

The look he had come to expect jumped into her eyes, and he knew then it would be all right. He felt a rising viciousness inside him that left him a little breathless.

He forced himself to smile and said in his quiet, gentle voice, Is Miss Coleman in, please?”

“Have — have you come to see Frankie?” the girl asked. “Oh! Then you — you must be Burt Stevens. She won’t be a minute. Will you wait just a moment?” She spun around on her heels and ran back into the apartment before he could speak.

He stood waiting, his hand inside his coat, his fingers around the plastic handle of the ice-pick. If she came out on to the landing, he could do it at once. It would be easier and safer than doing it inside where the other girl might not leave them alone. A cold anger and an overpowering desire to inflict pain and fear gripped him.

Through the half-open door he heard Bunty say in a dramatic whisper, “But he’s awful! You can’t go with him, Frankie! You simply can’t!”

He waited, his heart pounding, blood beating against his temples. Then the door opened, and she came out on to the sunlit landing.

She might have stepped out of her photograph, except she was smaller than he had imagined. She had a beautiful little figure that not even the severe pale blue linen dress could conceal. Her dark silky hair rested on her shoulders. Her smile was bright and sincere, and there was that look in her eyes that had had such an effect on him when he had seen her picture for the first time.

Her fresh young beauty paralyzed him, and he waited for her smile to fade and for disgust to come into her eyes, and his fingers tightened on the ice-pick.

But the smile didn’t fade; pleasure lit up her face as if she were really happy to see him. He stood there, staring at her, waiting for the change, and not believing it wouldn’t come.

“You must be Burt,” she said, coming to him and holding out her hand. “Terry said you were going to take his place. It’s sweet of you to have come at the last moment. I should have been sunk if you hadn’t come. I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”

His hand came out from inside his coat, leaving the ice-pick in its sheath. He felt her cool fingers slide into his hand and he looked down at her, watching her, waiting for the change, and then suddenly realizing with a sense of shock that it wasn’t coming.

II

The girl, Bunty, came out on to the landing, followed immediately by a tall, powerfully built young fellow with a crew haircut and a wide india-rubber grin. He was wearing a red-patterned shirt worn outside a pair of fawn slacks, and in his hand he carried a gay red-and-white striped hold-all.

Still holding Pete’s hand, Frances turned and smiled at Bunty.

“Are you ready, then, at last?” she asked.

“Buster says if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the tide.”

“Burt, this is Buster Walker,” Frances said, turning to look at Pete. “You’ve already met Bunty, haven’t you?”

Pete’s eyes moved over the big fellow who pushed out his hand, grinning. There was no disgust, no surprise in the big fellow’s eyes, just a desire to be friendly.

“Glad to know you,” Buster said. “Sorry we couldn’t give you longer notice. I don’t know what I should have done if I had to have these two on my hands without support. It’s as much as I can do to manage Bunty.”

Pete muttered something as he shook hands.

“Would you like to leave those magazines and pick them up when we get back?” Frances asked, and held out her hand for them.

Pete let her take them. He watched her return to the apartment, lay them on the hall table, then shut the front door on the catch lock.

“Now, let’s go,” she said, and took his arm.

He allowed her to lead him down the stairs. He didn’t know what to do. His mind was confused. He knew he couldn’t turn on her now, not in cold blood, not a girl who hadn’t flinched away from him and who was actually holding his arm. If only it had been the other girl, the job would have been over by now.

As they walked down the stairs into the hall, Buster said, “I suppose Terry did tell you where we were going, Burt?”

Pete looked back over his shoulder.

“No… he didn’t say…”

“Isn’t that like Terry!” Buster exclaimed. The nut! Well, we’re going to spend the day on the beach, and take in the amusement park.”

“Buster imagines he’s going to take me on the Big Wheel,” Bunty said, “but he’s quite, quite mistaken. I wouldn’t go on that thing for Gregory Peck, let alone Buster Walker!”

Buster laughed.

“You’ll come on with me if I have to carry you.” He opened the front door and stood aside to let the girls pass. “I have a car at the corner,” he went on, falling into step with Pete. “I got a flat and I left it at the garage to be fixed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw the curtain move again in the groundfloor window, and again caught sight of a shadowy outline of a man, drawing back quickly.

“Old nosy-parker’s snooping again,” Bunty said scornfully. “That’s all he does, peep through the curtains.”

“Perhaps he’s lonely,” Frances said. “He never seems to go out, does he?”

“Oh, you’re hopeless, Frankie,” Bunty said impatiently. “You always find some excuse for lame dogs. The fact is he’s a nasty old drunk who spends all his time spying on people, and that’s all there is to it.”

Pete felt blood rise to his face. That was it, he thought. It’s pity. She’s one of those people who live by pity. That was why she hadn’t flinched when she had seen his face. She may have flinched inwardly, but rather than hurt his feelings, she had controlled her expression. Once again he felt the cold knot tighten inside him, and his hand went inside his coat and he touched the handle of the ice-pick.

The Packard was only twenty yards away. If he hit her now, he could reach the car before the other two could recover from the shock.

Again he knew he was deluding himself, for Frances and Bunty were now several yards ahead of him, and Buster was walking by his side.

He saw the Packard move forward and then stop, and he wondered what Moe was thinking. He felt a little chill run up his spine. Perhaps Moe would move into action. Suppose he shot her from the car? The moment the thought dropped into his mind, he quickened his step and closed the gap between himself and Frances, and walked just behind her, covering her back from Moe with his body.

Buster, determined to make conversation, began to talk about the prowess of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and kept up an enthusiastic harangue until they reached the garage where a small, battered sports car with two seats in front and a tiny bucket seat at the back stood waiting.

“There’s not much room,” Buster said, “but it goes all right. Bunty, you get in the back seat. Burt, you sit beside me and Frankie will sit on top of you. That okay?”

“Unless Burt thinks I’ll squash him,” Frances said, laughing.

Pete avoided her eyes.

“No, it’s all right,” he said, and climbed into the front seat.

Frances lowered herself on to his lap and put her arm round his shoulders. The feel of her soft young body and the smell of her faint perfume made his blood quicken. He sat motionless, his arm slackly round her, bemused. This was something that had never happened to him before; something that had happened only in his dreams.

Buster cranked the engine which started with a roar. Having made sure Bunty was settled in the back, he drove away from the garage and sent the car roaring towards the sea.

The noise of the engine prevented any conversation, and Pete was glad of the opportunity to savour this extraordinary experience of having a girl so close to him.

As the little car banged and bumped along at forty-five miles an hour, Frances had to cling to him and he to her to prevent her being thrown out. She was laughing, and once she screamed to Buster to drive more slowly, but he didn’t appear to hear her.

Pete suddenly realized that the odd feeling he was experiencing was the nearest to excited happiness he had ever known, and he found himself smiling at Frances as she clung to him, and he felt a tingle run up his spine as she laughed back at him.

The car’s off-wheel suddenly hit a pot-hole and jolted them violently together. Frances’s skirts shot up to show the tops of her stockings and the smooth white flesh of her thighs. Pete hurriedly pulled down her skirt to save her from untwining her arms from around his neck.

“Oh, thank you,” she gasped, her mouth close to his ear. This is really awful. We must stop him.”

But Buster had already slowed down and was grinning at Pete and winking.

“I knew that would happen sooner or later,” he bawled. It never fails to work. I always provide a free show for my male friends.”

“Buster! You behave yourself or we’ll go home!” Bunty screamed at him.

Frances removed one arm from around Pete’s neck and anchored her skirts.

Long before they caught a glimpse of the sea, they heard the stupendous sound from the amusement park together with the shouting, screaming and laughing of the people like themselves who were stealing a day on the beach.

“I never know where all the people come from,” Frances cried above the noise of the car engine. “It doesn’t matter when you come here, it’s always crowded.”

Pete was about to say something when he happened to glance in the little circular mirror on the off-wing of the car. In its reflection he saw the battered outlines of the Packard and caught a glimpse of Moe’s sandy-coloured hair as he sat at the driving-wheel.

Pete felt himself turn hot, then cold. He realized, with a feeling of bewilderment mixed with fear, that for the past ten minutes he had completely forgotten Moe and had forgotten the orders Seigel had given him.

Buster drove into a packed parking lot, edged in between two cars and cut the engine. Cars were arriving at the rate of ten a minute, and as the four walked from the car towards the beach, they were immediately hemmed in by the noisy, jostling, perspiring crowd.

Frances held on to Pete’s arm. He moved forward a step ahead of her, his shoulder turned slightly sideways to form a buffer against the swirling tide of people coming towards him. Buster led the way, cutting a path with his big shoulders for Bunty who walked immediately behind him, hanging on to his shirt tail.

They crawled past the low wooden buildings that housed fortune tellers, photographers with their comic animals and still more comic backgrounds, the freak shows and the hamburger stalls, being jostled, coming to a standstill, then moving on again.

From time to time Pete looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see any sign of Moe, and he hoped feverishly that they had lost him in this crowd.

Finally they reached the rails at the outer edge of the sea front. Not far away was the snake-like structure of a roller coaster whose cars roared and clattered up and down the steep inclines, carrying a screaming, shouting cargo of people, determined to enjoy themselves and determined to scream or shout louder than his or her neighbour.

Outlined against the sky was the colossal Giant Wheel that slowly revolved, carrying little cars slowly up into the heavens; cars that spun and swayed ominously on what appeared to be thread-like anchors.

The four of them faced the beach, looking along the three-mile strip of sand at the seething mass of humanity that lay on the sand, played ball, deck tennis, leap-frog or rushed madly into the oncoming breakers and filled the air with noise.

“Phew! Half the town seems to be here,” Buster said, surveying the scene with his wide, india-rubber grin. “Let’s get at it. We’ll have a swim first, then something to eat, then we’ll go to the amusement park. How about it?”

“Did you bring a swim-suit?",Frances asked, turning to Pete.

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid I don’t swim.”

He saw Bunty pull a little face and lift her shoulders in a why-on-earth-didyou-come-then? gesture, and he felt the blood rise to his face, and that angered him, for he knew when he flushed the naevus on his skin turned livid and made him look repulsive. He saw Bunty turn away so she need not look at him. But Frances was looking at him with no change of expression in her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. We’ll sit on the beach and watch the others swim. I don’t feel like swimming myself.”

“No! Please; I want you to swim,” he said, trying to control his embarrassment.

“Burt will guard our clothes,” Buster said. “We shan’t be long. Come on, girls, let’s get to it.”

They began to make their way cautiously through the sprawling crowd, until they finally came upon a small clearing in the sand and hurriedly staked out their claim.

Buster was wearing a pair of swimming-trunks under his clothes, and he was quickly stripped off. Pete eyed his muscles and his tanned body enviously.

Both the girls took off their shoes and stockings and slid out of their dresses. They both wore one-piece suits under their dresses, and Pete felt a little pang run through him when he looked at Frances. She had on an oyster-coloured swim-suit that moulded itself to her body. He thought she had the most beautiful figure he had ever seen.

As she adjusted her bathing cap, she went over to him.

“You’re sure you don’t mind being left? I’d just as soon stay.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll wait for you.”

“Oh, come on, Frankie!” Bunty cried impatiently, and catching hold of Buster’s hand she ran with him down to the breakers and plunged in.

Frances smiled at Pete. It was unbelievable, he thought, a lump coming into his throat, that a girl as lovely as she was could look at him and smile at him like this: just as if he were an ordinary human being like Buster.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and went after the other two.

Pete sat with his fingers laced around his knees, his shoulders hunched, and watched her long, slim legs, her straight boyish back as she ran with that slightly awkward movement most young girls have when they run.

He watched her plunge into the water and swim with powerful strokes after the other two.

“Wad the hell are yuh playin’ at?” a voice snarled near him.

Pete stiffened and his heart skipped a beat. He looked quickly round.

Moe was sitting on his haunches, staring at Frances’s bobbing head as she swam farther out to sea. He looked an incongruous figure in his black suit, his hand-painted tie and his pointed white shoes with black explosions, among the half-naked sun-bathers sprawling around him.

“The man came to the door,” Pete said, speaking rapidly and trying to keep his voice steady. “Then the two girls came out. They mistook me for someone else. I hadn’t a chance to get going, so I went with them, and I’m waiting now to get her alone.”

“That’s wad happens when yuh don’t case the joint,” Moe said, his small eyes bright with suspicion. “I told that bum Louis.” He looked at his wrist-watch. “The cops will be at her place by now. Yuh got to hit her quick, Pete.”

“Amongst this lot?” Pete said sarcastically.

Moe turned his head and looked at the Big Wheel as it carried the little cars far into the sky.

“Get her on the Big Wheel,” he said. “Yuh can be nice an’ private in one of those cars. Hit her when yuh get to the top and shove her under the seat. They won’t spot her before yuh get away.”

Pete suddenly felt sick.

“Okay,” he said.

“Don’t slip up on this,” Moe said, his voice suddenly harsh. “Yuh don’t make more than one mistake in this outfit. She’s got to be hit. That’s orders, and if yuh can’t do it, I can.”

“I said okay,” Pete returned curtly.

“It’d better be okay.” Moe got to his feet. “I’ll be around, Pete. Yuh ain’t got much time; use it or I will.”

Pete looked back over his shoulder and watched the broad-shouldered, squat figure walk across the sand, picking his way over recumbent bodies, by-passing children building castles in the sand, stepping past fat matrons in one-piece swim-suits, and their fatter husbands, lolling in deck-chairs.

Pete watched him until, melting into the crowded background, he lost sight of him. But he knew he wouldn’t be far away, and he would be watching every move from now on.

Pete sat in the hot sun, sweat on his face and fear clutching at his heart. He faced up to the fact at last that he wasn’t going to kill Frances. He realized he had made up his mind about that when he had first seen her. He knew Moe would have struck her down as she came out on to the landing, and would have got away. He could have done the same thing, but that friendly smiling look in her eyes had saved her. He had to face up to the fact now, and he knew what it would mean. He was deliberately throwing his own life away. No one in the organization ever disobeyed an order and survived. Several of them had kicked against the organization’s discipline: three of them had actually got out of town before the organization had realized they had gone. One of them reached New York, another Miami, and the third one had got as far as Milan, Italy, before the long arm of the organization had struck.

But Pete wasn’t thinking of himself. This girl was too young, too lovely and too kind to the, he thought, digging his fingers into the sand as he tried to think how to save her. If he delayed much longer, Moe might strike himself. He had the nerve to walk up to Frances, stab her on this crowded beach and then shoot his way out. Moe might do it, unless he was satisfied he was going ahead with the job.

The only safe thing he could do was to warn Frances, and then tackle Moe himself. If he killed Moe, Frances would have an hour or so to get out of town and hide herself somewhere before the organization realized she had slipped through their fingers.

He would have to be very careful how he tackled Moe. Already Moe was suspicious. Moe was very fast with a gun: faster than he ever could hope to be. He would have to lull his suspicions somehow, and then go for him at the right moment.

But first he had to warn Frances, and before he could do that he had to get her away from the other two. If he told her when they were there, Buster would probably call a cop and stop him fixing Moe.

Everything depended on Moe’s death, Pete told himself. He looked towards the glittering sea. Frances’s blue bathing cap was bobbing towards him: she was coming in.

He took a grip on his fluttering nerves and waited for her.

III

The black-and-white checkered police car swung into Lennox Avenue, slowed to a crawl while Conrad leaned out of the window to catch a glimpse of the numbers of the houses.

“Across the road, about ten yards up,” he said to Bardin, who was driving.

Bardin pulled across the road and stopped the car outside the four-storey house. Both men got out of the car and stood for a moment surveying the house.

Conrad’s heart was beating unevenly. He was excited. When McCann had telephoned through to his office to tell him the girl, Frances Coleman, had been located at 35, Lennox Avenue, he could scarcely wait for Bardin to collect him in the police car.

“You’ll be soon out of your misery,” Bardin said, grinning. “What’s the betting she didn’t see anyone?”

“Come on, let’s ask her,” Conrad said, pushing open the garden gate. As he walked up the path to the front door, he spotted a movement in the ground floor window and caught sight of the shadow of a man, lurking behind the curtains. The shadow hurriedly ducked back out of sight as Conrad turned his head to look at the window.

Conrad paused to read the name-plates on the door, then dug his finger in the second bell, opened the front door and walked briskly across the hall and up the stairs, followed by Bardin.

They stopped outside the front door on the second-floor landing, and Conrad knocked. They waited a few moments, then as no one answered the door, Conrad knocked again.

“Looks as if no one’s at home,” he said, frowning, after another minute’s wait. “Damn it! Now what are we going to do?”

“Come back later,” Bardin said philosophically. “I would have been surprised if anyone was in on a morning like this.”

They walked down the stairs together.

“Maybe the guy at the window knows where she’s gone,” Conrad said as he reached the hall. “From the way he was peeping at us, he shouldn’t miss much.”

“What’s the excitement?” Bardin said. “We’ll come back this afternoon.”

Conrad was already knocking on the front door to the right of the main entrance. There was a longish delay, then the door opened and a tall, bent old man in a tight-fitting black suit regarded them with big, watery blue eyes.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m Paul Conrad of the District Attorney’s office, and this is Lieutenant Bardin, City Police,” Conrad said. “We have business with the people in the second-floor apartment. They seem to be out. You wouldn’t know when they will be back?”

The old man took out a big red silk handkerchief and polished his nose with it. Into his watery blue eyes came a look of intense excitement.

“You’d better come in, gentlemen,” he said, standing aside and opening the front door wide. “I’m afraid you will find my quarters a little untidy, but I live alone.”

“Thank you,” Conrad said, and as they followed the bent old figure into the front room, he and Bardin exchanged resigned glances.

The room looked as if it hadn’t been dusted or swept or tidied in months. On the old, well-polished sideboard stood an array of whisky bottles and about two dozen dirty glasses. Most of the bottles were empty, but the old man found an unopened one and began to pick off the tinfoil around the cap with unsteady fingers.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” he said. “You musn’t think I’m used to living like this, but I lost my wife some years ago and I sadly miss her.” He managed to get the bottle open and looked vaguely at the dirty glasses. “I should introduce myself. I am Colonel Neumann. I hope you gentlemen will join me in a drink?”

“No, thank you, Colonel,” Conrad said briskly. “We’re in a hurry. Did you happen to notice if Miss Coleman went out this morning?”

“Then if you really won’t, I think I will,” the Colonel said, pouring a large shot of whisky into one of the glasses. “I’m an old man now and a little whisky is, good for me. Moderation at all times, Mr. Conrad, and there’s then no harm in it.”

Conrad repeated his question in a louder voice.

“Oh, yes. They all went out,” the Colonel said, carrying the glass of whisky carefully to a chair and sitting down. “You mustn’t think I pry on people, but I did notice them. Are they in trouble?” The hopeful, intent curiosity in his eyes irritated Conrad.

“No, but I’m anxious to talk to Miss Coleman. Do you know her?”

“The dark one?” The Colonel smiled. “I’ve seen her: a pretty thing. What would the police want with her, Mr. Conrad?”

“Do you happen to know where they have gone?”

“They said something about the amusement park,” the Colonel said, frowning. “I believe I heard one of them say something about going for a swim.”

Conrad grimaced. He knew it would be hopeless to try and find Frances Coleman if she had gone to the amusement park. The place was always packed. He lifted his shoulders, resigned.

“Thank you, Colonel. I guess I’ll look back this afternoon.”

“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?” the Colonel asked, staring at Conrad. “I didn’t like the look of the man who followed them. He looked a rough character to me.”

Conrad stiffened to attention.

“What man, Colonel?”

The Colonel took a sip from his glass, put the glass down and wiped his mouth with his silk handkerchief.

“You mustn’t get the impression that I’m always at the window, Mr. Conrad, but it did happen I looked out as they were walking down the street, and I saw this man in a car. He drove slowly after them: a yellow-headed man; a young man, but I didn’t like the look of him at all.”

“Who was Miss Coleman with?” Conrad asked sharply.

“With her friends.” The Colonel showed his disapproval by a gentle snort. “That fellow who wears his shirt outside his trousers: I wish I had had him in my regiment. I’d have taught him how to dress like a gentleman! Then there’s that Boyd girl: a cheeky little piece if ever there was one. It’s a damn funny thing how some girls don’t mind what a fellow looks like. Different in my day, I can tell you. I shouldn’t have thought Miss Coleman would have cared to be seen out with that fellow with the birth-mark. But she’s a kind little thing: perhaps she took pity on him.”

Conrad and Bardin exchanged looks. Both of them knew Pete Weiner by sight, although he hadn’t actually been through either of their hands, but they knew he had done some jobs for Maurer.

“What fellow with a birth-mark?” Bardin barked.

The Colonel blinked at him.

“I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him before. He had a naevus — isn’t that what they call it? — down the right side of his face.”

“Was he dark, slightly built, looked like a student?” Bardin demanded.

“Yes. I’d say he could be a student.”

“And this other fellow; the one in the car: was he driving a Packard? A short, square-shouldered guy with light blond hair and a white face?”

“That seems a very fair description of him: a vicious character. I don’t know about the car. I didn’t notice it. Do you know him then?”

“You say this guy with the birth-mark went with these other three?” Bardin said, ignoring the Colonel’s question.

“Oh, yes. I watched them go down the street. They picked up a little car at the garage you can see from here. The blond man in the car followed the little car.”

By now Conrad was alarmed. From the description the Colonel had given of these two men, he had no doubt they were Pete Weiner and Moe Gleb.

“Thanks,” he said, moving to the door. “Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“But you’re not going so soon?” the Colonel said, getting to his feet and slopping what was left of his whisky in his anxiety to head Conrad off from the door. “You’re surely going to explain…”

But by this time Conrad was half-way down the path with Bardin at his heels. They got into the police car.

“Well, how do you like it now?” Conrad asked grimly. “We’ve got to get moving, Sam. We’ll go to the garage first. They may have a description of the car. I’ll go on to the amusement park and you organize some help. We’ll need forty or fifty men in a hurry.”

“For crying out loud!” Bardin exclaimed blankly. “What do we want with forty or fifty men? You and I can handle this.”

“Can we?” Conrad was pale and his eyes angry. “That girl is in a crowd of about fifty thousand people. Right at her heels are two of Maurer’s hoods. What do you imagine they are there for? Do you think I’m going to let them wipe her out the way Paretti wiped out all those other witnesses? We’ll want all the help we can get. I’m going to save that girl if it’s the last thing I do!”

IV

“Hey! Wait a minute,” Buster said, coming to a standstill. He was clutching in both arms an odd assortment of dolls, gaudy-looking vases, coconuts and two big boxes of candy. “I’ve got to park this lot. I’m fed-up with humping them wherever we go.”

“You shouldn’t have won them then,” Bunty said, laughing. “Where are you going to park them?”

“Let’s go back to the car; then we can all go on the Big Wheel.”

“We don’t all want to go,” Bunty said. “I’ll come with you. You go on, Frankie, and we’ll meet at the Big Wheel. I’m still not sure I’m going on it, but at least I can watch you three.”

Pete’s heart skipped a beat. For the past hour he had tried desperately to get Frances to himself without success, and now the opportunity had made itself. He looked over his shoulder. Not far away, standing by one of the Bingo stalls, was Moe, his hard white face set in vicious lines.

“All right,” Frances said, “We’ll meet you at the entrance to the Big Wheel.”

Pete was sure Moe wasn’t going to wait much longer. He had to get Frances somewhere away from the crowd and away from Moe. He looked right and left and his eyes alighted on a big neon sign that read:

“You’ll take at least twenty minutes to get to the car and back,” he said to Buster. “We’ll go and have a look at the maze over there. Suppose you meet us at the entrance?” He turned to Frances. “Will you come with me? I’ve always wanted to see this thing. It could be fun.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Bunty exclaimed. “You’ll only get lost, and you’ll be in there for hours.”

“Oh, no,” Pete said quickly. “It’s really quite easy. All you have to do is to keep moving to the left and you come out in about ten minutes. Will you come?”

Frances nodded.

“All right.”

She wasn’t particularly keen, but Pete had fallen in so readily with all her suggestions that she felt it was only fair to fall in with his now.

“Well, please yourself. If you’re not out in half an hour we won’t wait for you,” Bunty warned. “Come on, Buster. Let’s go.”

As the two pushed their way slowly through the endless stream of people, Pete again looked in Moe’s direction. There was an intent expression on Moe’s face as he watched Bunty and Buster disappear into the crowd.

Pete turned quickly to Frances.

“Shall we go?” he said. “It’ll be amusing, and we won’t be long.”

She moved along with him, her hand on his arm towards the entrance to the maze.

“Do you know that man?” she asked suddenly.

Pete stiffened and looked sharply at her.

“What man?”

“The one you keep looking at. The one in the black suit. He’s been following us all the morning.”

“Has he?” Pete tried to keep his voice steady. “I — I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

By now they had reached the pay-box outside the maze, and Pete moved forward to buy the tickets. It seemed to be the only side-show where there was no queue, and the blonde, middle-aged woman seemed glad to sell him the tickets.

“Keep to your left as you go in,” she said as she gave him the change. “If you get lost ring the bell. You’ll find plenty of bell-pushes as you go through the maze. Someone will come and find you.”

Pete thanked her and joined Frances who was waiting at the entrance. He followed her down a long passage and at the last moment he looked back anxiously over his shoulder. He could see no sign of Moe.

“What do we do?” Frances asked as she walked just ahead of him. “It’s awfully stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

“You won’t find it stuffy once we get into the maze,” Pete assured her. “It’s in the open air.”

They walked a few yards and then they found themselves suddenly in the maze.

The maze was constructed of fifteen-foot-high walls, lined on either side by mirrors. The passage between the wall was six foot wide, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The mirrors were so angled that they reflected from one mirror to the other, and as Frances and Pete stepped into the first long passage they were immediately hemmed in and surrounded by their own reflections, multiplied thirty or forty times.

The effect was so startling and overpowering that Frances came to an abrupt standstill.

“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” she said, turning to Pete. “Do you think we’ll ever find our way out?”

“It’s all right,” he said, taking her arm. “We just go straight ahead, and when we come to a cross section we turn to the left. If we keep turning to the left we’ll be out in ten minutes or so.”

“Well, all right,” Frances said doubtfully. “But I don’t really like it.”

He took her arm and walked her forward. He wanted to get her into the centre of the maze in case Moe had seen them and was following them. For some minutes they walked along the mirror-lined paths, turning to the left when they came to the cross sections.

Above them as they walked they could see the blue sky and hear the strident noise of the amusement park. Each path that they came to was a replica of the one they had just left. Their reflections surrounded them. What appeared to be an endless path would suddenly terminate in a cul-de-sac so they had to retrace their way until they found a turning which they had passed without noticing it.

After they had walked for two or three minutes, Frances said suddenly, “I think we should try to get out now. It’s rather dull, isn’t it?”

Pete stopped. He looked back down the path along which they had come. Twenty faces with twenty disfiguring birthmarks stared at him, making him feel a little sick.

Now he had come to the moment when he had to tell her the truth, he realized how difficult it was going to be. There was so little time. Any moment Moe might appear at the end of one of these paths.

“I brought you here to tell you something,” he began. “I’m afraid it is going to be a shock to you.”

She looked quickly at him, and he saw her stiffen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not Burt Stevens. My name is Pete Weiner. We haven’t much time. Please listen to me and please don’t be frightened.”

He saw alarm jump into her eyes, and he felt desperately sorry for her. To suddenly find herself in this complicated maze with someone who now turns out to be a complete stranger was an alarming experience, he thought, as he tried to smile at her.

“I don’t understand,” she said steadily. “Is this a joke?”

“I wish it was,” he said earnestly. “Before I say anything more I want you to know I wouldn’t harm you for anything in the world. You’re safe with me. So please try not to be frightened.”

She moved a step away from him.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s so little time,” he said, his mind groping for the right words. “I don’t know what it is all about myself. I was sent to hurt you. That man who has been following us came with me. He’s dangerous. I know it sounds unbelievable, but he will kill you if he can get you alone. The only way to save you is for me to kill him while you escape. That’s why I brought you here. You must do exactly what I tell you…” He broke off as he saw terror darken her eyes.

As she listened to the quiet, tense voice, she believed that she was listening to a madman. The newspapers were always mentioning horrible cases of lunatics who trapped girls in lonely places and murdered them. She backed away, staring at Pete, and she raised her hands in an imploring gesture for him to keep his distance.

Seeing her rising panic, Pete remained still. He had realized the danger of telling her the truth. He guessed she might jump to the conclusion that he was a lunatic, and with a sick feeling of despair he saw now that was exactly what she was thinking.

“Please don’t be frightened, Frankie,” he said. “Please trust me. I’m not cracked, and I wouldn’t hurt you. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see I only want to help you?”

“Please go away,” she said, white-faced but still calm. “I can find my way out without your help. Just please go away and leave me.”

“I will go,” he said earnestly, “but you must first listen to what I have to say. This man who is following us has been told to kill you. I don’t know why, but he will do it unless I stop him. They sent me a photograph of you so I should know you. Look, I’ll show it to you. Perhaps it will convince you I’m speaking the truth.”

Seeing her mounting panic, he hurriedly thrust his hand inside his coat for his billfold. He felt if he could only show her the photograph she must realize the danger she was in.

He jerked out the billfold, and as he did so his wrist-watch became entangled with the handle of the ice-pick, and the pick slid out of its sheath and fell on the path at his feet.

Frances looked down and saw the ice-pick. She stared at the murderously sharp blade in horror. Then she looked up and met Pete’s frightened, guilty eyes. A cold chill settled around her heart.

She didn’t hesitate. She was sure now he was a dangerous lunatic who had tricked her into this labyrinth of mirrors to do her harm, and she knew if it came to a struggle she would stand no chance against him. So she spun around and ran.

“Frankie! Please!”

His agonized cry only acted as a spur, and her long legs carried her down the straight, narrow path as fast as she could drive them.

As she ran she kept the fingers of her left hand against the wall of mirrors. It was only by feel that she found a turning, down which she sped. She took another turning, this time to the right, and she ran frantically down yet another nightmare path, her dark hair streaming behind her, her face white, her breath coming in laboured gasps.

She had no idea how long she ran, how often she twisted and turned. It was like running on a treadmill; every step she took brought her to the same place, or what appeared to be the same place.

Finally she could run no more, and she leaned against the mirrored wall, her hands pressing her breasts, her eyes closed as she struggled to regain her breath.

After a few moments she opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the mirror opposite her. She was shocked to see how frightened she looked, how big her eyes were and how wild and disordered her usually sleek, neat hair had become.

She had no idea where she was. She might still be only a few yards from Pete or she might be in the centre of the maze.

She wondered if she should shout for help, but suppose Pete was close by and got to her before outside help could reach her? She decided it would be safer to try and get out by herself. She looked up and down the path that seemed in the reflection of the mirrors to have no ending and no beginning, and she felt a wave of panic sweep over her.

It was as if she were caught up in some ghastly nightmare. She wanted to sit on the ground and cry: to give up weakly, to hide her face in her hands and wait until someone found her. But suppose Pete found her first? She fought back her tears and made an effort to pull herself together. If she continued down this path, she told herself, and at every intersection she turned left, surely it would bring her to the exit?

She started off, walking slowly, her ears strained to catch the slightest suspicious sound that might come to her above the roar of the amusement park. She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she had an irresistible urge to look behind her.

She stopped and turned.

At the far end of the path she saw something move, and her heart stopped beating, then began to race madly. She half turned to run, but stopped when she saw the figure behind her make a similar movement. She realized with a little sob of hysteria that she was watching her own distant reflection.

She went on.

At the end of the path, seeing herself grow larger as she approached the mirror facing her, she realized she had come up another cul-de-sac and once again she had to fight against a rising panic.

She turned around to retrace her steps; Her eyes caught a movement at the far end of the path. She wasn’t to be caught like that again, and she kept on. Then suddenly she felt a cold chill crawl up her spine. The figure ahead of her wasn’t moving as she was moving.

She stopped and peered down the path.

A squat, square-shouldered man in a black suit stood watching her. In his hand glittered a nickle-plated automatic.

It was Moe.