Dan Marlowe

Doom Service

CHAPTER I

In the cloakroom behind the bell captain's desk in the Hotel Duarte, Johnny Killain straddled a suitcase leisurely, leaned back and, propping his shoulders comfortably against another bag, elevated his feet. He removed his cigarettes from the breast pocket of his uniform, shook one free from the pack and lipped it up into his mouth. Beyond the cloakroom, through the intervening closed door, he was aware of the familiarly hushed after-midnight sounds of a big-city hotel.

In the flare of his lighter, his face was almost forbidding. High cheekbones jutted boldly beneath deep-set pale eyes and tufted blond brows, and the craggy features dominated by a several-times-broken nose were bronzed to an extent suggesting prolonged exposure to a tropical sun. The mouth even in repose was a hard line, and the close-cropped unruly hair was the kind that sturdily resisted comb and brush.

He looked up inquiringly as the cloakroom door was thrust open and Paul Sassella looked in at him. Paul, a stockily taciturn middle-aged Swiss, was Johnny's right-hand man on the hotel midnight-to-eight shift. “Booth phone, Johnny. Second from the end.”

Johnny grunted acknowledgment, then looked up sharply in the act of swinging his feet to the floor and stubbing out his scarcely begun cigarette. “Booth phone? How come-” But the door had closed again behind Paul; Johnny rose reluctantly, snapped off the cloakroom light and walked out into the lobby in its customary early-morning half-darkness. He bulked hugely in the sheath-fitting blue-gray uniform with its neatly gold-lettered Bell Captain over the breast pocket, and his purposeful walk across the marbled lobby floor was a shambling, bearlike shuffle created by nature's overendowment of chest and shoulders.

In the booth phone he picked up the dangling receiver, and in the glassed-in airless confinement his voice was a basso rumble. “Yeah? Whatchawant?”

“Mickey Tallant, Johnny. Your kid's got his belly up against my bar down here.”

“He's not my kid, Mick. Bounce him.”

The Irish voice reproached Johnny. “Would I be callin' you if it was only a brannigan? Come down an' get the lad.”

“Why the hell should I?” Johnny said.

“If you don't know, sure then I can't tell you.” The brogue lowered itself conspiratorially. “He's talkin', Johnny, talkin' wild, an' folks are beginnin' to listen. He's pure out-of-his-mind spoilin' for trouble, and he's carryin' a wad you couldn't jump over. Did you see the papers?”

“I saw them,” Johnny replied grimly.

“Then hear me now-another fifteen minutes an' they won't need this investigation they're talkin' about. The drink has the lad's tongue hinged in the middle, an' it's kerosene he is, just waiting for the match. The wrong word, even-”

“I'll be down, Mick,” Johnny interrupted.

“Do that. An' hit just a few of the high spots on the way.”

“Mick-” Johnny cleared his throat. “Thanks for not calling through the switchboard.”

“It's not a fool I am, I hope,” the brogue replied in injured dignity.

“How cold is it out?”

“I'll have your antifreeze set out on the bar. You're leaving now?”

“Right now. Start pouring.” Johnny left the booth and recrossed the lobby in his light-footed shuffle, avoiding Sally Fontaine at the switchboard behind the little wooden gate at the end of the registration desk. In front of the foyer's glass doors he waited impatiently for the elevator indicator to return to street level, and he leaned into the cab as Paul threw open the shining bronze doors. “Sally's brother is down at the Mick's, Paul. Stoned.”

The stolid Paul nodded. “Lucky he didn't try to come in here to see her.”

“Burn a little incense for small favors,” Johnny agreed.

“I'm goin' down to get him. If he should happen to get past me, don't let him near that switchboard. She's doin' enough worryin' already.”

“I could put Dominic on here,” Paul suggested, “and go along with you.”

“No need, boy. I could drop-kick the little bastard that far.”

“The papers tonight-” Paul began, and hesitated.

“The papers were right,” Johnny said brusquely. “He tanked it. They're only hintin' now, but there's gonna be one hell of a big stink over that fight. Throw me that old trench coat out of the cloakroom, will you?”

“It's way too small for you.”

“It'll do. I'm in a hurry.” He pulled the semistiff material over his shoulders, cape-fashion. In the foyer he could feel the first onslaught of the cold outside; he parted the outer doors and stepped out onto the scraped-bare sidewalk beneath the marquee and looked up and down Forty-fifth Street at the multi-colored neon refraction of light from the three inches of freezing slush in the street. Instinctively he glanced upward at the patch of night sky visible between the canyon-like buildings; it had stopped snowing, and the stars were out, but the icy wind nipped at his ankles. He jammed his hands deeply into the inadequate uniform pockets and trotted heavily toward Seventh Avenue.

The loose ends of the coat flapped wildly about his knees as the cold bored at him relentlessly; he jumped a puddle in the gutter at Broadway and felt his foot slip in a pile of slush. A cold trickle oozed down into his shoe, and he shook the foot disgustedly. It was one hell of a night to be out doing missionary work.

And two days ago no one could ever have convinced you that missionary work for this boy would be needed, Johnny reflected. If ever a kid had it all in front of him… Charlie Roketenetz, the small-town boy, Sally Fontaine's kid brother. Not clever, not too fast, but a punch. What a punch! Twenty fights he'd had, maybe, but he was on the way; some imaginative sportswriter had tagged Charlie Roketenetz as The Rockin' Horse, and The Rockin' Horse had rocked them. Until that fight last night…

At Eighth Avenue Johnny turned north and immediately saw the green-neoned outline of the unlifelike boulder that proclaimed Mickey Tallant's Rollin' Stone Tavern. A babel of sound replaced the shrill bite of the wind in Johnny's ears as he pushed open the wide door with its heavy plate-glass center section; as befitted a sporting gentleman, the Mick never lacked for sporting customers, even on a night like this. The booths along the far wall were crowded, and the dog-leg bar swarmed three and four deep.

Johnny savored the rush of heat a moment as he surveyed the familiar scene, and then Mickey Tallant bustled down the bar toward him, his red face anxious as his wet hands automatically rearranged the dampened semiwhite apron about his ample girth. “Glad you made it this quick,” the bar owner muttered in a fervent undertone. “Yonder he is. First time he's shut up since he come in here.”

Johnny turned in the direction of the Irishman's nod and did a double take at sight of the slim figure in the short-sleeved sport shirt propped up on his elbows at the end of the bar closest to the door. “He's on the street like that on a night like this?”

“He don't know is it Sunday or Tuesday,” Mickey Tallant said flatly. “An' don't bother lookin' at me like that, because he didn't get it here.” The red-faced man looked unhappy. “Did he dump the fight, Johnny?”

“You saw it. You need to ask?” Johnny said, shrugging out of the trench coat.

The tavern owner sighed deeply. “An' him a punchin' fool at the weight,” he mourned. “Rougher'n an unplaned two-by-six, by God, an' a left hook can cut a man in two at the middle. So he has to throw fights. You drop a bundle?”

Unheeding, Johnny wormed his way through the rear ranks at the bar and eased in alongside the sport-shirted figure slumped over the bar, head nodding. “Charlie,” Johnny said softly, and dropped a hand on the nearer shoulder.

The towheaded crew cut came up slowly as Charlie Roketenetz straightened and turned to blink unsteadily at Johnny. “'Lo, big man,” he said thickly. “Have a li'l drink wi' The Rockin' Horse?”

Johnny stared down into the ashen features. He knew the boy fought as a welter, but he never looked that big. His face looked doubly white against the background of the stitched-together raw scars above his brows, making slits of his eyes. Johnny experienced a sudden sense of uneasy doubt. If you were going to bag a fight, Killain, couldn't you find an easier way? Ahh, stop it, he told himself impatiently- you watched it happen. His hand tightened on the shoulder in his grasp. “We're gettin' outta here, Charlie.”

“Like it here,” the boy said obstinately. “Rockin' Horse likes it fine.” He looked up into the back bar mirror as though reassuring himself where he was, then turned to look at Johnny. “Wassamatter 'th you?” he demanded plaintively. “Wy you lookin' at me li' that?” He ran an exploring finger along his stitched brows and grimaced. “Oh. The fi'.” He wrapped his arms about himself as though unexpectedly cold; his slitted eyes peered upward at Johnny and his thickened voice suddenly gained strength. “How much you lose, big man?”

“Keep it down,” Johnny said levelly. “Who said I lost?”

“How much?” the fighter repeated impatiently. The nearer hand thrust stabbingly into a pocket and emerged with a roll of bills, which it brandished fiercely. “Pay you ri' now. How much you-”

“Shut up!” Johnny cut him off fiercely as the nearer heads started to turn at the stridency in the young voice. “Put it away!”

The boy eyed him uncertainly an instant, then stuffed the money back into a pocket. “How's-Sally?” he asked raggedly, and his ashen face crumbled momentarily as though he were going to cry. It stiffened at once, though, and, without waiting for a response, Charlie Roketenetz turned and restored his elbows to the bar in front of him, slipping off again into the alcoholic no man's land from which Johnny had roused him. Johnny hesitated, then edged back from the bar, ignoring the curious glances around him. Mickey Tallant was shaking his head dubiously.

“He's not goin' easy,” the tavern owner predicted.

“He's goin', though,” Johnny promised. “I want to call Paul.” He pushed through the crowd to the wall phone in the rear and dialed quickly. Too late he realized that to talk to Paul he also had to talk to Sally; he started to hang up, and then shrugged. Couldn't be helped. “Put Paul on, Ma,” he directed her when she came on the line. “An' cut yourself out-this is man-talk.” He could hear her indignant sniff as she rang for Paul. “Paul?” Johnny began when the stocky Swiss answered, then paused. “You off the line, Sally?”

“I think she is,” Paul said finally into the silence.

“Okay. That package is a little heavier'n I figured, Paul. Grab a cab from the corner an' send him down here. In about ten minutes run the service elevator down to the basement, an' I'll get on from the alley.”

“Right now,” Paul replied matter-of-factly, and Johnny hung up. The sudden pall of silence in the room behind him brought his head around sharply, and he stared unbelievingly at the twin masked figures with exposed automatics who stood just inside the barroom door, the slow sweep of their guns menacing bar, back bar and booths.

“Holdup!” a hoarse voice breathed to Johnny's right as the taller of the two intruders turned slightly to say something to his companion, who replied briefly. The taller bandit wheeled, gun extended, and with even, deliberate steps stalked the end of the bar Johnny had just vacated. The crowd instinctively retreated, and, roughly jostled in the general withdrawal, Charlie Roketenetz raised his head again and lurched around indignantly. He glowered at the masked figure less than six feet away.

“Who you poin'in' that thing at?” the boy demanded, his voice high-pitched amid the hush in the low-ceilinged room; his feet did a boxer's shuffle to get leverage as he moved away from the bar, and the smashing left hook exploded upward and caught the gunman under the ear. The bandit staggered backward on his heels as his mask flew off, and his shoulders hit the glass center of the front door heavily. He was catapulted to the sidewalk outside in a harsh detonation of plate-glass fragments, and fifty breaths in the room exhaled noisily.

They sucked in again immediately as the boy charged the shattered door, fists cocked alertly in his mincing fighter's stance. Before anyone realized his intention he had scrambled through the broken-out glass to close with the fallen bandit.

“Behind you, kid!” Johnny yelled despairingly, and ferociously carved a hole in the crowd with his elbows. He knew he couldn't be in time-he reached the front rank only in time to see the second gunman recover from his stupor, dash to the door and fire four times into the blended figures on the ground outside, then vault over them and dart up the street.

Johnny never remembered covering the balance of the distance to the door. Without knowing how he got there, he found himself on his knees on the sidewalk, with Charlie Roketenetz's crew-cut head cradled against his thighs, and the glazing eyes under the raw-looking scars staring upward unseeingly.

The slam of a car door impinged upon his consciousness as he drew a slow, deep breath; he looked up into Sally Fontaine's white, stricken face as she knelt in the slush across from him and silently took the boy's still face in her hands.

Mickey Tallant's voice roused them finally. “Come in out of the weather, both of you,” the tavern owner ordered them gruffly. “It's no good you can do him out here.”

Sally rose like a sleepwalker with the Irishman's hand on her arm; Johnny gently eased the body back down and straightened up slowly. He stooped again to brush absently at the sodden knees of his uniform, and his eyes slid off to the second still figure on the sidewalk.

“Come in, man, will you, now?” Mickey Tallant barked from the doorway, then saw Johnny's gaze riveted on the gunman lying sprawled on his back. “Broke his damn neck goin' through the door, an' good riddance,” he announced firmly.

Johnny's eyes returned to Charlie Roketenetz's quiet face; in the intermittent flashing of the electric display overhead he studied the alternately dead white and pale green features. Then he finally followed the tavern owner inside. The crowd had withdrawn from the bar section nearest the door in deference to Sally, who was standing there wooden-faced, staring off into space, a filled double-shot glass at her elbow.

The crowd seemed to have diminished by about a third to Johnny's eyes, but the remainder showed no intention of leaving. A shrill note of excitement prevailed throughout the general buzz in the big room.

“Get that drink into her, will you?” Mickey Tallant urged Johnny in an undertone. “She's in shock.”

The Irishman slipped through the hinged section at the end of the bar, and Johnny picked up the shot glass and handed it to Sally. She took it obediently, swallowed once, shivered and finished it off. Tears came into her eyes, whether from the potency of the drink or the state of her emotions Johnny wasn't sure. He ached to say something violent and tender, but the words weren't in him. He took her hand silently, and the planes of her small features crumpled like wet cardboard as the tears spilled over.

She drew a long, shuddering breath, and her cold little hand clamped down convulsively upon his. “Oh, Johnny!” she got out in a strangled whisper; then she choked up completely. Sally Fontaine was a tiny girl, almost painfully thin. The small face was usually pleasantly unbeautiful, with a gaminlike quality emphasized by the generous, smiling mouth and the large brown eyes. “I knew s-something was wrong when he didn't c-call me after the fight,” she said drearily, and the tears started anew. “Johnny, what h-happened?”

He knew she didn't really expect an answer; he stood uncomfortably beside her and welcomed Mickey Tallant's approach upon the other side of the bar as the Irishman slapped down another glass, overfilled it and pushed it toward Johnny. Sally still clung to his right hand, and he waited patiently for her to release it.

“The boy shouldn't have done it,” Mickey Tallant said explosively, a patent need to say something plain upon the concerned red face. “Hell, I'm insured. I've been held up before. Those damn murderin'-” he leaned forward over the bar, to their left. “Manuel, you was closest when they come in… what'd they say to each other when they looked around?”

Johnny turned quickly to look at the thick-shouldered, dark-faced man at whom the question had been directed. The very first glance showed that the dark man himself had been no stranger to the fight game-scar tissue over the eyes, thickened ears and battered features visibly proclaimed it. It seemed to Johnny that the man hesitated fractionally before replying. “Nothing I hear, Senor Mick.”

Mickey Tallant shrugged off his disappointment. “Probably wouldn't have meant anything,” he said to Johnny, and, in answer to Johnny's inquiring look, lowered his voice. “You don't remember him? Manuel Ybarra. Fought as Indian Rivera. No champ, but a good, tough boy. Retired-eye trouble.”

Johnny nodded slowly, and, as Sally released his hand to open her handbag, he reached for his drink. He had it halfway to his lips when a jeering voice raised itself stridently down the bar. “-gotta give the kid credit for one thing… at least his last fight wasn't fixed!”

Instinctively Johnny glanced at Sally. She had turned a yellowish-white, and her small face looked pinched; she reached unsteadily for the bar to support herself. Grimly Johnny set his drink down, untouched. Blindly he turned in the direction of the voice, all the bitterly subdued emotion he had felt since arising from his knees on the sidewalk outside fused in a thick rage that swelled his throat.

“Johnny!” Sally's half whisper, half plea drifted after him.

Unheeding, he shouldered customers aside, sifting faces, and beside him the voice laughed raucously as a big man with a florid face jabbed his drinking companion in the ribs. “You hear what I said? I said at least the kid's-”

Johnny spun him around, and the big man's drink went flying over his shoulder to smash on the floor behind him, spraying neighboring cuffs and ankles. “I heard what you said, Jack. I didn't like it.”

“And who the hell are you not to like it?” the man demanded, and unloaded a line-drive right-hand smash that landed high, flush on Johnny's mouth. The big man stepped back expectantly, but Johnny's neck shrank itself into his shoulders as his chin came down on his chest. His open hands, hooked like curved claws, came up waist-high as he shuffled closer. The big man, recovering, slammed a left and right to the diminished target and then grunted loudly as the reaching hands clamped down on him laterally on thigh and shoulder. The man's surprised yell was breathlessly hoarse as he went effortlessly aloft, and Johnny straightened with the man overhead to find Mickey Tallant opposite him, hopping up and down with arms frantically outstretched.

“Not behind the bar, Johnny!” the Irishman yelled at the top of his lungs above the pandemonium around them, and Johnny pivoted as the man in the air struggled to get a hand in Johnny's hair and the other in the neckband of his uniform collar. The customers scattered wildly as Johnny came out of the pivot and slung the big man explosively at the wall a dozen feet away. Intervening tables and chairs splintered like kindling as the heavy body crashed through them, and Johnny straightened from the soul-satisfying effort to find that seventy-five per cent of his uniform jacket, shirt, and undershirt had made the trip to the wall with the big man. Impatiently he stripped off the rags still clinging to him.

“Throw me an apron, Mickey,” he called to the tavern owner without turning around. Then he ran a hand lightly over his swelling mouth and looked impassively at the blood upon it.

In the second it took sound to return to the room, the shattered outer door opened and two slender men huddled in dark overcoats entered briskly. They came to a dead stop just inside the door as their eyes took in the tableau at the other end of the room, and the nearer dark overcoat shook its head disparagingly as it looked from Johnny to the man crawling along the base of the wall like a wingless grub. “I must say it looks natural,” Detective James Rogers announced in his usual imperturbable tone, “but is it legal?”

Hands in pockets, Detective Ted Cuneo in the second dark overcoat sauntered over to the wall. After a sharp glance at Johnny he leaned down over the man sitting up dizzily, the official voice solicitous. “You like to sign a complaint, citizen?”

From behind the bar Mickey Tallant made an angry sound. “He ain't signin' no complaint, Cuneo. He's been livin' too long now on borrowed time with that unzippered bazzoo of his. He's just lucky he don't wind up plenty shortweight on the scale.”

The slender Detective Rogers removed his hat and tossed it onto a nearby table; he ran a hand lightly through his sandy hair. “Is it official that he hasn't?” he asked mildly, and walked over to Johnny, who was unfolding the apron that had been tossed him. The detective placed a stiffened forefinger amid the ridged scars prominent on Johnny's bared chest. “Every time I see you, Killain,” he began thoughtfully, then shrugged. “I imagine we could always charge indecent exposure.” He looked from Johnny to his partner, who was still talking urgently to the big man on the floor, and he raised his voice. “The sidewalk affair does seem to have priority, Ted,” he suggested, and Detective Cuneo straightened reluctantly. He was a lean six-footer, hatchet-faced and sallow-complexioned, with overlarge eyes that seemed perpetually outraged.

He removed a notebook from an inside breast pocket and walked quickly to the bar. “All right, Tallant,” he said snappily. “You got so damn much to say let's hear something now. Let's not keep the first editions waiting.”

Detective Rogers nodded at Johnny, swathed in wraparound fashion in his apron. “Don't hurry off, chum,” he said softly, and turned to the bar to join in the questioning of the tavern owner.

Neither Rogers nor Cuneo had noticed Sally's presence, Johnny reflected, but that wouldn't last long. Silently he made his way through the crowd back to the end of the bar and took up his position beside her. She slipped her hand back into his, her eyes on the big man, who had made it up to a chair and was cautiously flexing arms and legs. Her expression was unreadable.

With his free hand Johnny picked up his previously neglected drink. He swallowed it at a gulp, winced as the alcohol burned his torn mouth and set the empty glass down on the bar.

He waited for their turn at questions-and-answers, the seething boil and bubble of his overheated blood ebbing gradually to a liquid simmer. He felt almost ready when Detective Rogers turned suddenly at the bar and looked in their direction, then detached himself and walked rapidly toward them.

CHAPTER II

Detective Rogers looked from Sally to Johnny and back again. “I'm sorry, Miss Fontaine,” he said quietly. “If you're able, there are a few questions-” He broke off and looked over at the door, through which half a dozen men had just entered. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, and walked over to the two men in the lead, each of whom carried a black leather case.

“Listen to me, Sally,” Johnny said urgently when he was sure that they could not be overheard. “When he comes back, tell him you're not feeling well. Tell him you'd like to go back to the hotel, and you'll answer his questions there.”

The slender girl roused herself from the apathy into which she had fallen. “Will you come, too?”

“A little bit later. They'll want to-”

He had lost her attention; she was shaking her head firmly.

“I'll wait for you.”

“Look, Ma,” he said impatiently. “I'm not tellin' you without a reason. This Rogers is the closest thing they got to a right guy in this precinct. I've known him a while, an', though we've taken a few nips out of each other, he's all right. This Cuneo, though, is another peck of potatoes. He don't like me, an' I don't want you around here when he gets to me in the questioning. Savvy?”

“I don't see what difference-” she began stubbornly, and then subsided. “All right,” she said tiredly, “if you say so. What will I say?”

“Just what I told you. Here he comes.” Johnny listened to Sally's fumbling, halting request and watched Rogers' cautious observance of the girl's blue-lipped semishock. When the detective turned to him he was ready with what he hoped would be the clincher. “She don't look good to me. You'll want to talk to Gidlow anyway, won't you?”

“Gidlow?”

“Jake Gidlow, the kid's manager. Stays at the hotel. Suite on the tenth floor.”

The sandy-haired man nodded. “I'll get my hat.” Back at the bar Johnny could see him talking to Cuneo briefly.

Johnny placed two fingers beneath Sally's chin and tipped her head back slightly; he examined the suspicious glimmer in the reddened brown eyes. “You got to stop knockin' yourself out, Ma,” he told her roughly.

“I'm-I'll be all right.” She detached her hand from his. “Lend me your handkerchief. I wish you were coming back with me.”

“I'll be there before you know it,” he said, draping his discarded trench coat over her shoulders.

“And don't lose your temper, like you did with that other man. They-”

“Here he comes,” Johnny interrupted her. “Chin up, now.” Her smile was wan, but she walked steadily enough to the door with Detective Rogers in her wake. Johnny released an expansive sigh; he was glad to get her out of here. He looked around for a chair and found one in a back corner. He knew it would not be a short wait, with a roomful of people to be run through the police routine. He had a lot on his mind; he lit innumerable cigarettes and snuffed out lengthy stubs. With his eyes he followed the horde of uniformed and plain-clothed men who had descended upon the scene. Notebooks in hand, they worked their way through the crowd, asking peremptory questions. None of them came near Johnny, and he shook his head gently. That would be Ted Cuneo's idea.

By Johnny's watch it lacked ten minutes of being a full hour and a half since he had risen from his knees on the sidewalk before Detective Cuneo walked over to his corner. The sharp-featured man kicked a chair into place and sat down facing him, and, despite the noncommittal expression, Johnny could feel the man's hostility.

It started with a by-the-book interrogation of the circumstances of Johnny's presence and a searching analysis of the accuracy of his eye-witness observations, all dutifully jotted down in the ever-present notebook. It went on in picayunish detail for fifteen minutes, but Johnny answered patiently, even when the same question appeared thinly disguised for the third time. He wanted no trouble with this man; he had to get back to the hotel.

When Detective Cuneo reluctantly restored the notebook to his pocket and hitched himself forward a little in his chair, Johnny tensed warily. Here it comes, he thought.

“You say there's nothing you'd recognize about the one that got away, Killain?” As it had been all through the interrogation, the voice was crisp, with just the faintest undertone of arrogance.

“Nothin',” he said positively. “Like I told you, I was at the back of the room. I could see he was a little smaller than the one the kid got, but he was masked.”

Cuneo's thin lips lifted slightly in what could have been a smile. “The one that the kid got just happened to contain two slugs dead center. It's your contention he didn't need them?”

“He didn't need them,” Johnny repeated, but not as positively. “When that scum hit the door he went east and his neck went west. Didn't it?”

“The medical examiner's report will let us know,” the detective replied noncommittally.

Johnny leaned back in his chair. “The partner must've been a terrible shot,” he said thoughtfully. “He was leanin' right over them when he let go four times.” He considered silently for a moment. “Unless he thought-”

“As a fighter, from whom did Roketenetz take orders?” Cuneo interrupted.

“I guess Jake Gidlow would tell you that he took them from him.”

“And Jake Gidlow's orders?”

Johnny shrugged. “You want hearsay, I can give you plenty. Some of it might even be true. You won't find any affidavits on file, though.” He reached for his cigarettes. “Jake does all right. His fighters work steady.”

“In Lonnie Turner's promotions?”

“I've heard stories,” Johnny admitted. “I never heard of them runnin' any benefits for Lonnie.”

“Jake Gidlow has something on Turner and Turner has to use his fighters?”

“I doubt it. Turner's the top man on the totem pole hereabouts. More likely he has Gidlow in his pocket.”

Detective Cuneo smiled the thin smile again but did not pursue the point. “Now what was this wrecking-company bit when I walked in here?” he inquired blandly.

“Guy got me mad.”

“This is a police inquiry, Killain. He got you mad how?”

The worm of irritation twisted within Johnny again. “He talked too damn much.”

“About fixed fights?” the detective suggested smoothly.

“Look, man,” Johnny said patiently. “The kid's layin' dead out in the street, see? We'd just gotten his sister away from his body, an' she's standin' at the bar shakin' herself to pieces. An' then fifteen feet away from her this canary's bellowin' about anyway the kid's last fight not havin' been fixed. I was lookin' at her face. A real big yock; I ought to have unwound that slob's clock real good.”

“Even if he was right?”

“Who gives a damn if he was right or not, just then?” Johnny burst out. He glowered at the detective. “There's a time to talk an' a time to shut up, mister.” He tried to regain a grip upon himself. “What the hell, Cuneo-charge it up to I didn't like the guy. He saw me comin'.”

“Right-left-right he saw you coming, according to the consensus,” the lean man agreed, “which doesn't alter the fact that he could still prefer charges.”

“I'll worry about it later,” Johnny said indifferently.

“I don't care for this habit of yours of settling things with your hands,” Detective Cuneo said deliberately.

“It's any of your business?” Johnny demanded harshly.

Two dull red spots glowed in the sallow cheeks. “I could make it my business, Killain. Very much my business. I just don't like your attitude.”

Johnny's temper slipped further from its moorings. “Six months you been waitin' for me to say the wrong thing, haven't you? Okay, I'll give it to you quick, Cuneo. I got no time for you. You're a troublemaker.”

“I'm a troublemaker!” The pop eyes glinted as the tall man rose slowly. “By God, that's a good one! Trouble follows you around like a little black dog, but I'm the troublemaker! I ought to give you a little trouble, and straighten you out!”

“You haven't got the tools, man.”

The eyes were volcanic. “Don't try me!”

Johnny's chair flew backward and caromed from the wall as he bounded erect. He took a quick step forward, and Detective Cuneo instinctively retreated. Then, with the furious dark blood rampant in his narrow face, he tried to regain the lost step and rebounded from Johnny's weight. “What the hell is this peck, peck, peck?” Johnny demanded forcefully. “You got a beef with me, lay it on the table. You been on my back since last summer. I'm tellin' you-get off!”

He glared into the furious face inches from his own, then deliberately picked up his fallen chair, banged it upright and sat down again, his hands loosely on his knees. The seething detective stared down at him, his face a lemon yellow. “Killain!” he began in a strangled tone, and Johnny laughed shortly.

“What is it with you?” he asked the tall man. “I'm supposed to let you muscle me around? You're outta your head, man.” He pointed with a stabbing forefinger. “I'll give you a proposition, which you won't take. We bug each other, for whatever reason, right? I'll come up to the station any day you say. You pick your best man, an' the three of us'll go down in the tank. You'll be able to work off a little steam, maybe, but I'll tell you right now you won't enjoy it. How about it, sport?”

Attracted by the previously fallen chair and the raised voices, one of the uniformed patrolmen strolled over to them. “Trouble, sir?” he asked the detective, who drew a deep, reaching breath.

“Nothing!” he said sharply. He glared around the room. “We finished? Then let's get out of here.” Hands on hips, he surveyed Johnny from head to foot. “I won't forget this, Killain.” He strode to the door with never a backward glance, and the herd of technicians followed, some after curious inspection of the corner.

Mickey Tallant emerged from behind the bar, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I was watchin' you,” he told Johnny. “It gets you nothing, that needle.”

“The hell with him.” Johnny bleakly contemplated the door through which Detective Ted Cuneo had just departed, and then he looked back at the Irishman. “He say anything to you about the banditti checkout catchin' two dents in the chassis?”

Mickey Tallant nodded. “Just a spray job, I figure. He caught the overflow.”

“I wonder,” Johnny said slowly. “It was dark out there, Mick. The second character didn't need to know that his partner had already come unscrewed. He did know he'd lost his mask in a roomful of people, an' he might've been makin' sure of no small talk after he left.” Johnny's eyes roamed the front of the bar for the thick-shouldered ex-fighter to whom the tavern owner had spoken previously, but he was not in sight. “I'd like to know what those two had to say to each other when they walked in here.” He looked at the stout man. “Where can I find this Ybarra?”

“Manuel? Hell, Johnny, you heard me ask him that already!”

“I heard you ask him in a roomful of people. It's been known to inhibit answers.”

“Why are you stickin' your nose in this?” the Irishman asked bluntly.

Johnny hesitated. “I started to say I wasn't, but I'll hold off on that until I talk to Manuel. If the guy the kid knocked through the door took two slugs on purpose, maybe I am stickin' my nose in. That would be a little out of line for a barroom stick-up.”

“But that's what it was!”

“Smarten up, Mick. The kid had just been involved in a fixed fight. You know this Ybarra's address?”

“I know it's up in Spanish Harlem,” Mickey Tallant said absently. “I can probably get it for you.” He rubbed his chin slowly. “You think the kid was killed on purpose?”

“I don't know, Mick. He could have been. An' whether he was or not, I keep thinkin' of any one of a dozen little things I could've done different that might've kept him alive. You call the hotel when you get that address. I need clothes.”

“Okay. I'll get you a cab.”

The cab driver stared at Johnny's apron-burnoose, but drove him around to the hotel, because of the one-way streets having to cover three sides of a square to do it. “I'm goin' down the alley,” Johnny told the driver at the hotel entrance. “Go inside an' tell Paul I said to pay you, then tell him to come down in the service elevator to pick me up.”

The cabbie nodded, and Johnny slipped and slid down the snow-filled alley and entered the hotel through the big iron side door. Fifteen feet inside the narrow passageway he could hear the whine of the already descending elevator, and Paul threw open the door. He shook his head gently at sight of Johnny's apron. “What happened to your uniform?” he inquired as Johnny got aboard and he started to take him directly to the sixth floor.

“Guy had hold of my collar when I let go of him.”

Paul nodded as though it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. “I've got Sally lying down up in the lounge on the mezzanine. Amy's with her.”

Amy was the tall colored girl who handled housekeeping nights. “Rogers gone?” Johnny asked.

“Just a few minutes ago. He was pretty decent. He spent most of his time here trying to locate Gidlow.”

“Tell you what you do, Paul,” Johnny said swiftly. “I've got to go out again. You run downstairs an' have Vic get Sophie Madieros in here to hold down the switchboard until the day crew comes on. Then have Amy take Sally over to the apartment and stay there with her till I get there. You and Dominic should be able to keep Vic afloat the balance of the shift if I don't get back. Got it?”

“Got it.” Paul slid the elevator door closed and descended to the lobby, and in his own room Johnny changed quickly. In the mirror he frowned at himself as he knotted his tie, and he retested the puffiness of his mouth.

“-that monkey'd known how to get his shoulder behind it he might've saved himself some splinters,” he murmured half aloud, crossed the room and picked up the phone. Vic Barnes' voice came on the line, and Johnny shook his head. They were really spread a little thin with the front desk man having to take the switchboard, too. “Get me the Rollin' Stone, Vic. Sally's got the number stuck up on the board somewhere.”

“Right,” Vic replied placidly. Johnny could hear him dialing. Vic Barnes was a placid individual, a plump man with graying hair combed straight back from a high forehead, very high color and a shiny face.

“Mick?” Johnny asked abruptly when he had the connection. “Killain. You get that address?”

“You're not goin' up there now? People sleep nights!”

“You get the address?”

“Jesus, what a one-track mind! Write it down.”

Johnny wrote it down, hung up the phone and stuffed the address in a pocket. His mind was on Manuel Ybarra. For looks the ex-fighter reminded him of the rugged fishermen on the Spanish Costa Brava, burly and capable. For an instant he thought of long-ago days under a burning sun on coastal waters edged by miles of dazzlingly white sand beaches. Then he pulled himself up sharply and left the room.

He shivered in the chill reach of the wind, which enveloped him as the taxi's headlights disappeared around the corner; he stared around him at the dingy tenement area revealed in the widely spaced streetlights, and he looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. 5-B. Fifth floor, and these old buildings obviously had never heard of an elevator. Never heard of a buzzer system for the front door, either, he decided; it opened at a touch after he walked up the slippery iron steps that led off the street.

Inside he turned to the dimly lighted stairs and climbed steadily. No heat was wasted on the hallways; the building temperature didn't seem much higher than that of the street outside, but at least there was no wind. A single naked light bulb halfway up each flight illuminated the landings dimly, leaving bulkier shadows at top and bottom. Stale cooking odors pursued him upward as he climbed.

In the poor light of the fifth floor hallway he studied drab and scarified wallpaper and cat-footedly circled doors until he found the lumpy “B” in battered tin. He knocked softly and listened in the quiet to water noises from protesting drains and the creaks and groans of the old building in the winter night. He had to knock again before there was a stirring behind the door.

“What is it?” It was a woman's hushed tone, and Johnny frowned. Before he could make up his mind to reply, he heard the door open cautiously on the chain latch and felt himself under inspection. The room behind the woman was unlighted, and he could make out only the indeterminate pale blur of her features, so far beneath his own eye level as to mark her as no more than an inch or two above five feet.

“Well?” she demanded huskily, her voice sounding young.

“I need to see Manuel,” he told her.

“Why?” she challenged immediately.

“I have to talk to him.”

“Perhaps tomorrow-” she began firmly, and from behind the door to her left Johnny could hear a hissing Spanish whisper.

“Describe him!”

“Huge,” she murmured rapidly in kind. “Hard. A crooked nose. In a gray uniform. Truly-”

“Open the door,” Manuel Ybarra said in English in a normal voice. “He was at the tavern tonight.” There was an instant of doubt as she turned to look at him. “Open the door, Consuelo,” the man repeated impatiently.

At the rattle of the chain latch Johnny moved forward a bit hesitantly; there was still no light in the room. He was still at the threshold when, to his left, Manuel turned on a lamp. The thick-shouldered man, in underwear and socks, was calmly returning a switch-blade knife to the lamp table's drawer.

In the same instant, at the other side of the room, Johnny caught a flashing glimpse of skimpily nightgowned femininity before a blanket swirled and descended serape-fashion, eclipsing the vision from neck to toe. Small she might be, Johnny reflected, but never petite; the curves were full-bodied.

“Dios!” the girl exclaimed indignantly, with a toss of a blue-black mane. She glared at Manuel. “You have to shame me?”

The dark man paid no attention. “You mus' have much impatience,” he said softly to Johnny. As an afterthought he gestured at the blanket. “My sister, Consuelo.” He shrugged broadly. “My penance.” He glanced at her, eying Johnny speculatively. “This is the big Johnny, from the hotel. The one of whom the Senor Mick is a compadre.”

Johnny stared frankly at the creamily oval face, classically Castilian in depth from brow to chin. Her nose and mouth were small, but very well made, and her lips provocatively full. She might have been twenty-five. The firm set of her chin and her wide-spaced dark eyes warned of an independent nature, and he extended his hand gravely. “This penance of which your brother speaks,” he said to her in Spanish, then, shifting to English, “it should happen to me.”

The soft ivory of her face bloomed with a tinge of added color as she retrieved her hand from his, but she looked up at him squarely. “If I'd known you knew Spanish, I hope you believe I'd not have said that about the nose-”

“Nicest thing's been said about it for years,” he assured her. He turned to Manuel. “Thanks for the welcome, amigo. I'll make it short. The two men in the tavern tonight-”

“What two men in the tavern?” the girl interrupted.

“Be quiet, girl.” Her brother said it almost absently as he studied Johnny. “The little fighter was a friend of yours?”

“You can make it stronger than that.”

Manuel nodded soberly. He knuckled his chin reflectively, the rasp of his beard plain in the quiet. “A very good left hand, for his weight,” he said after a moment. “Very good.” He pursed his lips. “You had a question?”

“When they came in, they spoke to each other. I'd like to know what they said.”

The dark man inclined his head slightly. “I heard what they said. The Senor Mick asked idly, to no purpose, and I denied it, because I do not wish to speak for the world to hear.” He considered Johnny carefully for a moment, then nodded again as if to himself. “They came through the door together, the tall one on the left-so.” Manuel positioned a hand in the air. “When he had looked around the tall one said quickly to the other 'Es este el hombre?' and pointed with his gun. The second man replied 'Esta es.' The gun had motioned at the little fighter, and the tall one at once turned to him.” Manuel shrugged. “The rest you saw. It is not given to all of us to go with such espina dorsal.”

“So the tall one asked 'Is he the man?' ” Johnny said musingly. “This is a tavern stick-up?”

Manuel looked somber. “The little fighter was in trouble?”

“Trouble?” Johnny repeated irritatedly. “Where the hell's the trouble? The kid took his dive, didn't he? Went clear off the thirty-foot board to do it.”

“It was a peculiar ending to the fight,” Manuel admitted.

The blanket-swathed girl spoke quietly. “He was killed, the man of whom you speak?” Johnny nodded, and within the blanket he could see her shiver. “Men!” she said bitterly. “There's not one among you who acquires the least of the sense God gives a girl child at birth.” She jerked a plump shoulder at her brother. “Look at that one. Twenty per cent vision in the left eye; sixty per cent in the right. And deteriorating.”

Manuel grinned. “She fears to have the support of me.”

“At least you can pimp for me,” she told him impudently, and the grin disappeared as his features darkened.

“I do not like the sound of that remark in this company,” he said heavily. “I could find my belt-”

She ignored him and apologized to Johnny. “He exaggerates about the support. Not about the belt, when I was younger.” She grimaced. “He saved his money when he was fighting. He has a little income. We live in this neighborhood because our friends live here. And rather than what I have said, I am not a schoolgirl, but I must nearly get down on my knees for permission to have a man walk with me.”

“This income of mine,” Manuel said thoughtfully. “I have not seen it lately.”

“Because with money you are a big fool,” his sister told him tranquilly. She smiled at Johnny. “I sing nights at the Three Sisters. It's a small place, but the food's excellent. I can recommend particularly the chicken valenciana.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?” Johnny promptly inquired.

Consuelo Ybarra laughed, a very pleasant sound. “Agreed. At eight-thirty. My first show's at ten.” She looked at him from beneath long lashes. “I like a man who can make up his mind.”

“You've met one,” Johnny told her, and turned to the door. “Eight-thirty.”

On the stairs he stopped once to reconstruct in his mind the girl's flashing facial beauty. It was a little hard to see how this dinner date tomorrow night could be a mistake.

CHAPTER III

Johnny's key admitted him noiselessly to the apartment, and he moved quietly through the small hallway to the bedroom entrance. Amy was sitting bolt upright in the big wing chair, but her head was down on her shoulder. As he came inside she straightened convulsively, her uniform rustling as she came halfway up out of the chair in the darkness.

“Mist' Johnny?” she asked in a tremulous whisper, and collapsed with a soft sigh at his affirmative grunt. “Hoo- ee! Don' you never sneak up on me like that!” She looked guiltily toward the bed. “She been sleepin' 'bout a hour, now.”

He nodded and, realizing that she couldn't see him in the darkness, walked out into the kitchen and turned on the light. Amy followed, stretching and yawning. “I held a cab for you downstairs,” Johnny told her. “Here.”

“Put you' hand right back in that pocket!” the softly slurred accents demanded indignantly. “This ain't no payin' favor!”

He got her out the door finally and toed off his shoes in the hallway. He loosened his tie and, returning to the bedroom, stood beside the bed and looked down at the small body beneath the covers.

He lit a cigarette, moved the ash tray around to the side of the wing chair and settled down in it to wait out the night.

He listened to his own breathing, the only sound he could hear in the room. At least if Sally wakened she wouldn't be alone…

He awoke suddenly with the gray light of dawn under the shades, a crick in his neck and his left leg disembodied from retarded circulation. He looked instantly to the bed-Sally's slight figure was sitting bolt upright in its center, her blanketed knees drawn up snugly and clasped in her arms. She was hunched forward with her chin resting on her knees, and she was staring straight ahead of her.

Johnny moistened dry lips; he didn't think he had made any movement upon rousing from his uncomfortable doze, but he could see Sally's head turn slightly to look in his direction. He couldn't see her features in the shadows extending out to the bed from the fingers of light at the windows, but he could see the suspicious quivering of the slim shoulders as his eyes focused.

He grunted harshly and hauled himself upright; he hobbled stiffly to the bed, pins and needles stabbing his awakening leg. He reached down and picked her up bodily, blankets and all, and sat down on the edge of the bed with her on his lap. He could feel the near rigidity of the small body in its state of semishock.

When she finally spoke her tone was flat and expressionless. “I don't th-think I really believed it, until I saw you s-sleeping in that chair.” Her voice roughened; a hand crept out of the blankets and closed tightly on his arm. “Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, Johnny-why Ch-Charlie?”

“Nobody knows why, or when,” he said quietly. He waited a moment as she cried openly into his shirt front, then placed two fingers under her chin. “You gonna be all right now?” He could feel pressure against his fingers when she nodded affirmatively, and her exhaled breath was a long sigh.

“Stretch out here beside me for a little while,” she pleaded. “If I know you're here, I might be able to rest.”

He lifted her up and slid her back into the bed. Then he lay down alongside her, slipped an arm beneath her and pulled a corner of the blanket over himself. In the half darkness he listened to her ragged breathing ease until she was breathing quietly. His own eyes closed several times, but he doggedly forced them open.

When he was sure that she was asleep he removed his arm carefully and inched himself from the bed. He listened again for the gently regular exhalations and shuffled cautiously to the hallway in stockinged feet. He picked up his shoes and put them under his arm.

He eased open the apartment door and closed it quietly from the outside, listening for the click of the automatic lock. He was on one knee tying a shoelace when he heard the elevator doors opening at the end of the corridor. He rose to his feet and examined the two men who emerged and looked about them a little uncertainly. Then the squat, thickset man in the lead advanced upon him purposefully.

“Say, Jack,” he demanded briskly, “which is Miss Fontaine's apartment?”

“Who wants to know?” Johnny asked him. He recognized the squat man but did not actually know him. He'd seen the darkly lopsided features under the close-cropped black hair around the fringes of the fight crowd for years, but had never heard him called anything except Monk.

“Well, now-” Monk started to bristle, and evidently thought better of it. The uniform, Johnny thought; he thinks I work here. “This is Mr. Hartshaw, an attorney,” the squat man said quickly. “He has an appointment with Miss Fontaine.”

Johnny looked briefly at the tall, cadaverous-looking individual in heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a black Homburg that completed his funereal appearance. The tall man had a manila file folder under his right arm, and Johnny took a casual step forward and snaked the folder from beneath Mr. Hartshaw's arm. By the time Mr. Hartshaw was ready to react, Johnny had the folder open and was reading the single legal-looking document within.

“Hey, you!” Monk exclaimed. His tone was ugly.

Johnny transferred his attention from the folder to Monk. “I don't get it, man. A power of attorney? At six in the morning? With her brother dead maybe four hours?” He looked down at the document. “An' who the hell is Albert Munson?”

“Who the hell are you?” Monk demanded angrily, and sidled closer. “Maybe you need a lesson in mindin' your own business?”

Johnny deliberately folded and creased the paper and slipped it into a pocket. He looked at the lawyer. “You know that the kid had a manager? Isn't he the one to see?”

“I'm tellin' you he's got an appointment with Miss Fontaine!” Monk cut in.

“An' I'm tellin' you… shut up!” Johnny told him grimly, and returned his attention to the lawyer. “Well?”

“Why, ah-I was-it was said-” His high-pitched voice hesitated. “I'm to represent Miss Fontaine.”

“Not today, Hartshaw.” The tall man looked incredulous, and Johnny raised his voice. “Rack it up and drag it outta here, man. You're not representin' anyone. Blow.”

Mr. Hartshaw closed his slightly gaping mouth and stalked off injuredly in the direction of the elevator, turning once to look back over his shoulder en route.

“Now just a minute, damn you!” Menace hung heavy in Monk's rasping tone; his hands were bunched massively as he advanced gloweringly upon Johnny.

“You come right ahead, Monk,” Johnny invited him, moving away from the wall.

The mention of his name stopped the squat man. He licked his lips rapidly. “You know me, hah?” he mumbled. He stood stiffly, obviously reviewing his instructions; then he sullenly unbundled his fists and tramped to the elevator in the wake of the lawyer. Johnny followed him.

“These two are just leavin', Carlo,” he said to the slim, dark-haired operator when the doors opened. The boy looked surprised at the sight of Johnny; he looked hurriedly at his passengers as they entered, and the look changed to apprehension.

Johnny reached in and casually removed a folded bill from the small breast pocket of the operator's uniform. “A five spot,” he said musingly. “You buy cheap, Carlo.” He smiled into the cab at the boy; deliberately he tore the bill into confetti. “Easy come, easy go, huh, kid?” Suddenly he leaned in again toward the good-looking boy, who backed away guiltily, and his voice hardened. “The next time you let someone con you into takin' 'em up here without goin' through the switchboard first, I'll hang you out to dry. Understand?”

The boy swallowed hard. “S-sure, Johnny. Sure.”

“Then run these rats outta here. Hose down the lobby afterward an' cut down on the smell.”

Above the faint hum of the descending elevator Johnny could hear Monk's furious bark. “What in the hell is his name?” Johnny doubted somehow that another five-dollar bill went with the answer. It looked like a poor day for Carlo.

Johnny glanced up at the lobby clock as he pushed his way in through the foyer doors, and his attention was distracted at once by the sight of Detective James Rogers standing, overcoat on arm, to the left of the newsstand. From behind a half-raised paper, he was unobtrusively studying the passengers entering and emerging from the elevators. The detective laid the newspaper down on the counter as Johnny approached him. “Been watching for you, Johnny.”

Johnny's grunt was pure skepticism. “Among others?”

The detective's smile was unabashed. “There's Gidlow. He hasn't shown yet. Otherwise, I'm just practicing.”

“Your no-good partner home feedin' milk to his ulcer?”

“My partner,” Detective Rogers said crisply, “is out on a job of work.”

“Good for him. What's his beef with me, Jimmy?”

“Could it be that he feels you have no respect for authority?”

“I should change the spots on this leopard just to humor him? Him and Dameron. May their tribe decrease.”

“Speaking of-angels-” the slender man remarked, and cut his eyes toward the lobby chairs. Johnny turned in time to see Lieutenant Joseph Dameron's bulk propel itself upward from the depths of the largest chair and walk toward them.

“Morning, Johnny,” the lieutenant rumbled in a powerhouse boom that turned heads in the lobby. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with apple cheeks and iron gray hair that nearly matched the frosty tint of his eyes.

“Mornin', Joe,” Johnny acknowledged; neither man offered to shake hands. He nodded down at the black blare of the headline at the newsstand counter: fighter slain in tavern holdup. “This little caper got the brass out plowin' up the streets, too?”

“There's a couple of things,” the big man said vaguely. He gestured in the direction of the elevators. “Can we talk upstairs?” Johnny motioned them into an unoccupied cab and took the controls himself. In the elevator the lieutenant spoke again, in dry tones, with the fluid lingual grace of the polished public speaker. “I'd have had Jimmy ask you to drop by the station house, but I thought he might need a warrant if you were having one of your bad days.”

“He has any other kind?” the detective asked solemnly.

The ruddy-faced lieutenant's smile was wintry. “I decided I'd be better off coming over myself.”

Johnny looked over his shoulder as he halted the cab at the sixth floor. “That's a switch, Joe, your bein' able to decide somethin'.” He winked at Detective Rogers. “You always used to have such a hard time makin' up your mind. Like the time we was holed up for three days in an ice storm in a cottage in the Pyrenees, an' you couldn't decide whether the mother was better than the daughter.”

The apple cheeks darkened, and the lieutenant's stare passed from Johnny to the wooden-faced detective. “Officially you never heard that, Rogers,” he growled.

Johnny led the way to 615 and unlocked the door. “The trouble with your job nowadays,” he needled, “is that you do too much pitchin' an' not enough catchin'. You ought to drop around more often an' slop a little swill with the rest of us hogs.”

The lieutenant was silent; inside he eyed with grudging appreciation the attractively furnished oversized bed-sitting room, with its wall-to-wall deep pile carpeting and the three-quarter-sized refrigerator tucked neatly in a corner. “Damned if I don't like this a little better each time I see it,” he said gruffly. He ran an appraising eye over the gray-green Segonzac on the opposite wall, and the corners of his hard mouth turned upward. “I'm a cinch to outlive you, Johnny, the way you pace yourself. Why don't you will this to me, the same way Willie Martin left it to you?”

“An' give you a motive for gettin' rid of me, along with an inclination? I might not fit in a round hole, Joe, but I'm not that square, either. I don't own nothin' here yet, anyway; the new owners have gone to court over that clause in the will.”

Lieutenant Dameron raised an eyebrow. “I thought Willie went to a little trouble to plug that loophole?”

“That's why these corporations have lawyers.” Johnny nodded at the leather-covered armchairs. “Park it, you guys.” He seated himself on the edge of the bed. “These people caught the estate lawyers so hungry for a buyer they agreed to a transfer without prejudice as to the clause favorin' me, which meant they were entitled to go into court an' try to tip it over.”

“And you've got the expense of fighting it?”

Johnny shook his head. “Willie even thought of that. If it's contested, my legal expenses come right off the top of the estate, just like the room and the furnishings here.” He looked over at the two men in their chairs. “They'd have held still for the furnishings-it was the room that bugged them. Nobody ever heard of a hotel room bein' willed to someone before. They can't find any precedents.”

“They haven't tried to buy you off?” Detective Rogers asked.

“They tried,” Johnny admitted. “I blew that fuse for them, fast. If Willie wanted me to have this place, nobody's gonna muscle me out of it.”

Lieutenant Dameron looked around the room reminiscently. “You and Willie,” he said softly. “God help me, the gray hair you two gave me. In an operation that above all things demanded discretion-” He shook his head in remembered disbelief.

“Discretion didn't always get the job done, Joe,” Johnny replied. “Which brings us up to right now. What you bein' discreet about these days?”

“This business this morning-”

“Before we get into the double talk,” Johnny interrupted, “just what do you think actually happened over at the Rollin' Stone?”

“The newspapers had a rather full account, I thought. A bit sensationalized, but of course that's what sells newspapers.”

“Joe, this is Johnny. You don't believe the newspapers, or what the hell are you doing sittin' here?”

“There were certain aspects-”

“Bag it, Joe. Tell it to someone who doesn't know you.”

The gray eyes examined him frostily. “We have time to listen to your version, if you have one.”

“You won't like it. My version is that the kid was murdered by two gunmen sent to do that specific job.”

“You know you can't prove that!” The heavy voice was edged. “I just can't buy it, Johnny.”

“So don't buy it,” Johnny replied indifferently. “It'll sell itself to you. Just remember I said so.”

“I hope I don't have to warn you about withholding information,” the big man said icily. “I want to know what you know. Right now.”

Johnny laughed shortly. “You always get what you want?”

Lieutenant Dameron's hands closed down tightly on the arms of his chair. “By God, I'll-”

“Easy, Joe, easy.” Johnny rose to his feet leisurely and looked down at the man in the chair. “What did you bring over here for me? Not a damn echo, even. That's why for you I got nothing, in spades. I don't work one-way streets.” He made a production of looking at his watch. “You're abusin' my hospitality, boys.”

Detective Rogers rose, looking uncomfortable, but the steely gray eyes of the man in the armchair glared up at Johnny for five seconds before the lieutenant heaved himself to his feet. Without a word he strode to the door and flung it open. In the second that Johnny had Jimmy Rogers' sole attention he silently mouthed, “Come on back.” He received a quick affirmative nod before the slender man followed his superior from the room.

Johnny closed the door behind them and lit a cigarette. He stretched out on his back on the bed, and thought about the reason for the visit, never disclosed. Experimentally, he blew smoke rings at the ceiling; but, seeing they were all lopsided, he gave it up. He had stubbed out the cigarette when the knock came at the door, and he admitted a weary-looking Detective James Rogers.

“Man, oh, man!” the sandy-haired man exclaimed feelingly. “I know you don't like him, but do you mind making your point some time when I'm not around to get the rebuttal?” He probed at both ears.

“He's gone?”

“Fortissimo, he's gone. Now why am I back up here?”

“You know why you're back up here. I'll tell you what I wouldn't tell that big monkey just slammed outta here. From you just possibly I might get somethin' one of these days. Now listen.” Naming no names, Johnny swiftly gave his interpretation of the fixed fight and the deaths in the tavern as he now reconstructed them.

“Where did you learn all this?” Detective Rogers bristled.

“You practicin' to sound like Dameron? You ought to know there's people will talk to me won't talk to the police.”

“We'd had rumors on that fight,” the detective admitted. “The lieutenant's afraid of an investigation. Every time there's an investigation of a sporting event, the police department winds up in the middle of a political weight-throwing contest.”

“So good old Joe was out scoutin' the ground figurin' the safest way to lean?”

“It's hardly likely there'll be an investigation now, with the boy dying a hero, as far as the newspapers are concerned. Who wants to try to make any hay bucking those headlines?” Detective Rogers looked at Johnny thoughtfully. “I can't understand how you get away with it with the lieutenant.”

Johnny grinned. “You think I got somethin' on him? Not a damn thing, except in his own mind. Joe fought a good, tight war over there, but the rat holes we was sent to plug had to be handled in a way sometimes you wouldn't want to mention at a political rally. Joe knows that I don't give a damn, an' he's afraid I'll open my mouth in the wrong place an' run his dirty underwear up to the top of the mast along with mine.” He kept his tone casual. “Say, you know anyone named Munson?”

“Only Al Munson, Lonnie Turner's press agent,” the detective said absently. “He fixes me up with a ticket every now and then.” His attention sharpened. “What's with Munson?”

“Had a message from someone by that name,” Johnny said easily. “That's probably the one. Turner promoted that fight, didn't he? It's probably about the check for the kid's end.”

“Roketenetz hadn't been paid?”

“Hadn't been time, Jimmy.”

“He had thirty-eight hundred and a few dollars on him when we-brought him in,” the slender man said slowly.

Johnny whistled. “You just this minute held your own fight investigation, didn't you? Not that there was ever any doubt, if you saw it. This Gidlow-the kid's manager — haven't I heard that he's in Turner's pocket?”

“I've heard stories.” Jimmy Rogers tugged at an ear lobe exasperatedly. “I'd like to talk to Gidlow. I've got lines out for him all over town, but he doesn't show.”

“You sure he's not upstairs?”

“He'd better not be upstairs. I've called up there fifteen times since two-thirty this morning.”

“Jake's got a gizmo disconnects his phone when he doesn't want to be bothered,” Johnny said. He removed his wallet and from a hidden compartment took out the illegal brass passkey. “You could scratch the suite off your entries right now, Jimmy.”

“I wouldn't have a leg to stand on,” Detective Rogers said.

“I'll open the door, an' if he's in there I'll double talk him about the floor below complainin' about noise. Once you know he's there you can make him open up.”

“I'm getting into bad habits associating with you,” the slender man said wryly. “All right. Come on, before I change my mind.”

Johnny led the way cheerfully to the service elevator, ran them up to the tenth floor and anchored the cab with a slab of wood. With Detective Rogers a self-conscious dozen yards away, Johnny knocked sharply three times on the door of 1020, the corner room entrance to Jake Gidlow's three-room suite. At the pervading silence he glanced sardonically at the detective and removed the key from his pocket.

“Let's give this some semblance of legitimacy,” the detective said quickly. He advanced upon the door and repeated Johnny's triple knock. “Gidlow! This is Detective Rogers! Open this door!”

“You an' your conscience,” Johnny grunted in disgust.

“You'll never get a peep outta him now.” With his toe he pointed at the base of the door. “See that?”

The sandy-haired man stared down at the bright strip of light in evidence under the sill. “So he's in there,” he said softly. From an inside breast pocket he removed a small oilskin package, which resolved itself into a two-hinged, three-sided magnifying glass of varying strengths. He knelt swiftly and applied it to the keyhole.

“Now there's a handy gadget,” Johnny approved.

“Room brightly lighted,” Detective Rogers said, and was silent. He rose finally with a peculiar expression on his face. “There's a thread running from the door to a corner I can't see.”

“A thread?” Johnny repeated incredulously. “Mmmm- from the back of the room a half-choked shotgun would get most of the door area.” Detective Rogers looked doubtful. “Okay,” Johnny continued rapidly. “It's a bum guess, you think. Let's take the guess out of it. Get down on the floor over there, out of line.” He dropped down himself, and bellied up to the wall. He reached up, inserted his key gently and looked over at the prostrate overcoated figure on the other side of the door. “Here we go, Jimmy,” he said softly, and, with his left hand, the only part of him in front of the door, turned the key and pushed in the same movement. He snatched his hand back at once as the door swung open.

Silence. Complete and utter silence…

Johnny pushed himself away from the wall and scrambled to his knees, but Detective Rogers was already up and inside. When Johnny reached him the slender man was already bending over the purple-faced gargoyle half sitting, half reclining in a corner of the upholstered divan, one hand precariously balancing an expensive-looking camera on the broad divan arm.

“You were right about one thing,” the detective said crisply. “I'll never get a peep out of him now.” He lifted an arm and watched it fall back rigidly. “Dead twelve to eighteen hours,” he said quietly, and walked to the telephone.

CHAPTER IV

Lonnie Turner's office was in the Emerson Building, a block off Eighth Avenue on Fifty-third, and Johnny emerged from the third-floor elevator directly into a tastefully decorated green-and-gold waiting room complete with platinumed receptionist.

He looked around him approvingly. “Lonnie got this whole floor?” he asked the good-looking girl behind the rectangular limed oak desk.

“Mr. Turner has this floor,” she agreed pleasantly. Johnny admired the white blouse and the expanse of trim wool suit visible from his side of the desk; this girl was no midget. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Turner, sir?”

“No appointment.”

The girl managed to look doubtful, glance at her watch and reach for the phone at the same time. “The name, please?”

“Johnny Killain,” he told her. “What's yours?”

The look she directed upward changed from surprise to amusement as she intercepted his eyes upon the well-shaped, ringless fingers of the capable-looking left hand upon the phone. “The name is Bartlett, Mr. Killain. Stacy.”

“Miss Stacy Bartlett.” Johnny lingered over the syllables. “I like that.”

“Thank you.” She said it demurely. Johnny examined cameo features which were no miniature, large brown eyes, full mouth and a clean sweeping nose that was an asset to the prominent cheekbones slightly orientalizing the eyes.

“The hair doesn't match the coloring,” he told her after an inspection of the conservatively cut but dazzlingly blonde upsweep.

Her answering smile was unruffled. She had a very nice smile, Johnny thought. “I can't get used myself to that first look in the mirror mornings, Mr. Killain, but when I went looking for work it really seemed almost a requirement.”

“You a Polska, Stacy? How long since you run barefoot on the farm?”

“I'm a Polska,” she admitted. “And it hasn't been so very long.” She leaned back in her chair and took another look at him. “You know, I've been here three months now, and you're the first person to notice that I'm Polish or from the country. I was beginning to feel quite citified, with the help of the hair.”

“It's a class job,” Johnny conceded, “but it's not you. An' Stacy-that had to be Stacia when you were in pigtails.”

She smiled her agreement. “Stacia didn't seem to go with the hair.” The brown eyes appraised him coolly as she lifted the receiver. “Without appointment, a Mr. John Killain to see you, Mr. Turner.”

Now I'd give a Confederate dollar bill to know just what wheels that introduction started turning, Johnny thought.

Stacy was still on the phone. “Yes. Right away, Mr. Turner.”

“So I'm in like Flynn?” he asked the girl as she opened the center drawer of her desk and removed a small key ring.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied, a blonde eyebrow quirked gracefully. “I'll have to let you in, since Monk isn't here.” She pushed back from the desk. “It's through this door, and straight-”

“Did you say Monk?” Johnny asked sharply. When she turned to look at him in surprise he held up a hand negatively. “Never mind. Excuse the interruption.” He followed her to the three identical heavy-hinged doors at the rear of the reception room and nodded at the keys in her hand. “Lonnie expectin' a raid?”

“All kinds of people call on Mr. Turner,” she said gravely as she unlocked the left-hand door. She turned in time to catch his careful assessment of the woolen suit.

“Nice,” he told her, and she colored faintly. He measured her with his eyes. “About five-ten? Vitamins should take you, kid. How much you weigh?”

“One-forty-nine.” She nibbled ruefully at her lower lip. “Honestly, I don't know why I'm being so-truthful!” She examined him again as though trying to find the answer in his appearance.

“Nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.” Her color rose still higher at this skeptical look. “Well, nearly-”

“Cocktails tomorrow after work?” At her silence he grinned at her. “Ice cream sodas?”

“I'm not a child,” she replied with dignity. “If I go, I think I'd like to try the cocktail.”

“You haven't before? Well, you got to start apprenticin' to be an adult sometime,” Johnny agreed. “What time you get off here?”

“Four-thirty.”

“I'll be stage-door Johnny downstairs at four-thirty tomorrow.”

She nodded as though she were still a little surprised at the whole idea. A faint line of puzzlement appeared between the sleek brows. “Do you-are you usually so impetuous, Mr. Killain?”

“Johnny,” he reminded her. “An' it depends on the provocation.”

He watched the renewed tide of color roll up from beneath the prim white blouse as without another word she opened the door, which eased back silently on its heavy hinges. He blew her a kiss from just inside as the door closed behind him. He listened to the solid-sounding chunk with which it fitted into the sill again, and he shook his head. Take a tank to breach that baby…

He looked around expectantly at the small, brightly lighted room, which didn't have a stick of furniture in it. The walls and ceiling were a pale green, and the only break in the monotonous expanse was a single-paned opaque window high up on the opposite wall. A lookout, Johnny thought. One-way glass. His eyes were still upon it when beneath the window a door, painted the same pale green and set so flush with the wall as to seem a part of it, opened quietly, and Johnny's expectations were realized as a squat man in a dark business suit stepped through.

“Well, well, Monk!” Johnny greeted him elaborately. “Small world, huh? You screenin' the admissions here? I always did wonder what you did for a livin', besides escortin' shysters.”

“So now you know.” The squat man stooped swiftly and began a light-patting manual examination of Johnny's slacks and sport coat from ankles to shoulders, front and back, with particular attention to hips and armpits.

“You think you know me that well?” Johnny asked mildly.

Monk didn't reply. Stepping back from Johnny, he raised his voice and addressed the window in the wall ahead of them. “No iron,” he said clearly, and motioned Johnny ahead of him. They waited at the front wall until the door silently opened inward. Electric, Johnny decided. Or electronic. From the doorway he glanced upward casually. The observation post was enclosed; the man behind the one-way glass who operated the door below upon an all-clear was not visible. And his one-way glass, Johnny realized, permitted him to see every movement in the room-except straight beneath him.

“Let's go, Killain,” Monk said impatiently. “Third door on the right inside. Walk right in.”

“Sure,” Johnny said soothingly. “You put everyone through this windmill?”

“We know who to do it to.” The dark face was arrogant.

“Is that right?” With the sound of his voice still in the air, Johnny turned slightly and hammered a solid muscle-punch to Monk's right arm. The squat man's mouth opened and closed, soundlessly; his features turned gray as he sagged against the door frame. Johnny reached quickly beneath a wide lapel, removed a snub-nosed revolver from the holster slung right-to-left across Monk's body and dropped it into his own jacket pocket.

Monk gamely pulled himself off the door jamb as he tried to recover; he lowered his head to charge. In the split second before momentum developed Johnny reached out and took the straining neck in his right hand, fending off wild swings with his left. Monk thrashed valiantly in the constricting grip, and then Johnny's searching thumb moved over a quarter inch and found the pressure point he sought. Monk's eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible, and he slumped loosely in Johnny's grasp.

Johnny eased him floorward quietly, listening for investigatory sounds overhead, but the little scuffle had apparently attracted no attention. He pushed the still figure back inside the bare room, and, as he had expected, when he cleared the inner side of the opened door it swung back into the wall by itself, eerily silent.

He entered briskly through the third door on the right and realized immediately he was in Lonnie Turner's private office. The decor was impressive, lavish, lush. The carpeting was luxuriantly thick, the lighting indirect and subdued. The promoter's desk was a massive mahogany monument, the four pastel telephones neatly arranged in its center its only touch of color. The chairs scattered liberally throughout the room were overstuffed armchairs.

Johnny eyed the huge room; despite the presence of five men in it, including himself, it by no means gave the impression of being crowded.

From behind the big desk Lonnie Turner lifted a casual hand and pointed to a chair. He was a well-set-up individual, not quite so wide in the shoulders as the carefully tailored suit suggested. His face was healthily tanned, its apparent youthfulness belied only by the near-white hair combed straight back from his high forehead. His mouth was a thin, straight line, and a cigar stub smoldered between the clenched fingers of his beringed right hand.

“With you in a minute, Killain,” the promoter said easily. His attention was given the man standing before his desk, a middle-aged, dapper-looking specimen with pink cheeks and rimless eyeglasses. Two men sat to the right of the big desk; both were fat-one corpulent and pasty-faced, a belly set on legs, and the other larded up over what Johnny decided had once been an athletic frame. The ex-athlete had a pepper-and-salt crew cut and protruding teeth, which gave his smile the appearance of a slightly cynical rabbit.

In the little silence Lonnie Turner's eyes wandered back to Johnny as though conscious that he was remiss in his duties as host. “You know everyone?” He nodded across the desk. “Doc McDevitt, of the commission staff.” He flapped a hand at the cynical rabbit. “Ed Keith, of the Chronicle.” The cigar stub leveled at Pasty Face. “Al Munson, my publicist.”

Johnny exchanged nods with the group, his gaze lingering on Al Munson as the promoter leaned forward over his desk and planted his elbows upon it firmly. “Now, Doc. You were saying-”

“I've said it, Lonnie,” Dr. McDevitt said drily. “I'll be running along now.”

“Just a second, Doc.” Lonnie Turner lounged back deeply in his padded chair, his hands locked idly behind his head. He looked the picture of indolent ease, but the firecracker voice spoke only in exclamation points. “You realize good matches don't grow on trees? I need Brubaker! I need him like bread!”

The pink-cheeked man shook his head decisively. “I can't let him fight, Lonnie.”

“Do I have to say it again, Doc? He's half of the biggest attraction I can hope to put on this winter!”

The dapper-looking doctor removed his glasses and twirled them in his hand; he looked from the promoter to Al Munson, who looked uncomfortable. “You were listening when I told you that Brubaker had a semidetached retina?”

“Semi, shmemi. Probably aren't three fighters in the country without semidetached retinas. Who complains? Not the fighters!”

“Not the promoters, certainly,” Dr. McDevitt said sharply. “Perhaps I made a mistake trying to be nice and letting you know personally so that you could change your plans. I could have called Keith here and let you read it in the Chronicle, you know.”

Al Munson was on his feet instantly. “Lonnie didn't mean it the way it sounded, Phil,” he said smoothly. “He's upset, naturally, at the idea of losing the match. He doesn't expect you to do anything you can't do. Do you, Lonnie?”

At the pointed question the man behind the desk grunted something that might have been anything. He scowled, rubbed a hand over his chin and leveled a finger at Al Munson. “Can we get that eye certified?” he demanded.

“It had better be by a good man,” the pink-cheeked doctor said grimly.

“All this is off the record, Ed,” Al Munson said patiently.

“It had damn well better be off the record!” Lonnie Turner barked nastily. “Damn it, Jake could have gotten the certification-”

“Now that you've got everyone mad, Lonnie, how about a little sense?” Al Munson asked agreeably. He smiled placatingly at the others. “A diplomat he's not, but he doesn't mean-”

He broke off sharply as Monk charged into the room, closely followed by a gangly, tweed-suited man with a puzzled look on his face and a hand out of sight beneath a tweedy lapel.

At sight of Johnny in his chair the thick-set Monk changed direction in mid-stride and pulled up in front of him. “You-” he said deeply, and motioned with his head. “Outside! Move!” Dark, angry blood suffused his battered features, and the half-clenched hands at his sides trembled with rage.

“What the hell is this?” Lonnie Turner's voice cut like the rasp of a file. “What's the matter with you, Monk?” His hard stare shifted to the tweed-suited man. “You, Zip! Get the hell back on the door!” Zip departed hurriedly without ever having said a word, and the promoter turned back to the furious Monk. “Well? Can you talk?”

“He had a little accident outside just now,” Johnny interjected easily. He removed Monk's revolver from his pocket, tossed it lightly in the air, caught it by the short barrel and returned it to the pocket.

The squat man crouched. “I'll show you, you wise-”

“Monk!” The promoter's voice was a roar. “What the bell happened?”

Unconsciously Monk's hand went to his neck. “This-this character conned me outta my gun.”

His employer looked at him. “He conned you, Monk?”

“So he dropped me!” Monk flared irascibly. “He couldn't do it again in a thousand years!” He whirled on Johnny. “Gimme that gun, Killain!”

“Where I'll give it to you they'll do the extraction with forceps,” Johnny told him positively, and came up on the arms of his chair as Monk started for him.

“Hold it!” Lonnie Turner's voice rang with authority. He looked across his desk at the dapper little doctor, who was staring at Johnny as though at some strange animal. “Doc,” the promoter said glibly, “you delivered the message to Garcia, and I thank you.” He waited.

“Ah… yes,” Dr. McDevitt said reluctantly. He replaced the rimless glasses and examined Johnny again. “I'll be- ah-running along.” He smiled carefully. “I trust I'll not be missing anything.” At the door he turned for a final look around before departing, and when it closed after him Johnny was on his feet, watching Monk.

“None of that in here!” the promoter ordered flatly. “You hear me, Monk?”

“I hear you,” Monk mumbled sulkily.

“All right, then.” Lonnie Turner's tone turned silky. “Now what's your business here, Killain, besides troublemaking?”

Johnny's voice had a honed-down razor edge. “I want the check for the kid's end of the Williams fight.”

“I see.” The staccato tone softened still further as the promoter leaned back in his chair and looked up at Johnny from beneath semiclosed eyelids. “That purse money could be held up.”

“Don't give me that crap, Turner.” Johnny edged forward. “Purse money is held up when the commission acts immediately. Any investigation now will be at the criminal level.”

Lonnie Turner nodded slowly. “Nice of you to instruct me in my business,” he said pleasantly. He slid open a desk drawer and removed a green check, which he placed face down on the side of his desk. “Gidlow had a claim against this check, of course; his estate will have it now. I believe he'd advanced Roketenetz money, also.”

“He's got paper for it, of course,” Johnny said ironically.

“Some transactions in this business are a little informal,” the promoter said smoothly. “Between manager and fighter.”

“I'll personally guarantee Gidlow's estate no payoff on anything that isn't in writing,” Johnny informed him harshly.

Lonnie Turner slid still more deeply into his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Do I detect a note of hostility in your tone, Killain?”

“You sure as hell do.”

“May I ask why?”

“Ask Monk here. Ask Munson.”

The promoter's face was bland. “I believe there was a little misunderstanding originally. It's been straightened out.”

“Sure. I'll take that check now.”

“You have status that would permit my turning it over to you?”

“Oh, of course,” Johnny said cheerfully. He removed a power of attorney from his pocket and flipped it at the desk. “I had excellent instructors.”

Lonnie Turner picked up the document and ran through it briefly. When he set it down on the desk he placed the check on top of it casually. “This is small potatoes, Killain. When Gidlow's papers are examined there could be ramifications.”

“There'd better not be,” Johnny said steadily.

A harsh edge crept back into the white-haired man's voice. “And what do you mean by that, exactly?”

Johnny's temper went off-leash. “Exactly this, wise guy. Somebody put the kid in the tank on that fight. Somebody had him killed because they were afraid of his testimony in an investigation. It could have been you. I know a couple of things the police don't, yet, an' if Miss Fontaine has any trouble that I can trace back to you-like this mornin'-I'll do some talkin' in places that'll fetch you right up to the teeth of the buzz saw.”

The man behind the desk stood up slowly, his mouth a slit, his expression withdrawn. He slammed the butt of his cigar into the wastebasket beside his desk, his cold eyes never leaving Johnny's face. “You've somehow got a completely false impression of the situation, Killain. I don't fix fights. My business is promoting them, and any loose talk about fixed fights doesn't help my business. It's just as simple as that.” He pushed the power of attorney and the check across the desk to Johnny. “I'd suggest you take this and get out of here and stop meddling in something that's none of your business.”

“Sally Fontaine's apartment at six in the morning is your business?”

“I've already explained that that was a mistake. A misunderstanding.” The voice deepened. “You've acquired a little dangerous knowledge, Killain. Don't abuse it. Keep your nose out of my affairs.”

“You keep your goddam affairs outta my nose, then,” Johnny told him. He picked up the power of attorney and the check.

Lonnie Turner's eyes narrowed. “You strike me as a pusher, Killain. You don't know when to leave well enough alone. You get in my way and I'll be right in the front row when you get it.”

“Don't get too close to the action, pretty boy. You might get your nose caught in the flywheel.” Johnny turned leisurely to the door, his eyes on Monk, whose eyes were on the man behind the desk. Disappointed, Monk stepped aside.

On the way through the green-walled inspection station Johnny waved to the unseen tweed suit he knew would be behind the one-way window in the wall.

Paul held out the phone to him as Johnny swung off the elevator. “The detective-”

“Rogers?” Johnny picked up the phone. “Yeah, Jimmy?”

“Come on upstairs.”

“Upstairs where, for God's sake?”

“Gidlow's suite. In going through his papers we found a couple of bankbooks, joint accounts in the names of Gidlow and Roketenetz. One of them shows a balance of six hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

“Well, it'll bury him, that and the check I brought back from Turner's,” Johnny said philosophically. “I don't know if he had any insurance or not. I should ask Sally, but I don't like-”

“The second bankbook,” Detective Rogers interrupted, “shows a balance of one hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars.”

There was a silence. “Take another look at the decimal point, Jimmy,” Johnny said finally.

“I've looked, four times. One hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars.”

“Well, what do you know?” Johnny murmured softly. “What in the hell do you know? Shove over, investigator — I'm on the way.”

CHAPTER V

Johnny sat alongside Detective Rogers on the luxurious divan in Jake Gidlow's suite, with Lieutenant Dameron's beet-red, silver-stubbled features studying them impassively from across the room.

“You need a new make-up man, Joe,” Johnny informed the big man solicitously. “You're showin' your age lately.”

“I'm off today,” the lieutenant replied. “Officially. The taxpayers be damned.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What about these bankbooks?”

“They're on the level?” Johnny queried, still not quite believing, and at the lieutenant's confirming nod he shook his head slowly. “Who gets the gelt?”

Lieutenant Dameron glanced at the silent Detective Rogers. “I've made a couple of telephone calls,” the latter admitted. “The lawyers are going to make a fortune on this one. It comes down to the time of death of the two deceased, Gidlow and Roketenetz. The police timetable at the moment is that Gidlow died first, by roughly twelve hours. If that held up in civil court, the joint account rights revert to Roketenetz and, upon his subsequent death, to Roketenetz's heirs.”

“Roketenetz's heirs-” Johnny echoed. So far as he knew Sally and the kid had been alone in the world, the principal reason it had hit her so hard. She'd mothered him for years. “So Sally's an heiress.” The idea took a little getting used to, he decided.

“She could be,” Detective Rogers said cautiously. “The man I talked to, though, wouldn't say positively. He said that it primarily depends upon the established time of death, but that there are other complicating factors.”

“Sounds like a lawyer himself,” Johnny commented. “If there weren't any, they'd contrive a few.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at his shoes thoughtfully before looking up at Lieutenant Dameron again. “Where in the hell did that kind of money come from, Joe? It wasn't the kid's. He never had but one fight grossed him twenty-five hundred, an' I doubt he netted half of that.”

“So it was Gidlow's money, then?” Lieutenant Dameron sounded only mildly interested.

Johnny frowned. “I never figured Jake for any kind of real money. Jake was an operator-in an' out of a dozen shady deals a week. He'd rather beat you out of a hundred than pick it up on the sidewalk. This sounds like way too much for him.” He waved a hand at the rooms about them. “An' don't let the suite fool you-I've heard Jake brag many a time that it was a tax-deductible business expense. Say, doesn't Gidlow have a wife, or some heirs of his own?”

“No wife.” The lieutenant's tone was firm. “We've checked. He left a will, though.”

“He did?” Johnny straightened on the divan. “Who benefits?”

“Gentleman named Alonzo Turner. Solely.”

Johnny whistled softly through his teeth. “Lonnie Turner! Maybe this thing begins to make a little sense, now.” He jumped up restlessly and paced the length of the room before wheeling upon the silent lieutenant. “Suppose Jake was holdin' a bunch of cash Lonnie was hidin' from the tax people?”

“We've considered that.” Detective Rogers' voice was brisk. “It seems valid only up to a point. It could have happened that way if Turner thought that, through the will and other strings, he had Gidlow so completely sewed up that he was taking no risk in letting him hold the money; but it breaks down when you come up against the fact of the joint account. It doesn't explain Roketenetz's name on the bankbook.”

“Maybe it does, too,” Johnny argued. “If Lonnie had enough on Jake to be sure Jake couldn't double-cross him, he could've had Jake holdin' for him. But if anything went wrong it was Jake that stood to take the fall, and that wouldn't suit a weasel like Jake at all. Jake could have figured that if he had the kid's name on it, too, he could always claim it's the kid's dough and let him explain where it came from when the day for explanations came. I'd like to bet you Gidlow slapped bank signature cards down in front of the kid an' said sign here, an' here, an' here, an' here.

The little account was the kid's. He never even knew about this other thing.”

“It's a theory,” the sandy-haired man admitted after a moment. He looked at his superior. “The kicker in the deal is that if the money is Turner's, he-or whoever the money belongs to-has no legal claim to it now. A joint account balance goes to the survivor, period, except in a very few cases of a consideration of trust, which I doubt would apply here. I can't see Turner invoking it, for one thing-if this is hidden tax money, whoever stakes a claim to it is in the grease with Internal Revenue. No, sir-the owner of this money will never dare try to claim it.” He looked at Johnny. “There's another factor. If Roketenetz had anything to do with Gidlow's death, he couldn't benefit, and neither could his heirs.”

“If you're earnin' your money, you ought to have the answer to that already,” Johnny told him. “Who did grease the chute for Jake?”

“If I could tell you, I could go home and go to bed.” The slender man yawned and stretched prodigiously. He lowered his arms slowly. “It had aspects of a frame. Gidlow was manually strangled, and the body placed on the divan. The camera was rigged with the thread so that whoever opened the door took a picture of himself without realizing it, since there was no flash and the thread snapped after contact. Very crude.”

“What the hell was so crude about it?” Johnny demanded. “Suppose it had been me whizzed in there. I'd have taken a picture of myself in the doorway of the room of a murdered man, an' never even known it. You think I'd ever have noticed that little bit of thread left on the camera trigger? Like hell I would.”

“You'd probably only have been down to your next-to-last appeal before we noticed it, though,” Detective Rogers said cheerfully. “The truth is mighty, and will prevail, to say nothing of the New York City Police Department.” He removed a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped open its pages. “No sign of forcible entry. We were meant to assume that entry was by key and that a death-reflexive arm movement of the corpse snapped the picture very conveniently upon the murderer's departure.”

“The kid had a key to this suite,” Johnny said slowly.

“It could have been meant for him,” the detective agreed. He looked at Johnny slyly. “Of course, with Gidlow strangled manually, someone as well-known as yourself for talking with their hands could easily have come under suspicion.”

“A situation to which he's not exactly unused,” Lieutenant Dameron rumbled. “Well, are we finished here, Jimmy?”

Detective Rogers rose and bowed elaborately from the waist. “Monsieur, we may not be finish', but we sure as hell are defeat'.”

Johnny laughed, then sobered. “I hope you guys realize both these deaths go right back to that fixed fight.”

“What fixed fight?” the lieutenant inquired blandly.

“Yeah, you're feelin' pretty brave now with no investigation testimony possible from the two principal witnesses. That could be why they're dead.”

“Does that explain the bankbook?” Lieutenant Dameron demanded sharply. He got up out of his chair. “Or why Gidlow twelve hours before Roketenetz?” He turned to the door. “Come on, Jimmy.”

Downstairs in his own room Johnny took down the bourbon bottle thoughtfully and examined the brimful amber contents of the shot glass he then filled. Well, Killain? Why didn't you tell them about finding Monk and the shyster at the door of Sally's apartment before anyone knew Gidlow was dead? Did Lonnie Turner scare you that much into believing you'd better not step on his toes?

Glass in hand, he wandered into the bathroom, and studied his hard-bitten, bronzed features in the mirror. He knew why he hadn't told him. If Turner was as tough as his reputation, it would be just as well to keep Sally out of the foreground so they wouldn't get back at her, rather than Johnny. And from the sound of this thing, Turner had something to protect.

He downed his drink and considered the empty glass. Suppose that Turner knew Gidlow was dead? Or going to be? Turner undoubtedly had a key to the suite, too. Suppose he'd send someone over to check on the cash, or even to retrieve it before Jake went over the dam? All they'd have found was the bankbook. A telephone call about that should have started Lonnie's ulcer working overtime.

A telephone call…

Johnny put down his glass and moved briskly to the phone. “Vic? Can you get me the telephone chits out of the auditor's office for the day Gidlow was killed?”

“Be no problem ordinarily, Johnny,” Vic replied apologetically, “but the police already took them out of here.”

“Okay, boy,” Johnny said shortly, and hung up. He stared at the wall. Great minds…

He sat at a small table in the farthest corner of the dimly lighted Cafe of the Three Sisters and listened to Consuelo Ybarra's professional rendition of gypsy love songs. The surprisingly deep, husky voice from the tiny bandstand did justice and a little bit more to the fiercely passionate nature of her material.

She looked the part, too, Johnny thought; the snug-fitting scarlet sheath that encased the full curves of her body matched the brilliance of her lips, the only touch of color in the pale ivory features. Her blue-black hair was drawn straight back in an artfully careless chignon upon the nape of her small neck, and in the spotlight her bare arms and shoulders were dazzling. Altogether an extremely sophisticated simplicity, Johnny reflected.

He took another swallow of the heavy dark rum in the glass on the table before him. He felt fine-light, loose, and liberal. Consuelo had commented a bit pointedly upon the array of glasses upon the table each time she returned to it, but Johnny's mood had soared too high to be blunted. It had been a pleasant evening, and he had plans for its remainder.

He glanced around the quiet room. The girl was in the final moments of her last show, and she had really enlisted her audience. The slim dark men and their women-slender and fiery or plump and placid-sat entranced. Dark heads bowed in evoked remembrance. There must be no happy gypsies, Johnny mused; the songs delivered in the throbbing voice bitterly lamented unrequited love and tearful farewell.

When Consuelo finally curtsied to the room the applause was not overloud, but on the way back to Johnny's corner the scarlet sheath was delayed at table after table for a word of commendation. Johnny was on his feet with her chair withdrawn when she reached him, and she sank into it gratefully.

“You do that well,” he told her seriously. “The accompaniment could have been a little bit better.”

“The accompaniment is as good as the voice,” she replied indifferently, accepting the cigarette he offered her.

“Who does your arrangements?”

“A legacy from my ex-husband.” She smiled, a self-mocking smile of the lips but not the eyes. “I shouldn't say it like that, really, because they're exceptionally good arrangements, and the material itself is timeless.”

“You do them well,” he said for the second time.

The full lips thinned, and he could see the line of her jaw. “Once I dreamt that I would be the best. The greatest.” She smiled, in self-disparagement. “It seems so simple when one is young. Yet I came closer than most; I had the energy, and the ruthlessness.” The smile turned wry. “I had little voice, actually, but I persevered. I found a whisky-soaked, hunchbacked wreck of a man with a genius for musical arrangement, and I married him. In more sober moments he worked with me, hand-tailoring the arrangements to what voice I had. With him I just possibly might have made it to the top, but then he discovered a girl with a real voice who challenged the drunken artistry in him-”

She spread her hands, palms up. “The story of my life, senor. He left me flat. At my age I know it should be difficult to think of myself as in a backwater, yet I find that it is so. I sing here, and I wait. I tell myself that something will happen some day that will again push me out into the mainstream of life.”

She looked over at the bar as Johnny sat in silence. “You must have charmed Manuel, that he is not here to escort me.”

“I'll deputize,” Johnny announced.

“To the tenement steps only, then,” she warned him. She looked significantly at the empty glasses on the table. “I mean no offense, but I have no need for a rum cavalier.” She rose to her feet. “I'll speak to Doug, the manager, and then we can leave.”

Johnny watched appreciatively the tic-toe of her hips beneath the tight material of her gown as she crossed the floor to the manager's office. He felt a fine inner glow, and he did not think it was rum-induced.

“There's a taxi at the front door,” she told him as she returned to the table and picked up her bag. In the cab she favored him with the same self-mocking smile he had seen previously. “This is really quite an occasion. My brother does not permit club patrons as escorts, even for a once-married sister. He is old-fashioned. You are only the second so favored. Do you know Rick Manfredi, the gambler?”

“I know who he is.”

“He impossible, I suppose, but fun, in a way. The little boy type. Difficult to explain if you don't know him. You might like him.”

“Sure,” Johnny said carefully, and they rode in silence through the narrow, dirty streets. Consuelo leaned forward to speak quickly as the cab pulled into the curb in front of the tenement. “You won't need to get out. I'll run right on up.

“I can't leave you out here on the street,” Johnny said in his most reasonable voice. “Manuel'd come after me with his dullest knife if someone jumped you on the stairs.” He handed the driver a bill. “I'll walk you up.”

“Then hold the cab, at least!” she warned him. “You'll never get another in this neighborhood this time of night.”

“Occupational hazard,” he told her, and took her arm. In the light of the lower stairway he could see a faint dimple of amusement in an ivory cheek. In the narrow stairwell he relinquished her arm, and she walked up steadily ahead of him. He was not unaware of the landscape immediately before his eyes as he climbed.

“It keeps me fit, this stair climbing,” she announced, and with no warning broke into a run in the middle of the fifth floor stairway. She fled light-footedly up the balance of the steps and across the hallway, and when Johnny belatedly arrived at the door of 5-B she was looking out at him coolly over the chain latch. “Good night, Johnny,” she said with only a touch of breathlessness after her run. “You can start testing the occupational hazard.”

In the room shadows behind her he could make out little more than the shape of her features, but there was no mistaking the mocking lilt in her husky voice. “Now you're a playful little jigger, aren't you?” he grumbled, reaching inside and securing a handhold on the end of the chain latch bolted to the door. He bent his wrist, and with a scree-e-e the metal came free of the door with half a panel of wood attached. He dropped the piece, and it jangled lightly as it fell to the end of the chain. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“It seems a little juvenile to scream,” Consuelo Ybarra said cautiously in the silence that had fallen.

“That's what I thought, too,” Johnny agreed, and reached for her. In the room's half light he was watching her feet, wary of the inch-long high heels, and the full-armed slap delivered from the near-darkness surprised him and rocked his head on his shoulders. He whistled and stepped back to wait for the ringing in his ear to die out. “You sure Manuel did the fightin' in this family, kid?” he asked her, shuffling closer as she backed away.

“Have a care!” she warned breathlessly, and fell victim to the left arm feint as the right hand caught and spun her. He boosted her aloft easily as he turned to the bedroom doorway, and before she could struggle he had shot-putted her eight feet to the center of the bed. She bounced high and came up in a twisting roll as a hand flashed into her bosom and emerged with a glint of steel. “I will teach you that I am not a whore,” she said calmly. “When I get off this bed, I will kill you.”

His wrist slap sent the knife spinning as he dropped down beside her. “When you get off this bed, girl, you're welcome.” His hands came down upon the tensed vitality of her bare shoulders, and it was only seconds before the shoulders relaxed. He rolled her over swiftly and pried off her high-heeled shoes.

“You are one big fool!” she murmured languidly, marveling. “So much importance you attach to this?” She lifted an arm lazily. “The zipper is under here…”

She stirred in the crook of his arm as he lay at peace in the perfumed darkness, and he turned his head. “Cigarette?”

“It is not important.” Her voice was quiet, relaxed.

He half raised himself on an elbow. “Put on the light. I want to see.”

“No light,” she said immediately. “It's not decent, between strangers. And you are old enough to know that all cats are gray.”

“Yeah, but there's gray, and dove-gray, and silver-gray, and pearl-gray, and dapple-gray. Put on the light.”

“No light,” she said again. “Your hands can be your eyes.”

Delicately he traced the line of satiny curves as he listened to the faint sibilance of her breathing. “Only one reason I'm lettin' you get away with it,” he told her. “I'm a believer in leavin' somethin' for the next time.” The big hands pulled her toward him. “Right now, excuse me while I play that record again.”

A half block from the hotel Johnny set himself instinctively as a black overcoat stepped from a doorway and tapped him on the arm. Johnny shook his head warningly at Detective James Rogers standing alongside him on the windy street. “You want to be a little careful how you do that, Jimmy. I'm half expectin' at least one guy to bounce out of a doorway at me.”

“Monk Carmody?” the slender man queried shrewdly, and took Johnny's arm without waiting for a reply. “Come on. The coffees are on me.”

The detective sat down heavily in the back booth of the all-night restaurant. He took off his hat, placed it in the booth beside him and rasped a palm over his chin, “You went over to Turner's?” Johnny asked him.

“I did.” Detective Rogers grimaced. “Mr. Turner has an inflated opinion of the water he draws in this town.”

“He could fool you, boy. A mug like me stands a better chance of twistin' his tail than someone standin' on a political ladder like you.”

“The police department is not political, Johnny.”

“You keep up that Jimmy-in-Wonderland gag an' you'll be tipped right outta your crib one of these days.”

“You'll pardon me if I disagree?” Detective Rogers looked at his watch. “Let's see if I made a mistake paying for your coffee. Do you know Rick Manfredi?”

“I know the name,” Johnny admitted cautiously.

“One of the sharper gamblers. It's around town that he went for a bundle on the kid to dump in the fourth. As you know, it went to the sixth, and Manfredi got burned. I'd like to know where he got his original steer. He's young, tough and smart. Kind of a lone wolf. Not too popular.” The hazel eyes across the booth studied Johnny. “I'd like to talk to him, and I can't find him.”

“You mean those four-bit stoolies you guys use can't turn him up for you? Now that's a shame.”

“I thought you'd think so.” The detective pointed with his coffee spoon. “I thought you might be able to reach him.”

“All right-suppose I get to talk to him. What's the pitch?”

“I knew you wouldn't forget I keep you in the very best coffee. You know where to find him?”

“I might just happen to have a string on him.”

“I wouldn't doubt it,” Detective Rogers said drily. “I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.” He leaned back in the booth, lines in his face and the hazel eyes bloodshot. “How do you fix a fight, Johnny? Seriously?”

“If you're an amateur, you get hold of the fighter an' try to talk him into doin' a little business. Or scare him. If you're a pro, the Jake Gidlows in the business'll save you the trouble, for a fee.”

“The lieutenant would say that it's a good line, but you can't prove it,” the detective observed. “Who'd need to be in on it? Rock bottom?”

“The fighter. The fighter's manager. The fighter's trainer, possibly. The other manager, probably. At least one heavy-money party. That's basic. You can go for yourself from there.”

The sandy-haired man nodded. “Of the line-up, on a double cross the heavy-money party stands to feel the biggest bruise.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Which brings us back to Manfredi.”

“It does, for a fact,” Johnny agreed.

“The fighter's dead. The manager's dead. The trainer, Terry Chavez, is another one I've been unable to find. Williams' manager, Carl Ecklund, is out of town, nobody seems to know where. A nice, cozy freeze-out.” Detective Rogers buttoned his coat. “I wouldn't want to delay you. Bon voyage.”

“Wait a minute. What's the pitch I feed Manfredi?”

“Why don't you tell him you're interested in a do-it-yourself kit on how to fix a fight? That ought to reach him.”

“About the same time he reaches me. Is this guy on the muscle?”

“I expect to receive a firsthand report from you on that point, among others.”

“Why the hell I ever listen to you-” Johnny followed the slender man from the restaurant. Detective Rogers turned east, toward Sixth Avenue; Johnny turned west down Forty-fifth and headed for Mickey Tallant's.

CHAPTER VI

Johnny leaned his elbow impatiently on Mickey Tallant's mahogany bar and pushed an empty glass around in the wet circles on the bar surface with a stiff forefinger. He caught the tavern owner's eye as the Irishman trotted heavily up and down the duckboards assuaging the before-closing thirst of his customers. “Thought you said he made it every night, Mick?”

“So he makes a liar outta me.” Mickey Tallant wiped off his streaming red face with the skirt of his apron. “I don't remember the last time he missed.”

Johnny shrugged, “Well, the hell with it. I've waited long enough.” He pushed away from the bar. “See you, Mick.” He was within half a dozen paces of the front door when it opened to admit Manuel Ybarra. “Hey, boy!” Johnny greeted him. “Been waitin' for you.”

A curious expression flitted over the dark features. “You took Consuelo home? She is all right?”

“Sure she's all right,” Johnny agreed, and mentally ground to a halt as he recalled the condition of the chain latch on the Ybarra apartment door. He thrust it aside. Let Consuelo do her own explaining; she was a big girl now. He looked at Manuel more closely. “You look a little shook, amigo.”

“Nothing too much,” the dark man replied with a shrug of the thick shoulders. “A friend of mine was-had an accident. I am jus' from the hospital.”

“Oh. Automobile?”

“No. You have been waiting long?”

“Not too long.” Johnny drew him aside from the traffic around the front door. “You're a friend of Rick Manfredi, Manuel. I'd like to talk to him.”

Manuel studied him soberly. “I do not know about this.”

Johnny grinned. “Another friend of Rick's said she thought I might like him.”

“Consuelo talks too much,” Consuelo's brother said wryly. He appeared to be considering. “I don't think so, my friend. Remember, I have seen you in the tavern that night. You are too much the disposition of the man who energetically climbs the mountain to take the punch at the echo. I want no trouble with Rick.”

“Where's the trouble?” Johnny argued. “I just want to talk to him. Why's he hidin' out?”

“He is not an easy man to put the thumb on. He has an all-night poker game which he moves to a different location each night.” Manuel pursed his lips; he looked at Johnny again, then up at the wall clock, obviously undecided. “If I brought you, he might not speak to you. Rick preaches the minding of the own business.”

“You get me two minutes with him,” Johnny said confidently. “He'll talk to me.”

“At least he can decide for himself,” Manuel acknowledged. “You are ready?”

“Right now.”

“We will need a cab.” The dark man rebuttoned his overcoat. “Tonight the game is downtown.” On the sidewalk he turned north, then east at the first intersection. “More cabs on Seventh,” he said to Johnny over his shoulder. “It's not-”

“Watch it!” Johnny interrupted sharply as two bulky figures stepped out into their path from a tailor shop doorway. The nearer figure shouldered roughly between Manuel and Johnny, herding Johnny to the building wall. “Sit still, pal,” he growled warningly. “It's this one we're gonna talk to.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, and half turned to watch. “Hurry it up, Cy.”

Beyond the overcoated shoulder Johnny could see the shine of brass knuckles as Cy, without speaking a word, swung heavily at Manuel. The blow landed high on his cheekbone, and the dark man staggered backward. When he regained his balance he stood motionless, his hands at his sides, and as Cy moved in on him again Johnny lowered his head and butted the man in front of him, hard, between abdomen and breastbone. The man's breath escaped in a whistling sigh, and he doubled over slowly, twisting into the wall. With his back to it he slithered in little spurts to the ground, his heels making scrabbling noises on the sidewalk. At the sound Cy turned sharply away from Manuel, his broad, pock-marked face alert. “Askin' for it, bud? Any old time.”

He moved lithely toward Johnny, a thin-bladed knife materializing in his left hand. Johnny unbuttoned the two bottom buttons of his overcoat and bounded eighteen inches straight up into the air. From this altitude he unleashed a doubled-up right knee, and the sole of his shoe caught the oncoming Cy explosively at the junction of neck and shoulder and landed him on his back in the street. The recoil slammed Johnny's shoulders back against the wall; fifteen yards away approaching footsteps halted, and two men crossed the street hurriedly. Back on balance, Johnny turned to the man on hands and knees on the sidewalk.

“No!” Manuel exclaimed harshly when he sensed Johnny's intention.

“No?” Johnny barked incredulously. “You crazy?”

The ex-fighter took his arm. “We mus' get away from here,” he said resolutely. “Come.” Reluctantly Johnny permitted himself to be towed down the street; at that hour the few pedestrians were as carefully incurious as the first two, and there was no outcry from behind them. By turning his head Johnny could see the thin trickle of blood oozing from the blue welt on Manuel's impassive face.

“Man, you're outta your head,” Johnny steamed. “With your eyes like they are, how many knucks shots you think you can take before the lights go out for good?”

“I think you know there mus' be a reason,” the dark man replied patiently. He looked at Johnny curiously. “Where did you learn la savate?”

“Marseilles,” Johnny said shortly. “On the street in overcoat weather your hands are no good.”

“My hands, perhaps,” Manuel Ybarra said significantly. At the corner of Seventh Avenue he looked north for a cruising cab. “Never have I seen a more formidable bull in the plaza, my friend.” White teeth flashed in a smile as he turned again, and then the smile faded. “You gored them most prettily, yet almost-” He hesitated-“almost I wish I had been alone.”

He raised an arm, and a block and a half north a cab accelerated and darted toward them at the curb. “But why the sittin' duck act?” Johnny demanded. “You could have taken him.”

“I made a mistake with a dangerous man, amigo. If his men had punched out the little debt on Manuel, it might prevent the unhealthy mind of him from turning to the idea of repayment through Manuel's sister.”

“Is that right?” Johnny said with interest. “That puts you in the same club as a guy I know.” He stepped down from the curb into the cab. “It was Manfredi you made the mistake with?” he asked as the thick-shouldered man crowded in beside him.

“Rick?” Manuel turned to stare in surprise. “Rick is my friend!” He said it proudly. He leaned back in his corner of the cab, dabbling at the purpling bruise on his cheek with a handkerchief. “You meant it of the best, and Manuel Ybarra does not forget,” he said with a flat finality that closed the conversation. The hum of the tires was the only sound in the cab for the balance of the downtown ride.

Johnny rose from the shabby chair in the sitting room of the second-rate hotel suite as Manuel entered from the room beyond with a chubby, moon-faced man with short, curly hair. In the second before the door closed behind them, Johnny had a fleeting glimpse through a smoky haze of intent, soft-hatted men circled about a green-baize table top.

Manuel introduced them. “Rick Manfredi, Johnny Killain.”

Johnny shook a soft, plump hand that retained a surprising firmness in its grip. Manfredi wore an eggshell-white silk shirt with a buttoned-down collar, a bolo tie whose tips glittered with something more than glass, a green velvet smoking jacket, tan slacks and Italian shoes with very pointed toes.

“Glad to meet you, Killain,” the gambler said genially. “Any friend of Manuel's-” He waved a hand. He had a wide, boyish smile, and his youth surprised Johnny; Manfredi must still be in his early twenties, he thought, although the dark eyes in the smooth, olive face looked as though they had been around considerably longer.

The chubby man turned back to Manuel. “I didn't want to ask you inside,” he said in Spanish. “How is he?” He moved to one side to get a better look. “And what's the matter with your face?”

“He is-fair,” Manuel replied in English with a significant glance at Johnny. “The face is nothing.”

“You speak Spanish?” the gambler asked Johnny, surprised. “Yeah?” He smiled broadly. “Good joke on me.” A fleshy hand fumbled in the breast pocket of the smoking jacket and removed a slim panatela. “Try one?” Johnny accepted the cigar and stripped the cellophane from it. Rick Manfredi did the same for its twin after Manuel had refused it. Johnny bowed his head to accept the proffered light from an initialed gold cigar lighter with a big, steady flame. “My mother was Spanish,” Rick Manfredi said almost absently as he rotated the tip of his cigar in the flame, drew on it until he had it going to his satisfaction, and flipped off and pocketed the lighter. He exhaled a thin cloud of blue smoke.

“Good cigar,” Johnny told him.

“Ought to be, what I pay for 'em.” The gambler waved Johnny back into his chair. “You didn't come over here to compliment me on my cigars. What's on your mind?”

“I'm here stoolin' for the police,” Johnny said.

An opaque film seemed to descend over the dark eyes. “Now there's an openin' line I don't seem to have run across before,” Rick Manfredi said softly. His glance at Manuel was expressionless.

“This I have not heard before,” Manuel admitted wryly.

“Jimmy Rogers couldn't locate you,” Johnny said easily.

“I know Rogers,” the chubby gambler said warily. “I'd talk to him. I think.” He stabbed at Johnny with the cigar. “Just where the hell do you wire into Rogers?” he demanded in a hard tone.

“Roketenetz was the kid brother of a good friend of mine. I'd like to find out who killed him. Or had him killed.”

Manfredi looked skeptical until he encountered Manuel's confirming nod. For a count of twenty he thought it over; then his head moved fractionally and Manuel left the room quietly by another door. The gambler seated himself, crossed his legs and made a thorough inspection of Johnny in the chair opposite. “I could be makin' a mistake talkin' to you, Killain,” he said finally. “I wouldn't like to find out later that I had.” The dark eyes were like twin bits of quartz. “If Manuel says you're all right, you're all right, see? But you better be all right.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I don't want no beef with Rogers I can help. Now. How did I get into the act?”

“It's all over town you dropped a ton on the kid to go by the fourth. Since he didn't, it could leave you with an itch.”

“Not that kind of an itch, mister. I'm a gambler, not a hood. I've made losin' bets before. You got me wrong, you an' Rogers, too. I don't go for that kind of action.” He gestured impatiently. “Now this damn fight. I got no use for fights, see? I was touted onto the thing, an' I got burned. I should've known better. That's all there is to it.”

“But you're makin' like hard to find,” Johnny said quietly.

“So I'll tell you,” the gambler said resignedly, “an' you can believe it or don't. I'm clean, where it counts. The fix was in, see? The kid was supposed to go in the fourth. That's from next door to the horse's mouth. I didn't fix it, and I don't know who did, but I had the program. Like I said, it's not my game-horses and cards are my action-but when you get it like that, what're you gonna do? I went but good. So it didn't come off. I was touted in the first place against my better judgment. With fights I'm through. Right?”

“Still no reason to hide,” Johnny observed.

The gambler grimaced. “Like the hog that I am, I bet too much. Nobody bets like that unless they think they know somethin'. Whoever rigged it originally-an', so help me, I never did know-must've decided to show me they didn't appreciate my tryin' to freeload. A couple of little things have happened that made me decide I'd just as soon let things quiet down.”

“You figure they put on a special for you an' changed the round?”

“At first I thought so,” Rick Manfredi admitted. “But after a fight like that it's never too hard to find out which way the big money went. It all went the same way I did. Nobody made a dime but the slobs.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I don't know what happened. As it stands, somebody went to a hell of a lot of trouble to lose some money.”

“Maybe it was the kid's own idea, an' they gunned him for takin' it to the sixth.”

“They had a better reason than that. A real investigation, with no cuffs on, could've burned up a few licenses.”

“Maybe Gidlow tried to pull a double cross, an' that's why he bought himself a cold slab,” Johnny said.

Rick Manfredi held his nose. “Gidlow was a wart. I don't know why he got it, but it was too good for him.” The gambler stirred uneasily in his chair and looked at the door. “I've got to get back inside.”

“Good game?”

“Fair.” The chubby man looked at Johnny speculatively. “Whyn't you drop around some night an' get your feet wet?”

“Too rich for my blood.”

“Only a couple times a month, probably. Manuel always knows where to find me. I got a dozen, fifteen fleabags like this willin' to let me roost a night for double the rate. Keepin' the game on the trot discourages the cops, both kinds, an' it don't give the heisters much of a shot, either.” In a hurry a second before, he leaned back expansively and smiled as though at some secret joke. “You know Manuel's sister, Consuelo?”

“I've met her.”

Rick Manfredi beamed. “A great kid.” Bosses me around like I was a four-year-old. She picked out these clothes.” He glanced down at himself almost in surprise. “'Course to her I'm a juvenile delinquent, but I'm a friend of her brother's. Hell, Killain, I needed someone like her to show me the score. I been out on this town since I was fourteen, I mean twenty hours a day, the next race, the next game, the next bet. I'd walk up the street with four, five thousand in my kick an' no seat to my pants. Who had time for clothes?” He laughed at himself comfortably. “To her I'm still a jerk, but anyways a better dressed jerk.” He rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, and his voice changed. “You tell Rogers what I told you. If he finds out any different — about me, I mean-I'll kiss his butt in the Garden lobby.” He stood up abruptly. “Don't be a stranger.”

“I might cash that ticket, Rick.”

In the room beyond Manuel joined Johnny silently, and in the corridor waiting for the elevator he shook his head. “In the china shop, seizor, you are not an easy man on the nerves.”

“Whose side were you on back there, Manuel?”

“Do not make the mistake,” Manuel warned him. “I have not forgotten la savate on the street, but Rick is my friend from a long while. He comes first.” The white teeth glinted suddenly. “Still, it's jus' as well I did not 'ave to choose.”

The subdued illumination furnished by the filigreed hurricane lamps in the Copper Bowl Cocktail Lounge discreetly shaded the weary five o'clock faces in the booths about them, but Johnny noticed that Stacy Bartlett's fresh young complexion needed no such assistance. The girl was sitting bolt upright across from him, slim fingers idling with the stem of the glass of her pink Clover Club, her eyes roaming booths and room, plainly determined to miss nothing.

“It's such a nice place, really,” she said finally, with a little sigh. “Even if everyone is drinking. It's a shame a girl can't come to a nice place like this by herself sometimes.”

“Some do,” Johnny told her.

“I know,” she admitted. Her glance shifted to the end of the bar where half a dozen well-glazed females with elaborate hair-dos mingled on the bar stools with dark-suited males. “I'm afraid I couldn't compete.”

“In attitude, maybe.”

“Well… thanks.” Her color bloomed. “It must take- practice.” She blushed anew at the sound of her own words. “Isn't that Dr. McDevitt?” she asked hurriedly, nodding at the other end of the bar.

“Who's Dr. McDevitt?” Johnny inquired, not intending to be distracted by this offering. In the direction indicated he caught sight of the dapper, pink-cheeked man he had seen in Lonnie Turner's office. “Oh, him. The man who says 'no' to your boss.”

“And that's Mr. Keith with him,” Stacy continued. Johnny's glance moved along to take in the bulk of the crew-cut sportswriter.

“He spend much time at Lonnie's?” he asked the girl.

“He helps out on various things when Mr. Munson's busy,” she explained.

I wonder, Johnny thought. I wonder if Ed Keith has anyone looking over his shoulder when he writes his column. Or thinks he might have…

Stacy Bartlett placed her elbows on the table top as she leaned forward to command Johnny's full attention. “You don't think too highly of us at the office, do you?” she accused him.

“Present company excepted, sis.” He shrugged under the steady gaze of the brown eyes. “That's a different breed of cats over there from what you're used to down on the farm. I'd remember it, was I you.”

“They've all treated me very nicely,” she said loyally. “Even Monk-”

“Even Monk?” Johnny interjected into her confused pause. He examined her searchingly. “You don't like Monk?”

“He doesn't bother me,” she said hastily, but she was pink again. “Mr. Turner was very much provoked with you the other day,” she continued quickly.

“Mr. Turner needs to watch his blood pressure,” Johnny said. “How'd you hear about it?”

“Oh, I always do. Eventually.”

Is that right, now, Johnny thought. He looked from the girl to the bar. “Didn't I hear somethin' about an accident to someone in the crowd?” he asked casually.

“It wasn't an accident. Terry Chavez was mugged by a gang of thugs right on the sidewalk.” Johnny turned his head in time to receive the indignant candle power of the brown eyes. “And Al says the police haven't been able to find out a thing. We sent a basket of fruit over to him this afternoon.”

Terry Chavez, Johnny thought. Charlie Roketenetz's trainer. A white-haired, lean, half-Mexican, half-Indian old man with the reputation of never, using three words when two would do. Johnny's mind leaped ahead. Could it have been Chavez whom Manuel had been to see in the hospital and about whose health Rick Manfredi had inquired in Spanish? It was on the tip of Johnny's tongue to ask the girl if she knew Manfredi, but he decided against it. In her innocence she might repeat something at the office that could get her in trouble-along with a few other people. Johnny thought grimly to himself that trouble seemed to be using Lonnie Turner's office as a clearing house.

He sought to get the afternoon back on the rails. “It was real nice of you to let me rob the cradle today, baby.”

“Rob the cradle!” the girl repeated with distaste. “Do I look like an infant?”

“Not by a hundred forty pounds, kid.”

She looked unmollified. “I'm free, white-”

“An' almost twenty-one,” he interrupted her. “I know. Not to change the subject, but now that you're a member in good standin' of the wicked world, when you havin' me to dinner over at your place?”

“You know I can't do that!” she said in surprise.

“Can't cook, huh?”

“Certainly I can cook!”

“Then what's the hitch? Monday night? Tuesday?”

She nibbled at her lower lip. “You-hurry me along too quickly,” she complained.

“You got to run nowadays just to keep up. What's the harm in a home-cooked meal an' a little sofa-wrestlin' afterwards?”

“There'll be no sofa-wrestling,” she replied with dignity. “And one more remark like that and there'll be no home-cooked meal.”

“Baby, you can give me the ground rules when I get up to bat,” Johnny told her. He looked around for the waiter. “Tomorrow? Tuesday?”

“You're hopeless,” she replied primly. “I don't know why I listen to you.”

“My unbounded charm.” He grinned at her. “Well? Chicken?”

She flushed, but was silent as the waiter approached and Johnny paid the check. “Make it Tuesday,” she said abruptly when he had gone and Johnny was assisting her on with her coat.

“I wouldn't kid you, Stacy,” he said softly. “I can hardly wait.” On the way out he took her the long way around, out of sight of the end of the bar at which they had seen Dr. McDevitt and Ed Keith.

CHAPTER VII

In the apartment's tiny kitchen Johnny mixed a moderate rye highball and carried it in to Sally in the big armchair in the living room.

“I just wish you'd stop babying me!” she protested as he handed her the glass, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “I'm perfectly all right!”

“Sure you are,” Johnny agreed. Physically, maybe, he thought. The pleasantly small features still looked drawn. That particular note in her voice, though… He bent down over the chair and slipped his hands about her slender waist. “Watch the glass,” he warned her as he picked her up and sat down in the chair with her in his lap. “By God, Ma, in wartime you'd be classified as a dangerous weapon. A man could cut himself on those ribs.”

“Only notarized complaints accepted, sir,” she answered placidly.

“Good thing one kind of meat sticks to your bones.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder. “What's that?”

“Me.”

“Hush, man.” She took a sip from the highball and replaced the glass on the table beside the chair. “I don't know why it is men feel they always have to talk about things!”

“Our braggin' natures, Ma.” He tipped up her chin to examine the still-shadowed brown eyes, which regarded him steadily. “'Course a man should really shake down the furnace once in a while to make good on his brag,” he continued thoughtfully, and stood up with Sally in his arms, alert to the first faint movement of negation. It never came. When her hands did tighten on his shoulders, he found that they were attuned to a familiar wave length.

In the bedroom he slid her easily to her feet and turned her about like a mannequin as he unzipped her. She stood passively as he whisked her out of dress, slip and underwear and speedily removed his own things. Over her shoulder in the vanity mirror he admired the slim, glowing pallor of her body, and, sensing what he was doing, she half-twisted within the circle of his arms to see.

“Voyeur!” she charged breathlessly, and lunged up against him as she tried to dodge the big palm she could see about to descend on her small ivory buttock. She yipped at the crack of his hand and rebounded, only to be engulfed again in the big arms. He whirled her aloft and over to the bed, afire with the silken feel of her, and then his strong hands gathered her in for the harvest.

“Nice… to have you… back with us, Ma-”

He awakened from a light doze to find himself alone on the bed with a blanket thrown over him. He rolled onto his back and stretched mightily, digging his toes luxuriantly into the sheets. Up on an elbow, he looked about him expectantly. “Hey, Sally!”

Before the sound of his voice died away she appeared in the bedroom doorway with a tray in her hands. She wore a robe of Johnny's hitched up at the middle and bloused over the cord, with the cuffs turned back three or four times.

“You'd be a sensation on the Avenue in that outfit,” he told her lazily. “You look like a pregnant monk.” He sat up, examined the contents of the tray and nodded approvingly at the bottled beer and the outsized ham, cheese and onion sandwiches on thick, black rye bread. “Now you're readin' my mind, Ma.”

“Never too difficult,” she informed him. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed back the huge sleeves of the robe. “The Killain war cry is food, women and trouble.” She smiled as she poured a glass of beer for herself; Johnny already had a bottle in his hand. “Not necessarily in that order, of course. More properly, shouldn't it be women, trouble and food?”

Johnny ignored her comfortably and, leaning forward, took a large bite from the sandwich Sally had selected for herself. “Mmmmm! Boy, those onions really got some zing to 'em, haven't they?”

“Like the man that bought them?” she asked lightly, and laughed at his expression. A look of surprise came over her face as she sobered. “You know, I think that's the first time I've laughed since-”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Don't backslide on me, now,”

“Don't worry.” She drew a long breath. “I haven't forgotten it, but I guess I've accepted it. I can talk about it. Now.” She wriggled into a more comfortable position on the bed. “And that reminds me. What am I going to do about that money Lieutenant Dameron was over here asking questions about?”

“Spend it on me,” he advised her, and started on his second bottle of beer.

“But it's ridiculous!” She bounced up and down on the bed in her vehemence. “It's not Charlie's money! He never had any money! He borrowed seventy-five dollars from me to help pay his last year's taxes.”

“Don't spill the beer, Ma. Whose money is it, then? I never saw Jake Gidlow in his life he didn't need a clean shirt. It don't add up that it's his money.”

She was watching him closely. “You think you know whose it is, don't you?” He hesitated a second too long. “You do, don't you?”

“I know whose it could be,” he amended.

“Well, tell him to come and get it as soon as the police release it, and have them stop bothering me about it.” She sounded very determined, and Johnny smiled at her for an instant before he turned serious.

“Look, Sally. I don't think anyone can afford to claim this money. Gidlow was probably hiding it out for someone to keep it away from the tax people, an' whoever claims it now is claimin' a fine and a jail sentence at the same time.”

He had lost her attention. “Johnny, is there-is there going to be an investigation of the fight?”

“Nobody seems to think so now,” he replied. “Nobody-” He stopped. He didn't want to say, “Nobody to testify.”

“Well, I hope there isn't!” Sally said violently. She tossed her head at his look of surprise. “I don't care! It couldn't bring Charlie back. It would just s-smear him forever, and if he th-threw that old fight it was because they m-made him!”

Tears glistened in her eyes, but Johnny realized they were tears of anger. “What a little old fire-eater you are, Ma,” he said fondly, and she ducked her head down on his shoulder.

“I don't care!” she repeated, but less forcefully. Over her shoulder Johnny studied the wall thoughtfully. The whole damn thing didn't make sense. There had to be one hell of a twist in there somewhere. The kid had lost the fight- taken the most arrant dive-and been killed anyway. Gidlow had been killed-part and parcel of the same thing? Or just one of Jake's sub rosa chickens suddenly come home to roost? That bunch of money-it almost had to be Turner's money. Turner had probably had Munson send Carmody over with the shyster to make a fast try at recovering it before he realized the headache that went with it. Munson… Killain, you don't know a damn thing about Munson. And Keith, a guy probably on two payrolls-what do you know about him?

Johnny looked down to find Sally's head up from his shoulder and her eyes studying him intently. “I can feel you just winding yourself up to fly off some place,” she said resentfully. “What is it now?”

His grin was uncomfortable. “Little errand I forgot. Honest.”

Her sniff was pure disbelief. “Be careful, y'hear?”

“Sure.” He flattened the tip of her small nose with a finger. “You be careful, in case I'm wrong about the guy whose money it is bein' afraid to make a move to get it back.” He leaped from the bed, scooped up his clothes and headed for the shower.

The Chronicle building was new, an imposing pile of glass, chrome, tile and marble. Somewhere beneath that elegant facade there must be cement and steel, Johnny thought, but it was visible nowhere. At the ground-level information desk he inquired of the gum-chewing brunette for Ed Keith.

“Sports. Third floor rear, sir. If he's in. Shall I call?”

“I'll take a chance, thanks.”

At the third floor the doors opened upon a tremendous room whose floor space seemed to stretch to infinity. Rows of desks lined the center section in three distinct groups, and a glass-enclosed wire room contained a bank of chattering machines which could be heard every time the door opened. A huge, horseshoe desk-and-work-table had at least sixteen people around it on both sides, and a railinged-off section in a far corner contained one man in shirtsleeves and pince-nez glasses who had the entire room under his eyes whenever he looked up.

Johnny stood undecided. It didn't look like the time of day for a social call; he had just made up his mind to try it again later when a door opened at the rear of the room. Ed Keith came through, ushering a slender man in a gray overcoat ahead of him toward the door through which Johnny had just entered. Ten yards away Keith looked at Johnny casually, looked again, hesitated and walked up to him. “Killain, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Some layout you got here,” Johnny told him.

Ed Keith looked around him critically, as though really seeing the office, his half smile exposing his rabbit teeth. “It's an improvement,” he acknowledged. “You ever see the old building before we moved? Had to strike matches to find your desk.” His eyes swept the office again. “Progress. Everything new and different but the salaries.”

“Damned if you don't sound like a red, red robin,” the sportswriter's companion said cheerfully. He was a thin-featured man with a seamed face, and, under thinning brows that matched the grizzled hair, sharp blue eyes had already inspected Johnny shrewdly.

“Indigestion. Dave Hendricks, Johnny Killain,” Ed Keith said briefly. “Dave's from Seventh Avenue, a cloak-and-suiter. See him for seconds on hand-me-downs. Killain's over at the Duarte. I'll meet you over at the restaurant, Dave.”

“You must anyways owe him money, the way you want to get rid of me,” Hendricks said drily, but turned to the door.

“This isn't the time or place to talk to me, unless you make it quick, Killain,” Ed Keith said when the little man had gone.

“I'll make it quick enough, Keith. I came over to ask you what the Chronicle was gonna do about that fixed fight.”

“What fixed fight?” the newspaperman asked coolly.

Johnny studied him. “That's the Chronicle's position? Or Ed Keith's?” The sportswriter was silent. “You on Lonnie Turner's payroll, Keith?”

“I'm not on Lonnie Turner's payroll.” The statement was made with no particular heat or emphasis. “Of course if I were, it still would be none of your business. What's your angle, nosing around?”

“What's yours, covering up for Turner?” Johnny countered.

“I'm not covering-” The newspaperman paused until he could regain control of his voice, which had risen sharply. “I don't happen to think that fight was fixed, Killain. If you've got anything to say that you can back up, I could always change my mind.”

“The kid was killed,” Johnny said softly. “His manager, Gidlow, was killed. If I put something in your hand, would you use it, Keith?”

He could see the sheen on Ed Keith's forehead. “If you can prove it.” The plump features were bloodless. “Although such information properly belongs with the police.”

“First newspaperman I ever saw,” Johnny said dreamily, “who wouldn't put a double hammer lock on me to get the story before I could get to the police.” He considered the unhappy rabbit face. “What is it with you, Keith? You sold out?”

“Get out of here, damn you!” Ed Keith said harshly. “I don't have to listen to this!”

“But you have to listen to Turner tellin' you it wasn't a fixed fight? When everyone on the Eastern Seaboard knows that it was?” Johnny continued quickly before the sports-writer could renew his order. “You know Rick Manfredi?”

Knocked off-stride, Ed Keith stared blankly. “Manfredi? The gambler? I know who he is-” His speech thickened suddenly as it accelerated. “Is he mixed up in this?”

“Mixed up in what?” Johnny inquired innocently. “Nothin' to be mixed up in, is there, Keith? Tell me somethin'. Whyn't you tell me the kid went accidentally in a tavern stick-up when I said he was killed?”

Ed Keith folded his arms tightly across his chest and gazed at Johnny as though trying to make up his mind about something. Johnny wondered if the slight movement of the big man's shoulders was a shrug or a shiver. “Perhaps, like the insurance actuaries, I've given up the idea that anything could happen so conveniently at so critical a time, Killain.”

“Critical for whom?” Johnny pounced. “Turner?”

Surprisingly, Keith smiled. “You're not going to learn very much interrogating me, Killain, because, frankly, I don't know very much. I know just enough-or think I do-to be able to say that Lonnie Turner didn't have them killed.”

He said it so positively that Johnny looked at him speculatively. “You might not rate as a disinterested witness on Turner,” he suggested, “bein' practically on the payroll, through Al Munson.” He continued on before the newspaperman could reply. “You can't say you're not involved, Keith. An' something's spooked you.”

The full lips twisted. “I'm involved to the extent of finding myself in an ethically indefensible position. I'm not saying that you couldn't cause me trouble by taking your questions- or your story-over my head. You could. It's been some time since I've been able to live on this-” He waved a hand behind him-“and I badly need the extra I get out of Turner's office. It's as simple as that. Granted that I don't want to believe that Turner is the mainspring in all this, as you insist, the fact remains that no one has yet showed me that he is. Self-preservation being the first law of nature, I'm forced to stand pat.” Johnny could see the man regaining his self-confidence as he spoke. “Am I right?”

“Right enough to be dead wrong,” Johnny said firmly. “An' I do mean dead. You don't even know which way you're facin' in the saddle, Keith. The first good buck, an' off you go. Like Gidlow. Like Roketenetz. You think newspapermen are insulated?” He hitched up his coat with his shoulders. “Don't dig your feet too deep into the stirrups on this ride, Keith. You might have to turn loose in a hurry.”

Warm blood flamed suddenly in the sportswriter's plump face, only to die out as quickly as it had appeared. Without another word Johnny left him standing there.

“He's scared,” he told himself in the elevator. “He's scared, all right. But not enough to talk. Yet.”

Johnny, seated on an upended box alongside the battered chopping block that served him as a dining table in the rear corner of the semi-deserted hotel kitchen, devoted his attention to the platter placed before him by the white-capped first cook. The large wall clock overhead indicated 8:00 p.m., but for Johnny this was breakfast. He waded into four eggs over light and an Eiffel Tower of hash-browned potatoes, a mound of toast and a steaming, oversized mug of bitter black coffee.

When he had cleaned up the platter and raised and lowered the level on the mug three times, he eased himself back with a repleted sigh and reached for his cigarettes. It was the few odd moments like this, he decided as he lit up, that made life worth living.

“Johnny!”

At the hail Johnny looked up to see Tommy Haines, the night bartender, waving to him from the connecting door between bar and kitchen. “Couple fellas out here to see you, Johnny.”

“They say who they were?”

Tommy shook his head negatively. “Want I should ask?”

“I'll take a look,” Johnny told him. He stood up and strolled to a corner of the kitchen that would give him a view of the bar booths.

“Second from the other end,” Tommy said in a lowered voice, holding the door with his knee as the bar boy passed through with a trayful of glasses. Johnny got one quick look at Rick Manfredi and Manuel Ybarra seated in the second booth from the other end and nodded to Tommy, who returned to his bar.

Johnny took two long drags on his cigarette and stubbed it out; he walked out into the bar and headed directly for the second booth. Rick Manfredi looked up at his approach, nodded but did not rise. “Sit down a minute, Killain.”

“Not in uniform,” Johnny told him. “You want a little privacy, we can walk out to the cloakroom.”

“Fair enough.”

Johnny led the way through the lobby to the cloakroom behind the bell captain's desk. Inside, he snapped on the light and turned to his guests. “Well, boys?”

The gambler was taking Johnny in inch-by-inch, his forehead creased. He looked at the paint-peeled walls and the unshaded light bulb, and then back at Johnny. “What's a guy like you doin' in a place like this?” he demanded abruptly.

“So what's outta focus with the place an' me?” Johnny asked him.

“The muscle,” Rick Manfredi said bluntly. “I been askin' a few questions around. Whyn't you hire out?”

“The people that pay the bills get allergic to my not sayin' 'yes, sir' often enough. I been here long enough so nobody bothers me.”

The chubby man offered Johnny a slim panatela. Johnny pocketed it, and Rick Manfredi stripped the cellophane off another, bit off the tip and spat it out. “How'd you like to work for me?” he asked as he reached for his lighter.

“It wouldn't work, Rick,” Johnny said patiently.

“Don't say that so fast,” the gambler said from around the cigar as he rotated it in the flame of the lighter. “Financially I might be able to make it worth your while.”

“I guess everyone can use money,” Johnny said slowly, “but lately I don't seem able to spend much. I accumulate enough cash from odds and ends around here so that every so often Chet Rollins, the hotel auditor, has to get on my tail about cashin' some back pay checks so he can close his books.” He looked at Rick Manfredi. “I'm not sayin' I'll never need it, but I don't need it now.”

“Why do you say it wouldn't work?” the gambler persisted.

“Because, when you had somethin' you wanted done, Rick, you'd put out a set of blueprints with the job. I don't work that way.”

The cigar waved in the pudgy hand. “Think it over, anyway. I could use you, and I think we could work it out.” He paused as though planning his next sentence, and Johnny glanced at Manuel Ybarra. The dark man smiled slightly and nodded his head in the very slightest degree. In agreement? Johnny couldn't be sure. “I been gettin' a bad report card on you, boy,” Rick Manfredi resumed. “Had a visitor a little bit ago. Ed Keith. Said he'd been talkin' to you today, and that you was askin' questions about me. That goin' on all over town?”

“Not all over,” Johnny said lightly.

“I don't like it,” the gambler said heavily. “Trouble I can't use. Why you got to get on my back?”

“I heard you say you didn't fix that fight,” Johnny said evenly. “I haven't heard anyone else say so.”

“Listen!” Rick Manfredi said hotly. “If an' when I fix a fight, mister, I don't wind up behind the eight ball with the slobs countin' the money. When I do somethin', I do it right!” He pointed the cigar for emphasis. “Don't crowd me, man.” The olive features turned a dull red as Johnny laughed.

“We already settled you can't buy me, Rick,” Johnny told him. “You think you can scare me? You know what I'd do, was I you? I'd find out who fixed that fight.”

The chubby man's eyes narrowed. “You say that like you think I don't have far to look. I'm beginning not to like a lot of the things you have to say, Killain.” The cigar was restored to the full-lipped mouth, the tip glowed redly and a thin stream of pale smoke emerged in driblets. “I didn't finish tellin' you about Keith. He wanted to borrow five grand so bad he could taste it. I gave it to him.”

“So you're hangin' up with me because Keith put you on the arm for five thousand?” Johnny asked disgustedly. “If it's that easy, I'll take ten myself.”

“The five grand is nothing, I got a story for the five,” the gambler said. “Come to find out Keith went the same way I did on the fight, but he didn't have it to pay off. Now, who bets five grand he don't have on a fight?”

“So he knew it was fixed. So did you, an' I don't see them pinnin' no medals on either of you.”

“He could go like Gidlow went, an' then where's your five?”

“Newspapermen don't get killed,” the gambler said stubbornly. “And how often do you get a chance to put a big-sheet sportswriter in your pocket? It could be a good investment.”

“Regardless of what other pockets he's in?”

The hooded eyes narrowed again. “Like whose?”

“Turner's.”

The silence built up in the cloakroom. “You sayin' Turner fixed that fight?” Manfredi asked finally. He frowned. “I can't see it. He's got too much to lose.” The frown deepened. “I hope you're wrong. I wouldn't like to think it was him I tied into on this deal. That's a tough rooster.” He looked at Manuel, who shrugged neutrally. The round man snapped his fingers. “I've got to make a phone call.” He pointed at Johnny. “One more chance, boy: I'll put you to work.”

“Some other time, Rick. Phone booths are right outside.” Johnny delayed Manuel as Manfredi went out into the lobby. His eyes were on the mark on the bronzed cheekbone, reduced now to a livid scar. “No more excitement?”

Manuel touched the mark tentatively with a fingertip. “Nothing,” he said easily. “For now.”

“I never did ask you if you recognized them,” Johnny said casually.

“If you didn't ask, I wouldn't have to lie,” the dark man replied gravely, and smiled at Johnny. “I don't think they want to kill me.”

“Why the hell should they? Four or five good head shots, an' you sit in the dark the rest of the way.”

“It has occurred to me.” The eyes were shadowed, but the lips were firm. “Shall we join Rick?”

“You joined him a long time ago,” Johnny said softly. “I hope you knew what you were doin'.” He led the way out into the lobby.

CHAPTER VIII

Johnny's cab pulled up before the lighted canopy at the entrance to the Cafe of the Three Sisters as Consuelo Ybarra came hurriedly out of the door. “Hey!” he called after her as she started up the street without noticing him, and she glanced impatiently over her shoulder but waited while he paid off the driver and joined her. He pointed to the cloth coat over her street-length dress. “Where's all the fine feathers tonight?”

“I asked off.” She gestured at herself with a gloved hand. “Cinderella returns to the fireplace.”

He examined the ringed dark circles beneath her shadowed eyes. “What's gnawin' on you, kid? You look like an accident huntin' up a lawyer.”

“I'm tired.” She flared suddenly with more of her usual spirit. “Tired of being unlucky!”

Johnny cocked an eyebrow at her. “You're unlucky?”

“Desperately,” she said harshly. “All my life. Everything I attempt. I involve all my friends, and drag them down with me. I should be burned at the stake.”

“Why?”

But she as quickly withdrew. “It is not important.” She nodded at the door behind them. “Manuel is at the bar.”

“I didn't come to see Manuel.”

“I hope you didn't come to see me.” Her tone was grave. “I'm not proud of the other night, you understand. I haven't known men of your force of will, but I do not excuse myself. It is my penance that Christian lady and female animal are in too delicate a balance in my nature. I have much need of self-control. You hit an exposed nerve, but it will not happen again.” The classical features were almost school-girlishly solemn. “If you'll excuse me, I'm on an errand,” she continued. The full-lipped mouth twisted bitterly. “Of mercy, its necessity created by my greed.”

“I'll go with you,” Johnny said easily, and took her arm. “We need a cab?”

Angrily she flung off his hand. “Did you hear me? I won't have you trailing after me like a bitch in heat!”

He recaptured the arm, firmly. “Simmer down, kid. I don't need you in bed to like you. There's a difference.”

“There is a difference,” she admitted tiredly. “And I hope, if I had not sensed it, there would never have been the other between us.” She smiled at him somberly. “It's a cushion to bruised nerves to believe it, anyway.” She waved a hand ahead of them down the dark street. “I'm visiting the small hospital the mission sisters maintain. If such a place doesn't dishearten you, it's true I'm tired of my own company. We won't need a cab. It's only two blocks crosstown.”

She took his arm, and they walked in silence. The streets were quiet, the gutters filthy, the shop windows behind heavy steel grilles. In such a neighborhood, Johnny reflected, menace was a part of the atmosphere.

On the stone steps of the hospital building Consuelo took the lead, and inside the heavy doors Johnny's nostrils automatically tested the antiseptically deadened air. He followed left through the first door; the room was a small chapel, with tiers of candles burning quietly on low stands behind a wooden railing. He stood awkwardly as the girl knelt and, producing a coin from her bag, placed it in the offertory box. She lighted a candle, remained on her knees a moment with bowed head, then arose. They were in the outside corridor again before she spoke in the lowered tone the building seemed to require. “The hospital is so small that visitors are supposed to come singly, but I don't believe the sisters will question your being with me.”

He was beginning to second-guess himself on this trip; these places were just too damn depressing. “Who we gonna see?” he asked her as they passed half-open doors with silent rooms beyond. Consuelo turned toward the stairs.

“My uncle, of course,” she replied, surprise plain in her voice. She stopped in the middle of the stairs. “You didn't know? Rick said-” She looked doubtful an instant, then shrugged. “Never mind. Come along.”

He followed her up the circular, marbled stairs. In the upper hall white-faced sisters in whispering dark robes passed them on silent feet, and the fragmented murmurs of conversation that came to Johnny's ear from the partly opened doorways were all in Spanish.

The room that the girl turned into at the end of the corridor was like all the other rooms Johnny had glimpsed-boxlike, white-walled and dimly lighted. A plump sister rose from the single chair beside the high bed. “He is no worse,” she said gently in Spanish in answer to Consuelo's inquiring look. The calm, authoritative voice was not hushed, but it made no real impact upon the hospital quiet. The sister's glance took in Johnny at the foot of the bed, then returned to Consuelo. “If he should awaken, do not tire him.”

“ 'If he should awaken, do not tire him',” the girl repeated woodenly in English when the nun had left the room. “Three days in a coma, but I am not to tire him. He is no worse, which means he is no better.” She drew off her gloves, and her hands grasped each other with an intensity that whitened the knuckles.

She sank down after a moment into the chair the sister had vacated, and, from the end of the bed where he stood, Johnny looked down upon a shock of white hair upon the pillow and a hawk's nose above bloodless lips-and suddenly he understood a number of things. The man in the bed was Terry Chavez, who had been Charlie Roketenetz's trainer. And, by her own admission, Terry Chavez was also the uncle of Consuelo Ybarra.

He looked at the girl, who was trying to repress tears. “The way I heard it, this wasn't supposed to be serious.”

“He was improving, at first.” Her voice was only a murmur, and her lips drew back suddenly from even white teeth. “It was supposed to be a beating, a warning, but one blow too many or too heavy-” She gestured at the bed. “It's my fault.” He could see the flare of her nostrils as her voice strengthened. “I will swear an oath-if he dies, I will kill a man, and the man will not enjoy it.”

“Who's on your list?”

“Never mind.”

Johnny considered the firm lips and the small, stubborn chin. “Chavez knew the kid was going to dump the fight?”

She nodded. “It worried the boy, but of course it was one thing with which my uncle could not help. My uncle told Manuel. I overhead them discussing it as a matter of professional interest.” Her lips curled in self-scorn. “It took me to suggest that we get Rick Manfredi to capitalize upon it for us. It seemed so easy, since Rick would do as I asked, but from that point on everything that possibly could went wrong.” Her voice sank wearily. “The fight was supposed to end in the fourth. Nobody knows what happened, but they think now that the fighter was out to prove to himself that he could have won if they'd let him. He would go in the fourth, all right, but for three rounds he would fight. At the very end of the third round he very nearly knocked the other man out, and all through the next round had to almost literally carry him, with no chance to lose as he had been supposed to do. It was the sixth before he could find a way, and then very clumsily. It was too late for Rick's money, and the money which had fixed the fight. The fixers suspected Rick's knowledge and, I assume, backtracked from him to me and then to my uncle, who was beaten as a warning- Oh, I've made a fine mess of things!”

“They could come lookin' for you,” Johnny observed.

“God help the man who tries it,” she said soberly.

“All that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much as to the kind of the people in this operation,” he told her impatiently.

“And all that remark proves is that you haven't wised up very much, as you say, to the kind of people I am.” She rose abruptly to her feet. “See if you can find the sister and bring her back. I can't do him any good here. It tears me inside to see him lying there, knowing it's my fault.”

From the doorway he could see the frozen intensity upon the beautiful face as she hovered over the bed. Maybe you've been underestimating the dynamite in that package, Killain, he thought to himself as he walked down the corridor in search of the nun. It might pay you to add a dimension or two to your thinking about Consuelo Ybarra.

On the way through the hotel lobby to the foyer, Johnny was buttonholed by Marty Seiden, the nattily bow-tied, red-haired, middle-shift front desk man. “Telephone, John,” he called from behind the registration desk, and Johnny grunted acknowledgment and swerved to the bank of house phones.

“Yeah?”

“Johnny? Can you come over to the apartment?” Sally's voice pumped adrenalin through his system momentarily until he realized that she sounded more puzzled than alarmed. “I wish you'd talk to this ridiculous man. He seems to think-”

“What ridiculous man?” Johnny interrupted her. “How'd he get in?”

“Why, I let him in, naturally. He's from the Treasury Department.”

“He's from what?” Actuality was so far removed from his fear that he felt winded. “You gone an' set up a printin' press in the bathroom?”

“Silly, he's from Internal Revenue. He's-”

“Oh, oh,” Johnny said softly. “I'll be right over.” He whistled a tuneless little air as he replaced the phone and resumed his interrupted progress to the street. Internal Revenue. Sure didn't let any grass grow under their feet…

“This is Mr. Quince, Johnny,” Sally said. “Mr. Killain, Mr. Quince.”

Johnny shook hands with a balding man in a conservative blue suit. “You heard correctly, Mr. Killain,” the man said drily. “The name is Quince. Malcolm. And it's not an alias. A name for the job, wouldn't you say?”

“I'd say,” Johnny agreed. He didn't even try to repress his smile, and Mr. Quince gave him a small, neat smile in return. Mr. Quince was small and neat in all departments, including his paunch. “You must be an authority on wisecracks on the name an' the job.”

“It has one advantage,” Mr. Quince remarked philosophically. “People don't forget me.” His examination of Johnny was quick and thorough. “You represent this young lady legally?”

“God forbid!” Johnny protested. “You wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. I-advise her, let's say.”

“Then let's bring you up to date upon a matter concerning which she could use some advice,” Mr. Quince said briskly. He opened the briefcase at his feet and took out some papers, then removed his glasses from the case in his breast pocket and slipped them on. “I refer to the legacy which in the probate court's due process will be turned over to Miss Fontaine.” He straightened his glasses with one hand, his tone apologetic. “You understand that much of what I have to say is at the moment tentative, due to the lack of time for a more complete investigation on our part, but my superiors thought it best that I have this little talk with you before your hopes-or plans-crystallized.”

He had looked directly at Sally during this little speech, and she shifted restlessly. “You mean I'm not going to get it?” she asked.

“It's impossible in any event that you will receive it in its present form, of course,” Mr. Quince said carefully. “If there were no other considerations at all, the fact of an inheritance tax-double, in this case, since both the Gidlow and Roketenetz estates in turn would be affected-would materially reduce the amount of the legacy.”

“By how much?” Johnny broke in.

“In an estate inheritance situation there is an automatic exemption of sixty thousand dollars. The tax rate upon the passing of the property solely to Roketenetz would be in the neighborhood of twenty per cent. Upon its repassing to Miss Fontaine, the same exemption and tax rate would apply, but as an offset there would be a carry-back credit due to the successive deaths falling within a two-year period.”

“But the bundle gets nipped twice,” Johnny reflected. “Two twenty per cent chops, huh?”

“With the exemptions and the carry-back credit, not that severe in the aggregate,” Mr. Quince said cautiously. “But before either of you starts indulging in mental arithmetic, please remember I said that would be the case if there were no other considerations. Unfortunately, there are.”

Johnny winced. “I can feel it comin'. Uncle wants to know where the bundle came from.”

The tax man nodded. “Exactly. Neither Gidlow nor Roketenetz ever paid taxes upon any earned sums that could normally lead to the accumulation of such an amount.”

Sally appealed to Johnny. “I told him Charlie never had any money like that!”

“On the basis of a hurried preliminary investigation,” Mr. Quince pronounced majestically, “we're prepared to accept that statement.” He paused to smile briefly at Sally. “But that simply takes us back to Gidlow, and there we have complications. He had been to the tax wars before and, from our point of view, unfavorably. He had never paid taxes upon any part of such a substantial sum of money, and in view of his past tax record we feel that this is undeclared income. Consequently, pending some subsequent development that would prove the money had been acquired over a period of years, we're prepared to go into court and maintain that the entire amount is taxable as one-year income.” He paused for breath.

“What's the damage on that deal?” Johnny inquired.

“At a hundred fifty thousand and over, the rates are eighty-nine per cent,” Mr. Quince said. “First twenty-five exempt.”

“Ow!” Johnny breathed. He looked at Sally. “Back to pauperism, Ma. At least I can say I knew you when you had it.”

Mr. Quince snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes upon Johnny. “Are you prepared to say at this time, Mr. Killain, what the young lady's attitude is to be in the matter?”

“You mean is she goin' to fight it? The board of directors has to have a little meetin' on that one, Mr. Quince. Maybe we'll arbitrate. If we said we wouldn't fight it, maybe the razor wouldn't cut as deep?”

“Arrangements of one sort or another are not unknown,” Mr. Quince agreed. He permitted himself the small, neat smile. “Let me hear from you when you decide.”

“But I don't want their old money!” Sally exclaimed when the apartment door had closed upon Mr. Quince's conservative blue suit. “I think-”

“Stop thinkin', Ma. Relax. You got to provide for my old age. An', if this guy has his way, you aren't goin' to wind up with enough to keep you from sleepin' nights. Let's roll up the rug on it for now. We'll have the board meetin' later.”

“Board meeting!” she snorted, and squealed as the big hands tipped her into his arms. “Johnny! Stop it!”

“Contrary to the laws of nature, Ma,” he told her placidly. “Hold tight. Here comes the brass ring on the merry-go-round.”

Johnny, finishing off the last forkful of pie and the final swallow of coffee, eased himself back cautiously in his spindle-legged chair. “I take it all back, kid,” he informed Stacy Bartlett, who was busily stacking dishes across the table from him. “You can cook. I could need a little help up outta here.”

“I haven't seen anyone eat like that since I left the farm,” she said, smiling.

“I do that boa constrictor bit to carry me over the lean times whenever I run into grub like yours.” He looked at the tall girl, trim and efficient in her postage-stamp apron, busy on round trips to the kitchenette. “You didn't do so bad yourself,” he accused her. “I'd hate to pay your board bill.”

“You go on inside,” she told him. “I won't be five minutes.”

“Hell with the dishes,” Johnny said lazily, and pointed a finger at her. “You come inside with me an' entertain your company, girl.” He glanced around the tiny dining room, which was actually a niche carved from the living-room floor space. “That couch in there any more solid than these silly-lookin' chairs? With a runnin' start I might make it in there. I might.”

“My furniture is Danish modern,” she said, reprovingly. “You don't furnish a girl's apartment in ax-hewn oak, you know.”

“Oh, I like it fine,” he said hastily. “It's just that with all these sharp edges I don't see how you keep from scarrin' up the nice upholstery-yours, not the furniture's-”

She ignored the remark. “I like it here,” she said defensively. “It's the first time I've had a place of my own. I can't afford it, of course, the place and the furniture, too. I've been looking for someone congenial to move in and share expenses. The bedroom's large enough, thank goodness.” She colored brightly at his look. “Another girl!”

“Now you went an' spoiled it,” he said sadly. “I was right in step till you pulled that switch on me. Didn't any one ever tell you girls are hard to get along with? If you're a girl?”

“I doubt that I'll have any difficulty,” she said drily. “Shall we go inside?”

Johnny groaned eloquently as he eased himself erect. “How about the loan of a shoulder or two to assist in transportin' the body?”

“You're doing all right,” the girl retorted.

“I like that apron,” he said as she removed it.

“Leftover from the curtain material,” she said briskly.

“Sews, too,” he murmured aloud, and surveyed another tide of color rising from beneath the primly necklined dress. “Any money in the bank?”

“I have a job and a mortgage on the furniture,” she replied with dignity, leading the way into the living room. “Does that answer your question?”

“Speakin' of the job, how's it goin' over there?”

“Just fine.” She turned to look at him. “Why wouldn't it?”

“No reason, no reason,” he replied hurriedly.

“Mr. Turner is handicapped, of course, by the loss of Jake Gidlow and Terry Chavez at the same time. Between them they handled most of the fight details. Mr. Turner is having a little trouble getting things lined up. He's been a little edgy.”

I'll bet he has, Johnny thought. “How's Chavez gettin' along?” he asked casually.

“Mr. Munson says he'll be back with us any day now.”

So they don't tell this kid everything, Johnny mused. Or haven't they taken the trouble to find out? Or did Al Munson want Turner to believe Chavez would be back shortly? This Munson, now-

“Aren't you going to sit down?” Stacy asked him, breaking into his train of thought. “And aren't you going to smoke?”

“Couldn't stop me with a gun,” he told her, reaching for his cigarettes. He looked down distrustfully at the wide, backless, short-legged chaise longue and lowered himself onto it carefully.

“You look like the type of man who should smoke cigars,” the tall girl remarked as she seated herself erectly a little distance away.

Johnny inched himself back and forth, trying to get comfortable without placing his back against the wall. “These things take a little gettin' used to, don't they?” he inquired. “Not that I'm knockin' your furniture, now,” he continued hastily. “Cigars? Cigars are all right, but too many times you're in a place where you can't get 'em easy or at all.” He waved the cigarette pack in his hand. “Some kind of weed you can generally get most anywhere. Cigarettes can be pretty lousy, just so they burn. This couch here is stuffed probably with better makin's than some of the stuff I've set fire to in my face in my time.” He was aware she was watching his struggles with the couch from the corner of her eye. “I think I need a Western style saddle with this thing. Or a set of spurs.”

She giggled softly. “You're doing fine.” She folded her hands in her lap. “My father smokes cigars. He says that three things come most naturally to a man's hand-a cigar, a drink-” She stopped and turned rosy.

“-and a woman's behind,” Johnny finished for her. He nodded soberly. “I've heard that sayin'. We'd get along, your old man 'n me. He run the farm?”

“Yes, if you mean he operates it. We're tenants.”

“You say that present tense. You're a city girl now, remember?”

“My father doesn't seem to think so,” she said seriously. “He's letting me try my wings here, but he bet me I'd be back in a year.”

“He could be right,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “It's a hard-boiled set of circumstances in this man's town, baby. You might decide you didn't want to take the trouble to gear yourself up to it.” He took a deep, satisfied breath, exhaled slowly and half rolled on his side in Stacy's direction.

“The dishes will only take me a few moments,” she said at once, starting to rise.

“Hell with the dishes,” he said for the second time, and reached lengthily and caught her hand. His strength dropped her effortlessly back on the couch within the circle of his arm, and the feel of her big-bodied softness against him was like a match to carbon.

“That's enough of this-foolishness!” she exclaimed when she could get her breath. “Let me up out of here!”

He nuzzled gently at her white neck, and he could feel the shiver that ran through her. “Remember I said you could give me the ground rules when I got up to bat?” His voice was a deep river; he slowly tightened the pressure of the arm about her. “We playin' college or pro rules, baby?”

“Kindergarten!” she said breathlessly. “And don't expect to graduate too quickly!”

CHAPTER IX

Johnny stepped off the service elevator into the deserted, semidark lobby and intercepted Paul's warning nod in the direction of the switchboard. A quick glance took in the two men standing by the low wooden railing, and Johnny accelerated to a low-slung trot. At the sound of his approach both men faced about hurriedly, and, as he pulled up in front of them-not quite sliding to a stop-he could see the apprehension on Al Munson's fat face and the anticipation on Monk Carmody's battered one.

“Somethin' we can do for you two?” Johnny demanded as neither spoke. His glance slid off beyond them to Sally's slim figure crouched over the switchboard, the small face white and anxious, and his tone hardened. “You two been botherin' this girl?”

“Of course not! Ask her!” the fat press agent replied hastily.

“I'm askin' you,” Johnny said grimly, and shifted the position of his feet as Monk Carmody advanced a step.

“Whyn't you butt out, Killain?” the squat man demanded vibrantly. “We came over here to talk to her. That leaves you nowhere, see? I'm tellin' you to pack it in.”

“You're tellin' me,” Johnny repeated gently. He exhaled and came up on the balls of his feet. He was leaning in Monk Carmody's direction when Al Munson stepped quickly between them.

“Let's not lose our heads, now,” the pasty-faced man urged. “This is a business call.”

“At 2:00 a.m.?”

The publicist's smile was pallid. “I couldn't truthfully claim to be enjoying it myself. Its necessity is dictated by the young lady's persistence in not speaking on the phone, not answering the door-” His smile died. “It's an attitude I can't say I appreciate when time presses.”

Johnny's stare had shifted back to Sally. “I must be neglectin' my homework,” he said softly. He looked down at the misery in her soft brown eyes as he addressed her directly. “There's a reason I didn't get to hear about these guys workin' out on you?”

He could see her swallow hard. “They said-”

“I'm sure he's not really interested, Miss Fontaine,” Al Munson interposed smoothly. “As I indicated in the one conversation you permitted, my business is with you.”

“Your business!” Johnny said deeply. He reached out and took a double handful of lapel on Al Munson's overcoat; Johnny's hands moved, and the fat man's feet slid sideways on the polished floor. “Your dirty, stinking business-”

“Here, now!” Al Munson exclaimed jerkily. “Don't be a fool!”

“Shut up!” Johnny said between his teeth. He pivoted slightly to keep the fat man's body between himself and Monk Carmody. “You tried to bull her into keepin' me out of it, right?”

“What do you think you're settling like this?” the publicist asked hurriedly, and Johnny's grip slackened. Munson took a tentative backward step, and Johnny reluctantly released him. “That's a little better, Killain,” the press agent remarked, readjusting his coat. “Now let's pretend we're adults. If you persist in sticking your nose in this, let's go some place where we can talk privately.”

“Right behind you,” Johnny said shortly, and nodded at the door under the arch of the stairway to the mezzanine. “The bar's in there, an' it's closed for the night.” He looked at the glowering Carmody. “Lead the way, sawed-off.” In the bar the night light shed a soft radiance over booths and tables, but darkness predominated. Shadows bulked larger than actual objects as Johnny faced the two men, keeping them both in front of him. “All right, Munson. Let's hear something that makes a little sense.”

“Does money make sense, Killain? One hundred eighty-nine thousand dollars?” At Johnny's silence he chuckled. “You didn't think we'd let it go without a whimper, did you? I'm here to see about picking up the pieces.”

“It's your money?” Johnny asked carefully.

“Let's say it's a slush fund to which several people have contributed. Through Gidlow's stupidity it's been made unavailable to us temporarily. I'm sure Miss Fontaine would be the first to admit that she has no real claim upon it. We're prepared to settle a satisfactory lump sum upon her for her signature upon a release. You see, it's all really quite simple.”

“An' just how much of the boodle do you simple souls think you'd recover if she signed the release?” Johnny asked curiously.

“We've explored that factor. Even after a rather complicated inheritance tax formula-”

“Let me be the first to give you the bad news,” Johnny interrupted him. “Internal Revenue has staked out a prior claim.”

Even in the poor light he could see Al Munson's eyes narrow. “Internal Revenue?”

“The same. They come by to warn Miss Fontaine not to buy any yachts, because they were goin' to go to court prepared to maintain that the boodle was one-year undeclared income, in which case there's not enough left for anyone to fight over. Right?”

Al Munson spoke thoughtfully into the little silence. 'That can be contested in court.”

“Who's gonna contest it? You?”

“Miss Fontaine will contest it. A good lawyer-”

“You're off your rocker, Munson!” Johnny snorted. “Why should she buy herself a jackpot like that for whatever you feel like givin' her, when all she's got to do is sit tight an' the apple drops in her lap? Internal Revenue's already hinted they'll do the right thing in return for co-operation.”

“Nice of them,” Al Munson said drily. “You can't be as stupid as that last remark sounds, Killain. Perhaps I haven't made it sufficiently clear that I'm just a spokesman in all this. The people whom I represent are not going to look with favor upon such an attitude, I assure you.” Heavy irony flavored his tone. He continued with assurance. “I think Miss Fontaine will co-operate, and not with Internal Revenue.”

“Listen, wise guy-where d'you think you'd wind up if she repeated this conversation to Internal Revenue?”

“She hasn't heard this conversation,” Al Munson replied evenly. “For Miss Fontaine's sake I wouldn't like to think that Internal Revenue learned about it in any other way.”

Johnny's shoulders came off the booth with a jerk. “Munson, I'll-”

“Think it over, Killain,” the publicist interrupted, and waddled to the door. Monk Carmody followed, after favoring Johnny with a complacent leer, and when Johnny walked slowly into the lobby they were gone. He went directly to the switchboard.

“They been bangin' at you every day without my knowin' it?” he asked Sally tightly.

She nodded miserably, brown eyes brimming. “I s-should have told you.”

“Damn right you should have told me, an' the next time you don't your fanny'll catch a real heartburn. I got to know what they're up to if I'm goin' to spoke their wheel.”

“Johnny?” It was scarcely more than a whisper. “Let's give them the bankbook. I don't want it. Honestly. Let's give it to them and get rid of them.”

“It's not that simple, Ma,” he explained patiently. “You're the only one with a claim to it now. You couldn't give anyone the book without givin' 'em a headache they don't want.”

“Then what on earth do they want?” she said, cross-examining him.

“Pie in the sky,” he said tersely. “Forget it, Ma. Just let me know if they bother you.”

“But what can you do, Johnny?”

“I can say 'Tut-tut, boys. Naughty-naughty.' ” He grinned at her. “The way I'd say it I think it might make an impression.” He sobered at sight of her serious expression. “Don't worry about it, see? Everything's gonna be fine.”

“I want to know what you're going to do, Johnny.”

“Who the hell knows? You know me-just rock along, an', if you can't see the ball carrier, just put a good stiff block on the interference. Somethin'll drop.”

“Probably you,” she said apprehensively. “I still think-”

“Your career's not in thinkin', Ma. I'll bear witness.”

“Please be careful, Johnny?”

“My pleasure. You hop back on the board now. I'm gonna skip upstairs an' irrigate my thought processes with a dollop of bourbon.”

“You mean you're going to try to slip out of here without my knowing where you're going or what you're up to.”

“You wound me, Ma. Deeply. I need that bourbon now.” He crossed the lobby to the service elevator and waved to the watching figure before sliding the bronze door shut in a crash of metal.

In the icy darkness of the street doorway a slim shadow moved in beside Johnny and tapped him on the arm. “Out for a constitutional?” Detective James Rogers inquired briskly.

Johnny slowly dropped his hands. “I already told you about that caper, Jimmy. You're buckin' for bridgework.”

The slender man regarded him impassively. “Nice night for a stroll,” he said reflectively, and passed a hand through their combined breaths whitening the air. He glanced across the street at the imposing pile of the apartment building that towered upward into the night sky, with only occasional pinpoints of light dotting the angular surface, and his voice, when he spoke, was official. “You have no business here, Johnny.”

Johnny pointed with a shoulder across the street. “You bodyguardin' Turner now?”

“I'm conducting an investigation,” the detective said evenly. “Without your help. In case the point should come up.”

“That's a little different than the noise you were makin' a while back.”

“Don't make me ask myself if I made a mistake. What are you doing here?”

“This guy's pushin' Sally around,” Johnny said obliquely.

“Turner? I haven't heard a word to that effect.”

“Maybe I could get him to call up an' let you know. Or take an ad in the paper. Make a little sense, will you, Jimmy? I caught a couple of them over at the place tonight because she wouldn't answer her phone any more.”

“You reported it, of course.”

“I'm reportin' it now,” Johnny said easily.

“Fortunately you knew right where to find me,” the sandy-haired man remarked sardonically. He hunched his shoulders together beneath his overcoat. “No sense standing here freezing to death,” he said abruptly. “Come on.”

Johnny walked along beside him the two blocks to an all-night Java mill, and with mugs of coffee on the table between them the detective's inspection of Johnny became more preoccupied. “How do you get to spend so much time off the job during working hours?” he asked.

“You with Wages and Hours now?” Johnny answered. He sugared his coffee liberally. “I got a good crew over there. Five of us do eight people's work, an' we been doin' it a long time now. Nobody peeps at what goes on on our shift, brother. It'd cost them money, an' they know it.” He took a sip of the scalding coffee. “You clockin' Turner's workouts now?”

“You know better than to ask me that. What happened over at your place tonight?”

“Munson and Carmody showed up to talk to Sally. I kind of changed their minds.”

“Galahad in full armor, by God. What did they want?”

Johnny made his grin sheepish. “I made a mistake. I run them outta there so fast I never did get to find out.” He hurried on past the slender man's disbelieving stare. “I was a little late catchin' up to the fact that they'd been worryin' her. They'd made the point they'd take a little interest in me if she let me know. She thinks I'm the delicate type.”

“How much are you holding back this time?” Detective Rogers inquired casually.

Johnny stared. “This time?”

The slender man absent-mindedly sugared his coffee for the second time, tasted the resulting syrup and pushed it aside. “Carlo Petrillo made a statement to the effect that you had run Carmody and a man he didn't know away from Miss Fontaine's apartment early in the morning on the day that Roketenetz was killed.” Hazel eyes studied Johnny. “I don't seem to remember hearing about that from you.”

“Oh, that-” Johnny shrugged. “Things happened so fast right after that it slipped my mind. I thought of it a couple of times since, but it didn't seem important enough to bother you with.”

“We'd like to be the judge of that. Who was the other man?”

Why hasn't he asked Carmody, Johnny wondered, and immediately caution inserted, Perhaps he has. “A lawyer,” he said reluctantly. “Name of Hartshaw. He showed up with a power of attorney for her to sign.”

“And this wasn't important enough to tell me about!” the detective rasped. “Before anyone knows Gidlow is dead a power of attorney is given to the girl to sign away her interest in her brother's estate. In whose favor was the power of attorney drawn?”

“Al Munson's.”

Detective Rogers leaned back deeply in the corner of the booth and half closed his eyes. “Al Munson. Now isn't that interesting? Care to change your story about what happened at the hotel tonight?” His eyes opened wide as he asked the question, but Johnny sat mute. “All right!” the slender man snapped. “I'll save you the trouble. Munson was over there tonight with the same kind of pressure, and he's shutting you up by threatening Miss Fontaine.” The eyes narrowed again. “And, knowing you, you're probably planning a move of your own. Don't try it!”

“Ahhh, get another record, Jimmy,” Johnny said disgustedly. “What the hell are you gettin' done except sweepin' the streets with your pants cuffs over at Turner's?”

The detective's tone was emphatic. “You heard me. You're going to get in trouble. Stay away from this case. Stay away from Turner.” He stood up and buttoned his overcoat rapidly.

“I hope I'm not wasting my breath.” He pulled his hat down hard with both hands and walked out the door.

The crowd sound in the Rollin' Stone Tavern was something you had to hear to believe, Johnny reflected as he passed through the wide front door into the uninhibited din of upper register voices and heavy laughter. He reached a notch deeper for his own voice as he moved to the near end of the bar, where the red-faced proprietor was lounging bulkily over a cup of coffee. “Don't spare the horses, Mick,” Johnny greeted him. “I've had a tough night.”

Mickey Tallant nodded and poured liberally. “Manuel was askin' earlier if you'd been in.” The Irishman's glance ranged the low-ceilinged room. “Don't see him now. Guess he went out again.” He looked at Johnny speculatively. “You two gettin' buddy-buddy?”

Johnny raised his glass halfway, then lowered it again. “Speakin' of buddy-buddy, what do you know about the gambler Rick Manfredi?”

“You're not thinkin' of hookin' up with him?” Honest alarm was in the heavy voice.

“Why not?” Johnny asked curiously. “He's got a rep as a square gambler. I checked.”

“Square gambler he may be,” Mickey Tallant said emphatically, “but let me tell you about Rick Manfredi. Square with his friends he's not, an' I know what I'm talking about. He's got a cute little gimmick for his friends with money. He'll get up on your blind side one day an' say, 'Johnny, you've got a little spare change right now. Let's throw in fifteen or twenty apiece-' an' it's thousands he's talkin', mind you-'and back a little action. I've got a few angles; let's see if we can run it up into a little something.'“ The Irishman glared indignantly. “Then he'll take the forty thousand bank, an' he'll tell you now we're doin' thus an' so-we laid eight grand to five on this fight, an' we took seven and a half to ten on that one. Only when he knows somethin' he actually goes the other way. He takes the five to eight, an' he lays the ten to seven and a half. So the bank blows fifteen five, half of which is yours, but Mr. Manfredi just takes it out of one pocket and puts it in another. He might keep you alive six months, but sometime before you go clean he'll suggest bustin' up the partnership because of the run of bad luck, but meantime he's got two thirds or better of your money.”

“Sounds like he'd run out of friends right often,” Johnny suggested.

“You might get to thinkin' you were bein' taken, but what could you prove? He'll let you out any time you ask, an' blame it on the tough luck you've run into as a team. You'd be surprised the wise guys go for the idea of bein' a gambler's silent partner.”

“You sound like you were a little close to the subject, Mick.”

“My brother,” the tavern owner admitted sheepishly. He straightened and swiped with his rag at the top of the bar. “You'll never see Manfredi in here!”

“But he's a square gambler,” Johnny said thoughtfully.

“Which means he's never been caught at anything. I don't like the cut of his jib, an' I told him so!” Mickey Tallant boomed belligerently. He moved away down the bar at the sound of a coin tinkling on glass. “Keep your hands in your pockets if you do business with him,” he called over his shoulder.

Johnny smiled. He picked up his drink again and downed half of it; then he turned to run his eye up and down the booths across the room. Two-thirds of the way up the line he paused at sight of a shrewd-faced, wiry-looking man leaning forward in earnest conversation with a companion Johnny couldn't see. The man looked familiar, but Johnny couldn't place him. He caught Mickey Tallant on his next trip by and nodded at the booth in question. “The little guy, Mick, in the booth in line with the guy with the beard. Who is he?”

The Irishman needed only one look. “Dave Hendricks. You know, the fight judge.”

“Fight judge-” Johnny began doubtfully. Hendricks, he thought. Hendricks. Sure, the guy Ed Keith had introduced him to in the Chronicle office. But that introduction… He turned back to Mickey Tallant alertly. “How come I got a knockdown to him the other day that put him down on Seventh Avenue?”

“Maybe because he is,” the tavern owner replied equably.

“You know anyone makin' a livin' judgin' fights? Dave runs a dress shop down there. Owns it, I think. Dave's a regular in here.”

“He judge that fight the other night?” Johnny asked the Irishman, and wondered why he asked the question even as he did.

“Damned if I know,” Mickey Tallant answered. “I didn't see him, but then I never paid any attention. He could have. He only works a card in every four or five, though.”

Johnny's eyes had returned to the booth. “Who's with him?”

“For God's sake!” Irritation died out in the heavy voice as the Irishman sighed, fumbled in his shirt pocket and looked up toward the front of the bar at the cash register. “Wait'll I get my glasses.”

“Never mind,” Johnny decided. “If I sit down, send a round over, Mick. Whatever they're drinkin'. Bourbon for me.” He crossed the room in his swaying shuffle and appeared beside the booth before either man had noticed his presence. He recognized the second man immediately as the pink-cheeked little doctor whom he had first seen outfacing Lonnie Turner in his own office. “Hi, Doc,” he said casually. “Buy you a drink?”

Dave Hendricks sat back abruptly, his expression confused, but his companion spoke up at once. “You certainly can, if I can buy one back. Sit down, won't you?” Johnny eased into the booth alongside the doctor so that he could watch the face across from him. “First time I've been here,” Dr. McDevitt continued with an amused smile. “Dave's been holding out on me. Extraordinary place. I feel as though I've been missing something.”

Johnny was watching Dave Hendricks' puzzled effort to place him. “Chronicle office,” he said briefly. “Ed Keith.”

The wiry man's face cleared. “Sure. I remember.” The frown reappeared. “Kil-Kilcoyne?”

“Not bad. Killain.” Johnny paused as the waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, speedily dispensed them, nodded at Johnny and departed. The other two lifted their glasses to him slightly. “You work that fight the other night?” he asked Dave Hendricks. “The Roketenetz fight?”

The shrewd eyes narrowed, then widened. “No, thank God,” the wiry man replied breezily. “That's one clinker I missed. For a couple of days I was congratulating myself I'd missed a commission appearance, but it doesn't look like there's going to be anything like that now. You see the fight?”

“I saw it.”

“A real job of work.” Dave Hendricks spread his hands, palms up. “I was sure glad I wasn't workin' it.”

“I worked it,” Dr. McDevitt said gravely, and Johnny looked at him in surprise.

“Phil was the commission doctor,” Dave Hendricks explained.

“It's water over the dam now, of course,” the pink-cheeked man said slowly, “but as a matter of fact I came as close as I don't know what to stopping that fight in the second round when the boy received that slash over the right eye-Johnny drew a long breath. “Not second-guessin' you, Doc, but a hell of a lot of things might've been different if you had.”

“Hindsight, of course,” the doctor agreed. “The fight was a big step up for the boy, and unconsciously I may have leaned over backward to give him his chance.”

“Only he never had a chance,” Johnny said bitterly.

“That seems to be the consensus-”

“Johnny! Telephone!” Mickey Tallant bellowed from the bar.

Johnny excused himself and walked over to the telephone beside the register. “Yeah?”

“It's Paul, Johnny. I'm a little jammed up here if you're not tied up.”

“Be right there.” Johnny returned to the booth and the two men. “I'll have to take a rain check on that other drink, Doc. Time to start makin' a noise like a working man.” Was it his imagination, or was there a look of relief on Dave Hendricks' face? “See you both around.”

On the way to the door he stopped in front of Mickey Tallant. “Tell Manuel to call me at the hotel,” Johnny said, and the Irishman nodded. It was time to have a little talk with Manuel about Rick Manfredi, Johnny felt. Somebody had to be wrong.

CHAPTER X

The sunrise was coming to life high upon the skyscraper windows across the street from the hotel, and Johnny lay quietly on his back in bed and watched the red-gold reflection from dozens of windows. He stretched lazily, crossing his wrists together and arching his back, then rolled up on an elbow and looked impatiently at the bathroom door. “Come on, muscles,” he called out disgustedly. “You're pretty enough.”

“You know you only say it because it's true,” Sally replied in a muffled voice. “Hold your horses, sir. Or should I make that singular?” She skipped lightly into view, swathed from neck to knee in a bath towel that Johnny promptly disposed of the second she hit the bed. Her slender body tensed like fine wire under his caressing hands.

“Really-in the mood-aren't you?” she got out jerkily.

He grunted as the sharp little teeth nipped him in the neck. “Cut the foolishment, Ma.”

“Who's f-fooling?” she gasped, and the arms about his shoulders clamped down with a strength belying her ninety-eight pounds.

Their cigarettes made twin wreaths of blue smoke against the background of the golden reflection from across the street. Sally's sigh seemed to come from her toes; she wriggled up from her back and dropped her head on Johnny's chest. “I've got to get out of here. Are you going to sleep?”

He shook his head negatively, and immediately regretted it. It would have been a lot easier to lie to her than to answer the stream of questions that bubbled over at once. “Why not? What are you going to do?” She peered up into his face. “Johnny, won't you please just forget it?”

He attempted to parry. “Forget what?”

“All these crazy goings on without any rhyme or reason to them!” she burst out resentfully. “Let the police handle it, like they're paid to do.”

“There's a rhyme and reason to it,” he said patiently, “if I had brains enough to figure it out.”

“You're not supposed to figure it out!” She bounced upright to look down at him, her small face childishly solemn. “You're all mixed up in this because of me, aren't you?” He groped for a handy, convincing denial with the brown eyes daring him to lie. “I'm right, aren't I? Johnny, I want you to forget the whole thing.”

He remained silent, a little grim at the impossibility of it. There were too many threads unraveled, too many toes stepped upon. There were a couple or three people in this thing not about to let Johnny Killain forget all about it, even if he wanted to.

“Please, Johnny,” Sally persisted. “Nothing you can do will make any difference as far as Charlie is concerned, and nothing else matters. And don't start talking about the m-money. The f-first person that asks me politely can h-have it. I'm sick of all the murderous p-pussyfooting going on over it!” She tried to blink away her tears. “Dead people, and people in h-hospitals-”

She jumped as the phone rang, instinctively grabbing up a corner of the sheet to hide behind. Then she threw it aside, slid from the bed and ran for the bathroom as Johnny picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Killain? This is Keith. I'm downstairs. I'd like to come up and talk to you.”

Johnny cocked an appraising eye at Sally in the bathroom door. “You caught me with one foot in the shower, Keith. Give me ten minutes, an' come on up. Something special?”

“It'll keep. Ten minutes.”

“And what does he want?” Sally demanded belligerently from behind the door.

“A little talk-talk,” Johnny said lightly. “Hustle it outta here, Ma, will you? This guy's got nerves. He'll spill like an overripe avocado one of these days, an' it might just as well be to me.”

“You just keep getting in deeper and deeper!” she exclaimed despairingly. “And it's so pointless!” She came back into the bedroom, dressed, and her exasperated expression softened as she walked to the bed. “I know I keep saying it, but you be careful, y'hear?”

“Of this guy? I'll match you against him anytime, Ma, an' give him the first punch.” He rolled off the bed and reached for his robe. “I may be by the place this afternoon.”

“You may!” she sniffed. “I may be there.” Unexpectedly she smiled. “Toodle-oo, professor.”

“You take it outta here like you're runnin' out a bunt,” he warned her. “I don't want Keith to see you, an' not for the reason you think.”

“And here I thought chivalry was in full flower again!” she mourned, grinned up at him impishly, brushed his cheek with her lips and flew out the door.

Johnny returned to the edge of the bed and seated himself; he rubbed the nape of his neck briskly to stir sluggish circulation and reached for his cigarettes on the night table. Ed Keith. Johnny squinted up around the trailing plume of smoke as he speculated. Hardly likely Keith had come to talk. Unless something had rattled the skeleton in his closet. More likely he'd come on a little fishing expedition of his own. Well, two could play at that game…

When the knock came at the door he raised his voice. “Come along in.”

The bulky newspaperman entered, and, looking at him, Johnny realized that over a good frame the man had fattened up in all the wrong places. High living does that sometimes, Johnny reflected; Keith looked almost gross, and the deep, dark circles beneath his small eyes testified to an interesting state of nerves. Johnny waved him to a chair without speaking, and the sportswriter looked a little uncomfortable as he took it and glanced at Johnny's robe. “I'll make this quick, since it's your sleeping time-”

“What's on your mind?” Johnny asked him. This was one conversation he'd like to keep pruned of unessentials.

Keith's lips grimaced in the familiar cynical-rabbit manner. The expression in his eyes was that of a man who has fought a long, losing battle. “I might need to talk to someone, Killain.” He said it jerkily, his hands jumping from his thighs to the arms of his chair and back again. “I'm- mighty near backed into a corner.” Keith paused suggestively, but Johnny remained silent. Obviously choosing his words carefully, the newspaperman continued. “I might like to talk to you, understand, but it could make one hell of a difference to me in whose ears it wound up afterward, get me?”

“There's a problem?” Johnny asked lightly.

“Damn right there's a problem!” Ed Keith said energetically. “I want to know where you stand. You get around to Manfredi's, you get around with that Rogers detective, you hang out at the Rollin' Stone, you're holding an umbrella over the telephone operator downstairs, you get around with Turner's receptionist.” He paused for emphasis. “You get around to the hospital where Roketenetz's trainer is perhaps not recovering from a beating.”

“Sound like I'm on your radar screen twenty-four hours a day, Keith,” Johnny said slowly when the sportswriter paused again. “These your own personal observations?”

“Hell, no. I pick it up here and there.”

“Here and there being Lonnie Turner's office?” Johnny inquired sharply.

The sportswriter flapped a hand impatiently. “Never mind all that, Killain. What I want to know is this-do you tell all these people all that you know? Do you-”

Johnny interrupted him. “Never mind all that, Keith. I read you now. You want to tell me somethin' that gets back to certain ears, but only to certain ears, right? You don't want it makin' no round robin?”

The big man looked discomfited. “I didn't say that. I'm-”

Johnny held up a hand as the telephone rang. “You here?” he asked his guest curiously.

“Like hell I'm here!” Ed Keith paled at the thought. “Don't get to thinking you can put the finger on me-” His bluster died out nervously as Johnny picked up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Senor Johnny? Thees ees Manuel Ybarra.” The ex-fighter's words crackled with excitement, his accent thickened. “I am een a coffeepot at 59th and 9th Avenue. Can you come over?”

“Why, for God's sake?”

The dark man's voice lowered as though he had cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. “I 'ave jus' seen a body come downstairs from a third-floor apartment at Two-twenty West Fifty-ninth Street.”

“Cut it out, man,” Johnny said impatiently. “Whose body? An' what's so special about Two-twenty West Fifty-ninth?” Across the room he could see Ed Keith tense in his chair.

“Eet's a man called Dave Hendricks. You know heem?”

“Slightly,” Johnny acknowledged. Ed Keith's big blubbery face seemed to be disintegrating feature by feature.

“I know a little story about thees man.”

“I'll be there,” Johnny said shortly, and hung up.

The newspaperman's eyes were enormous. “It's Dave, isn't it?” His words came out in a croaked whisper. “He's dead, isn't he?” At Johnny's nod his voice rose piercingly. “I knew it, I knew it!” He stumbled up out of his chair and ran to the door; the room shook behind him from the violence of its closing.

Johnny shook his head gently as he headed for the closet and his clothes. Whatever Ed Keith knew, it wasn't agreeing with him.

Manuel Ybarra lifted a hand in greeting from his end-booth position as Johnny entered from the street, but from the moment Johnny had seen the small sign Costi's in the window of the coffee shop he knew he wouldn't be getting around to his conversation with Manuel right away. It was a very small world, sometimes.

He walked directly to the cash register and held out his hand to the stocky Greek presiding over it. “Hello, there, six-syllables-ending-in-cr,” Johnny greeted him.

“Hah!” the stocky man said explosively, seizing the hand and wringing it effusively. “Finally you remember you have friends, hah?”

“I've got one waiting for me over here,” Johnny said, nodding at Manuel. “Come on an' have a cup of coffee with us.”

“And why not?” the Greek exclaimed cheerfully. “Millie! Take the register!” He came out from behind the counter and grabbed Johnny's hand again. “It makes me young again to see you, Johnny!”

Johnny couldn't help smiling at the man's effervescence. “How's the family?”

“Four babies now,” the stocky man said proudly. He slapped Johnny on the back exuberantly. “Oh, I am one hell of a man in that bedroom!”

At the booth Johnny introduced Manuel. “This is Costi Constantinopolos, Manuel. Manuel Ybarra, Costi.” The two dark men shook hands as they all sat down. Costi clapped his hands for coffee, turning at once to Johnny.

“It takes you a year to walk fourteen blocks?” he reproached him.

“It's no farther the other way,” Johnny argued mildly, and the stocky Greek smiled brilliantly.

“At least we were closer when it counted,” he agreed, and turned to include Manuel in the smile. “He saved my life,” he said, and nodded at Johnny.

“He twisted his ankle on a loose rock,” Johnny replied to Manuel's inquiring gaze.

“Hah!” Costi burst out. “After we had swum a mile through a mined harbor, climbed eighty-five feet of sheer rock in the pitch black night, and killed a man who badly needed killing, then I slipped on a loose rock and broke the ankle.” He looked at Johnny gravely, the exuberance gone. “How, I'll never know. Any more than I know how you got me out of there. That cliff-” He shook his head and turned again to Manuel with more of his usual vigor. “This Johnny has involved you in trouble?” he asked cheerily. “Oh, I tell you he is noted for that.”

“I think rather the other way around,” Manuel said soberly. “Or soon, perhaps.” His eyes were on Johnny speculatively.

“Oh, I tell you trouble will have its hands full, then,” Costi said merrily. The dark eyes alertly tabulated the customers, the waitresses and the counter as he spoke. “He is something, this Johnny.” He snapped his fingers, started to shout something up to the front of the room and half rose to his feet, his voice apologetic. “You will excuse me? It's my busy time.”

“Come back if you get a chance, Costi,” Johnny called after the already retreating figure. “He's from Cyprus,” he explained to Manuel. “A real fish in the water. Greatest underwater demolition man you ever saw. He pulled off a stunt one time you wouldn't believe.”

“And now he sells coffee,” Manuel said softly.

Johnny shrugged. “Kind of limited market for underwater demolition men these days. An' one thing about Costi-if he didn't like it, he wouldn't be doin' it.”

“You were frogmen?”

“Unofficial ones,” Johnny said briefly. “Now what'd you get me out of bed for this mornin'?”

Manuel's thick-knuckled hands toyed with his coffee cup. “This Hendricks,” he began carefully. “He was killed with a small-caliber gun. The police-”

“How long ago did this happen?” Johnny interrupted. “How do you know already it was a small-caliber gun?”

The dark face was serious. “It is said the bullet between the eyes remained in the skull. The bullet of large caliber would surely have removed the back of the head.”

“Who said the bullet remained in the skull?” Johnny demanded.

“A man who was paid to talk.”

“I don't get it, man,” Johnny said impatiently. “What is all this double talk?”

“I will tell you the truth,” Manuel decided. He looked at Johnny broodingly. “The truth was not in my mind when I called you, but when I listen to that man-” He nodded at Costi's cheerful dark face behind the counter-“I feel that a lie is not the way to get your help. And a lie is even less to the point since I may have to ask a big favor of you.” He took a deep breath. “I talked to this Dave Hendricks last night-this morning, rather.”

“You had an argument with him?” Johnny asked quickly.

Manuel shook his head. “No. He came to the game and tried to borrow some money from Rick. Rick turned him down, and Hendricks asked me for a ride uptown. On the way he spoke bitterly-he was very angry-and he told me a story about Rick. I do not believe thees story, because Rick is my friend, but it is a story it does no good to hear. When the game broke up I asked Rick about it, and he was annoyed. We had a small argument-nothing serious. I left him, but I could not get the thing off my mind. I thought I would talk to Hendricks again, and learn more, if I could. When I came to his place they were already bringing the body down into the street. I found a man who for ten dollars gave me the information about the gun caliber.”

The dark man paused, and Johnny, who had listened closely to his story, shook his head. “I don't get it, Manuel,” he said for the second time. “There's no connection that I can see.”

“You don' have a corner or two of the picture,” Manuel replied earnestly. He looked uncomfortable. “I hope that I am wrong about all this, but I mus' talk to someone.” He smiled apologetically. “Almos' I am ashame' to tell you, but perhaps you have guess' I do not spend all the time with Rick for nothing? I am a quiet partner of Rick.”

Johnny looked at him. “Cash?” Manuel nodded affirmatively. “How much?”

The thick-shouldered man spread his hands deprecatingly. “Thirty-five thousan'.”

Johnny whistled. “Half the dump on the fight was yours?” Again Manuel nodded. “Consuelo know about this?”

“Consuelo does not know about this,” Consuelo's brother said firmly. “Nor do I intend that she will.” He looked at Johnny's face. “You do not like this? Of Rick, I mean?”

“Don't get me wrong, now,” Johnny began slowly. “It could be all right. He's your friend.” His tone made it tentative.

“Rick is my friend,” Manuel affirmed strongly, but the eyes were watchful.

“Why?” Johnny countered. “When a man's my friend, there's a reason. Must be with you an' Rick. You maybe stood back-to-back in a thirty-foot circle and knife-fought the trouble?”

The dark man's smile became strained. “Nothing like that. It's jus'-” He appeared to be looking back reflectively. “I have known him only two years. I met him through Consuelo; even then he came to the club to hear her sing. He would like to make something of it, but she does not take him seriously. And I liked him-we talked the same language. I do not mean the Spanish-the same language of the world we spoke. He was pleasant, not pushing, never asking. I made all the advances.”

“Where'd you get the money for your end of the deal?” Johnny inserted into the little silence.

“Not legally.” Manuel Ybarra's tone was tight. He forestalled the next question. “Rick knows this.” He knitted his hands together on the table in front of him, and the big, brown knuckles turned white. “It's never too difficult for a man to be more clever than me, amigo, but Rick is my friend.” He said it almost pleadingly, and then the tight lines in his face slackened. “This thing has a most foolish sound to you?” he asked resignedly.

“It could be all right,” Johnny said again. He tapped on the table top with an idle finger tip. “I think-”

“There is one other little thing,” Manuel said, interrupting him. “I have for years a small Spanish automatic. Very small; of the caliber about twenty-five. Special bullets. A month ago it was missing from where I always kept it, and I have not found it. I said nothing, for I thought Consuelo might have discovered it, and she does not like the guns. But thinking back, I missed it after Rick had been to the flat one evening.”

Johnny shook his head slowly. “Hendricks went to borrow money from Rick, Rick turned him down, Hendricks got mad and told you a story about Rick that shook you up, you went up against Rick with the story, he denied it and you had an argument, Rick takes out after Hendricks and kills him with the little automatic he'd taken from your place-“ The sound of his words hung in the air a moment. “It's too thin, Manuel.”

“I am glad you think so,” Manuel said in relief.

“What kind of a story did Hendricks give you about Rick?”

“About the previous quiet partner of Rick who lost his money through a manipulation.”

“I've heard that story,” Johnny said, and watched the dark features tighten rigidly.

“I think I will have the little talk with Rick,” Manuel Ybarra said carefully.

“You can't talk to him sensibly,” Johnny pointed out. “You're all up in the air. You're due to explode in a shower of sparks, and it could be that it's not justified.”

“I need to know,” the dark man said stubbornly.

“Now wait a minute-” Johnny looked at his watch, and sighed for his lost sleep. “I'll go with you,” he decided. “Your face is too transparent. You got to give me an hour, though. Okay?”

“Fine,” Manuel declared. “I have one errand myself first. Rick stays at the Cortez Apartments. I will meet you on the northwest corner in an hour. There is an alley on that corner.”

“Just don't make that errand a gun to be picked up,” Johnny warned him. He stood up in the booth. “Where'd you get that kind of cash without Consuelo knowing about it?”

“If I collected four thousan', I tol' her two,” Manuel said resignedly. “And I pay tax only on what she controls. Consuelo by nature has to be managing something, so I leave her with that. She can't understand that a man must manage his own affairs.” He said it defensively.

“We can sit here forever an' settle nothin',” Johnny said briskly. “The Cortez, in an hour-right?”

“I will be there with the bells on.” Manuel attempted a smile that didn't jell. “I had better be wrong about this bad feeling I have. I would not like to get angry with Rick.”

Johnny watched him leave, a thick-shouldered figure loaded with menace. You'd better shake him down for hardware before you go up against Manfredi, he told himself. This boy's a little touchy right now. It might help to keep down the casualty list.

At the hotel Johnny put in a call for Detective James Rogers, and finally made contact after getting shunted around half the station-house extensions. “Jimmy? Killain. I got a job for those four-bit stool pigeons of yours.”

“With you supplying the four bits?”

“Like hell. Listen. Scatter a few of them out around the town an' see if they can locate a few citizens who were bankrolled to take Roketenetz to lose after the fourth round.”

There was a short silence. “You think the fix was re-fixed?” Detective Rogers asked finally.

“You should be able to find out. It wouldn't be anything conspicuous-two, three, four hundred at a crack, probably. Can do? Good. I'm in a hurry. See you.”

Johnny banged up the phone and headed down to the street, and a cab. If this hunch paid off…

The wind ripped at him bitingly as he stepped out of the cab in front of the Cortez, a not-quite-first-class apartment hotel. Johnny walked up to the northwest corner, holding himself together against the wind. He shook his head; he wasn't dressed for this kind of weather. He hoped Manuel wouldn't be late.

Beyond the corner he saw the alley Manuel had mentioned, and he realized at once that, if Manuel had preceded him, he had probably stepped into it to get out of the wind. He headed into it himself, his feet crunching on the hard-packed snow in the unshoveled areaway; when he lifted his head in relief at escaping the bitter blast he found himself looking at a dark figure on the ground fifteen yards away, motionless under the rising and falling arm of the figure that was leaning over it.

Johnny went up the alley like a wind-blown leaf, but the snow betrayed him. The crisp sound of his running feet brought the assailant around in alarm, and, losing his footing on the slippery surface, he caromed into the man as he tried to pull up in front of him. A weight crashed under his ear. The alley whirled, and Johnny went to his knees, his reaching hands numbed for an instant. He pulled himself painfully erect, but the assailant was gone. Johnny stooped unsteadily over the limp figure, his ears ringing.

He was relieved to hear breathing, even though it was labored and stertorous. His hand came away stickily wet from Manuel Ybarra's head. Johnny stumbled out to the sidewalk, put two fingers to his mouth and whistled a shrill blast.

CHAPTER XI

Johnny paced the hospital corridor outside the emergency room to which the ambulance crew had taken the unconscious Manuel Ybarra. Johnny had wadded up a handkerchief and pressed it tightly between his shoulder and his ear, which was leaking slightly, and he walked with his head tipped sideways to hold the pad in place.

He had ridden over in the same ambulance and had told the intern about Manuel's eye condition. The intern had looked grave; the dark man's head wounds, serious enough in themselves, could also affect a precarious eye condition. The ex-fighter in the emergency room faced a lifetime of darkness.

A thousand random thoughts thudded through Johnny's mind as he paced. Could Manuel have been right? Could Rick Manfredi have killed Dave Hendricks and, suspecting Manuel's return in quest of more information, stopped him before he ever got started? Johnny stopped in his fierce stride and stared fixedly at the neutral-colored wall. He shook his head regretfully; it just didn't add up. Granted Manfredi was no angel, how could he have had someone posted in the alley, with no knowledge of Manuel's exact intentions? No, far more likely this thing stemmed from the same sequence of events that had seen the dark man attacked on the street the night of the first visit to Manfredi's floating poker game.

As Johnny shook his head in despair, the handkerchief pad slipped away and fell to the corridor floor. He stooped impatiently to retrieve it, and a wave of dizziness assailed him. Grimly he picked up the pad, glanced at its dried surface and jammed it in a pocket. The ear had stopped bleeding.

He had had a busy sixty minutes. Upstairs at the admission desk he had impatiently tried to answer a hundred questions concerning Manuel the head nurse had asked him, the answers to at least half of which he had not known.

And he had called Consuelo. She had been asleep, and she had flown from stupor to fear to anger to tears in such rapid succession that he couldn't keep up. He would never have believed that that self-sufficient girl could cry like that. In her angry stage she had furiously saddled Johnny with fifty per cent of the blame, and in the midst of the tearful stage she had hung up on him abruptly. It had not been an easy few moments.

A nurse emerged from the emergency room door, and Johnny started toward her hopefully. She hurried off in the opposite direction before he could reach her. Twice he had tried entering himself, but, met by a concerted barrage of negative head shakes from the group about the long white table, he had retreated. He returned disgustedly to his pacing, until the sound of hard heels advancing rapidly from the other end of the corridor made him turn around again.

Detective Ted Cuneo already had a hand on the emergency room door before he noticed Johnny standing twenty feet to the left of it. He did a double take and removed the hand; he advanced upon Johnny with his elbows out from his sides and his lean chin thrust forward. “What are you doing here, Killain?” he rapped out. “The squeal said Ybarra.”

“Inside,” Johnny said wearily. “Stick your thick head the hell inside an' see how he's doin'. They run me outta there twice already.”

The large-pupiled eyes examined him for a moment, and then the tall detective strode back and entered the emergency room. When he came out five minutes later he closed the door behind him very quietly. “Not good,” he admitted. “Something about his eyes.”

“He had low wattage anyway,” Johnny explained. “I think it was a piece of pipe that didn't help it any just now.”

Detective Cuneo looked more closely at the side of Johnny's head, and at his ear. “You were there when it happened?”

“Not at the start.” Johnny explained about walking into the alley to get out of the wind and finding Manuel on the ground. “The guy was workin' him over. I got up there, but I slipped in the snow reachin' for him. He clocked me once before he took off.”

“Did you get a look at him?” Cuneo asked instantly.

“I got a look at him.”

“Well, would you know him?” The detective's voice rose sharply.

“You bet your damn life I'll know him.” Johnny's voice rose in turn. “If it's in the twenty-second century I'll know him, an' I'll scatter that sonofabitch like sunbeams in a forest. I'll take-”

“Back up there, now,” Detective Cuneo ordered peremptorily. “That's enough of that kind of talk. When we finish here you're coming with me and look at some mug shots.” He ran a hand over his chin reflectively. “What were you doing with Ybarra?”

“I was meetin' him on that corner,” Johnny replied stolidly.

A dull flush blossomed on Cuneo's lean features. “Why were you meeting him on the corner?” he said. “And never mind trying for the comic strips with your answer, either.”

“We were on our way over to the gym for a workout,” Johnny lied. “Both of us lard up if we don't sweat it off once in a while.”

The detective studied him suspiciously, but before he could speak again a door opened and closed at the end of the corridor and the sound of hastily clicking high heels filled the hollow quiet. Johnny looked around to see Consuelo Ybarra's strained, beautiful face-and, at her side, a hand solicitously at her elbow, Rick Manfredi.

The girl's eyes passed over Johnny without a flicker of recognition. “I can see him?” she pleaded to Cuneo.

“Hell, I don't know.” The tall man sounded irritable, but he turned back to the emergency room. “I'll find out.”

“A bad thing,” Rick Manfredi said gravely into the silence. His eyes were upon Johnny, who was looking at Consuelo Ybarra. She looked right through him.

“Look-” Johnny began, only to have Rick Manfredi's voice override him.

“I think we should-” He broke off as Detective Cuneo opened the door and beckoned. “You go ahead in,” the gambler said quickly to the girl. “It's you he wants to see.”

Johnny watched silently as she walked, a little unsteadily, to the door Cuneo was holding open. When she had disappeared inside he came back to the business at hand and found Manfredi still looking at him steadily. “What the hell are you doin' with her?” Johnny demanded roughly.

“She called me,” the gambler replied. He said it expansively, but his eyes never left Johnny's face. He unbuttoned his coat with deliberate movements and unwound the silk scarf from about his throat, disclosing a maroon all-wool sportshirt and expensive-looking gray woolen slacks. “What happened?” he inquired in a careful tone.

“You don't know already?” Johnny asked bitterly. “He was jumped in the alley back of your place. I got there just in time to let the guy slip through my fingers.”

“Tough luck,” the chubby man said smoothly. “Him gettin' away, I mean. Now what was that crack about my knowin' already?”

A slow anger heated the blood in Johnny's veins. “Don't play dumb with me, Manfredi!” he said hotly. “Manuel was on his way up to see you. I was with him because I was afraid he wasn't too much in the mood for talkin'.”

“You were with him, despite the fact it was none of your business.” Rick Manfredi's voice was velvet; in the next second it turned to brass. “You've got a long nose, Killain. I think I told you that before. It's about time you smartened up. Now get this-whatever Manuel told you about last night was a misunderstanding that will be straightened out.” The dark eyes glittered coldly. “I wouldn't want Consuelo to be bothered with any of this.”

Johnny blew out his breath sharply. “I'll bet you wouldn't, you bastard. Last night it's okay to take her brother because he's a pigeon who thinks his friends are honest, but today you can make a little time with the sister. That the score?”

“All still none of your business.” The gambler's voice was low and hard. “I expect you to keep your big mouth shut around Consuelo, understand?”

“You expect!” Johnny echoed contemptuously. “How you plannin' on shuttin' it, man?”

The gambler smirked. “There's a medium of exchange that moves mountains.”

“You're damn right there is!” Johnny gritted hoarsely. He took a quick step forward. “Try some!” His left hand piston-powered Rick Manfredi's gold belt buckle three inches backward. The gambler let out a bagpipes' squall as he jack-knifed forward; his right leg gave way first, and he seemed to wind himself pretzel-fashion around the left as he ended up, white-faced, on the floor.

Johnny stepped back and examined the knuckles he had skinned on the belt buckle as Consuelo Ybarra slowly came out into the corridor. She took one look at the man on the floor and flew at Johnny, her fingers like claws and her voice ascending the scale in Spanish imprecation.

“Cut it out!” Johnny warned her, dodging the assault. She wheeled and slashed at him with long nails, and he picked her up by the arms and swung her clear of the floor. “Will you listen to me for a minute?” he wedged in above the torrent of unmusical sound inundating him at the level of G above high C. As she tried to kick him he tossed her upward, catching her deftly behind shoulders and under knees. “Will you listen?” he demanded, restraining her violent writhing. She paused in the fishwife diatribe just long enough to spit at him. “The hell with it,” he decided abruptly, and dropped her seat first on the floor. Her screech split the air when she landed; then she was finally silent.

Without looking back at the two people on the floor, Johnny marched the length of the corridor to the exit door and departed.

In his room Johnny applied a succession of wrung-out cold towels to the lump under his ear, and finished off by attaching a square of adhesive to the bleeding bruise he had reopened in the process. He inspected himself in the mirror and grunted disparagingly. “If that guy had had anything but an icy spot to stand on, Killain, you'd be doin' your walkin' around layin' down.”

He returned to the outer room and sat down on the edge of the bed, its sheets still in a whirl from his romp with Sally two hours before. He bent forward gingerly to remove his shoes; at anything other than dead center his head still buzzed rebelliously. He had the left shoe off when the telephone rang, and he studied it in silence through three rings before he reluctantly picked it up. He cleared his throat huskily. “Yeah?”

“This is Turner, Killain.” Johnny blinked in surprise. “Can you get over to the office here? Something I'd like to straighten out.”

“Now there's an invitation that ought to make my day complete,” Johnny muttered aloud before he thought.

“I didn't get that, Killain.”

“I said I'd be right over.”

“Good. We'll be expecting you.” The promoter's voice was the familiarly bustling energetic crackle.

It's no editorial “we” that will be expecting you, either, Johnny mused as he replaced the phone. Still, Turner would hardly stage a circus on his home grounds-would he? Johnny stared at the phone. He had been afraid it was Cuneo going to interrupt his needed sleep, and now he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway.

There's a way to find out what Turner wants, he reminded himself, trying to get himself back into gear. Get yourself over there.

He shoved his left foot back into the shoe he had just removed and tied it with difficulty. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs. He knew that he wasn't co-ordinating properly. It was nothing that ten hours sleep wouldn't straighten out, but in the meantime there was this Turner fish fry.

He pushed himself from the bed and to the door. In motion he felt better, less fuzzy. The cold air in the street helped as he waved for a cab; by the time he disembarked in front of the Emerson Building he felt almost normal.

He smiled at Stacy Bartlett's look of surprise as he entered the green-and-gold reception room from the elevator. “H'ya, sugarfoot,” he said softly as he walked to her desk. “You're lookin' well this mornin'.”

“Sorry I can't say the same for you,” she returned briskly with a look at his patched ear. “What happened to you?”

“The ear? I didn't get out of the way of an unidentified flyin' object. Nothin' fatal. The king bee aboard?”

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she asked doubtfully.

“Tell you later,” Johnny said cheerfully, “but it's his idea, not mine. He called me just a few minutes ago.”

“He must have used his direct line,” the tall girl said. “I hope you're on your good behavior.” She sounded a little anxious.

“I'm always on my good behavior,” Johnny said significantly, and Stacy blushed. “How come you haven't asked for a return bout after that no-decision set-to the other night? With your left hand sharpened up a little you'd be six-to-five to win the marbles.”

“I'll-have to consult my engagement book,” she answered with attempted lightness.

“Hell with the engagement book,” Johnny replied vigorously. “What about tomorrow night? Okay?” She hesitated, and he pressed her. “Okay?”

“You keep pushing me into corners,” she protested.

“Trouble is you keep squirmin' out.” He grinned. “I'll pick you up out front. Okay?” She nodded, slowly. “Fine. You can call the gorilla now.”

She pushed the buzzer for Monk. “Don't you go agitating him, now,” she warned. The sound of her voice was still in the air when Monk Carmody appeared at the rear of the room and waited silently. Johnny followed him out, and they passed right through the bare, green-walled check point without even a pause. Johnny couldn't resist the opportunity.

“No search parties today, Monk?” he inquired genially. “I was just gettin' to like those games.”

The squat man never even turned his head; still silent, he led the way directly to the door of Lonnie Turner's private office and, when Johnny had entered, closed the door behind him with himself on the outside. Johnny looked suspiciously at the closed door and quickly at the room, but its only occupants were Turner behind his massive desk and Al Munson seated stiffly in a chair to his right.

The promoter smiled his chilly smile at Johnny's examination of the door and the room. “You mistrust our hospitality, Killain?” he asked mildly.

“Just checkin',” Johnny said shortly. “What's on your mind?”

“I trust you won't think I'm too wasteful of your time when you find out why you're here,” the white-haired man answered. “Al has something to say to you, but I wanted to hear him say it myself.”

Johnny looked from the tanned promoter to the pasty-faced publicist. Al Munson didn't look as though he had had much of a night's sleep either, Johnny reflected. The press agent crossed his short legs in an effort to simulate an ease he plainly didn't feel. “Ah-that conversation we had the other evening, Killain. At the hotel. It's out. Null and void.”

He folded his hands in his lap and fielded Johnny's stare impassively before Johnny switched off to Lonnie Turner. “I must have my stupid suit on today,” Johnny said lightly. He shifted his attention back to the publicist. “Go ahead an' remind me, Al. We had a conversation?”

“You know the conversation,” the fat man replied expressionlessly. “We-I'm relinquishing all claim to the money.”

“Nice of you, boy. Real nice of you.” Johnny moved up to the desk and leaned over it. “What he's sayin', Turner, is that after you decided you couldn't afford to make a play to get your dough back Munson stepped in for himself. But you found out an' now you're puttin' the cuffs on him.”

“You have a talent for jumping to the wrong conclusions, Killain,” the promoter replied tartly. “And stop breathing in my face. Sit down. This will take a little while.” Johnny seated himself carefully in one of the big leather armchairs as Lonnie Turner continued. “Let me preface this by admitting that my share in the proceedings I'm about to relate confirms my lawyers' opinion that I'm an incompetent in the management of my own affairs.” He smiled, a tight little smile, sank back into the depths of his padded chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I came into this business some years back with no necessity for scraping a living from it, as you may know, but rather to satisfy a sense 6f challenge. I found it a business unlike any other in my not inconsiderable experience, and I found myself dealing with a weird and wonderful variety of people with a weird and wonderful variety of ethics, both business and social.”

The crisp voice ran on drily. “I've always considered myself an adaptable animal, Killain, and I adapted. When it became accepted, in my new circles, as it eventually did, that I was unlikely to be overcome by the lesser forms of avarice, a rather special relationship came into being between myself and the people with whom I was dealing.” The white-haired man unfolded his arms, leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk top. “At any given time a business associate with money due him from a successful promotion might say to me, 'Give me a chit for my end, Lonnie. You hold it.' As the custom become more common I found myself the custodian of considerable sums of money, none of which was mine. I became in effect the treasurer of an unofficial club.”

The promoter peered across at Johnny, who was listening intently. “For services rendered, I was prepared to be altruistic. The modus operandi was simple. I merely set up a separate bank account, and to each associate I issued an undated check for what was due him or a series of checks totaling the aggregate sum if the amount were large. Some of those checks have been carried uncashed for years, and it is a rather curious by-product of the system that my name is well enough known to permit an associate to pledge such a check against a loan from another source and subsequently redeem it.”

Al Munson opened his mouth as though to speak, shook his head dubiously and remained silent.

“I did not consider myself required to investigate the reason for these-ah-deposits,” Lonnie Turner went on placidly. “Certain people might consider that lack of curiosity gross negligence. I might say in passing that this separate bank account was never included in the figures I gave my lawyers for tax purposes each year. Altruistic I was prepared to be, but not to the extent of paying taxes on other people's money, especially in the tax bracket in which I find myself.”

He cleared his throat gently. “If you've been following me closely, I'm sure you realize that in this matter I was by now culpable on several counts.” He grinned unexpectedly like a small boy. “This was brought home to me rather forcibly last year when, through a most regrettable bit of absent-mindedness on my part, my lawyers learned of the existence of this account. They informed me in some heat that even a random tax audit would show little respect for my intelligence or my altruism, either. To remain in good odor with them I was forced to make other arrangements, which brings us to Jake Gidlow. I thought I had plugged all the loopholes, but I erred-I misjudged Jake's hypersensitivity to possible contact at some future time with the minions of Internal Revenue. He found an escape hatch. I thought having the will in my favor protected me against the extreme eventuality, and by the time I found out I was wrong the fat was in the fire.”

He tilted back in his chair again and locked his hands behind his head. “You're familiar with the sequence from that point, Killain. It was I who sent Carmody and Hartshaw over to Miss Fontaine's that morning. In retrospect, a very poor move. Inexplicable, really. I panicked. When-”

“How did you know Gidlow was dead?” Johnny inquired softly. “Nobody else did, at that time.”

“There were a number of keys to Gidlow's suite, for a number of reasons,” the promoter replied blandly. “Someone walked in upon Gidlow deceased and, with my interests at heart, called me. I put the machinery in motion, but by the time you put in that rather startling appearance here to pick up Roketenetz's check, I'd become acquainted with enough of the true facts to decide I couldn't afford the luxury of following through on the recovery of the account.”

Lonnie Turner smiled urbanely. “Here again I was guilty of a slight oversight. I had neglected to take into consideration the considerable anxieties of the-ah-beneficiaries of the account. Aware of the situation, and mistrusting my solution of it, they contacted my employee-” His sardonic glance darted off to Al Munson slumped in his chair-“and authorized him to act for them. This resulted in the visit at the hotel. Since learning of this, I believe I've restored order. The matter has been arbitrated at all levels, adjustments have been made-some expensive-and everyone is, if not satisfied, at least reconciled. The critical point was the establishment of the fact that, either through income or inheritance taxes, there wouldn't be enough left in the account to justify the danger of trying to collect it.”

Johnny sat there, turning it over in his mind. “It's a good story,” he admitted finally. “If the tax people get back to you, it won't save you any money, but it could keep you out of jail. If it's not true, you ought to pension off the guy who produced it.”

“Oh, it's true enough,” Lonnie Turner said wryly. “And I believe you realize I've told you this because it lies in your power to see that the tax people do get back to me. I would appreciate your restraint. And Miss Fontaine's.” He stood up behind the desk. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Yeah,” Johnny grunted, and got slowly to his feet. He looked long at the man behind the desk. “Who killed Gidlow?”

“I don't know, Killain,” the promoter protested wearily. “I honestly don't know.”

“Or Roketenetz, either?”

“Or Roketenetz, either.”

“Or Hendricks?”

“Hendricks? Who's Hendricks?” Johnny's eyes were upon Al Munson, who was sitting as rigidly in his chair as though an electric current had passed through it, his eyes popping. “Not Dave Hendricks who judges fights?” Lonnie Turner continued with every evidence of honest surprise. “He was killed? When, for God's sake?”

“Last night,” Johnny said shortly. He smiled at Al Munson. “Looks like someone's throwin' the excess baggage overboard.”

He left a very quiet room behind him.

CHAPTER XII

On the street Johnny headed for a drugstore and a telephone booth. It took him nearly five minutes to get Detective James Rogers on the line. “Killain, Jimmy. You get anything from your pigeons yet?”

“That was quite a hunch, little man.” The sandy-haired detective's admission was grudging. “Up to now we've found three small operators who say they were bankrolled to cover all bets on Roketenetz to go by the fourth.”

Johnny grunted with satisfaction. “Able to trace it back?”

“You know I can't answer a direct question. Seems to me I heard, though, that the money man operates a floating poker game.”

“That's lovely,” Johnny commented sourly. “In my time I've met a few warts on the arse of progress, but this Manfredi is in a class by himself. What he's got comin' to him-”

“Don't go getting ideas, now!” Detective Rogers warned him sharply. “And, before I forget it, you're overdue down here to look at mug shots to try to locate the goon who assaulted Ybarra. You'd damn well better get down here before you run into Cuneo on the street. He didn't like that mess you left in the hospital corridor, and even more he didn't like your walking out.”

“I'll be down,” Johnny said. That's not saying when, he added silently. “Jimmy? You guys took the telephone chits outta the hotel for the day Gidlow was knocked off. There was a call made to Lonnie Turner's office from Gidlow's place within an hour of the estimated time of death, and there was another call made within five minutes of the first one. Is that right?”

“Why don't you ask me to send you the flimsies?” the detective asked irritably.

“Who was the second call made to, Jimmy?”,

“You've got better sense than to ask me that!” Jimmy Rogers snapped angrily.

“Sure, Jimmy. Sure. Forget it,” Johnny said soothingly. So there'd actually been a second call. Had to be, of course. The police must be reeling in the line. Slowly. Too damn slowly. “Thanks, man,” Johnny said into the receiver, and walked rapidly from the drugstore, out to the street and the cold.

Back at the hotel he had barely cleared the foyer doors when Gus pointed imperatively to the reservation desk. Gus was the day bell captain, pale and black-haired. “Message for you, Johnny.”

Johnny veered off to the desk and picked up the proffered telephone chit. He looked at the brief message: Call Bartlett.

He stood beside the desk, crumpled the bit of paper in his hand and wondered what could have happened to Stacy. He crossed the lobby to the pay phone booths, and had seated himself in one before he realized he didn't know the number. He had a little trouble before he found it in the directory. No sleep and that whack on the ear were making him a little fuzzy.

“L. Turner Enterprises,” Stacy's pleasant contralto said when she came on the line.

“It's me, kid.”

“Oh.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “I shouldn't be telling you this, but Mr. Turner's got a man following you.”

“Following me?” Johnny asked, genuinely surprised. “What the hell for?”

“I don't know. I just know that he has. I can't talk freely.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said slowly. “Well, thanks, anyway. I'll watch for him. Damn nice of you to call me. I'll elaborate on that a little when I see you.”

“Oh,” she said at once. “About tomorrow-would you mind calling for me at my place?”

“Not even if it was at the foot of the Statue of Liberty,” he said cheerfully. “Dinner's on me this time, though.”

“I've got to hang up-there's another call. I'll be expecting you. 'By.”

Johnny jingled the change in his pocket absently as he left the booth. Lonnie Turner's putting a man on him made sense from only one point of the compass-after the full and complete detail in which Lonnie Turner had told his story, he might feel a vested interest in whether Johnny was going to pass the information on. Hardly anything else it could be, but he'd worry about it with a few hours sleep under his belt. He went by the switchboard and left a 2:00 p.m. call with Edna, the day operator. Four hours sleep was not ten, but it was a damn sight better than nothing.

In his room he shed clothing from the door to the bed, and was asleep between one long breath and another.

The jangling phone crashed into his consciousness and jarred him upright. “Yeah. Okay, Edna. Thanks,” he mumbled to the operator. “I'm up.” He gave the lie to this statement by immediately stretching out again, but after a forty-five second inspection of the ceiling he rolled over and picked up the phone again. “Edna? Get me Providence Hospital, will you?” The line rang several times before it was answered. “I'd like to speak to Manuel Ybarra,” he said.

“Mr. Ybarra is not receiving calls,” the phone informed him after a pause long enough to check the alphabetical listing.

“Look-get me his ward nurse,” Johnny said rapidly. I'm-

“I'm not allowed to do that, sir.”

“I'm a relative,” Johnny pressed on, “and I've got to find out what they want me to bring down there.”

“Oh. Just one moment, sir.” In seconds a lighter, younger voice spoke pleasantly. “Ward G, Scalley.”

“Miss Scalley, I'm a cousin of Manuel Ybarra on your ward. How's he doin'?”

“Your inquiry should be addressed to the desk,” she said doubtfully. “You say you're a cousin?” Johnny gave her the first two lines of the Star Spangled Banner in rapid-fire Spanish. “Well,” Miss Scalley said quickly, “he's conscious and improving slowly. We're hoping he'll have some vision left in the right eye.”

“The left's gone?”

“From present indications. Dr. Martin says there's always a chance of a miracle, but-”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Miss Scalley.” Johnny hung up, rolled slowly onto his back and stared up at the ceiling again. Well, Killain. What are you getting yourself all roiled up about? A guy and a gal took a short cut to the money chamber. They didn't make it. The girl doesn't know yet why they didn't make it. And a damn good thing for Manfredi that she doesn't.

He shifted restlessly on the bed. How had Manfredi gotten to the kid to change the round of the fix? It couldn't have been through Gidlow. Gidlow had been sewed up lock, stock and money belt by Lonnie Turner. Or had he?

Terry Chavez had probably been closest to the kid in the hours before the fight. Johnny sat up on the bed suddenly. Terry Chavez. Would the old man double-cross his own flesh and blood? Hardly, but Terry Chavez-if he were able to talk-could very easily know how it had been done.

Johnny slid off the bed and began to dress rapidly. In the mirror he examined the purpling bruise spreading beneath his ear. Another mercenary. Nobody kills his own in this rat race-it's all hired. Unless Gidlow- You don't know about Gidlow. And Hendricks? You don't know about Hendricks, either. That one might have had no connection at all with the rest of it. Except for Hendrick's trip to borrow money from Manfredi. That tied him in solidly, as solidly as Keith. Or as solidly as Munson. Or Turner. Or Manfredi.

A fight manager dead, a fighter dead and a fight judge dead. A fight trainer hospitalized and an ex-fighter hospitalized. Not much doubt about the hub of the wheel.

He descended hurriedly to the lobby, and he was in full flight through it to the street when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a slim, youngish man detach himself easily from a lobby chair and swing along in his wake. Belatedly Johnny recalled Stacy's warning. He turned right under the marquee, toward Sixth Avenue, looking nowhere but straight in front of him. He had no intention of having his movements reported upon to Lonnie Turner. The gentlemen behind him had a surprise coming to him.

Johnny turned right on Sixth, walked rapidly up the block and turned right again at the next corner. Two doors down he stepped into the recessed doorway of a cocktail lounge, a quick glance through the window verifying that it was deserted at that time of day. He couldn't even see the bartender.

Right on schedule, the slim man came around the corner, moving smoothly, tight to the wall. His eyes flickered side-wise to Johnny in the doorway, but he would have continued right on by if Johnny's hand on his arm had not snatched him into the doorway. Johnny shoved his hands casually in his coat pockets and leaned a shoulder against his companion, pinning him not too conspicuously to the window. “You do that real good, Jack,” Johnny told him gently. “I like the way you take the corners with the inside leg, like a base runner.”

“What the hell?” the slim man breathed wonderingly. “Am I wearing a sign?” The dean features looked startled; he had blue eyes and a fringe of red hair beneath a gray fedora.

“P.I.?” Johnny inquired. The man shrugged and nodded. “What's your per diem?”

“Twenty-five, and expenses.”

“Turner's probably payin' fifty to insure a good job,” Johnny guessed, and knew from the blue eyes' blink that the guess had been a good one. “It's not worth it, Jack.” He increased the shoulder pressure, and the slim man winced. “The next right turn I make an' your right ankle comes dippin' around the corner, I put a bullet through it.” Johnny paused to note the effect, then in midstream changed horses. There was an easier way than trying to scare this boy. “You know Jimmy Rogers?”

“De-Detective Rogers?” The man sounded as though he were having trouble with his wind.

“Detective Rogers,” Johnny agreed, and eased up on the weight of his shoulder. “You call him up an' ask him if he thinks it's a smart idea.” Without another word he walked out of the doorway back up to Sixth and flagged a cab. From the back seat as it pulled away he could see the slim man still in the doorway. So that was that, unless he had a partner, which wasn't likely. “Sisters of Mercy Hospital,” Johnny told the cabbie, and settled back for the ride.

He watched the neighborhoods change from business to residential to slum to slightly seedy residential again. His thoughts were on the white-haired, hawk-nosed man he had last seen in a coma in the boxlike, white-walled room at the Sisters of Mercy Hospital. If Terry Chavez were able to communicate at all…

He stepped from the cab at the end of the ride and mounted the glistening white stone stairs. Inside the front door he glanced in at the little chapel; it would not do to run into Consuelo Ybarra on these premises. The hospital's air of quiet serenity would more than likely never be the same. Johnny didn't want to run into Manuel's sister unexpectedly, but there was a question he had to ask her, and it couldn't wait much longer.

Johnny climbed to the second floor and approached the remembered door with caution. He was ready to retreat at sight of a figure in the chair beside the bed until he realized that the head outlined was masculine. He entered the room after his momentary hesitation, and in the gloom had difficulty in recognizing Dr. McDevitt until the pink-cheeked man looked up with a start from his meditative, head-on-chest position.

The doctor rose to his feet with hand extended. “Ashamed to say I was nearly asleep, Killain. Haven't been sleeping too well recently.” His hand in Johnny's was dry and crisp. “Nice to know poor Terry's not completely forgotten,” he added with a glance at the bed.

“How's he doin', Doc? Any better?”

The commission physician pursed his lips doubtfully. “I'm afraid not. I've already looked at the chart.” He nodded at the clip-board hanging from the end of the bed. “It's difficult to tell in these cases sometimes, but it's my feeling that he's slowly sinking.”

“He's never regained consciousness?”

Dr. McDevitt walked around to the foot of the bed and picked up the chart. “Not since he first lapsed into this comatose condition. He was conscious-let's see-the first thirty-six hours after admission.” He looked up from the chart. “I feel a little negligent in this. Terry's an old friend of mine, and the first report I had was that it wasn't this serious.”

“He must have made a statement to the police at the time of admission,” Johnny said, thinking aloud, his eyes on the still form in the bed. He continued as the doctor raised an inquiring eyebrow. “If he'd never made a statement at all, there'd be a man in blue cocked up in a chair outside this door right now. An', whatever he told 'em, they're not expectin' a follow-up, or they'd have someone posted.”

“I'm afraid I didn't pay enough attention to the few details I did hear,” Dr. McDevitt admitted ruefully. “I believe it was the usual thing-attacked from behind on the street, with no sight of the assailant. You're a friend of Terry's?”

“A friend of a friend.”

The doctor nodded. “I like Terry. He's no saint-he's a hard drinker, in spurts-and certainly no intellectual. I employed him for some time as my chauffeur. I'm a poor driver in city traffic, and among other things Terry drove me out the highway to my psychiatrist's office every afternoon.” He chuckled gently. “Ever been in analysis, Killain? No, I can see it's a foolish question from looking at you. I had to give it up myself.” He chuckled again. “When those devils get to the point where they can remove the feeling of guilt from a man's life, it's time to quit. No guilt, no flavor, I always say. Ergo, no life. None worth living, at any rate. And I've managed to live quite comfortably with my little peccadilloes.” He waved a deprecating hand. “I'm boring you. I'm sorry. I've got to run along. Can I offer you a share of a cab downtown? Or have you the time for that drink I owe you from the other evening?”

“Not right now, thanks, Doc. That fella that was with you the other night went kinda quick, didn't he?”

“About as quickly as you can go, I guess,” the doctor said drily. “As sometimes happens after a man's gone, I'm beginning to hear stories that he led a parti-colored life. Dave Hendricks operated on several levels, apparently. In running up and down various stepladders he got his foot caught between the rungs of one of them. Not an infrequent occurrence in this town, but I was a little surprised that it happened to Dave.” The pink-cheeked doctor nodded casually, moved to the door and went out.

Johnny moved in beside the chair the doctor had vacated and looked down at the sharp-angled features under the shock of white hair visible above the head bandage. “I wonder if you'd make the same statement to the police now, man, if you knew what a tight fit it is,” Johnny mused, half aloud. He straightened finally and walked from the silent room.

In the daylight under a threatening sky, the tenement area in which the Ybarras lived looked even more depressing than at night, Johnny reflected. Scabrous building fronts contributed their own indefinable rundown aura. The gutters were dirty, there was trash in the streets, papers were blowing wildly and the half-hearted sidewalk snow removal had created unsightly melting lumps carelessly blocking off storm sewers.

Johnny hesitated before the iron steps of the Ybarra tenement. He'd come over here, but he hadn't really made up his mind. This trip could turn out to be not such a good idea if Consuelo Ybarra was still set on a hair trigger. Still, only she could tell him what he needed to know. If she doesn't hand you one of your ears before you get your mouth open, he thought grimly.

Well, one way to find out. He climbed the steps, entered the building and started up the five flights. In contrast to his first early-morning climb there was noise aplenty now-shrill, childish voices, the continual sound of doors opening and closing and the banging of pots and pans.

Johnny knocked twice at the door of 5-B. For seconds there was no sound at all, and then he could hear a cautious shuffling noise inside as though the inner side of the door had been carefully approached. He knocked again, impatiently.

“Who is it?”

He would have known that husky voice among a thousand. “Open up, Consuelo.”

The door opened conservatively on the chain latch, and she looked out at him. “You!” she said, and the pronoun became an epithet. “Are you ashame' of your name?”

“I'm not ashamed of nothin',” he told her flatly. “I don't blat my name for these walls to hear.” Behind her in the doorway he could see that the shades were drawn and the lights on. Her voice had sounded thick and unsteady, and he studied her in the poor hall light. The eyes looked dull and the full-lipped mouth slack, and the disorderly mass of blue-black hair seemed to be flying all over the small head. “You drunk?” Johnny asked her apprehensively.

She smiled broadly. “Not dronk. Dreenking.” She fumbled off the new chain latch, for which he was responsible, and threw open the door. “Come in!” The smile flattened to a half sneer as he hesitated. “The beeg man is afraid!”

“Ahhhh!” he said roughly, and pushed inside, past her. “Listen to me, now. Drunk or sober, you start anything an' I'll finish it, see? I don't want no caterwauling in my ear.”

“But of course,” she said gravely, and missed the first three times she tried to rehook the chain-latch bolt, her movements all in slow motion. She finally managed it and preceded him inside. His uneasiness increased when he got his first good look at her. She was in her stockinged feet and a shapeless purple dressing gown that should have made her look like a hag. Instead it made her look like a very attractive gypsy, Johnny thought. “Sit down,” she invited him with a wave of her arm, which nearly overbalanced her, and collapsed herself into a chair beside a table prominently furnished with a bottle and glass, each half empty. “Mus' make yoursel' at home.”

The liquor had tripled her tongue to the point where her speech, ordinarily quite good, was more accented than Manuel's. She pulled herself up out of the chair in sections and weaved unsteadily to a wall cabinet, from which she removed another glass. She returned to the table and sloppily poured him a drink. She pushed the overfilled glass in his direction, picked up her own and stared over its rim at him, her eyes narrowed with the intensity of her thought.

“Confusion everyone,” she toasted finally, “an' hell damn hell.” She giggled triumphantly, threw back her head, tossed down her drink, coughed, gasped and sank down into her chair. Her eyes watered and ran copious tears.

Johnny picked up his drink and sniffed at it. “What the hell kind of wild moose milk is this?” he demanded disgustedly. “Tequila?”

“Mescal,” she said in a faraway tone when she could get her breath. “National drink. Smooth's mother's milk. Good for babies. Something matter with me. Can't drink it.”

“You drank half a bottle of this-this antifreeze?”

“Cer'ainly. Felt fine, till 'bout ten minutes ago.” She hiccuped gently, cocked her head on one side and looked at him sleepily. “You're the bigges' theeng-”

“Never mind that,” he said harshly. “I came over here to ask you something.”

“Okay. All right. Yes.” She re-enacted the complicated maneuver of rising from the chair, then turned her back to him. Before he realized her intention she had slipped out of the dressing gown with a movement of her hands and a shrug of her shoulders. Beneath it she was wearing the stockings and a white blouse that failed to cover her rib cage-and the rest was Consuelo Ybarra. Johnny felt his eyes bulge as he stared at the soft lamplight polish on the dusky ivory tints of her buttocks.

“What the hell you doin'?” he demanded huskily. “You came to ask,” she said in surprise over her shoulder, then smiled and gestured at herself coquettishly. “All right. Yes.”

“I didn't-” he began, and swallowed it as she turned. She moved toward him, stumbled, fell up against him and threw her arms convulsively around his neck. She was shivering as though with a chill, but Johnny's hands had come up instinctively and filled themselves to overflowing with flesh that was far from chilled. He couldn't see her face, but he could hear her panting.

“Hurt me!” she urged throatily, and moved in his hands. Her dead weight hung suspended from his neck, and her body writhed ceaselessly. “Hurt me!” she demanded despairingly. “Your hands. Your-belt.” Her voice roughened in a hoarse gasp. “Do — something!”

He almost fell getting her through the doorway.

He was on his way out when he remembered. He walked back in beside the bed and, after the first glance at the face on the pillow, avoided looking at it. It was far more naked than the body. “Manuel had a twenty-five caliber Spanish automatic,” he said roughly.

“Si, pis tola.” She might have been a thousand light-years distant.

“Where is it?”

“Bureau-bottom drawer.” Her voice had no resonance. “I hid it.”

He crossed swiftly to the bureau, stooped and dredged ruthlessly amidst the welter of flimsy underwear. His probing hands touched something hard, and he removed it, unwrapped the tightly folded pink slip to its hard core and looked down at the toylike, pearl-handled weapon in his hand. So Manfredi hadn't killed Hendricks. Check that, Killain. He didn't kill him with Manuel's automatic.

He rolled the little handgun back up in the slip and thrust it back in a corner of the drawer.

He returned to the bed, but she spoke before he could. “Don't talk. Go.”

He was surprised to find that it was daylight when he reached the street. Where he had been it had been night for some time.

CHAPTER XIII

At the apartment Sally greeted him with a quizzical expression as he slipped out of his coat in the hall. “Well, man?” she queried, hanging up the coat in the closet. “You said afternoon. Where I come from we'd call this evening.”

“I said 'maybe,' too,” he pointed out. “Congress is just gonna have to legislate a few more hours into the day.” He walked into the living room and dropped down in his armchair with a sigh.

“You sound as though it'd been a hard day at the office,” Sally jeered, the corners of her generous mouth curving upward. “What held you up?”

“The alarm didn't go off,” Johnny told her blandly.

“That's the trouble with those strange bedrooms,” she answered thoughtfully. “The alarm never does act like your own.” The smile expanded as she sat down on the arm of his chair. “I wonder why no one's ever done a thesis on that interesting subject?”

“Hush yo' mouf, Ma,” he directed her amiably. “You know I always trot right along home to you.”

“With your shirt tail out,” she gibed, and burst out laughing as he looked down instinctively. She tangled a hand in his thick, unruly hair. “Mr. Killain, you are really something.”

He pulled her from the chair arm into his lap, sliding an arm about her. “You're not so bad yourself, midget.” The little silence was comfortably unstrained.

“I had a telephone call,” she said finally.

He tried to see her face as she lay with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. “Who from?”

“He said it was Mr. Quince.” Her head came up and the brown eyes met his steadily. “But it wasn't. It was the fat man who came over to the hotel that night with the other man.”

“Al Munson,” Johnny grunted. “What'd he want?”

“When he thought he'd convinced me he was Mr. Quince, he asked me what my next move was going to be.”

Johnny sat quietly, but he could feel muscle tension deep within himself. “So what'd you tell him?”

“I told him nothing had changed since you talked to him, and that the status was quo.”

Johnny released a little breath. “I could get you a job in the State Department tomorrow on the strength of that answer, Ma. That was a little bit of all right.”

“You should never try to fool a telephone operator about a telephone voice,” Sally said complacently.

“I wonder how they found out it was Quince doin' the bloodhound bit,” Johnny mused. “'Course, I guess if Turner thought it was important enough to find out what was goin' on in that office, he could spread enough grease so there wouldn't be too many secrets.” He looked up at Sally, who was studying his face. “I was over there today, Ma. Turner's. They're waivin' all claims. You're an heiress.”

“What's the catch?” she asked warily.

“No catch. They just decided for good an' all they can't stand the noise that goes with puttin' in a claim check. Turner laid it on the line. He's ready with the damnedest story you ever heard if the Internal Revenue boys get back to him, but he'd much rather they didn't. By inference, if they don't, what's left is yours.” He grinned at her. “That leaves Turner worryin' about a double cross. He had a man on me today I gave a hot-foot, an' the call to you was just another checkup. Maybe he'll sleep tonight after the answer you gave him.”

“Do you think I should keep quiet?” she asked in a small voice.

“I sure do,” he replied promptly. “I'm a practical man, I hope. Even after the chop you should wind up with a little better'n forty grand. That'll keep me in a lotta bourbon.”

“Yes, but what do you really think?” she persisted. “Morally, I mean.”

“Who's got morals? Not me. Not you, in this case, or you're outta your mind. Internal Revenue is gettin' theirs, aren't they? The only way they could get more is penalties on Turner if they could get him on criminal intent, but his gimmick's so good he'd keep 'em tied up in the courts for years if they went after him. I doubt they could get a conviction.”

“What was this gimmick?” she asked with interest.

Johnny ran through the story Turner had given him for her. “Thinkin' it over afterward, though, it seems to me that the real hook in Internal Revenue's mouth is that just as long as those checks are outstanding, uncashed, there's quite a point involved as to whether they're actually income at any level. The legal eagles would have a field day.” He jabbed her lightly in the ribs with his left hand, and pretended to wince. “Those bones, Ma! At least you can pad them a little with the forty big ones.”

“I could get Charlie a nice stone,” she said wistfully, and dropped back down on his shoulder. “Charlie-” Her muffled voice died away.

Johnny sat in silence. It seemed like such a long way back to the towheaded, crew-cut fighter, but the whole thing had springboarded from that fixed fight. Whoever had fixed the fight originally had probably had Charlie Roketenetz killed. On the other hand, regardless of who had fixed it in the first place, when Rick Manfredi had refixed it he could easily have decided that it was the best part of wisdom to do the same thing. And, if he had used Jake Gidlow as his intermediary, that would account for what had happened to Jake.

The second telephone call from Gidlow's room was the key to the whole thing. The police had the answer, but they were surely taking their time about doing anything about it. There had to be something funny about that telephone call, the deep, dark silence that persisted about it. The police…

Johnny sighed without realizing it, and Sally's head lifted again. “I forgot, Ma. I got to run over to the precinct station house.”

“For what?” she asked in alarm.

“Just to look at a few pictures,” he said lightly. He smiled a little unwillingly as a thought occurred to him. “'Course, there could be stereophonic sound to go with 'em if Cuneo's there.”

“You won't be long?”

“I shouldn't be. Throw a few eggs at the fryin' pan in about an hour, okay?” He picked her up and sat her back down on the arm of the chair. “You be good till I get back.”

Her indignant sniff followed him out to the hall closet, from which he retrieved his coat.

He ran lightly up the worn white steps of the weather-beaten red brick building and turned left inside after nodding to the incurious uniformed patrolman at the inner door. He walked briskly on oil-darkened wooden floors to a head-high desk presided over by a burr-headed man whose red hair was laced with gray.

“The name's Killain,” John told him. “I'm supposed to look at pictures in your file.”

“Pictures we've got,” the man behind the desk agreed. “What classification? Breaking and entering? Armed robbery? Safe cracking? Using the mails to defraud? Shoplifting? Bank robbery? Arson? Pickpocketing? The confidence game?” He ticked them off rapidly on his fingers. “If the offense was sexual, that's a different department.”

“Assault,” Johnny informed him. “A piece of pipe.”

A pencil poised over a notebook. “Time and location of assault? Investigating officer?”

“This mornin', in back of the Cortez Apartments. Cuneo investigated it.”

The pencil pointed back down the corridor through which Johnny had just come. “Gilligan's your man. Second door back that way.” His hand was groping for the phone as Johnny turned away from the desk.

Behind the second door Johnny found a room cluttered with small desks, large filing cabinets and a cheerful, blue-eyed extrovert in a pin-stripe suit. “Sit down, sit down,” the extrovert invited hospitably, eying Johnny and pointing to the largest desk. “I'm Gilligan.” He attacked the files energetically, dumped a big double handful of file cards on the desk before Johnny and returned to the cabinets for more. “The desk said you wanted the heavy characters.” He looked over at Johnny fleetingly. “You must have a hard head if you're still walking around after tying into a piece of pipe.”

“I got just the back of his hand when he flew. A friend of mine got the load.” Johnny looked dubiously at the pile of cards and lifted off the top one. He studied the picture in the upper left corner and the neatly typed information beneath — name, known aliases, last address, arrests, convictions, known associates and technique. “How the hell do they stay outside when you've got them under the gun like this?” he asked in surprise.

“Not all of them are out,” the bustling Gilligan informed him, returning with another stack of cards. “Once they're in there, they stay in until the undertaker seals up the casket.” He pulled up a chair opposite Johnny, put his feet up on the next desk and slid down onto the final eighth of his spine. “If you've any questions, fire away.”

Johnny turned cards silently. For the first few he glanced through the typewritten information on each one, but after a dozen or so he turned cards and just looked at faces. A man would be hard put to imagine this many lowering countenances in the city, he reflected, with a single common denominator-menace.

He looked up suddenly from one card to find the shrewd blue eyes across the desk steadily upon him; while appearing to be in a soporific trance, Gilligan had not missed an expression upon Johnny's face during the card-turning. Johnny grinned at him and flipped a card into his lap. “Thought you said you retired 'em when the undertaker got them. Jigger Whelan's not around any more.”

“That right?” Gilligan squinted at the card. “Whelan. I don't remember. What happened?”

“He lost a right-of-way argument with a hit-and-run artist a month or so ago. Jigger was on foot.”

Gilligan nodded and made a pencil notation on the card. “It takes us a little longer to catch up with that kind of exit. We don't expect it of our clients.” He smiled faintly, and Johnny returned to the diminishing stack.

A door at the side of the room opened, and Detective James Rogers entered. He looked tired, and his suit was in need of pressing. He nodded to Gilligan and addressed Johnny. “I heard you were here. Step across the hall before you leave and see the man.”

“He wants his shoes shined, maybe?” Johnny inquired.

“Don't go giving me a harder time than I'm having where I just came from,” the sandy-haired detective warned him. “I could always lose my temper.”

“Maybe you don't lose it in the right places,” Johnny suggested. “Sympathy's in the dictionary. Right next-”

“I know what it's right next to,” Detective Rogers replied wearily. “Just walk across the hall like a good little boy when you're finished here.” The hazel eyes considered Johnny bale-fully. “Remind me to talk to you sometime, too, about using my name to get a private eye off your back, will you?”

“You'd be surprised the influence you have, Jimmy.”

“Over some people, maybe.” The slender man's tone was ironic. “We'll be expecting you.”

Gilligan looked at Johnny curiously when Detective Rogers had departed. “I wouldn't think there was much of a future butting heads with Rogers,” he said mildly.

“He discounts the source,” Johnny replied briefly, and resumed turning over cards. When he finally reached the bottom of the stack, he stretched lengthily and looked up to find the blue eyes questioning him. He shook his head negatively. “He's not in there.”

Gilligan looked disappointed. “You sure you'd know the man?”

“That man I'd know,” Johnny answered softly.

Gilligan's glance at him was sharp, but he picked up the cards without comment. “They're probably waiting for you,” he said from the file. “You'd better get on over there.”

“Isn't it funny that everyone's in a hurry but me?” Johnny remarked, but rose reluctantly from his chair and moved to the door. After the day he'd had he didn't particularly look forward to locking horns with Joe Dameron. In Johnny's present razor-edged near-depletion, he knew his own temper well enough to know that the infighting could get out of hand quickly.

He knocked on the door across the hall and, when he heard nothing, knocked again. He tried the door when there was still no sound from inside. It was locked, so Johnny turned and walked back to the squad rooms where a plump detective with round eyes known on the Broadway perimeter as Owly sat by the phones.

“I was supposed to see Dameron,” Johnny said to him.

“They just went out, him and Rogers,” Owly replied.

“I can just barely stand missing him,” Johnny said with relief. “Just barely. See you later. He knows where to find me.”

On the street he looked up at the leaden skies. It was blusteringly cold, and it looked like more snow. It suited his mood. He set off toward the hotel.

Johnny gave a dum didididada dum dum knock upon the door of Stacy Bartlett's apartment and shoved the corsage box he carried behind his back. He was early, and, as a moment passed with no response, he speculated uneasily upon the possibility of having caught her in the shower. He was relieved when the door opened. “H'ya, kid,” he greeted her lightly, and maneuvered inside with his box still behind him. “All set to paint the town red, white and purple?” She walked ahead of him into the living room. “Your-” He broke off as he caught sight of her averted face, creased with tears, and eyes reddened and swollen. “What the hell's the matter, Stacy?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“N-nothing.” She turned her back to hide her face.

“Nothin'!” he snorted. “You look like it's nothin', all right.”

“D-don't look at me,” she pleaded. “I sh-shouldn't have let you in until I p-pulled myself together.”

“Somethin' wrong at home?” he asked quickly.

“N-no.” She knuckled her eyes frankly, took a deep breath, faced about and tried to smile at him. “Aren't I an awful b-baby?”

“So tell me about it,” he invited.

She turned again until her face was in profile and he couldn't read her expression. “I lost my j-job, that's all.” She struggled to hold her voice steady. “I don't know why I'm c-crying about it. It just-it just came as a s-surprise.”

Johnny felt winded. He had run up the scale on a dozen things, each succeedingly worse. Still, what's worse to a twenty-year-old going it alone in a strange town than losing her job? “Look, kid,” he began awkwardly, then stopped because she had noticed the position of his arm.

“You brought me something?” she asked with an upturn in her tone. She moved to him quickly and tugged his arm into view. “Oh, a corsage!” she exclaimed at sight of the box.

“Don't open it!” he said quickly, trying to withhold it from her.

“Certainly I'll open it!” she replied stoutly, capturing it between both hands and pulling the pale yellow ribbon to one side.

Johnny placed a big hand firmly on the box's cover. “Don't open it, Stacy,” he said again. “It was a gag, a damn fool gag. It's not funny any more-”

She removed the hand as firmly as he had placed it upon the box. “Don't be silly,” she told him. “I want to see.” She removed the lid, parted the tissue, started to giggle, choked and gasped for breath as Johnny pounded her on the back. “A s-skunk cabbage!” she said when she could say anything.

“Me and my timely damn sense of humor,” Johnny said savagely. “I wanted somethin' to remind you of the farm. Spent twenty-five minutes findin' one small enough to fit in the damn box.”

“I love it!” she said quickly, and held it up to her shoulder. “I'd have worn-I will wear it tonight!” She marshaled up a deep breath. “I guess the world hasn't come to an end just yet, has it? And in the circumstances this is-this is appropriate.”

“Will you cut it out? You said it yourself-it's not the end of the world. There's plenty of better-”

He paused at the deliberate shake of the blonde head. “I think perhaps my father was right, Johnny. Maybe I am a country girl. I haven't had time to really consider it yet, but-” Her voice trailed off. When it resumed her voice was firmer. “I'll think it over, but I don't believe I want to line myself up for another letdown like that right away.”

“Turner let you go right out of hand?”

She nodded. “Inefficiency, he said.” She said it casually, but he could see her hands.

“Inefficiency, hell!” Johnny exploded. “It took him four months to find it out? This thing is all my fault.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Your fault?”

“Sure it is. Someone heard you makin' that call to me about the tail Turner'd put on me. It has to be that.”

“Do you really think so?” She sounded almost hopeful. “I wouldn't feel nearly as badly-”

“I know damn well so,” Johnny said emphatically. He looked at the tall girl. “I should've had more sense than to let you put yourself on a spot like that when you had a livin' to make.”

She colored lightly. “That was up to me, wasn't it? Anyway, it's a much more comforting reason than the other, and it helps to explain a couple of remarks I couldn't understand. I'm really-” She looked out into the hallway at the sound of a solid knock at the door. “The dry cleaner's delivery boy, I expect. That's why I'm not ready, and that's what you get for being early. Along with a sob story.”

She picked up her bag from the couch and walked out into the hall, and Johnny could hear the surprise in her voice when she opened the door. “Yes?”

“Surprised, doll? I brought the stuff over from your desk.” Johnny's scalp tightened at the sound of Monk Carmody's throaty rasp. “Turner thought it might be a little embarrass-in' for you to come back over to pick it up.”

“Well-thank you. I'll put them-” Listening, Johnny could hear the click of the door lock and the change in Stacy's tone. “Will you kindly open that door? And do you have to stand that close to me?”

Johnny came forward on the balls of his feet and came out of his jacket in one smooth-flowing motion. He threw it at the couch.

“Turner's not behind you now, doll,” Monk husked from the hall. “Turner's mad at you now. I been waitin' a long time-”

Johnny was already in motion as Stacy's tensed voice interrupted the squat man. “Will you please-let go of my wrist?”

“Ahhh, come off it!” the heavy voice rasped.

“Johnny!” Stacy cried out, and Johnny loomed up in the doorway at Monk's back in time to see the tall girl go to her knees, her wrist bent awkwardly in the cruel grip. Monk released the girl and whirled in the same instant, the dark face slack and sick-looking for an instant, then immediately taut and dangerous.

“You meddlin' bastard!” Monk growled bitterly. “You had to be here. I'll give you a little of what I owe you, mister.” He charged, head down, arms flailing, elbows flying. A fist stung Johnny's ear, and an elbow caught him in the throat as Monk's weight and impetus toppled him backward. They went floorward with a crash that shook the whole apartment. Johnny reached up hungrily from beneath and encircled the thick-set body in his arms. His veins felt like molten lava. Ignoring the pounding hands, he applied the constriction with every ounce in him, and Monk stiffened and groaned. Johnny was barely conscious of a burning in one ear as he worried the burden in his arms in a side-to-side movement until it screamed like a stricken horse for seconds before it went limp.

Johnny clawed himself savagely up to his knees. He picked Monk up and smashed him at eye level into the wall, picked up the sodden mass that rebounded within range of his reaching hands and smashed it again.

He was reaching for Monk again when he heard a thin, piercing edge of sound he dimly associated with Stacy, and then a great white light flared brilliantly and he pitched forward into a retreating darkness.

Detective James Rogers strode into the emergency room to find Johnny sitting stripped to the waist upon the examination table. “Well, he's alive,” he said bitterly. “No thanks to you.”

A white-uniformed intern approached the table, needle and catgut in hand. “Give me a minute with that ear, now,” he announced with professional cheeriness, “and we'll have it as good as new.”

Johnny bowed his head, and the room became silent. When the intern stepped back Johnny looked at the watching detective. “How's the girl, Jimmy?”

“About out of her mind,” the sandy-haired man replied tartly. “What the hell would you expect? You scared her worse than Carmody did. She got the door open finally and ran screaming down the hall, and a couple of the neighbors ran in and beat you off what was left of Monk. And a damn good thing, or I'd be taking you in for at least manslaughter. As it is, only that bruise on her wrist stands between you and an aggravated assault charge.” He turned as he saw that he had lost Johnny's attention.

Stacy Bartlett stood in the emergency room doorway, a hospital robe thrown over the shoulders of her dress. She walked directly to Johnny. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her usual fresh color was missing, her features were haggard and the soft lips were bloodless. “I'm staying here tonight,” she continued conversationally, and Johnny nodded. “Tomorrow I'm going back to the farm. You remember you said once that I might not care to gear myself up to the tough set of circumstances in this town, as you put it? I don't, any more.”

“I messed things up for you, kid. I really did.”

“Don't feel that way, please.” She extended a hand gravely, and he took it. “Thank you,” she said again. “For everything.”

When she had gone it was some seconds before Johnny reached for his undershirt and eased it on over the bandaged ear. He slid off the table and picked up his shirt as Detective Rogers resumed his irritated monologue. “I don't care what this Carmody is, Johnny, I've told you time and time again that things like this are going to get you in-”

“Ahhh, bag it, Jimmy,” Johnny said shortly. He worked his jacket on carefully over his shoulders. “Who'd miss the sonofabitch?” He moved toward the door. “Or me, either?”

CHAPTER XIV

The ring of the telephone aroused Johnny from a blank-eyed inspection of the wallpaper in his room. He heaved himself laboriously to his feet from the depths of his armchair and picked up the receiver from the night table beside the bed. “Yeah?”

“I want to see you, Killain. Right now.”

“Who the hell-” Johnny began, and recognized the crackling-syllabled voice of Lonnie Turner before he had completed the question. “You've got a nerve, man!”

“Don't be childish,” the staccato voice rapped at Johnny over the wire. “What's your room number?”

“You stay the hell away from me, Turner. I don't-”

“I'm not fussy about standing around down here until someone recognizes me,” the promoter interrupted. “Give me the room number, and stop being a jackass.”

“Six-fifteen,” Johnny told him reluctantly. The phone clicked in his ear, and Johnny made an effort to stir himself from the lethargic state of mind into which he had drifted before the phone's ring had jerked him awake. What could be important enough to Turner to bring him over here? Johnny shook his head; it wasn't worth the effort to force himself to think. In two minutes the answer would be on his threshold.

He opened the door at the promoter's knock and stared at the apparition he had admitted. Lonnie Turner was huddled in a shapeless coat sizes too large for him, and he had a black snap-brim hat pulled down over his eyes and a woolen scarf over mouth and chin.

“Costume party?” Johnny inquired sourly, closing the door. “Or is that your disguise when you're out hirin' murderers?”

“I see no more humor in this damned masquerade than you do,” Turner said coldly, disposing of the articles with jerky movements of his arms. He rubbed his hands together briskly, blew on them and ran them lightly over the pompadoured white hair. He paced the room in short, choppy strides as Johnny watched him, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the expensive-looking suit.

“Light somewhere, will you?” Johnny said in disgust. “You'd give anyone the twitch, just watchin' you.”

“I want to know where I stand with you,” the promoter said, wheeling abruptly. “I suppose you blame me for-”

“You're goddam right I blame you!” Johnny interrupted truculently.

“I knew I had to talk to you,” Lonnie Turner said in a self-satisfied tone. “I don't want you going off half-cocked because of what happened.” Authority and arrogance mingled in the expressive voice. “I'll admit I might have been a little more prescient as far as Monk was concerned in view of his reaction to the girl during the period of her employment, but I refuse to concede that I contributed in any manner at all to his actions.”

“You refuse to concede-” Johnny echoed bitterly. “You're not talking to your lawyers, Turner. You threw the kid overboard!”

“She threw me overboard,” Turner corrected him sharply. “I'm not in the habit of continuing to employ help who sell me out to the other side, for reasons of romance or anything else. Keith should have told me a week ago that you'd been seeing her. She couldn't have worked for me for five minutes afterward. I hired her in the first place because I thought her lack of sophistication would prevent this sort of thing.”

“You bastard, you had an obligation-”

“Don't tell me about my obligations, damn you!” the promoter interrupted angrily. “I run my business to suit myself!” The healthily tanned features were flushed. “Obligations! What about her obligation to me? Am I supposed to wet-nurse some foolish girl who deliberately chooses up sides against me? Be yourself, Killain. And blame yourself. Don't blame me. You're of age, if she isn't.” He quieted down a little. “Of course I wished the girl no personal harm, and I certainly never dreamed that Monk would take it upon himself to go over there and act as he did, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand still and have you snatch the rug out from under me just because you in your sublime ignorance feel that I should have had more control of a situation that you yourself provoked!” His voice had risen sharply again.

“If you won't stand for it, you can sit for it,” Johnny told him, his voice hard. “You and I are through, mister.”

Lonnie Turner was plainly striving to retain a grip upon himself. “I didn't come over here to make threats, Killain. I didn't come over here to argue with you. I knew you'd react this way. Through circumstances I bitterly regret, you possess information that can inestimably damage my freedom of action if misused. I'm just asking that before you throw me to the wolves you disregard aroused emotion for a moment and realize that basically nothing has changed in our situation.”

“You're a fine one to talk about throwin' to the wolves!” Johnny commented harshly. “You're also goin' to a hell of a lot of trouble, it strikes me, for a man whose only concern is standin' off a tax case he probably could beat.”

The white-haired man slapped his palms together in exasperation. “Will you kindly permit me to be the judge of my concern? I've never bothered to ask you what gives you your kick out of life, Killain. Mine happens to be the unhampered conduct of my own affairs in my own way. Once I stand a tax examination under the gamy circumstances rife in this case I've got those people looking down my throat for all time.”

Johnny needled him deliberately. “I still think you fixed that fight.”

Turner refused to rise to the bait. “So we're back at that point again? The answer is the same-I had no interest whatever in fixing it or having it fixed. I categorically deny that I had anything at all to do with it.”

Johnny shook his head stubbornly. “You'd make a good witness, mister, but what about the facts? Every goddam spoke in the wheel goes right back to you. Roketenetz, Gidlow, Hendricks, Keith, Chavez, Carmody, Munson-you pulled the strings on every single one.”

He could see the glistening shine on the high forehead. “Hendricks? If he came back to life and walked through that door I'm not sure I'd recognize the man. I may have met him three or four times, never socially. Can't you get it through your thick head that in the course of a year just about everyone in the fight game at least walks through my office?” He drew a deep breath. “We're wasting time. I want your word that the situation is unchanged.”

“You want my word!” Johnny growled. “What you'll get from me is the back of my hand, or my shoe tattooed to your tail. If you can't control Carmody, I'm supposed to believe you can control those other muzzlers you're supposed to keep off Sally's back? Grab for a bailin' bucket, buster; you're on your own. For my money you're not even capable of runnin' your own business, even if you're clear on the other, which I doubt. I don't trust you, Turner, not-” He broke off at the ring of the telephone, hesitated and shuffled over to the night table. “Yeah?”

“Dameron, downstairs. Can we come up?”

“I'm busy, Joe,” Johnny said impatiently.

“We'll be right there,” the heavy voice said blandly, and the connection was broken.

“Company,” Johnny announced, and turned to see the promoter putting his hat, coat and scarf back on.

“I won't forget this, Killain,” he said in a brittle tone. “If the day ever comes that I drop this decision, the ripples will reach you, so help me.”

“Ahhh, turn it off!” Johnny snapped testily. “You had me fooled for a while, Turner. You're like a kid playin' store, an' because you got money everyone's supposed to say 'yessir.' What you haven't got you try to buy, and what you can't buy you try to scare. The hell with you.”

The intense, furious features glared back at Johnny from the doorway. “Just keep on living until I can get to you!” Johnny started for him, but the door opened and closed, and the promoter was gone. Johnny hesitated an instant, reopened the door, looked up and down the deserted corridor and left it ajar. He walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge.

A brief tap on the door preceded the entrance of Lieutenant Joseph Dameron and Detective Ted Cuneo. The lieutenant dropped heavily into the leather armchair before the television set, picked up first one foot and then the other and studied each critically. “It's hell to get old,” he said finally, and passed a hand tiredly over his face, the apple cheeks of which were tinted nearly purple from the temperature outside. “Good thing you're on the sixth floor instead of the sixteenth.”

“Aren't the elevators running, for God's sake?” Johnny demanded.

“Just thought I'd like to see who you were shooing down the back way,” Dameron said easily.

“That's just like you, Joe, doin' it the hard way. He took the elevator down.”

The lieutenant looked at him thoughtfully as though estimating the truth in the remark; then he glanced at Detective Cuneo standing stiffly by the door. “Sit down, Ted. If everyone who didn't get along with his highness here waited for him to offer them a seat, the chair manufacturers would go out of business tomorrow.” The big man looked across from Cuneo seating himself to the bandage on Johnny's ear. “The report said that Carmody just about took that thing right off you,” he said casually. “Rogers had it that the intern was sewing for ten minutes.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Johnny told him. “How's the ticket read on Carmody, by the way? Nothin' trivial, I hope?”

“Nothing trivial,” Dameron agreed. “And if it weren't due to the circumstances, we'd-”

“Lay off me, Joe,” Johnny told him tightly. “You got a fairly good idea of what was due to happen if I hadn't happened to be there?”

“In the confusion we didn't seem to get it on the record just how you did happen to be there.” The lieutenant's tone was mild. When Johnny failed to answer he continued. “You don't consider it a little bit thick that the girl should be Turner's receptionist?”

“If you've got anything to say, Joe-” Johnny bit off the words-“say it fast.”

Lieutenant Dameron leaned forward in his chair. “Why were you in that girl's apartment?”

“Why, Lieutenant!” Johnny mocked him. “I thought you were a gentleman.”

“What was the information you wanted out of Turner's office you felt that she could get for you?” the big man persisted. “I know you far too well to imagine that it was an accident that you were dating that pipe line.”

“She's a nice kid,” Johnny said quietly. “She's goin' back home, where she belongs.” He stared at the man in the chair. “You've talked to her, Joe. She told you all that. Didn't she tell you what I wanted out of Turner's office?”

The apple cheeks darkened. “She's too damned innocent to know what you were after!” the lieutenant snapped. “And what a wolf like you does with a lamb like that is beyond me!”

“Dear me!” Johnny murmured. “Don't tell me she's going to prefer charges?” He laughed at the big man's irritation.

“He probably made a deal with Turner,” Cuneo threw in coarsely.

Johnny looked at him, then back at Dameron. “Deal? With Turner? You boys don't sound too bright, Joe. Turner's a wheel. He'd make a deal with me?”

Lieutenant Dameron studied Johnny for several seconds, settled back more solidly into the depths of the armchair and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at a point on the wall above and behind Johnny, and when he spoke again his voice was almost neutral. “Ed Keith committed suicide this afternoon,” he said.

Johnny whistled. “On the level? With him I'd have bet it would take someone pushin' the hand that held the razor. So you never know.”

“You never know. He left a couple of notes. He confessed to killing Gidlow.”

“He confessed to killing Gidlow?” Johnny could hear his own voice soaring ridiculously.

“You sound surprised,” Dameron said softly. “You had a candidate?”

“My candidate sure as hell wasn't Ed Keith,” Johnny said emphatically. “Just Gidlow? Not the kid, or Hendricks?”

“Just Gidlow. Keith did it, too.” The lieutenant stopped as though waiting for Johnny to challenge the statement, and when no challenge came he continued. “He wrote it all down very neatly. He lost money he didn't have on that fight, and he went to Gidlow to try to borrow. Gidlow laughed at him. The crusher for Keith was when Gidlow received a call that Keith interpreted as meaning Gidlow had been in on a double cross. He accused Gidlow, who denied it so unconvincingly that Keith lost his head and throttled him. Keith was a big man; when he came out of the fog Gidlow was dead. Keith then did a couple of things rather clever for an amateur. He rigged up the camera, to throw sand in the air, and he called Lonnie Turner and said he'd just walked in on Gidlow's body and that he was getting the hell out of there, and that if Turner had anything of his over there he'd better get it out. He reasoned quite correctly that no one would ever suspect the murderer of making such a call.”

“Who'd he make the other call to?” Johnny asked quickly.

“Other call? What other call?”

“You took the telephone chits outta the hotel,” Johnny reminded him impatiently. “Didn't you even bother to check them?”

“There was no other call of interest,” Lieutenant Dameron said levelly.

Johnny threw up his hands in disgust. “He must anyway have called the police commissioner to establish an alibi, the way you guys are coverin' up.” He thought it over a moment. “I don't get it. He was in the clear on Gidlow, so far anyway, an' he'd finally borrowed the money he needed. Why chuck it now when he'd bridged the gap?”

“He had other troubles, he felt. I told you he left two notes. In the second one he mentioned that he and Dave Hendricks had both bet money on that fight. It was incidental that they didn't have the money they bet; the point was that it was against the rules of what appears to be a little syndicate to which they belonged. It was supposed to be handled centrally, but he and Dave got hungry. When they lost, their scramble to produce the money they needed resulted in their position becoming rather generally known and open to certain interpretation. If not the pattern, certainly the knowledge of the fix was being disclosed by them. Keith felt that Hendricks was killed by the fixer because of this, and that he was next. His nerves were so bad he jumped rather than waiting for the push.”

“Jumped literally?”

“No. Sleeping pills.”

“The easiest suicide to fake,” Johnny remarked cynically.

“There's no question but what it was suicide,” the lieutenant said patiently. He paused for emphasis. “We're back to Turner now.”

“Did Keith name Turner in the note?” Johnny asked instantly. The big man examined him woodenly, and Johnny snorted. “You'll never change, Joe. You think it's Turner, an' you're afraid to go up against him because he's got a couple of dollars.”

“I can do without those wise remarks,” Dameron said coldly. “There were no names mentioned in the note, but I think you'll agree Turner's not the least likely prospect.” He paused again, as though searching for the right words. “We have a little chore for you.”

“I knew damn well you didn't come over here just to sit and gas,” Johnny said with satisfaction. “We gettin' down to the dirt now?”

The lieutenant was leaning forward in his chair again. “Ted's been over talking to the Ybarra girl.” Johnny's glance darted off to Ted Cuneo, who stared back at him impassively. “She claims an insufficient knowledge of English to be able to understand or respond properly. She asked for you as an interpreter.”

“You must have told her you had a dozen at the station,” Johnny said cautiously.

“She made it dear she's not coming to the station, voluntarily. For the time being, at least, we'd prefer to handle it on a co-operative basis.”

“You're barkin' up the wrong tree, Joe. She doesn't know her brother's business.”

“It's always possible she knows more than her brother realizes. The doctors won't let us talk to him just yet, so we'll have to settle for next best. I think this interpreter thing is a stall. You might tell her it's the last stall we're prepared to go along with. She'll talk at our convenience, if she misses this boat.”

Johnny sat irresolutely a moment. The only way he could figure it was that Consuelo at least thought she knew what she was doing. He shrugged, rose and walked to the closet for his coat. “On this you're gonna draw a big, fat zero, Joe,” he predicted.

The big man's smile was wry. “In that case we'll be right in step with the whole operation. Are we ready? Fine.” He pushed himself up on the arms of the chair and glanced from Johnny to Cuneo. “You can reach me at home if you should happen to need me, Ted.”

Detective Ted Cuneo turned to Johnny in the back seat of the cab, after the first fifteen blocks of the ride to Spanish Harlem had been covered in silence. His tone was puzzled. “You're quite a ladies' man, Killain. This Spanish girl-”

“I know her brother,” Johnny cut in.

“-and Turner's receptionist,” the detective continued, unheeding. “You know her brother, too?” His teeth showed whitely against his sallow face. “I might have to ask you for the formula. I haven't seen two back to back like that in years.”

The balance of the ride was made in silence. They pulled in behind another cab in front of the dingy tenement, and Johnny looked out at Rick Manfredi, who was turning from halfway across the sidewalk to study them. The gambler had a long box under his arm, and his eyes flicked from Cuneo to Johnny. His expression darkened angrily, and he strode toward the cab as Johnny got out on the street side and walked around it. “I don't want you around here, Killain!” he said sharply.

“He's here because I brought him here!” Cuneo bristled immediately.

Manfredi shifted his attention to the detective. “I already told you I don't mind your scratching over my back yard, Cuneo, but I don't want you bugging the girl.”

“What the hell are you, a protective association or something?” the detective demanded.

The gambler shifted his box from one arm to the other, ignoring Cuneo's remark. “I'll go with you,” he said flatly.

“You're not going anywhere!” Cuneo's temper was growing short. “Take a walk till you're sent for, sonny!”

Manfredi's voice was steady. “I'm her fiance, Cuneo. There are times you can push me around, but this isn't one of them. Make an issue of it and I'll promise you a wasted trip.”

Cuneo glared at him, undecided, glanced at Johnny standing silently to one side and abruptly started for the iron steps. “Be my guest,” he threw over his shoulder. “All I want right now is to get home to dinner.”

Johnny followed him, and the gambler fell in behind. They mounted the five flights in silence and waited while Cuneo knocked on the door of 5-B. He knocked again more sharply when there was no response and whirled on Manfredi. “So she took a runout!” he grated. The gambler looked surprised, but Johnny pointed silently to the stairs. Cuneo's mottled color faded a little as he listened to the ascending footsteps, and in seconds Consuelo Ybarra's shawled head and shoulders appeared around the final turn as she climbed to the fifth-floor landing.

She looked windblown and breathless. “I 'ad a call to go out,” she managed to get out, and fumbled in her bag. “The key-”

Johnny was startled at the difference in her looks when she got the door open. The first time he had seen her she had been twenty-five and looked eighteen. She looked thirty-five now; the old-womanish shawl blotted out the youthful sheen of her hair, and there were deep lines about her mouth and eyes.

He pushed inside with the rest, and the girl waved them to the room beyond as she pulled off the shawl. “I will take off my coat-”

Rick Manfredi snapped on the light in the semidark inner room and opened the long box he was carrying. He removed two dozen red roses from the swaddling tissue and arranged them in the crook of his arm, a complacent little smile on his round, smooth face. He moved forward to catch Consuelo's attention as she entered. “For you, querida,” he said quickly, and presented his arm with a flourish.

The girl appeared not to have seen the roses as she stood before him with hands knitted in a fold of her skirt. “My Uncle Terry is dead,” she said quietly with an expressionless face. The gambler looked shocked. Ted Cuneo looked puzzled and glanced at Johnny, who kept his attention fastened upon Consuelo Ybarra. “I am jus' from the hospital,” she continued in the same quiet tone. “He spoke to me before he- died.” Rick Manfredi paled, and stood in sudden awkwardness with arm still extended. “He tol' me how you changed the round with Gidlow.” The dark eyes burned upward at the gambler. “An' how you had him beaten when you found out that he knew. You meant to kill him then, and you finally succeeded!”

“No!” Manfredi cried out hoarsely as the girl's hand flashed upward like lightning from its hiding place in her skirt. The glinting metal in her hand slashed him from eyebrow to jaw-line, and he screamed as his arms jerked upward with a reflexive movement that sent the roses to the ceiling. He staggered back a pace as the knife whipped across his face again, and the roses fell on them both. With a guttural sound the gambler brought his hands down in clenched fists upon the girl's head, and she wobbled and fell back against the wall on her knees. The wall held her cruelly upright as the crazed man slammed maniacal punches into the beautiful face, which disappeared in a crimson smear before she pitched forward.

Johnny's hard hands on Rick Manfredi's shoulders jerked the gambler over backward so violently the back of his head hit the floor first. He rolled and rolled like a stricken animal, blood spurting between the hands that were holding the gaping face. A pale-faced Detective Cuneo put himself belatedly in motion and tried to ignore the sounds from the floor as he grabbed up the telephone.

The overpowering scent of crushed roses filled the room.

Johnny swung up into the seat beside the driver as the second ambulance pulled away, and the man behind the wheel glanced sidewise at him curiously. “You there, Jack? Lovers' quarrel?” He shrugged at Johnny's silence. “How's it look, Pauline?” he called over his shoulder.

“Plastic surgery for both,” the woman intern's voice replied matter-of-factly. “This one's not quite as bad as the man.”

Ahead of them the traffic thickened in front of their blinking red light, and the siren steadied down to a prolonged wail.

CHAPTER XV

Johnny bounded up on an elbow from shattered sleep at the piercing ring of the phone. His closed-eyes grab for the lamp switch knocked the telephone to the floor, and, muttering impatiently, he hauled in on the dangling cord until the receiver was in his hand. “Yeah? Whatisit?” His voice was a sleep-thickened rumble.

“Killain?”

“Yeah.”

“Get over to my place.”

Tiny hairs stiffened on the back of Johnny's neck; he came awake all over. The voice at the other end of the line had the hollow, deadened tone of a man past the last milepost of terror. “Who is this?” he temporized. He knew who it was.

“Munson. Get over to my place.”

“You mean right now?” Johnny squinted at the alarm's luminous dial. 9:00 p.m. “Why?”

“Get over to my place,” the voice said for the third time. Johnny could hear the ragged breathing.

“Where are you?” he asked finally.

“My place-Fifty-two East Sixty-eighth. Get over here.”

“Okay, okay.” Johnny tried to hang up the phone twice before he remembered that the base was on the floor. He dredged it up, cradled the receiver and restored the phone gingerly to the night table. He fumbled the bedside lamp on, listening again in his mind to the stark voice on the telephone. It didn't sound any better in the light than it had in the dark.

He dressed quickly, then paused, sitting on the edge of the bed, a shoe in his hand. Al Munson. What circumstance could reduce Al Munson to the function of a wrung-out automaton? Johnny stared at the wall reflectively before he put on the shoe.

On the street he started for the cab stand at the corner, and changed his mind. He hailed the first cruising cab that came by, instead. “Fifth and Sixty-eighth,” he told the driver. No sense riding right up to the door on a white horse; a look at the ground first cost nothing.

From Fifth he walked up Sixty-eighth on the wrong side of the street and, when he spotted Fifty-two, ran a wary eye on the cars parked out front. All empty-unless someone were crouched down on a back seat or the floor. He skimmed the street with a practiced eye; pedestrian traffic was light.

He studied the building from across the street. It didn't look quite as prosperous as its neighbors, or as the address would indicate. No canopy. No doorman. A self-service building, from the look, Johnny decided. Self-service elevator, direct-line phones. He stood in a doorway for five minutes, getting steadily more chilled, and no one entered or exited from Fifty-two East Sixty-eighth. Johnny stamped his feet impatiently. He wasn't finding out anything here, and he wasn't dressed for outside work.

He hitched himself together under his overcoat and crossed the street below the entrance of Fifty-two, and stopped between two parked cars to scrutinize as much of the lighted interior lobby as he could see. When he had satisfied himself that it was not a service building, he took his first step from between the parked cars, then stopped as a cab pulled up to the entrance and double-parked. He watched as Dr. McDevitt alighted from the cab and hurried inside. Johnny speeded up and entered on his heels, catching up to the doctor at the mail-boxes, where he was adjusting his glasses preparatory to reading the names.

“Munson?” Johnny said from behind him, and put his thumb on the name. “Right there. Two-C.”

“Why-ah-yes,” Dr. McDevitt said in surprise, and turned. “Well, now, Killain. Are you a part of the mystery?” He waved his glasses gently to free them of the moisture created by the sudden change in temperature.

“There's a mystery, Doc?”

“Why, this telephone call. Peculiar sort of thing.” The doctor frowned slightly. “Munson's not an intimate of mine, yet he acted as though it were life and death that I get here. He sounded-sounded-”

“Hysterical?”

“Not hysterical.” The pink-cheeked man tapped his lips thoughtfully with the frame of his glasses. “Under pressure, rather. Almost-well, extreme-”

“I know what you mean,” Johnny agreed. “I had the same call.”

“Now isn't that remarkable?” Dr. McDevitt marveled. He looked toward the tiny self-service elevator. “What do you suppose can be taking place?”

“Let's find out,” Johnny said. He led the way onto the elevator and punched the “three” button. “Keep your voice down, Doc, and your heels off the floor.”

The doctor looked at him in surprise, then pointed at the button Johnny had pushed. “Isn't it the second floor we want?” he asked.

“Let's do this my way, Doc. Someone could be waitin' for us to get off this tin can at the second floor.” Johnny slithered out of his overcoat and dropped it on the floor of the cab. He cleaned out the contents of his pockets and dropped them on the coat-wallet, key ring, loose silver, money clip, tie clasp, nail clippers. “We'll go up a flight an' come down the stairs behind him an' kibitz the hand he's holdin'.”

“I don't understand,” Dr. McDevitt said crossly, looking at the little pile of things on the coat. “Do you expect me to believe that you know-”

“I don't know a thing, Doc,” Johnny interrupted him. “I feel.” He retrieved a handkerchief from the coat, wrapped it twice around his belt buckle and knotted it firmly. He removed his shoes as the elevator stopped and the doors opened silently. He listened carefully, but he couldn't hear a fragment of sound from below.

There was light in the hallway-not good light, but enough to study the position of the stairs in relation to the elevator. If there was a stake-out below, the logical place for it to be was under the stairs, with the elevator doors under scrutiny.

Johnny stooped and picked up his key ring with his left hand. He looked at the mingled emotions visible upon Dr. McDevitt's mild features and indicated with a thumb that the doctor was to remain on the elevator. In stockinged feet Johnny crept across to the head of the stairs leading down to the second floor, dropped to all fours and, on his stomach, wormed his way soundlessly down the inner side of the stairwell, tight to the wall. He eased around the corner at the midway landing and paused at a point eight feet above the second-floor hallway.

He listened again, and the silence was so complete that it was with some doubt that he tossed his key ring over the bannister in front of the elevator and heard it land with a loud clank. Johnny waited for seconds until he heard the faint scrape of shoe leather below; he lifted his head in time to see a shadow move out from beneath the staircase. When the shadow bent down to investigate the key ring, Johnny looked down into the face of a man he had last seen wielding a length of pipe upon Manuel Ybarra's prostrate body. Johnny rose silently to his feet, dived over the bannister and landed on the shadow's back.

The man grunted loudly and went limply floorward. Johnny pinwheeled over him and came up on hands and knees, his elbow numb from contact with the floor. He chopped a bladed palm fiercely to the neck juncture for insurance, and looked up at the patter of feet on the stairs as Dr. McDevitt trotted down.

On his feet again, Johnny tried the door of 2-C. It was locked, and he backed off to the opposite wall. “Here!” Dr. McDevitt protested as he sensed Johnny's purpose; with a running start Johnny burst the door open at the lock. It splintered inward in slow motion, disclosing a big, high-ceilinged room furnished with the elaborately heavy, ornate pieces of an earlier day. From the doorway Johnny could see Al Munson's gross body sprawled across a desk, the upturned face ghastly white. There was very little blood visible from the small black hole in the center of Al Munson's forehead.

Johnny unknotted the handkerchief, which he had used to keep his belt buckle from clicking on his wormlike progress down the stairs, padded his hand and reached for the phone on a circular marble table.

“Just a moment, Killain.”

Impatiently, Johnny looked over his shoulder. Dr. McDevitt stood four feet inside the shattered door, the small automatic in his hand trained directly upon Johnny.

“Where'd you find-” Johnny began, and swallowed. Dr. McDevitt's eyes and expression made a number of things belatedly clear. Without moving his hands at all Johnny surreptitiously began to change the position of his feet.

“I didn't find it, Killain. I had it,” the doctor said softly. “And now I must use it again.” He sounded properly regretful. “I never really believed that you could get past Armand, but your animal instinct served you well. It's well I took the precaution to be present.”

Johnny glanced at Al Munson's body. “Your signature, Doc?”

The pink-cheeked man nodded. “A mewling kitten,” he said disdainfully. “I posted Armand and went out to the street to await your arrival.”

“You're the gizmo behind the whole thing?” Johnny still found it a little hard to believe.

“These people abused my patience terribly,” Dr. McDevitt assured him earnestly. “Their greed destroyed my foolproof plan. I naturally had to take steps.”

Rocky, Johnny thought, and I got to find it out upwind from the barrel of that small-caliber belly gun. “Armand got Roketenetz at the Rollin' Stone,” he said tentatively, turning his body a fraction of an inch at a time to lessen the area in front of the gun barrel.

“Roketenetz,” the doctor agreed, “and Ybarra. I felt that Hendricks and Munson should be dealt with personally by me, inasmuch as they had so grossly abused my confidence.” His voice rose sharply. “In five years the group had earned a steady profit, with no one the wiser, all due to my initiative and planning. Wouldn't you have thought they'd be satisfied?” The tone was high-pitched and querulous.

“It's a shame Keith got away from you,” Johnny said solemnly.

“It is, indeed. I had not anticipated his-ah-withdrawal. I fear I shall never understand people.”

You and me both, Johnny thought. How in the hell am I gonna reach that little flipped-lid? His eyes ranged the room for something to throw, but there was nothing within reach. He didn't even have his shoes on. And then he heard the elevator. The self-service elevator was moving. The discovery of his overcoat and other items on it should produce some kind of an investigation.

But the doctor heard it, too. Without saying a word his arm tensed and lengthened itself, and Johnny launched himself backward, rolling hard to gain the shelter of Al Munson's desk. The little gun spat nastily, and a large splinter flew past Johnny's head, but he came up behind the desk, grabbed up Al Munson's lumpy weight, pushed it out in front of himself, balanced himself carefully and charged Dr. Philip McDevitt. Six feet away he propelled the heavy body forward in a straight line, he himself diving low. The doctor was still methodically snapping bullets into Al Munson when Johnny hit him at the ankles. The doctor cried out shrilly like a petulant child as he went over backward, and his head struck a chair with a dull sound.

When he had breath in his lungs again, Johnny climbed wearily to his feet and plodded to the telephone.

In the cab on the way back crosstown Johnny sat on the jump seat and faced Lieutenant Dameron, Detective Rogers and a D.A.'s investigator named Douglas. Behind them the high-ceilinged room still seethed with precinct men uniformed and plain-clothed, lab men and a medical examiner, and the specialists from Homicide East, but Johnny had been released to Dameron and Rogers upon their belated arrival. The beefy Douglas had wandered in like a sleepy bear getting out of the cold and had attached himself to the expedition setting out for the West Side precinct to receive Johnny's statement.

“I'd like to have seen your face when McDevitt pulled the gun on you,” Detective Rogers said from the back seat, and grinned at Johnny's grunt. “Of course, you knew it was him all along.”

“The hell I did, and neither did you,” Johnny said flatly. “Say, was it him Keith made that second call to from Gidlow's suite? If it was you boys are due for a few demerits.”

“Keith made that call to Keith,” said Dameron. “He called the Chronicle office, and asked for himself,” he explained.

“Smart,” Johnny mused. “Not smart enough to keep strugglin', though. When the doc scared him bad enough he pitched it in. I don't see how I missed seein' that little bastard. His footprints were all over the place.”

“He had perfect cover. He'd formed the ring of people who had a finger on the pulse of the business, and they must have made a comfortable fortune. In a way you can see his sense of outrage when they defected from beneath him.” Detective Rogers' voice was somber.

“I thought it was Turner,” Johnny admitted, and the D.A.'s man, Douglas, spoke up for the first time on the ride.

“What gave you the hunch about the goon under the stairs, Killain?”

“I wasn't sure he was under the stairs,” Johnny explained patiently. “I just felt someone was there. If I took that phone call at face value, I was due for a fall.”

“Yes, but why? Something Munson said?”

“The way he said it,” Johnny said briefly.

Douglas plainly was an unhurried man befitting his bulk. “I'd like to know why it was the way he said it,” he persisted.

“You could lose your next couple of meals if I told you.”

“Try me,” Douglas said solidly.

“Just remember you asked.” Johnny's glance drifted off to the silent Lieutenant Dameron before it returned to the beefy investigator. “This goes back a ways. I happened to be in a place one time where two guys were brought in to a drumhead court. They were murderers and torturers, long overdue to get their tickets punched. They had information, but there wasn't time to get it. Somebody got the idea that, if they could be made to make one quick telephone call, they'd bring the roof down on some more of their own kind. The first guy was planted in a chair beside a phone, with a man behind him with both hands in his hair, and a man in front of him with a knife across his throat. He was told who to call, an' what to say. He knew he was for the knife whether he made the call or not. He said the equivalent of 'To hell with you, Jack,' and the knife went z-z-zick. They tossed him aside, an' sat the second guy down. He bought another hundred an' eighty seconds. He made the call.” Johnny drew a short breath. “His voice sounded like Al Munson's. You kind of don't forget it.”

The cab drew into the curb in the short silence that followed. “Anyone for Aesop's Fables?” Douglas asked finally. He buttoned his coat, opened the door and stepped out on the sidewalk, and the others followed. Johnny looked up at the stars in the cold-looking night sky, shoved his hands deeply in his coat pockets and trailed up the steps of the weather-beaten red brick building. Inside he would dictate and sign his statement, and then it would be time to go to work.

Content

Dan Marlowe
Doom Service

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV