Dan Marlowe

The Fatal Frails

CHAPTER I

Johnny Killain stepped briskly from the narrow service elevator into the after-midnight half-darkness of the Hotel Duarte's main lobby. He took in the lean, slope-shouldered man in the Burberry topcoat standing by the registration desk and nipping through a stack of mail Vic Barnes, the night front-desk man, had handed him. Then, from his bell-captain's desk between the passenger elevators, Johnny glanced out through the foyer's glass doors to the chill rain drenching Forty-fifth Street. A cab was pulled in to the curb, and Paul Sassella was jockeying airplane luggage from its trunk. Johnny was barely in time to hold the door as the stocky Swiss entered the lobby loaded down with bags. Paul was Johnny's right-hand man on the night shift.

The man in the expensive topcoat turned around as he heard Paul set the bags down behind him. “Supposed to be summer when I got back here,” he said accusingly. His harsh voice echoed in the hushed lobby.

“Calendar says it's summer,” Paul replied mildly.

“Damn the calendar. My bones say it's not.” The lean man returned to his mail, his temples silvered in the desk light. A finely meshed network of wrinkles crosshatched his sharp features, and dark pouches bagged prominently beneath his eyes. A facial tic fluttered his left eyelid at irregular intervals. Johnny watched the worn, haggardly weary face as an envelope was separated from the pile, held up to the light and squinted at.

“Zurich this time?” Paul inquired into the little silence.

“Not Zurich.” The worn-looking man grimaced as though at a bad taste. “Langnau. And Mumpf. Dickering for a high-grade lot of movements.” He stuffed the single envelope into a topcoat pocket and turned again to look at Paul. The metallic voice rose jeeringly. “How come you're not behind a desk on the Wilhelmstrasse, chasing the almighty dollar with the rest of your no-good compatriots?”

“For business you need the hard head. Mine is soft,” Paul said placidly.

“A soft-headed Swiss? They don't make any. For a franc or a hundred thousand, they're a bunch of wheelers and dealers.” The balance of the mail was slapped together on the marbled counter. “Once I had a hard head myself. Lately I've begun to wonder.” The lean man passed a hand tiredly over his eyes. “I didn't used to mind these night flights like this.” He looked at Vic behind the desk. “I'm expecting someone.” Vic nodded. Vic was a sturdy, middle-aged man in a clerk's black alpaca jacket. His thinning hair was combed straight back from a high forehead, and his round, cheerful features appeared glossily waxed, emphasizing his high color.

“Ungodly hour, but it can't be helped,” the worn-looking man continued. He looked at Paul. “I know the kitchen's closed, but could you find me a sandwich after you've dumped that stuff upstairs? And a pot of coffee?”

The stolid Paul nodded. “Take me a few minutes.”

“Just so I get the rumble out of my belly before I sack in. I'll leave the door open in case I'm in the shower. And shoot my company right on up, will you?” He crossed the lobby to the nearer elevator, and Paul stooped for the bags.

Behind Johnny his phone rang, and he reached for it. “Bell captain, Killain.”

“Tommy's got trouble in the bar, Johnny.” Urgency strained the night telephone operator's soft voice. “He just called me.”

“Okay, ma,” Johnny replied soothingly. The operator, Sally Fontaine, was a slender, brown-eyed sprite whose quick smile had the happy faculty of fusing ordinary features into pleasing winsomeness. Johnny spent a considerable amount of his time in provoking the appearance of Sally's smile. “What'cha doin' in the mornin'?”

“Darning my socks. Will you get in there? Tommy sounded worried.”

“Tommy's always-” Johnny shrugged as Sally broke the connection on him. He propelled his bulk across the lobby floor to the swinging doors beneath the stairs that led to the mezzanine. He pushed through them in time to see the pint-sized bartender, Tommy Haines, back quietly away as, across the bar from him, a burly arm was raised threateningly from amidst a tight little knot of men.

Johnny's pale eyes narrowed. His high-cheekboned, weather-bronzed craggy features went taut and hard beneath his rough, blond hair. He moved forward swiftly, his long-striding shuffle a muted whisper on the lounge carpet. From behind the group he deftly turned a shoulder and eased himself into the bar between the arm-raiser and his intended target. “You happen to have a spare quart of ginger ale, Tommy?” he asked lightly.

Heads turned in unison. Flushed, irate faces stared blankly at his snug-fitting bell captain's uniform. The silence lasted only an instant. “-'t th' hell out've m' way,” the scarlet-faced arm-raiser grunted sullenly at Johnny. “- show thish stupid-” He tried to glare around Johnny at the man Johnny's body was shielding.

“Sure thing,” Johnny said without looking around, and stayed where he was.

“Well, move, damn it!” The man put a beefy palm against Johnny's shoulder and shoved. He looked surprised when nothing happened. In the back-bar mirror, Johnny watched appraisingly as the arm tensed itself to shove again. The man hesitated as bloodshot eyes focused upon Johnny's several-times-broken nose and the surplus of chest and shoulders beneath the twenty-and-a-half-inch neck. He snorted loudly, and drew back his arm. Johnny turned smoothly, reached in for a firm hand-hold on the belligerent's belt buckle and jerked upward. The man's heels came six inches off the floor. His arms thrashed in furious balancing movements, and his upper body weight tilted him slowly backward until he was counterbalanced by the hard pressure of Johnny's knuckles in his middle. The scarlet face first purpled, then drained to a dirty gray.

Johnny glanced over his shoulder to a noncombatant on the rim of the staring group. “Almost closin',” he said conversationally. “How about one for the road, an' a fresh start tomorrow?” He gently set the man dangling at the end of his arm back upon the floor, and the man grabbed for the edge of the bar with both hands.

“I've had mine for the road,” a voice said suddenly. “And, if the rest of these guys haven't, they're on their own.” Deliberately the speaker detached himself from the group and moved down the bar.

The knot of men around Johnny dissolved as though taut strings had been cut. In slow motion, they drifted away from him. Tommy sprang into action, and the register ding-dinged merrily. The lounge quieted after the muffled, shamefaced good-nights.

Tommy came back from the register nervously wiping his hands on his apron. “Man!” he exclaimed feelingly. “Friends, mind you, and in another second they'd have been all over the floor. Sometimes this sauce I pour-” He shook his head dubiously. “Thanks, big man. I couldn't have handled it without a bungstarter.” He slapped a double jigger down on the bar and dexterously raised and lowered the bourbon bottle over it.

“First tonight,” Johnny acknowledged, and tossed it off. He shook his head as Tommy held up the bottle again inquiringly. “Work's the curse of the drinkin' class, boy.” He nodded in response to Tommy's bottle salute, and returned to the lobby in time to see Paul Sassella's entrance from the foyer with a napkin-covered tray. The well-dressed couple at the desk with Vic registered in the same glance.

“Oh, Paul,” Vic called. “That for Ten-twenty-six? So are Miss Philips and Mr. Faulkner here,” he continued at Paul's affirmative nod. “And Paul-Sixteen-oh-four just called down for her car. Stop off and convince her what time of night it is, will you?”

Johnny barely repressed a smile. 1604 was Miss Loretta Gorman, an elderly spinster given to positive opinions and erratic impulses. Eccentric was the word for 1604. She would listen to the calm, level-headed Paul sometimes when none of the rest of the staff could get through to her. At the thought Johnny stepped forward and relieved Paul of the tray. “I'll take this up along with his visitors,” Johnny said. “You get Miss Loretta straightened out. I don't want her startin' in on me on that phone tonight.”

“Sure,” Paul agreed amiably, and took the second elevator. The couple at the desk followed Johnny onto the first car, and he examined them from the corner of his eye as they passed behind him.

Mr. Faulkner was a slim, tense, worried-looking man, immaculately dressed. Despite the lateness of the hour, he appeared freshly shaven. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses that helped to strengthen a sensitive, mobile face. His sleek dark hair was parted with exactitude, his nose was delicately shaped, and his mouth was small and prim. The two-hundred-dollar suit Mr. Faulkner wore was a little too much of a good thing, Johnny decided. It came very close to effacing Mr. Faulkner.

The girl was a fish from another rain barrel. No clothes would ever succeed in effacing Miss Philips. She was a striking redhead, the highlights auburn and the burnished mass a deep, coppery tone. She wasn't tall, but even a side-of-the-eye inspection of the softly rounded expansive-ness displayed with assurance in a trim suit brought the expression zaftig to Johnny's mind. A tree-ripened peach, he thought. Her features were serviceable without detracting at all from her more spectacular assets, blooming with health and lightly dusted with golden freckles.

“I hope this isn't a mistake, Gloria,” Faulkner remarked petulantly as the elevator rose. Johnny thought that if the piping voice were pitched three notes higher it would be a whine.

“If there's been a mistake, it's not mine,” the girl said coolly. “I wonder if Claude can say the same.” She glanced at Johnny as Faulkner would have spoken again, and he remained silent. Johnny anchored the cab and led the way down the corridor to 1026. The importer's door was ajar, and Johnny knocked and entered, skirting the bags scattered on the floor.

“What is it?” the importer's voice called through the open bathroom door.

“Food,” Johnny announced. “An' visitors.” He moved forward to deposit the tray on a small table. From the bathroom he thought the importer said something he couldn't hear clearly. The sound of the gunshot took Johnny completely by surprise. He whirled, then reversed the movement of his arms as the coffeepot on the tray skidded wildly.

Gloria Philips reached the bathroom door first, but Johnny was a short stride behind. With the tray still in his hands he looked down over the girl's shoulder at the loosely sprawled body in the pale blue dressing gown. A black automatic lay beside an outstretched clawlike hand, and a widening scarlet pool crept over the white tile. A powder-burned hole indented a silvered temple.

Johnny pivoted again at a strangled sound from behind him. Mr. Faulkner sagged against the door frame, white-lipped and shaken as he peered down owlishly at the body on the floor.

“Snap out of it, Ernest,” the girl said quietly. “Call the police.” She moved around Johnny out into the bedroom, and he could see no change in her expression at all.

Ernest Faulkner wrenched himself forcibly from the doorway and tottered inside to the telephone.

Seventy-five minutes later, Johnny finished telling his version of the story to Detective James Rogers in the mezzanine lounge. Since he had known Rogers for some time, the telling went quickly. The slender, sandy-haired detective tapped his notebook thoughtfully in the palm of his hand when Johnny had finished. “No chance of it being anything but suicide, Johnny?”

“I heard him,” Johnny said positively. “Just before he pulled the trigger. I was closer to the bathroom door than either of the other two. You can wrap it up, Jimmy.” He looked at the notebook. “Who's this Faulkner?”

“The deceased's lawyer.”

“An' the girl?”

“Secretary to the U.S. representative of a Swiss manufacturer from whom the importer had been buying.”

“A business call? At this hour of the mornin'?”

“So the lawyer claims.” Detective Rogers shrugged. “I told him to be over at the precinct house in the morning at ten and get it on the record. Not that it really matters. You'll have to come over, too, to sign a statement.” He slapped the notebook against his palm with an air of finality and pushed it into a jacket pocket. His glance at Johnny was sardonic. “Why don't you rename this place Hacienda Dolorosa or something appropriate? We've taken more stiffs out the back door here than from any hospital the same size.”

“If you can't boost it, don't knock it,” Johnny told him as they walked to the stairs. He accelerated at sight of Paul beckoning to him from below. “See you in the mornin', Jimmy,” Johnny said, and ran down the stairs.

“Phone call for you at the desk,” Paul informed him.

“Okay. You call Dominic an' Steve?”

“They're on the way in now.”

“Put 'em on the elevators when they get here. Keep yourself available. A thing like this makes a lot of extra legwork.” He crossed to the desk and picked up the dangling phone. “Killain.”

The receiver gave him the first eight bars of Edelweiss, off-key. “Come on over, Johnny,” the phone said in his ear.

“You stripped your gears, man? At three in the mornin' you better bait that hook a little.”

The heavy voice sounded surprised. “You don't usually seed much excuse to cut out of there. This is Dameron. Come on over. You'd be surprised at the bait I've got.”

Dameron was Lieutenant Joseph Dameron of the New York City Police Department, and Detective James Rogers' immediate superior. “I know who it is, Joe,” Johnny said patiently. “No one but you could scramble sharps an' flats in Edelweiss like that. You don't need to see me tonight just because a permanent leaked his brains out on the bathroom tile with a thirty-eight.”

The voice in his ear sharpened. “My people there?”

“Come an' gone. Jimmy's got us booked for ten a.m. at your emporium. That's not why you called?”

“It's not. Come on over. I'm at the office.”

“You must've anyways raided a stag to brisk you up like this at this hour. You reviewin' the evidence?”

“Skip the comedy, Johnny. A friend of yours is here. And never mind asking who it is. I've told you three times how to find out. Too bad you don't have any curiosity.” The click of the broken connection sounded in Johnny's ear, and he grinned sheepishly as he hung up. He knew that Dameron had been perfectly safe in hanging up the phone, and he knew that Dameron knew it, too. He went to look for Paul.

Johnny knew he shouldn't leave now. It would be a dirty trick on Paul. Not that Paul wasn't used to it. The night shift at the Hotel Duarte was an elastic affair. The Duarte had no night manager or security officer. It had Johnny. The management's unspoken but tacit approval buttressed his informal regime. Over the years, Johnny had demonstrated that his operating style matched the neighborhood's. He had a free hand, and he and the management both thought well of the arrangement.

En route to the switchboard to have Sally find Paul, Johnny detoured to the registration desk. “Say, Vic-did you call Ten-twenty-six to let him know those people were on the way up?”

The round-faced Vic looked defensive. “No. You heard him say yourself to send them right on up.”

“I heard him say send someone up. I'm wonderin' if he got who he expected.” Johnny tugged at an ear lobe. Even surprised by the devil himself, 1026 would still have had to have that automatic conveniently in a dressing-gown pocket. “No, I guess not,” Johnny said vaguely, and moved on down to the switchboard. “Paul gone out, ma?”

“He's upstairs with the detective sealing up that room.” Sally's warm brown eyes rested on his face. “Was it bad upstairs?”

He shrugged. “'Bout what you'd expect.”

He could see her repressed shiver. “He wasn't a very likable man, but it's awfully-awfully sudden.”

“I'll buy that,” Johnny agreed. He scowled at the desk light. “Does a man order a sandwich an' a pot of coffee before he falls on his sword?” He looked in at the slender girl beneath the headphone. “He get any phone calls after he came in tonight?”

“Not a one, Johnny.”

“Well, he thought he had a reason, guaranteed. The hell with it. Look, tell Paul I'm gonna be out a while, will you? I'm-” He paused suddenly. Into his mind, unbidden, leaped the memory of the worn-looking man at the registration desk separating one envelope from the stack of mail and stuffing it into his topcoat pocket. Could it have been something in that letter that had so suddenly pushed the importer over the dam?

Sally was watching his face. “What is it, Johnny?”

“Just my big nose itchin', I guess.” He slapped both palms down on the little wooden gate that separated them, with a report that made Sally jump. “New record on the turntable, ma. Come on upstairs in the mornin', huh?”

She tried to ignore the added color in her cheeks. “You overwhelm a girl with the delicacy of your invitations, sir. The apartment's not good enough for you? I don't like skulking around upstairs. And I've got clothes drying, and ironing to do-”

“If you're lookin' for a sales' talk, ma, I got no time. Hell with the ironin'-you come on up. Consolidated Friction, Inc. is about to declare a stock dividend. I wouldn't want you to miss it.”

“If I miss it, can they declare it?” she inquired pertly.

“It'd be a problem,” he admitted. “You be there.” He turned to leave. “Tell Paul.”

“About Consolidated Friction?”

“Not unless I'm there to watch you tell him.” Sally made a face at him and waved him away. In the foyer he was glad to see the rain had stopped. On the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched involuntarily against the damp bite of the night air. Damn chilly for late June. Probably noticed it more after the warmer weather they'd been having, he decided. At his arm wave a cab rolled down from the corner.

On the short ride he speculated again upon the reason for the importer's sudden suicide. He shrugged it aside. Who could figure why people did the things they did?

He paid off the cabbie in front of the familiar weather-beaten old red brick building. Two black Cadillacs stood at the curb, each appearing half a block long. Johnny trotted up worn white steps and, inside, turned left on oil-darkened wooden floors.

The desk man nodded before Johnny could speak. “He's waitin'. Second-”

“-door on the left,” Johnny finished for him. In the hall he noticed two calm-faced black robes seated on a bench. Two more were strolling the upper corridor. Somebody must have caught the black pill, Johnny thought uneasily. He knocked twice on the second door on the left, and entered. In the concentrated glare of the goose-necked lamp on the cluttered desk he watched Lieutenant Joseph Dameron's solid bulk rise from the depths of his swivel chair. The expression in the frosty gray eyes and on the apple-cheeked blunt features beneath the steel-gray hair was noncommittal. “H'ya, Joe,” Johnny said. “What the hell's the-”

The lieutenant flung out* an arm in the manner of a magician calling attention to the rabbit emerging from a hat. “His Eminence,” he announced warningly. “Cardinal Lucian Alerini.”

Johnny's eyes switched left to the beamingly florid moon face of a massive, bald-headed man in flowing dark robes. “Kiki!” Johnny exclaimed, and was enveloped with a rush in a rib-crunching bear hug. Instinctively Johnny's hands came up.

“Easy!” Lieutenant Dameron rapped at him apprehensively.

Unheeding, Johnny punched joyfully at a forearm that felt like a fireplace log. “Kiki! What're you doin' here?”

“Business!” a big voice boomed in Johnny's ear. The hard arms rocked him from side to side before releasing him, and then the cardinal stepped back to look at him more closely. “Not one iota have you changed, Johnny. Which cannot be said for the rest of us,” he mourned, running a hand over his bald pate, down the left side of which ran a livid scar. The dark eyes were merry. “You remembered, eh?”

“Remember? I hope to tell you I remember.” Johnny leveled a finger at the huge figure, six-four and well over two hundred fifty pounds. “Like the night at Reggio Calabria? When the lousy st-”

“Language, language!” Lieutenant Dameron intervened hastily. “Watch it, will you? His Eminence doesn't-”

“Eminence?” Johnny interrupted. “You're a cardinal now, Kiki?” His eye caught the flash of the ring, and he grinned. “So the only rope-climbin' bishop in captivity's a cardinal? Gettin' down to the bottom of the barrel, aren't they?”

The big churchman's resonant roar of laughter rattled the windows. “Exactly what I said!”

“Will you kindly show a little respect?” the lieutenant asked Johnny in anguish. “His Eminence-”

“His Eminence knew us when, Joe,” Johnny interrupted again with a grin. “You under the delusion he didn't know where you got the information that time at Foggia when you an' the little widow-” “Will you shut up?”

“It makes a man feel young again to look at you, Johnny.” The cardinal's rumble cut in smoothly behind Dameron's rasp. The big man sounded wistful. His English was flawless, but formal. “How many days and miles removed from our last meeting on the cliffs, my friend? Yet a look in the mirror mornings keeps the memory green.” Once more he lightly touched the savage-looking scar on his head.

Lieutenant Dameron cleared his throat heavily. “His Eminence wants to talk to you,” he said sourly to Johnny. “Seriously.” The lieutenant didn't look too happy about it, Johnny thought.

“I asked Joseph to call you,” the cardinal affirmed. “I have a favor to ask.”

Johnny nodded. “A l'instant.”

The beaming smile flashed again. “Merci. It's good to know the attitude's as little changed as the man.” The moon features turned serious. “I know I give you no news when I say that, in the bad days we remember, there was much looting of property, including the church's. Some has been recovered, but a great deal has not. Some stolen articles had commercial value, almost all had museum value, but to the church there were other values than the lira that could be realized from their disposal.” “You mean they had a history,” Johnny said.

“A very long history, in some cases. But to the mutton: I recently learned the name of a man of conspicuous talent in the management of such disappearances in those days. I'm assured that this man personally supervised the removal of one item in my charge for the recovery of which I would gladly receive the duplicate of this.” His hand went again to the scar. “The man is in this city.”

“He is? Joe's gonna snatch him for you?”

“I'm here primarily on ecclesiastical matters,” the cardinal said obliquely. “The other is a private project, and not simple. The stolen item has the status of an objet d'art. Even when found after all this time there's the question of proof of original ownership, of jurisdictional latitude and longitude, of the statute of limitations, of the availability of witnesses, of many, many other things. You follow?”

“I follow,” Johnny replied grimly. He glared at the man behind the desk, and Lieutenant Dameron turned a dull red. “You came to Joe, an' he fluffed you off.”

“Now listen, Johnny-”

“You haven't heard the special point of the story.” The cardinal overrode the lieutenant's abortive protest in the bland manner of the born diplomat. “I said the man is in the city.” He paused for emphasis. “The man is at your hotel, Johnny.”

“At the Duarte?” Johnny rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, what are we waitin' for? Tell me his name an' I'll run back over there an' shake the fillin's outta his back teeth.”

“You'll do nothing of the kind,” Lieutenant Dameron said coldly. “This is an extremely delicate matter.”

“Delicate!” Johnny snorted. “They ought to call you Delicate Dameron. The rightest guy you ever knew comes to you for a favor, an' you dump him. Well, you can butt out, right here. If you'd been gonna handle it officially, I'd never have heard about it. Since you're not, just what the hell makes you think you can keep a hand on the steerin' wheel?” He turned to the cardinal. “Kiki? What's his name?”

The churchman looked steadily at the lieutenant, who turned red and looked away. “I'm sorry, Joseph,” the cardinal said quietly. “This is important to me.” He looked at Johnny. “The name is Dechant.”

“Dechant?” Johnny echoed. “Claude Dechant?” The cardinal's nod was gratified. “You know him?” “I knew him,” Johnny replied gloomily. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of resignation. “Claude Dechant committed suicide at the hotel two hours ago.”

CHAPTER II

“Dechant was the one?” Lieutenant Dameron asked incredulously. He recovered immediately. “I'm sorry your — ah-mission is over before it really began, Your Eminence.”

“I wouldn't like to think so,” the cardinal said in obvious disappointment. “After the raising of my hopes, I wouldn't-”

Johnny cut in promptly as the big man's voice died away. “That's good enough for me. Let's you 'n me take a walk out've this righteous atmosphere, Kiki. You fill me in. I'll find somethin' to hang a nail in, an' we'll go from there.”

“Now just a minute-” Lieutenant Dameron glared across the desk.

“First, a little story,” the cardinal said. “When we've all heard it, perhaps it will be clear there's nothing to be done. Joseph knows the basic facts.” Joseph didn't look as though the knowledge agreed with him, Johnny thought. “The entire story is a long one, and unnecessary. We can conveniently begin at a time in the spring of 1948, when a valuable piece of church property stolen by the importer Dechant in Florence, Italy in 1944 was brought to this country from Paris.”

The trained speaking voice continued, bell-clear. “It was sold in this country by Dechant to a wealthy collector, a man by the name of August Hegel. The amount paid was considerably more than the dollars-and-cents value, so Hegel knew what he was buying.” The cardinal smiled faintly. “I'm given to understand there are collectors like that.”

“If it's as easy as gettin' to this Hegel-” Johnny began, then pulled up at Dameron's snort.

“August Hegel is dead,” the cardinal supplied gravely. “Of natural causes. He was an old man. The point that presently concerns us about him is that he left his entire I collection to the Leland Stafford Museum, a city-administered institution.”

Johnny glanced at the silent lieutenant. “You just rubbed my nose in the spot where the smell of Joe's cold feet started, Kiki. Every damn slingshot politician in this town's on the board of governors of that place. Joe couldn't see stickin' his highly developed political nose into that kind of flytrap for you, right?”

“You're prejudging,” the cardinal warned. “It's not that simple. For one thing, the museum doesn't have the collection yet. The will is being contested by the nephews and nieces of the childless Hegel, and the matter is in the probate courts.”

“Now you lost me again,” Johnny complained. “You might have to wait a little longer, but when all the whereases are gatherin' dust, don't you figure to recover either from the museum or the heirs, whichever winds up with it?”

“There is another complication.” The cardinal smiled as 5i Johnny threw up his hands. “The stolen property is a monstrance, eighteen inches high, one of six exquisitely jeweled masterpieces made in the thirteenth century for the private chapels of six of the ruling princes of Italy. They were gifts from Pope Clement. One is in Milan, in the possession of the titled family whose ancestors acquired it. One was given to the Cathedral Salveggi in 1520. It is this one that was stolen. Early in the period of the intervening five hundred years since they were fashioned by the leading artisan of his day, the remaining four disappeared.”

“So Hegel's could be one of the missing four?”

“It could be so claimed. It would not be true.” The churchman's voice was rocklike. “I've traced this carefully.”

“You haven't even gotten to the point yet,” Lieutenant Dameron inserted wearily.

“Forgive me,” the cardinal apologized. “I naturally made representations both to the board of governors of the museum and to the administrator of the Hegel estate. From the museum I received a reply that if, as and when the Hegel collection actually became museum property, the matter would have their most careful attention. I'll admit I've had responses upon which I've looked with more favor, but it was from the Hegel administrator that I received my real shock. This man is a Federal judge, a man of probity, and he's assured me that the monstrance was not part of the collection turned over to him to be vault-stored pending court settlement of its disposition. He verified that it had been included in Hegel's private catalogue, but that it, along with two or three of the smaller pieces, had never been found.”

“And His Eminence thinks that after Hegel's death Dechant stole it back again,” the lieutenant said harshly.

“I'm convinced of it,” the cardinal said seriously. “De-chant was, if not a trusted aid, a valued assistant in the continuing search for new acquisitions for August Hegel's collection. He had access to it as few men did. Dechant stole it to resell it. This whole affair first came to my attention sixty days ago, when an art dealer in Lisbon, Portugal, knowing my interest, called to tell me that a monstrance had been offered to him for purchase. He thought it had to be a facsimile. We know now that it didn't. The one in Milan is still there. Do you doubt that the one offered in Lisbon was Hegel's?”

“The man we'd have to ask that is dead by his own hand,” Lieutenant Dameron said exasperatedly.

“Unfortunately,” the cardinal admitted. “But I wouldn't like to have to accept a complete dead end.” His eyes went to Johnny. “I feel responsible. I lost the monstrance. When Florence was declared an open city in the summer of 1944, I ordered the monstrance moved from a perfectly safe hiding place in southern Italy and sent to the Villa Montagnana on the outskirts of Florence. The owner was a friend of mine, and his home was a deposit for some of the greatest art the world has ever seen.” The huge man shrugged. “The open-city designation not only was not respected, but wholesale looting took place in the days before the city was liberated. Over three hundred paintings hidden at Montagnana were taken. And the monstrance. You can understand my concern, and the burgeoning of my hopes recently after this long interval. It's because in the special circumstances Joseph seemed to feel he could do nothing that I had him call you, Johnny. Hoping-”

“Your Eminence.” Suppressed anger crackled in the lieutenant's tone. “If somebody walked through that door this minute and laid the thing on my desk, I'd have to turn it over to the estate administrator. Is that what you want?”

“On advice of counsel, don't answer that, Kiki,” Johnny said cheerfully. He looked from the big man in the flowing robes to the scowling lieutenant. “I'll carry the ball, Joe. You're outta the game.”

The frosty eyes narrowed. “Now look, Johnny-”

“It doesn't call for the official touch, right? That's your position?” Johnny outstared the apple-cheeked man's silence. “Okay. They don't come any more unofficial 'n me. I'll just kind of soft-shoe around an' lean easy on a few people.” He thought fleetingly of the red-haired Gloria Philips. “I could even get to like the idea.”

“I want no trouble from you,” the lieutenant warned. His voice rose. “I want no-”

“Sure, Joe, sure,” Johnny interrupted soothingly. “All you want is the world with a fence around it. As usual.” He turned to the cardinal. “Where can I reach you, Kiki?”

“At the Rosario.” The big man looked as though he were enjoying himself.

“I'll be on the phone to you presently.”

“Johnny!”

On his way to the door Johnny lifted a hand in mute acknowledgment of the lieutenant's angry bellowing of his name.

He closed the door firmly from the outside.

Johnny grabbed a robe at the familiar tap on the door. Sally slipped in from the corridor as he opened the door, and at once threw her arms about herself to hug her slim figure tightly. “Say, man, I don't have to come up here to get chilblains,” she protested, marched to the window and closed it.

“Fresh air's good for you,” he said from right behind her, and the big arms enfolded her as she turned.

Sally shivered at the combination of the chill in the room and the husky resonance in her ear. “You and your polar-bear blood,” she said resignedly. A small hand darted upward and sharply tweaked the chest hair exposed by the loosely belted robe. “We don't all carry our own rugs around with us, you know.”

“Maybe we could graft a few yards onto you, ma?”

“I'm doing nicely without, thanks.” She pushed him gently away, turned back to the window and drew the shade. “There's too much light in here.”

“You could find yourself outvoted on that. Two hundred thirty-eight pounds to ninety-eight.”

She ignored him grandly. “Hop into the bed and warm up those sheets,” she commanded. Her nimble fingers flew over clothes fastenings. “I've got goose bumps already.”

“I'll massage 'em, ma. Individually.” Johnny threw off the robe, turned down the bed and climbed in. He turned barely in time, holding up the covers to admit the silver arrow that flashed across the room. Sally, squealing at the touch of the icy sheets on her bare flesh, scrambled up on top of Johnny, elbows and knees thrashing. “Goddlemighty, I might's well be in bed with a centipede,” he grunted.

“Ooh, but you're the warmest thing,” she murmured, wriggling along his length. She sighed in satisfaction. “Let me soak up a little heat first.”

Silently the hard hands reached down over her and glided over the velvety expanse of slender back and not-quite-boyish behind. Sally's initial rapid breathing slowed and quieted, then once more began to accelerate. The big hands stroked delicately, patted and teased. And paused. “That a goose bump, ma?”

“Stop it!” she ordered, and rolled off the massive chest.

“No complaints about the sheets now?”

“Don't-talk-” she murmured huskily. The brown eyes were enormous. “You're so-good for me. You're-oh!”

“What was that last remark, ma?”

“Mmmmm!”

Johnny eased back down under the covers and handed Sally one of the cigarettes he'd lighted. The brown eyes examined his face. “You definitely bring out the worst in me, man,” she complained.

“Let's keep it like that, ma. I couldn't handle the best.”

“That's not what I meant!” A sharp-knuckled little fist thumped against his ribs for emphasis. “I'm shameless. I have no pride.”

“Praise Allah.” He grabbed for the small hand as it punched him again. “For the small economy size, ma, you pay off at a hundred cents on the dollar.”

She stubbed out her cigarette after two quick drags, snuggled down alongside him for a moment, then half sat up with a sigh. “I've got to get out of here.” She winced at the onslaught of room temperature on her bare shoulders. “Goose bumps, here I come again.”

“It's warmer in the bathroom, ma.”

“I'll be a stalagmite before I make it,” she gloomed. She descended under the covers again. “I haven't any will power, Johnny. You'll have to push me out.”

“Why, sure. Glad to oblige.” He pinched her, and Sally bounded upright in the bed with a shrill yip. He pinched her again, strategically, and she thumped to the floor, trailing covers. She bounded erect with a stifled yell at the impact of the cold, whizzed across the room to scoop up her clothes and zoomed into the bathroom.

“I'm coming back with the biggest thing I can find full of water,” she announced from the doorway.

“You better find yourself a suit of armor before you try it,” he warned her, and she ran out her tongue at him before she closed the door. Johnny leaned back in the bed and folded his hands beneath his head. He stretched luxuriantly, arching his chest until he heard a muscle in his back pop protestingly. The quicksilver moments in life made all the rest of it worth-while. A man didn't have to be a philosopher to appreciate them. A man just had to be alive.

He was scowling up at the ceiling when Sally emerged from the bathroom, dressed. He rolled up on an elbow to look at her. “You wouldn't happen to remember the names of any of Claude Dechant's steady telephone customers, would you?” he began abruptly. “People he called a lot?”

“I can see you never heard Mr. Dechant make a telephone call,” Sally said. “His calls might as well have been in Morse code. First names only, and a twenty-second call was overtime for him. He'd call Max, or Jack, or Madeleine, or Harry, or Gloria, or Jules, or Ernest, and he'd say: 'I'll meet you at such-and-such a place.' And hang up. Once in a while someone would try to say something to him, and he'd cut them right off. 'Tell me when you see me,' he'd say. He could be really nasty on the phone.”

“A Gloria I know,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “An Ernest, too. Reel off the rest of 'em for me again, ma.”

“Max,” she repeated. “Madeleine. Harry. Jack. Jules.” She thought a moment. “That's the crop, I think.” She came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why are you interested?”

“Friend of mine was askin',” he replied vaguely.

“Asking what?” She jogged his elbow at his silence. “Asking what, Johnny? What are you getting into now?”

“I have to be gettin' into something?”

“I know you, buster. Too well I know you.” She stood up from the bed. “I'll siphon you later. I've got to run. Please stay out of trouble?”

He grunted disparagingly as she blew him a kiss from the door.

Johnny ran lightly up the indented stone steps of the station house in the warming sunlight. The first person he ran into in the long corridor was Detective James Rogers. Johnny drew him aside. “That redhead over at the place last night, Jimmy. Where's she work?”

“You wouldn't rather have her home phone?” Detective Rogers ran an appraising eye over Johnny's gray slacks, maroon sport shirt and tan jacket. “So seldom I see you out of uniform it's a wonder I recognized you. You going courting?”

“In all that piece of jazz I didn't seem to catch the address, Jimmy.”

The sandy-haired man looked bleak. “No information, Johnny,” he said brusquely.

Johnny bristled. “What the hell you mean, 'no information'?”

“You came over here last night and ruffled the man's fur. I'm giving you the payoff. Cuneo and I got the word. For Killain: nothing.”

“Don't work too hard at bein' as stupid as your boss,” Johnny told him in heat. “I know Faulkner's a lawyer. If I look him up in the book an' go over to his office, how long you think I've got to hold him by his heels out the window before he tells me where I can find the girl?” He grinned at the detective's level stare. “But I'm always in favor of the short cut. I'll trade with you, Jimmy. You give me the address, an' I'll tell you somethin' I forgot over at the place last night.”

“Why does there always seem to be something you forget?”

“Cynicism ill becomes you, boy. We got a deal?” Silently Rogers took his notebook from his pocket and flipped pages. He stared off down the corridor as Johnny squinted at the opened page. “Spandau Watch Company,” Johnny murmured. “Room Eighteen-oh-eight, Two-twenty-two Maiden Lane.” His grin renewed itself. “Nine will get you five an' your nine back, Jimmy, that the gal's no maiden.”

“You shock me.” The notebook closed with a snap. “So what did I buy?”

Johnny ran through for him quickly Claude Dechant's reaction to the one letter in the stack of mail. “When he came in that front door I'll bet he didn't have any more idea of jumpin' overboard than you do right now. He didn't get any phone calls, either. Was I you, I'd take a look for that letter.”

Rogers nodded grudgingly. “We'll look. Not that it'll make any difference.” He looked at Johnny. “What'd you do to the man last night to get him up on his ear?”

“He's just a bleedin' heart. We was still speakin' when I left here. He must've had a bad dream.”

“If he did, you were in it, in Technicolor. As a direct result of which, I'm taking an official interest in you.”

“Official, Jimmy?”

Detective Rogers paused as though mentally reviewing his orders. “Perhaps not official,” he conceded. “But an interest.”

“Should I move a spare cot into my room for you?”

“Never mind trying to be a bigger wise guy than nature made you, either.”

“The redhead an' the lawyer showed yet?”

“Left twenty minutes ago,” Rogers announced with satisfaction.

Johnny glanced up and down the bustling corridor. “Where's your crabby partner, Cuneo? Already out on the corner waitin' for me to leave so he can tail me?”

The sandy-haired man eyed Johnny coldly. “My partner's minding his own business, which is more than I can say for some people I know.” Detective Ted Cuneo, who had a phobia about Johnny Killain, was a sallow-faced six-footer with large-pupiled pop eyes.

“You guys are as transparent as glass, Jimmy.”

“You're not so damn opaque yourself.”

“Clear-As-Crystal Killain, they call me,” Johnny agreed. “I guess I should sign that statement now. I wouldn't want Ted to get chilled standin' around waitin' for me.”

He moved up the corridor, ignoring Rogers' stare.

Johnny had covered the best part of three blocks outside, and had just begun to think himself mistaken about Ted Cuneo's activities, when he suddenly picked out the tall detective's lean figure across the street. Johnny stopped and waved. “Hey, Cuneo! Come on over!” Detective Cuneo crossed the street after an irresolute moment. He stepped up on the curb and looked Johnny up and down balefully. Two bright red spots bloomed in the saffron features. “How about splittin' the cab fare downtown?” Johnny asked him. “I like to keep down expenses.”

“Wise guy,” the tall man gritted. “A continental wise guy.”

“No originality,” Johnny said sadly. “Rogers already used up that line. Well, you comin'?”

“I'll just call that bluff,” the detective decided after a moment's debate with himself. Johnny lifted his arm to a cab that darted into the curb.

“Two-twenty-two Maiden Lane,” Johnny told the driver as he preceded Cuneo into the back seat.

The tall man jerked to a stop halfway in. “Where'd you get that address?” he demanded.

“From the lawyer, Faulkner,” Johnny said innocently. “Why? You guys forget to muzzle him?”

Cuneo pulled himself in the balance of the way. He sat in compressed-lip silence the entire trip. In the lobby of the office building he watched, his mouth a thin, hard line, as Johnny gravely ran a finger down the “S's” on the wall directory. “Spandau,” Johnny said aloud. “Eighteen-oh-eight.”

“And just what do you think you're going to do up there?” Cuneo's voice was acid-tipped, but Johnny thought he detected a note of uneasiness in it, too.

“Who the hell knows?” Johnny responded. “I play these things better by ear. You still aboard? Let's go.” Cuneo followed stubbornly to the elevators, but hesitated just outside as Johnny stepped on. Johnny needled him. “Come on, man. You think I got time to wait while you thumb through the manual lookin' for a paragraph to cover you? The man said report, didn't he? How the hell 're you gonna report if you're not with me?”

Ted Cuneo burst onto the elevator as though goosed from behind. The large-pupiled eyes were narrowed to slits. “Goddam you, Killain, I'll-”

“Temper, temper,” Johnny said soothingly. To himself he thought that about one more jab of the spurs and Detective Cuneo would be out of the saddle completely on this trip.

Johnny was interested to note, beneath the block-lettered Spandau Watch Co. on the frosted glass of 1808, a smaller J. Tremaine, Representative. J. Tremaine. The “Jack” of Dechant's phone calls? Or the “Jules”? Johnny tapped once and entered, with the now obviously reluctant Cuneo still tagging doggedly along.

The redhead from the previous evening looked up inquiringly from behind a neat, small desk. The room was small, too, and a little on the shabby side, Johnny thought. The girl was alone, but the door to an inner office was at her back. Johnny was relieved to discover that he had made no mistake in judgment last night. Even in the less flattering daylight, this was an exceptional specimen of the genus female.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the girl asked as Cuneo remained a discreet half pace behind Johnny.

“Sure you can, Gloria,” Johnny told her. He leaned down over her desk, resting his weight on his big-knuckled hands. Gloria Philips glanced fleetingly at the hands, longer at the breadth of chest and shoulders above them, longer still at the rough-hewn, craggy features thirty-six inches from her own. “Tremaine around?”

“Who wishes-” The redhead nodded to herself. “I place you now. You were in the room last night when we found Claude.” She inspected Johnny coolly from beneath long lashes. “You have business with Mr. Tremaine?”

“Oh, boy, do I have business!” Johnny replied cheerfully.

Her eyes slid off to Cuneo. “And this one?”

“Oh, he's just a cop,” Johnny said disparagingly. “Just taggin' along. I can't get rid of him.”

“A policeman? Really?” Gloria Philips' stare banked off the red-faced Cuneo back to Johnny. “Mr. Tremaine is unavailable right now. If you could give me some idea of the nature of your business… I'm Mr. Tremaine's secretary.”

“Well, I guess if you're his secretary it's all right,” Johnny allowed grudgingly. “I come over here to blackmail him.” Beside Johnny, Detective Cuneo blanched.

“You're joking, of course,” the girl said finally.

“Jokin'?” Johnny repeated. “I been livin' in Claude Dechant's pocket for ten years, little sister. You don't think that qualifies me?”

The redhead considered this for five seconds before her fascinated stare returned to Cuneo. “And in the presence of the police you mention blackmail of Mr. Tremaine?”

Ted Cuneo emitted a strangled sound. His hand opened and closed at his sides. “Where's a phone?” he blared.

“Where's a goddam phone? Not that thing!” he shouted hoarsely at Gloria Philips as she pushed the phone on her desk toward him. “A pay phone!”

“None closer than the lobby, I'm afraid,” she told him.

He whirled to the door. From its threshold he leveled a finger at Johnny. “I'll get you for this, you sonofabitch! If Dameron just gives me the word, I'll-” He growled inarticulately, and the door shivered from the force with which he slammed it.

Gloria Philips was looking up at Johnny pensively when he turned back to her desk. “A man like you hasn't always worked in a hotel, has he?” she asked.

She's stalling, he thought instantly. Her hands were motionless on the desk top. Buzzer under her foot, probably. Act II was due to be coming up any second now. He moved a casual step closer to her desk. “Worked? Hell, I worked at everything. I was rollin' furniture vans over the mountains between L.A. an' Houston before I was eighteen. Jimmy-diesels. Monsters. Load a mansion in one. We did, many a time. Like the time I moved the whorehouse into Silver City. Rainin' like the sun 'd gone out of style, an'-”

The door behind Gloria Philips was flung open, and a big man charged through it with so much energy that Johnny wondered why he had bothered to turn the knob. “What is it, Gloria?” the man demanded. He had a heavy, good-looking head set squarely on solid shoulders.

The redhead released a spatter of rapid-fire French. “This maniac speaks of blackmail, Jules. He was here with another whom he said was of the police and who has now gone to telephone. I don't understand the relationship; they were unfriendly, but the other truly looked of the police. This one works at the hotel where Claude died. Perhaps there is-”

Johnny leaned down over her desk again and knuckle-rapped it sharply for attention. “Un de ces jours tu prendras mon cul pour une tasse du cafe,” he said energetically. “Maybe today, eh? Why guess, when I'd be happy to tell you?”

Jules Tremaine flexed his arms and advanced deliberately from his open doorway around the end of the girl's desk. “Jules,” Gloria Philips said quietly. “Look at the neck.”

The big man looked. He didn't appear alarmed, but he halted, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

“Thank the lady for doin' you a big favor, Jules,” Johnny said softly, coming down off the balls of his feet.

Jules Tremaine looked him up and down impersonally, then jerked his head at the doorway behind him. “Inside,” he said curtly. “We can talk in there.”

“That's the specific idea,” Johnny told him. He looked down at Gloria Philips. “You, too, little sister. I like you near me.”

He followed them into the inner office.

CHAPTER III

Jules Tremaine pushed a stack of papers from a corner of his high-piled desk and settled himself upon it, a leg swinging negligently and the big body at ease. “Sit there,” he directed, and nodded at a chair that would have placed him between Johnny and the door. He paid no attention at all to Gloria Philips, who had seated herself unobtrusively in the farthest corner.

“I'm doin' fine right here,” Johnny returned equably from where he stood, just inside the door.

Dark, wide-spaced eyes beneath heavy lids examined Johnny carefully. The jet black hair had a thick wave in it, and the smooth, olive features tapered to a square jaw. This man must have broken a thousand hearts, Johnny decided, but he was no pretty-boy. Tremaine's manner, as well as the blunt-fingered, capable-looking hands, contributed to an overall impression of rugged competence.

“Now let's get-” Tremaine checked himself. “Who are you?”

“The name's Killain. Johnny.” He nodded at the redhead in her corner. “Shouldn't we stuff little sister's ears before we begin? I wanted her here to keep her off the phone.”

“You can talk.”

“Suit yourself,” Johnny shrugged. “I got something to sell, Tremaine. It takes a bankroll to buy. Dechant furnished the merchandise. You interested?”

Heavy-lidded eyes, beneath straight black brows, stared unwinkingly into Johnny's. “In the first place, I don't believe you.”

Johnny swept a hand in a leisurely semicircle around the disorder of the shabby office. “You don't look to me like you got enough firepower financially, what I see here,” he said critically. “I need a real money tree. If you can't weigh in heavy enough, it'd be real cozy if you'd steer me to whichever of the others figured to shower down the most. I wouldn't forget it.”

“The others?” Tremaine's tone was sharp.

“Sure. Max, maybe. Jack, or Harry. Madeleine, even. For the right steer I could make you a deal.”

“Send him to Stitt,” the redhead said rapidly in Italian from her corner. “With the trouble over the symbols-”

“Shut up!” Jules Tremaine's hard voice rapped tightly on the heels of hers, but he didn't turn to look at her. “He speaks French. Why not Italian?” The heavy-lidded eyes measured Johnny. “I think he knows nothing. He fishes in troubled waters.”

“Trouble's the word, chum,” Johnny said in his most reasonable tone. “Since we know there's goin' to be some, I'm in favor of makin' a dollar on the prospect. Whose side are you on? The people with the money, or Tremaine's?” He reached behind him for the doorknob at the other's silence. “The hell with it. I don't like doin' business with people who can't make up their mind. I'll go it alone.”

“Jules!” Gloria Philips exclaimed as Johnny opened the door.

“Shut up,” the big man repeated, but not as positively as before. Johnny closed the door from the other side and walked through the outer office. He was surprised that he hadn't been called back by the time the elevator he had summoned stopped at the eighteenth floor. Tremaine either had good nerves or was slow on the uptake. Not that it mattered-there was an easy way to copper the bet.

In the lobby he went straight to the phone booth. He found fourteen Stitts in the directory. One John, who could be Jack, and one Max. Johnny scribbled phone numbers and addresses on the back of a matchbook cover. On second thought, he went back to the directory and tried Stit, with one “t.” Only three, and no Jack, John or Max.

He referred to the directory for the third time, fished a dime from the change in his pocket and dialed the number of the Spandau Watch Co. He listened appreciatively to Gloria Philips' cool voice at the other end of the line. “'Bout time for your coffee break, isn't it, little sister?” he asked her in Italian.

He could hear the perceptible intake of her breath. “I'm sorry I'm late. We've been busy. I'll be right down.”

Nice to find someone with a normal quota of curiosity, Johnny thought. He strolled back to the bank of elevators to wait for her. He had a smile on his face for Gloria Philips when she stepped out into the lobby. She looked at him, a long, speculative look, and then without a word steered him to the coffee-shop door on the left and on through the cafeteria-style aisle.

En route to a corner table behind her, with their coffees on a tray, he noted that her suit-blue, today-enhanced her ripened curves commendably. Even in daylight, the rich auburn hair had a remarkable sheen.

“I can't understand why I feel you're not a fool,” she commented at the table as he unloaded the tray. Her glance ranged over him guardedly. “The way you blundered in upstairs was nothing short of idiotic, but-”

Her eyes at close range were a chameleonlike blue-gray, Johnny decided, and the tiny freckles even more attractive than he had remembered. “No sugar, thanks,” she said. She picked up her cup and sipped at it, her eyes still upon him above the rim. “You could be a fool, I suppose,” she remarked as she set the cup down. “But I think I like you, anyway.” She smiled at him.

Johnny felt his interest rising by the moment. When this girl smiled, the lights dimmed. “What's a looker like you doin' workin' for Tremaine?” he asked her bluntly.

The smile was as cool as the voice. “I could find you a thousand girls-” she glanced at the square-cut watch on her plump wrist-“between now and lunch time who'd love to work for Jules.”

“So he's a doll. You're not moonstruck. You reacted upstairs faster than he did.” He reached across the table to take her wrist in his hand for a better look at the watch, and small diamonds winked in the light. “About fifteen, eighteen hundred,” Johnny estimated. “If these go with the job, I take back what I said.” He released her wrist, although she had made no move to withdraw it. He must be getting old, he decided. He hadn't felt skin like that in years. “You think I should see Stitt?”

“I really don't know you well enough to advise you, Mr. Killain.” Her smile was brilliant.

“Save the candlepower, kid. This is business. An' the name's Johnny. As for not knowin' me, we could fix that. I'd promise to enjoy it.” He studied her a moment. “Why do you figure Dechant killed himself?”

“Don't you mean why did he kill himself just now?” she answered, and moved right on. “Don't underestimate Jules. You'll hear from him, when he's had time to think it over. He'll tell you to go to Madeleine. He hates her. He'd like to see her in trouble.”

“But you hate Stitt,” Johnny suggested. “You'd like to see him in trouble.”

The long-lashed eyelids lowered, then swept upward again in a dazzling display. “Claude told you about customs finding out about the symbols not being re-marked?” she asked.

“First I've heard of it,” Johnny said. “Outside of the crack you made upstairs.”

“It's well for my faith in you that you answered that way,” she continued. “Claude didn't know it himself, being just off the plane. That's why Ernest and I were there, to tell him.” A coral-tinted fingernail tapped idly on her coffee cup. “You're serious about having something to sell?”

“I've got it,” Johnny assured her. “Like to get on the bandwagon? You just aim me at the moneybelt. To nail it down for you a little, I spent some time in Italy some time back. Like Claude Dechant. I won't have any trouble sellin'. I just want the best price. Is Stitt the man?”

“Max doesn't respond to pressure,” she said slowly. This time Johnny thought her smile was rueful. “I speak from experience.”

Johnny lit two cigarettes, handed her one and sneaked a look at his matchbook cover. “Look, I can't sit still. Stitt will be at the warehouse, I suppose.”

“Usually.” Her tone was absent. She picked a shred of tobacco from a full lower lip, the blue-gray eyes still studying him. Abruptly she made up her mind. “Forget what I said about Max. Go after Jack. He'll be there, too, this time of day. Jack's the man with the money.”

“You're telling me this because you love me.”

The beautiful face was serene. “I'm telling you because, if you make it to the payoff window, I'd like to be in line for a share. And Jack has the money.” She made an impatient gesture at Johnny's careful inspection of her. “All right, I dislike Max Stitt. If it was just a question of getting him punched in the nose, I'd cheerfully let you go over there looking for him. If there's real money involved, though, Jack's the man with something to lose.” She smiled. “None of them has the right time for me. If you score, remember the source.”

“You can believe it, little sister.” He was watching her face. “You don't like Jack, either?”

“Jack's a fat slug,” she replied indifferently. “I could learn to like his money with no trouble at all.”

“That's my kind of jazz you're playin' now,” Johnny said approvingly. He leaned in closer over the table. “How about dinner tonight to set up the articles of war?” He eyed the golden haze of freckles on the white skin. “You freckled all over like that, kid?”

“Not all over, Johnny.” Her gaze was level and self-possessed. “I think I'd enjoy having dinner with you.”

“Fine. Pick you up here at five?”

“I'll be looking forward to it.” She stood up, pushing back her chair, smiled at him again and walked away. Johnny sat and watched her walk toward the elevator until she disappeared into it.

A lovely little playmate, he decided. Lovely. And dangerous.

Johnny alighted from the cab in front of the three-story brick building of the Empire Freight Forwarding Corporation. Waiting for the driver to make change, he noticed that the place had the indefinable air of decrepitude even the newest warehouses speedily acquire. He wondered if the redhead had felt it necessary to make a phone call to anyone announcing his imminent arrival. He'd soon know, and the knowledge among other things would set the tone for his dinner date with Miss Gloria Philips.

He strode up a narrow cement walk between ten-foot-high, heavy-duty wire fences laced at the top with projecting strands of ugly-looking barbed wire. Ignoring the door marked office, he moved forty feet down the building to an unmarked one.

The high whine of a motor assailed Johnny's ears at his entrance. A man in a woolen shirt, with a baling hook thrust through his belt, looked down at him inquiringly from the cab of a rubber-tired fork-lift truck stacking crates against a wall. Johnny could see, stenciled on the crates in bold black, the letters CB A1448 on 10, and directly beneath it via Akama Maru, Yokohama, Japan. In the background a series of crashes and bangs added to the dissonant symphony of noise. The volume of sound was unbelievable.

“I'm lookin' for Max.” Johnny had to yell it twice, and even thought the man on the truck must be reading his lips.

“Office, I think,” the man shouted down above the bedlam, and reached for a lever to elevate the crate checked on the lift at Johnny's entrance.

Johnny raised an arm to stay him. “Jack around?”

“Mr. Arends? He was in earlier,” the man roared down powerfully. “If the blue Caddie's still in the parkin' lot, he's around somewheres.”

“Thanks,” Johnny mouthed, not expecting to be heard. He backed to the door. On the floor a crate with three broken slats was marked Amsterdam, Netherlands, and against the other wall a neat pile of heavy-looking boxes were labeled Oberon, Suisse. It figured, Johnny thought as he closed the door. Dechant was an importer. Somebody had to get the stuff over here for him.

The parking lot disclosed the tail fins of a blue Cadillac projecting six feet beyond everything else. Johnny looked at it on his way to the door marked office. He hadn't wanted to ask Gloria Philips a direct question. There were a lot of “Jacks” in the world, perhaps several in this building, but a Jack Arends with a big blue Cadillac looked promising.

Inside, Johnny looked from a mousy receptionist behind a low wooden railing to a man half hidden by an old-fashioned roll-top desk. “I'd like to see Max Stitt, miss,” he told the girl.

“It may take a few moments,” she said pleasantly. “I'll see if I can locate him for you.” She flipped a switch on the intercom on her desk. She tried a station, and another, and another. As her voice continued patiently to page Max Stitt the man behind the desk first raised his head, then pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He waddled toward Johnny, hand extended. “Never like to keep a potential customer waiting,” he said jovially. “Anything I can do for you until Helen finds Max? I'm Jack Arends,” he added as an afterthought. “Max lets me sign a few papers around here.” He chuckled deeply.

Arends was short and almost grossly fat. He wasn't young, but the overlarge head surmounting the squat body was capped with surprisingly youthful dark hair. His nose and mouth would have been grotesque on a face less strong, Johnny felt. The lips were unattractively thick, but creased in a genial grin. Above the blob of a body his huge head suggested a nervous lion.

“Killain,” Johnny said, taking the hand briefly. “Dechant sent me over.”

Jack Arends' geniality vanished as though it had never been. “Where you gettin' your messages from these days?” he growled.

“Before he did the samurai bit,” Johnny explained. “He said if anything happened I should look up Stitt.”

“Yeah?” The fat man pulled at a pendulous lower lip. “Why?” His shrewd little eyes, embedded in puffy rolls of fat, were warily apprehensive.

“I'll tell that to Stitt. It's not about the symbol markings.”

Jack Arends appeared to swell internally. “Who the hell are you? Does every sonofabitch in this town know my business?” He rushed right on without waiting for a reply. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, I'll bust-” He whirled on short legs at the sound of a closing door to confront an alert-looking, ramrod-straight man walking toward them. “Max!” Jack Arends' voice soared nearly to a screech. “Did you have some kind of a deal going with Dechant? Just because you grew up in the same town with that thief-”

“What the hell are you yapping about, Jack?” A thinly veiled note of contempt edged Max Stitt's hard tone. He was tall and solidly lean, with a pale face and a jutting hawk's nose beneath a pepper-and-salt crewcut. Johnny judged him to be about forty-five. His eyes were almost completely colorless, making them the coldest-looking Johnny had ever seen. Stitt was wearing a short leather jacket with a pushed-back, fleece-lined hood, heavy stagged-top trousers and bronze-toecapped boots.

The fat man waved his hands wildly in the air. “Don't you get gay with me, Max. This guy comes looking for you because Dechant sent him. It's not about the symbol markings, he says. How in the goddam hell does he know about the symbol markings? Are we running ads in the papers? And what were you and Dechant-”

“Will you dry up and blow away, Arends?” Max Stitt cut in. “You make me sick.”

“I make you sick!” The fat man's voice rose shrilly. “Don't you talk like that to me! You may run this business, but I own it, and don't you forget it!”

“Maybe you'd like to try running it yourself?” Stitt's cold eyes shifted from the momentarily silenced Arends to Johnny. “What's your story?”

The question revived Arends. “I already told you his story!” In his anger the fat man bounced up and down on his toes. “If you think I'm holding still for-”

“Shut your mouth, Jack,” Max Stitt said forcefully. “Let's go inside.” He turned and walked to a door in the rear of the office. Johnny followed promptly. He noticed that Jack Arends was more hesitant, although the fat man was still sputtering.

The room beyond the door was small and cold and boxlike, illuminated by a single overhead bulb. The floor was springily latticed for drainage, and higher than the office level they'd just left. It was a storage room, not meat-icebox-cold, but chilly enough.

“Throw that bar over on the door,” Stitt said to Arends as the fat man stepped inside.

“Now look, Max-” Arends began uneasily, but followed instructions. The tall man's strange eyes brushed Arends off as something inconsequential and returned to Johnny. Stitt slid easily from the leather jacket, reached in his hip pocket for a heavy pair of gloves and jerked them on. His movements were briskly efficient.

“Arends is getting as fat in the head as he is in the ass,” he said tonelessly to Johnny. “Claude Dechant never sent you anywhere. Jack doesn't know blackmail when he sees it any more. I'm not going to ask you anything and have you lie to me, friend. In about eight minutes you'll tell me what you know about Claude Dechant, mismarked symbols and anything else I ask you.” He moved away from the wall, and in the harsh glare of the light Johnny appraised the shoulders that were broader than he would have expected and the attitude that was something more than cold-bloodedly professional. Max Stitt looked and sounded like a man who planned to enjoy himself.

“Let-let me out of here!” Jack Arends bleated from behind Johnny. Neither Stitt nor Johnny looked at him. Johnny inched away from the door at his back, still not sure. Stitt's reaction, as well as the man himself, had surprised him.

Stitt made up his mind for him in a hurry. The tall man charged, hopped into the air from the springy flooring like a lumberjack from a birling log and slashed a heavy boot at Johnny's groin. Instinctively Johnny avoided the boot, but not the gloved left hand that thudded solidly into his side. Cat-quick, Max Stitt's right hand ripped at Johnny's jacket and sport shirt, and buttons flew in all directions. The tall man laughed derisively.

“You'll eat those,” Johnny promised him grimly, and waded in. A right hand bruised his forehead, a left stung the back of his neck in a vicious rabbit punch, another left knocked him a step off stride. Max Stitt's hands were lightning fast. In close finally, Johnny barely diverted a jerked-up knee outside his own thigh as he smashed with his left hand at the lithe, hard body. He moved it backward, but the left caught him again, on the bridge of the nose. He grunted, and his eyes watered. The right stung his cheekbone.

Johnny lowered his head angrily and bulled toward the toe-dancing Stitt, crowding the tall man cornerward although a ripping punch savaged his right ear. “You'll- carry boot marks-for a month-when I'm finished with you,” Stitt panted as he drove both hands to the body. As though to punctuate the remark, a bronze-capped boot crashed against Johnny's right shin.

Red spots swirled before Johnny's eyes. Heedless of everything, he rushed Stitt to the wall. Furiously he closed down his straining hands on the muscular figure, lifted it and slammed it heavily into the wall three times without releasing his grip. The third time Stitt came off the wall limply, head lolling. Johnny relaxed his hold, and Stitt, by sheer strength, raised himself in Johnny's arms and drove his clasped hands down upon the back of Johnny's neck. Anything less than that twenty-and-a-half inch expanse might not have weathered it. Ragingly, Johnny heaved Stitt aloft and slammed him floorward. He dropped on him heavily and pinned the still struggling man with his weight.

“Now, damn you-” Johnny looked over his shoulder to locate the babbling sounds coming from Jack Arends. “Pick up-those buttons,” he ordered. “All of 'em.” He had to repeat it between harsh breaths before he got through to the white-faced fat man, who scrambled awkwardly over the floor in compliance. “Dump 'em in his mouth when I open it,” Johnny commanded, and pulled on Stitt's nostrils ferociously, until his mouth opened. “Now chew, you bastard,” Johnny told him as Jack Arends backed away, saucer-eyed. “So far I left your face alone, but if you don't chew I'll break your jaw in seventeen places.”

The cold eyes stared up at him an instant, and then Max Stitt chewed. The crunch of the bone buttons was the only sound in the room, except for the heavy breathing. All the fight had finally drained from the man on the floor. Johnny raised his own hands cautiously to his face. The heavy gloves had felt like clubs. His skin neither cut nor bruised easily, but Johnny knew that he bore marks.

He got abruptly to his feet, and Jack Arends scuttled away in alarm. Johnny paid no attention to him. He picked up Stitt's leather jacket and slipped into it. It was far too small in the shoulders, but it covered the torn shirt and missing buttons. Behind him, Max Stitt crawled to a corner, gagging.

His hand on the slung-over bar on the door of the storage room, Johnny looked back at Jack Arends. “The name's Killain. I'm at the Duarte. You got that? I got something to sell. Bring cash when you come.”

The fat man was staring, awe-stricken, at Stitt in the corner. “He'll kill you,” he said nearly in a whisper. “He'll kill you for this.”

Johnny threw over the bar and walked out without a backward glance.

Gus Poulles, Johnny's counterpart on the day shift, handed him two telephones chits when he walked into the hotel. Gus studied Johnny's face. Johnny had stopped off for hurried repairs en route, but he had a lumped-up cheekbone, a scratched ear and a scraped forehead. “What's the other guy look like?” Gus wanted to know. He was a pale-faced, black-haired Greek, whose worldly-wise expression perfectly reflected his bored attitude. He tapped the top chit in Johnny's hand. “If this one looks like the sounds, I'm available for a spare slice off the loaf.”

“If it's who I think it is, I haven't dulled my own knife yet,” Johnny grunted. The top chit invited him to call G. Philips at the Spandau number. “Yeah. I'm not plannin' on makin' it a long campaign, though.” The second chit suggested that he call J. Tremaine, and the number listed was not the Spandau number. Johnny tossed the bits of paper thoughtfully on his palm. “Thanks, Gus,” he said, and headed for the lobby phone booth.

He called Gloria's boss first. “Jules Tremaine,” he said to the high-pitched voice he knew at once was not the redhead's.

“Mr. Tremaine will return your call immediately, sir. Your number, please, Mr.-” the voice inquired rapidly.

“Killain,” Johnny said after a second, and supplied the booth phone number. He waited, puzzled. What kind of a gag was this? He sat there for five minutes, and was just about to dial the Spandau number when the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Killain? That matter you mentioned at the office. Why don't you go to see Madeleine Winters?”

“I don't know her address,” Johnny replied truthfully. Score one for the redhead, he thought. She called this one right on the nose.

“2-0-4 East 66th. You knew that she's the widow of Dechant's former partner, whose sudden death two years ago was extensively investigated?”

“I know she's still walkin' around,” Johnny answered.

“Nothing could be proven. She's a clever, ruthless woman.”

“Am I supposed to be pullin' chestnuts out of the fire for you because you don't like her?” Johnny asked in simulated doubt. “'Course, if you tell me she's got no inexpensive sins-”

“There is nothing about Madeleine Winters that is inexpensive,” Jules Tremaine said positively. “Ah-Killain. I'd like to talk to you. Privately. Not at the hotel. The attention you've drawn to yourself, you've probably got more people watching you than the Surete has agents.”

“You name it,” Johnny suggested.

“My place, I guess,” Tremaine said after a second. “Tonight. Latish, though. About midnight?”

“Suits me,” Johnny agreed. “I'm a night bird. Where's your roost?”

“At the unfashionable Hotel Alden,” Tremaine said drily.

“I'll see you,” Johnny told him, and hung up. He dialed the Spandau number as quickly as he could get a dime out. There was something he wanted to know. “Your boss around, little sister?”

“Johnny? He just rushed out of here when his answering service called him. I thought it might be you he was calling back.”

Johnny ignored the implied question. “He doesn't trust his little secretary?”

“He trusts Jules Tremaine.” Her tone changed. “What happened over at Empire?”

“If you know somethin' happened, you should know what it was,” Johnny pointed out.

“I only caught snatches. Jack called, nearly in hysterics. I heard your name.”

“Arends hysterics easy. Where'd you learn French and Italian?”

“I went to school in Switzerland. You learned French in the South, didn't you? I could hear that soft Provencal accent.”

“Marseilles.”

“I thought so. Mine is the accent du nord. Jules' is Parisien. Although his English is Britishy. Did you know he speaks seven languages?” Her tone changed again. “Stop distracting me. What happened?”

“You could call Max Stitt,” Johnny suggested.

“I'm not speaking to Max Stitt.”

“Then it wouldn't break you all up to hear that he ran into a little hard luck?”

“The only thing that would break me all up is that I wasn't there to see it.” Gloria Philips made no effort to disguise the malice in her tone, or the impatience. “What happened?”

“Well, he come waltzin' out of the chute with his front hoofs in the air before I got to say a word. At his age he should be a little more careful of the matches he makes for himself.”

“Max Stitt has never had to be careful. He has a reputation for hospitalizing people.”

“What's he so sudden about?”

“He enjoys it,” the girl said flatly. “He has an appetite for violence. I can't believe you beat him. Everyone's afraid of him.”

“Until he run into the hard luck he was way ahead on the score card. He can go.”

“It must have been quite a load of hard luck. Madeleine called me twenty minutes after Jack called Jules, which means that he'd called her, too. She wants to meet you.”

“She a buddy of yours?” Johnny asked cautiously.

Gloria Philips' laugh was brittle. “She doesn't even know I'm alive, until she wants something. Right now she wants to meet you. Her Majesty has commanded. I'm to arrange it.”

“What kind of a string's she got on you?”

“She owns stock in Spandau.”

“How's she think you're goin' to be able to do it?”

“My girlish charm. She knows I met you at the hotel when we found Claude.” She does, does she, Johnny thought. What a nice, tight little community of interests this was turning out to be. “I thought the best way to handle it would be to have her meet us when you pick me up for dinner,” Gloria continued. “If you don't mind. We can stop off for a drink at her place. She can afford it better than you can.”

“Suits me, if it does you,” Johnny said with pretended indifference. “She'll meet us at your place?”

“Not in the office. She won't come within a mile of Jules, if she can help it. He hates her, and she's deathly afraid of him, although she won't admit it. I'll see you at five?”

“You will, little sister. You will indeed.” Johnny replaced the receiver pensively.

The slowly widening ripples from the stone cast into the pool, he thought. The slowly widening ripples…

He left the phone booth and hurried upstairs to change.

CHAPTER IV

Johnny stepped from the elevator into the stream of people in the lobby of 222 Maiden Lane with Gloria Philips on his arm, and the redhead's hand tightened on his elbow. “There she is,” the girl murmured. “That's Harry Palmer with her.”

Johnny looked with interest at the tall, regal-looking blonde in a pastel mink stole who swept up to them, trailed by a short, bouncy, aggressive-looking little man in a dark business suit. “So good of you to be able to make it, darling,” the blonde said crisply to Gloria, semi-enveloping her in the phantom embrace with which women meet in public without ever quite making contact. “And how is dear Ernest these days?”

“Dear Ernest is just fine,” the redhead replied. “Mrs. Winters, Mr. Killain. Mr. Palmer, Mr. Killain.” Johnny was conscious that the eyes of both were upon the marks on his face.

Madeleine Winters was a green-eyed ash blonde, Johnny discovered as he pressed the tips of her fingers, which somehow managed to be the only part of her hand available to be shaken. What he could see of her legs beneath the faille suit were excellent. He suspected that her figure was just as good, if a man held no prejudice against the greyhound type.

Harry Palmer's handshake was firm and surprisingly strong. “Glad to meet you, Killain,” he said buoyantly. Confident good humor quirked the corners of his wide mouth. Johnny felt the transfer of a bit of cardboard from the little man's hand to his own. He palmed it as Palmer turned to Madeleine Winters. “Now that I've done the honors, my dear, I'll be running along.”

“Certainly, Harry.” The blonde smiled at him cozily. “And thanks for being so sweet about escorting me.” She addressed herself to Gloria as the little man strode jauntily away. “You won't mind that I've asked Jack Arends to join us for a drink at my place? I feel he can add so much to the gathering.” Madeleine Winters smiled again.

“I don't mind in the least,” Gloria replied. She disengaged her arm from within Johnny's. “I'm going to have to hold you up a moment, though. I've forgotten my little case with my homework. Excuse me, please?” She stepped back onto the elevator as she spoke.

For a second Johnny thought it might have been an arrangement to leave him alone with Madeleine Winters, until he saw that lady's expression as she stared at the elevator's closed door. In the lobby's harsh overhead light, tiny crow's-feet radiated from the eyes but only slightly negated a very good complexion. She was older than the redhead, Johnny thought, but it would take a woman to appraise the difference.

Suddenly conscious of his eyes upon her, Madeleine Winters showed her teeth in what was not quite a smile. “Extraordinary girl, Gloria. Isn't there something in the natural history books with tentacles ending in claws?”

“Not since the Ice Age,” Johnny said.

“A prehistoric background would suit her nicely,” the blonde said acidly. “But I shouldn't prejudice you on your first date.” Johnny again saw the flash of her even white teeth. “You must tell me all about it some time. I adore naughty stories.”

“You don't pull many punches, do you, Mrs. Winters?”

“Madeleine, please.” The green eyes inspected him searchingly. “If I don't, I understand I'm in good company. Max Stitt is not considered an easy man to handle.”

“His foot must've slipped.”

“Why did you go to see-” She broke off as the elevator ejected Gloria, attache case under her arm. “We can always get into that later, can't we?” The blonde smiled at Johnny. The smile evaporated as she turned to the redhead. “You're quite sure you're ready now, darling?”

“Quite sure,” Gloria returned evenly, drawing on white gloves. Johnny followed them through the lobby's revolving doors onto the sidewalk. Brother, he thought to himself, if there's a lamb in this crowd its name is Killain.

Facing away from the women with his arm upraised for a cab, Johnny was able to take his first look at the business card Harry Palmer had pressed into his hand. Beneath the block-lettered name it said Heritage Building, in the upper left hand corner Factoring, in the lower right Financing. Diagonally across its face in a bold, pencil-stabbing scrawl appeared Drop around and see me.

Now here's a money man no one took the trouble to mention, Johnny thought. He slipped the card in a pocket as he opened the taxicab door.

There was only one attempt at conversation during the trip uptown. “I suppose your friend Ernest is busy disentangling Claude's affairs?” Madeleine Winters inquired. “I haven't seen my friend Ernest since that night,” Gloria replied. The balance of the ride was completed in silence. Johnny offered his hand to each as they alighted. He found the double flash of nylon blinding as they scrambled from the low-roofed cab. A uniformed doorman lumbered up belatedly to assist. With what they were able to see all day opening car doors for the ladies, Johnny mused, doormanning should be a fine job for voyeurs.

Inside the canopied entrance the ceiling was twenty feet high, the floor was parqueted, the atmosphere as hushed as a cathedral. The elevator was self-service type with black filigree ironwork adorning it. It rose soundlessly. Key in hand, Madeleine Winters led the way down a thickly carpeted corridor and admitted them to her apartment.

There was no hallway. Johnny stood just inside the door and looked at the rectangular living room filled with bright color. The walls were off-white, the ceiling dull gold. A shaggy white rug covered the floor. A lounge in royal blue ran nearly from wall to wall at the narrow upper end of the room, and a three-quarter sofa bed with a bright gold coverlet angled out from the right-hand wall. A huge bowl of flowers decorated a hi-fi set against the long left wall. Armchairs in azure blue and nile green squatted at the ends of the lounge, with barely enough room for small end tables with thin-stemmed blue lamps on broad brass bases. The blues and greens should have clashed, Johnny felt, but somehow didn't. A teakwood cabinet rested against the wall opposite the hi-fi. Three doors led off the room, including the one behind him.

“Jack should be along in a moment,” Madeleine said, scaling her stole carelessly at the sofa bed. She indicated the cabinet to Johnny. “Would you do the honors? You'll find everything you need except ice. I'll bring it.”

“I'll run inside to the little girls' room,” Gloria said. She pointed with her attache case to the door on the right. “It's still in there, Madeleine?”

“I haven't moved it recently, dear,” the blonde said sweetly, and exited through the door opposite. Johnny winked at Gloria, who shook her head in a half smile before disappearing behind the right-hand door. Johnny caught a quick glimpse of a white four-poster bed on another white rug before the door closed.

He opened the cabinet door and ran his eye approvingly down the line of bottles. He removed Scotch and bourbon, and three highball glasses. As an afterthought he took out two Old-fashioned glasses. They might like their drinks on the rocks.

“What'll it be?” he asked Madeleine as she returned with a small silver ice bucket. At her silence he turned to find her staring at a black fedora and black leather gloves on an end table.

“Jack's already here?” she murmured half to herself, and raised her voice. “Jack? Where are you, Jack?”

For a second Johnny thought the sound in his ears was a wall-reflected echo of her call. When it was repeated he reached the bedroom door in three long strides and jerked it open. The room was enough to snow-blind a man, he thought as he sprinted through it to the door ajar at its end. Walls, ceiling, rug, bedspread, dresser, boudoir table and bench, lamps, Venetian blinds, occasional chairs-all white. Dead white. Behind him he could hear the thud-thud of Madeleine's heels on the rug.

Gloria stood in the bathroom doorway, attache case crookedly under one arm, staring down at her feet. “I thought you'd never hear me,” she got out in a cracked, strained voice as Johnny moved her to one side and looked down at Jack Arends' crumpled, bloated body. The ugly features were blood-streaked, and a black automatic gleamed against glistening tile.

For an instant Johnny felt suspended in time. Was he seeing the same movie twice? So recently he'd looked down upon a body on a bathroom floor with a black automatic lying alongside on white tile. He dropped to one knee as he heard Madeleine Winters' sharply indrawn breath behind him, and, while he felt for a pulse he knew would not be there, his eye caught up with the differences between this death and Dechant's. This was no suicide. There were no powder burns, and Arends had been shot more than once. This time it was murder.

“The door was closed,” Gloria said from above him in a small voice. “I opened it, and there he was.”

Johnny sat with Gloria on the gold sofa bed and listened to Detective Ted Cuneo direct questions at-from the sound of her voice-an increasingly impatient Madeleine Winters. Beside them an anxious-faced Ernest Faulkner tried ineffectually to referee the match, his glasses glinting in the light.

“Why do you suppose Madeleine insisted on callin' Faulkner?” Johnny asked Gloria.

She shrugged prettily. “At a guess, to embarrass me. I've dated him a few times, but I'm afraid he's taken it more seriously than I have.” The blue-gray eyes were guileless.

Detective James Rogers emerged from the bedroom and approached them. The sandy-haired man looked tired. “I guess that does it inside,” he said mildly. He looked at Johnny. “Run through your end of it again for me.”

“Sure. Gloria an' I left her office at five. We met Mrs. Winters in the lobby, talked maybe five minutes an' caught a cab up here. Took us half an hour, maybe.” Johnny glanced at the bedroom door. “He looked fresh enough to have caught it while we were comin' up in the elevator.”

Rogers' smile was mirthless. “It wasn't long.”

Across the room Madeleine Winters' voice rose stridently. “How many times are you going to ask me that? I told you Jack had his own key! Are you investigating his death or my morals? Ernest, can't you make this man stop repeating himself?” Johnny could see the fluttering movements of Faulkner's hands as he tried to talk to the glowering Cuneo.

Gloria tugged at his arm. “Can we leave?”

Johnny looked at Rogers, who nodded after a second's hesitation. Johnny rose to his feet. From the corner of her eye the blonde caught the movement. “You're leaving?” she said sharply, interrupting Cuneo in the middle of a question. “I want to talk to you.”

“Give me a ring sometime,” Johnny said easily.

“Mrs. Winters-” Cuneo began doggedly.

“Oh, shut up!” she told him rudely. The tips of the detective's ears glowed pinkly as she moved away from him to take Johnny by the arm. She drew him aside. “I want to talk to you,” she repeated. “Soon. Can't you come back later?” She smiled, pure mischief in her eyes. “If you've the strength?”

“I think I'd rather tackle it fresh.” Johnny cocked an eye at the bedroom. “That room in there-with your clothes off, doesn't a man need a search party?”

“The sheets are black,” she assured him. “Black silk.” She smiled again. “Well?”

“Not tonight. You call me.”

“I'm shameless enough,” she admitted. She was looking at him curiously. “I thought you might make it a little easier for me, though. Ah, well. C'est la guerre. Have fun.”

Johnny collected the waiting Gloria and led the way out to the elevator. He thought she looked a little wan.

“What did Madeleine want?” she asked him directly.

“A younger man, I guess.” He grinned at the redhead. “She's lucky we were with her, walkin' in on that. Alone, she'd have been makin' her noises at Cuneo downtown. They're well paired.”

“I don't know why it shook me so,” she said wearily. “Why are all these people killing themselves?” Johnny looked at her. “Arends never killed himself.” “He didn't? But he looked just the same-” “As Dechant? With some important differences he looked the same. Arends took four in the head, dead center. A man don't last to pull the trigger on himself four times, where he took them.”

“He was killed? But the police didn't say-” “They never do say, till the M.E.'s report is in, but you can bet me. They know what it was.” The elevator stopped, and the door opened noiselessly. Johnny followed Gloria through the lobby to the street. “Come on. We'll get you a drink. You need it.” He looked at her hands as she changed the position of the attache case under her arm. “Forget your gloves? I'll run back up an-”

“Don't bother, Johnny.” She tucked her arm in his. “I'm sure I have a pair of suedes in my bag. I'd just as soon forget about up there.” Her eyes were shadowed as she tried to smile up at him.

“Okay. Let's get that drink.”

He whistled for a cab.

Johnny sat in a big armchair in Gloria Philips' apartment in a pleasantly relaxed glow. The dinner had gone off well, and the after-dinner drinks hadn't hurt anything, either. He sat and awaited the redhead's return from the bedroom into which she'd gone upon their arrival.

His eyes roamed the room, lazily. Gloria Philips' apartment was small but neatly furnished. Gloria Philips herself was small but neatly furnished. It made a hard combination to beat, Johnny felt.

“Keep you waiting long?” she asked huskily from the doorway.

He hadn't heard the door open. “It was worth it,” he said softly. The redhead was wearing something black, fragile, loose, long, clinging and semitransparent. She came directly to him and sat on the arm of his chair. She smiled down at him, the blue-gray eyes bright with liquor and with something else. Johnny pushed back the loose sleeve of the flowing negligee and traced the silken contours of her upper arm with his fingertips.

She bent down over him until her lips rested against one ear. “Did you really move a whorehouse into Silver City?” she murmured.

“I really did.”

She slid down off the arm of the chair into his lap. “Tell me about it.”

He stood up with her dead weight in his arms. “I'll do better than that, kid,” he told her. “I'll show you.”

He carried her to the bedroom and closed the door.

He reached for the switch on the lamp on the night table when he heard her returning to the bed. “No!” she said sharply, sensing his movement, but she was too late. She grabbed for the negligee at the foot of the bed to shield full-fleshed nudity as the light bathed her. Johnny intercepted her arm. Slowly he drew her up and in until she slithered across turn face down. “Will you stop it?” she demanded crossly, and flung a hand behind her.

He removed the hand unhurriedly and rested his eyes upon the smooth white buttocks. He looked again, more closely. With a finger he traced one of a number of misty dark lines faintly visible beneath the satiny surface. “What happened here?” Johnny asked her.

She stirred uneasily on his knees. “I fell on the stairs.” Her voice was muffled.

“The hell you fell on the stairs. I've seen a whipped rump before. Who ploughed your field?”

“Let me back under the covers,” she pleaded. He released her arm, and she crawled back in beside him. The look she gave him was as defiant as her tone. “You can't guess who did it?”

“Stitt?”

“Yes, Stitt, damn him!”

“How long ago?”

She shrugged bare shoulders. “Two months, ten weeks.”

He whistled. “An' you still look like that? What the hell did he use?”

“A riding crop. The doctor said it would be six months before I bleached out completely. I was in bed five days. I couldn't move.”

“I believe it. How'd it happen?”

“I misjudged him,” she said, remembered resentment in her tone. “I had information I thought he'd buy, or trade for. Instead he tied me over the end of a bed and whipped it out of me. I made it harder on myself by thinking that if I kept my nerve and didn't talk he'd get scared and quit. I didn't realize until too late that he was-enjoying himself.”

“Did he have a hold on Arends? He sure as hell didn't sound like a man talkin' to his boss over there.”

“Max always acts like the king of the mountain. You never saw anyone so arrogant.” She leaned up on an elbow to look into his face. “I'm answering a lot of questions, Johnny. I wouldn't want you to forget it when it's my turn.”

“What's with all this mismarked and unmarked symbols I been hearin' about?”

“That was a very minor matter, Johnny, except to Jack Arends.” She slid down beside him again. “Every foreign shipment coming through customs, whether by boat or air, has every individual piece in the shipment marked with the symbol of the importing merchant. For one reason or another a shipment occasionally isn't picked up here by the importer to whom it was consigned, and then, rather than pay round-trip freight charges and wind up with the merchandise still on his own shipping platform, the manufacturer will scramble around to find someone else to take it over. In such cases customs insists that the goods be re-marked with the symbol of the new consignee. It's a tedious, time-consuming and expensive process. Since the manufacturer will make a cash allowance to the new consignee for the expense of the re-marking, if the actual re-marking can be avoided it's cash in the importer's pocket. It's a favorite evasion of the borderline importers and freight forwarders, although not the big ones like Jack. It requires-”

Johnny interrupted. “Hold it just a minute, sugar.” He leaned up over her to reach for the phone on her side of the bed. He dialed the hotel. “Edna? Killain. Tell Vic I'm gonna be late, will you?” He looked down at the auburn hair spread on the pillow and the perfectly formed white neck with the little hollow at the base of the throat. “Make that good an' late. Thanks, Edna.” He hung up, placed a palm flat on the soft swell of Gloria's stomach and jiggled lightly. He grinned as her knees came up involuntarily. “You were sayin' it requires-” he prompted her.

“Oh. Collusion is what it requires. Money changes hands, but if the wrong inspector's assigned there can be hell to pay, like this time. It was serious for Jack, who could have lost his license. He was furious. He accused Max, but Max denied it.”

“But you think it was Max.”

“I think-” She hesitated. “I don't know. In a way it's petty larceny, and, much as I dislike Stitt, he thinks a little bigger than that. It's exactly the type of thing that appealed to Claude, though. He'd rather steal a dollar than find five. I think Claude probably made a deal with someone in Jack's warehouse.”

“Arends called Dechant a thief.” Johnny made it a question.

“Sticks and stones-” Gloria said lightly. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Let's say Claude was a devious man.” She reached up and ran a hand over the ridged scars on Johnny's chest. “Who ploughed your field, mister?”

“A guy who wished he hadn't.”

She pulled herself up to a sitting position to look down at him. “I've answered a lot of questions, haven't I, Johnny?”

“Meanin' it's your turn to ask a few? You're distractin' me up there.”

She folded her arms across her firmly nippled, full breasts. “That better?”

“Terrible.” He pulled her down beside him again. “For some reason I seem to be in a hurry, so I'll save you the trouble of askin' the questions. I'll give it to you in two words: August Hegel. Vous comprenez?”

“So you do know,” she said quietly. “Jules insisted there was no way you could.” She looked up at him as he moved over her. “You're getting into-”

“Hush, woman,” Johnny said firmly. He settled his hands in the dimpled hollows of the plump shoulders. “First things first.”

He put out the light.

His cab was back on the west side before Johnny remembered Jules Tremaine. He looked at his watch. One fifteen. “Skip the Duarte,” he ordered the driver. “Take me on up to the Alden. It's around 82nd.”

“I know,” the cabbie grunted, and swung north on Sixth. Across 57th he headed into the park. Johnny rocked from side to side on the back seat with the letter-S curves until they headed west on a sweeping turn, crossed Central Park West and pulled in under a marquee in the upper end of the first block.

Johnny had never seen the Alden before, but, even from the sidewalk, one look at its solid, banklike exterior and subdued lobby told him all he needed to know. An apartment hotel, known in the trade as a “family" hotel, exactly why he'd never been able to understand. Damn few families lived in them. Their one-and-a-half, two, and two-and-a-half room apartments were far more likely to be occupied by professional and theatrical people of a little more stature than their downtown counterparts.

“Jules Tremaine,” Johnny said into the house phone in the almost spartan lobby. “Killain,” he announced to the voice in his ear. “I'm downstairs.”

“Come on up. Four-oh-seven.”

The handsome Frenchman was standing in an open doorway when Johnny stepped off the elevator into the fourth-floor corridor. Silently he led the way inside. “Nice digs,” Johnny said after a look around. Nothing was new, but everything was comfortable. His glance rested longest on a large short-wave radio with a table to itself.

Tremaine nodded indifferently. “They want to get in to paint, but I can't stand the smell. I told them to wait till I had to be out of town.” His manner appeared neither friendly nor unfriendly. He was waiting, as though for a cue to determine the course of the conversation.

“All you people seem to be doin' pretty well,” Johnny suggested.

“All us people?”

“I went over to the blonde's, like you said. She don't look anywhere near close to the bread line.”

Tremaine pulled out his cigarettes and offered Johnny the pack. His dark eyes were inscrutable. “Anything of interest come up?”

“Is a dead body of interest?” The extended arm went rigid. “Whose?” “Jack Arends.”

For a count of five the Frenchman seemed nearly to hold his breath. “Killed?”

“Dead,” Johnny confirmed. “In the blonde's bathroom. Bathrooms are gettin' to be downright unlucky these days. Someone didn't like him four times in the head with a black automatic that looked like the twin of Dechant's.” Jules Tremaine shoved his cigarettes back in his pocket and lighted a match before be realized he hadn't taken one from the pack. “I met a guy named Harry Palmer tonight,” Johnny added.

“He financed deals for Claude.” The big-shouldered man said it absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. “I used to work for him myself.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Europe. Bird-dogging business prospects.” Tremaine finally got a cigarette going. “What are the police doing?”

“Givin' your blonde acquaintance a fit about who had keys to her apartment. Arends was inside when we got there.”

“We?”

“We,” Johnny repeated, and let it go at that. “How would you assay this boy Faulkner?”

“Not too highly. He has-” Jules Tremaine bit off whatever he had been about to say. His steady regard of Johnny was emotionlessly thorough. “At the moment I'm more interested in how I assay you. Just where do you fit into the picture?”

“That didn't seem to bother you too much on the phone when you invited me to come over an' talk.”

“I've changed my mind about the talk. Jack Arends wasn't dead then.”

“I've got an alibi for that,” Johnny said lightly.

Unexpectedly the Frenchman flushed. “Meaning I haven't?”

“I don't give a damn whether you do or not.” Johnny stared at a stubbornly protruding lower lip. “Do you want to talk or don't you?” He threw up his hands at the sullen silence. “I don't get it. This was your idea, remember? Who muzzled you? Why?” His eyes probed at Tremaine's wooden expression. “Last chance,” he warned. “This is countdown. Three. Two. One. Zero.” He turned and walked to the door. There wasn't a sound from behind him.

In the corridor he wondered fleetingly whether Gloria could have called the Frenchman and told him that Johnny actually had knowledge of August Hegel. But then wouldn't she have told him about Arends?

He had to walk three blocks before he could flag down a cab to get him back to the Duarte.

CHAPTER V

The ring of the phone in his room caught Johnny on his way to the door. He came back and picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Two to see you down here, John.” The sound of Marty Seiden's brisk voice reminded Johnny that it was Vic's night off. Marty, the red-headed, bow-tied, wisecracking middle-shift front-desk man always took over for Vic Barnes. “Names are Faulkner and Palmer.”

“Send 'em on up.” On impulse he left the room to meet them at the elevator. They got off with their backs to him, Palmer in the lead, and Johnny reached out silently and tapped Ernest Faulkner on the shoulder. The lawyer whirled, mouth agape, dead white.

“Oh-” he said weakly. “Don't-do that-”

Harry Palmer's alert features reflected amusement as he turned to survey the scene. “Try Miltown, Ernest,” he advised. He cocked an eyebrow at Johnny. “Which way?”

“Straight ahead. Six-fifteen.” Johnny trailed them down the hall, removed a key from a clip on the band of his watch and opened the door. “We won't be disturbed here,” he told them.

Harry Palmer scuffed a toe in the dull-hued Oriental rug and gazed around the attractively furnished oversized bed-sitting room. He looked from the three-quarter-sized refrigerator in one corner to the television set to one of Johnny's uniforms laid out on the bed. “This is your place?” he asked sharply. He shook his head gently at Johnny's affirmative nod. “You sure must know where the body is buried around here, man, to rate this kind of accommodations.”

“A man died an' left it to me,” Johnny said. He waved them to chairs as he walked to the refrigerator. “Room an' all. You can have anything you like to drink, boys, if you don't mind it tastin' like bourbon.”

“I was forty years old before I knew they made anything but bourbon,” Harry Palmer grunted. The aggressive-looking little man seemed to be swallowed up in the depths of Johnny's armchair.

“Make mine a short one,” Ernest Faulkner said hastily. “Did you say a man left this to you in his will? I never heard of such a thing.”

“Neither had the hotel lawyers, but it stuck.” Johnny handed them each a drink and poured himself a shot. “If I'd known you were comin', I'd have iced the champagne.”

“Champagne!” Palmer snorted. “Just as soon drink vinegar.” He leaned back in the chair to look up at Johnny. “What kind of a man dies and leaves you with a place like this, Killain?”

“He owned the place. I was able to do him a couple favors one time,” Johnny said evenly. “In Italy.”

“Italy,” Palmer repeated with no change of expression, but Johnny saw that Ernest Faulkner's hand had whitened around his glass. The lawyer opened his mouth as though to speak, and then closed it again as Palmer continued. “That's where you met Dechant?”

“Not head-on. That came later.”

“Later,” Palmer repeated again. He drained half his drink, held the balance up to the light to study it critically, nodded, finished it off and set down his glass. He folded his hands together with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “You know what the password is in this game, Killain?”

“I know a password.” Johnny emphasized the indefinite article. “August Hegel.”

“That's the one,” the little man admitted, and looked at Ernest Faulkner.

“There's no way he could have known,” the lawyer said huskily. “Claude told his business to no one. You know that.”

“I know nothing,” Harry Palmer declared flatly. “Especially in the light of what you tell me of the state of his affairs.” He turned to Johnny, briskly assertive. “I don't know where you stand on this thing, Killain, but I know where I stand. Dechant died owing me a lot of money. I thought I was protected, but, if matters continue to shape up as they have to date, I'll wind up with the feathers from the chicken. I wouldn't like that, Killain. It could leave me looking to do business with a smart young fellow.”

“Faulkner's your lawyer, too?” Johnny asked.

Harry Palmer smiled. “Let's say I pay him a retainer.”

The lawyer's too-white face pinked up. He settled his heavy horn-rimmed glasses more firmly on the bridge of his delicate-looking nose. “There's an interrelationship of interests which permits-” he began, and was cut off by the brash little man.

“Stow it, Ernest. Save it for your tear-wet pillow.” He addressed himself to Johnny again. “You don't look like the type to me to split legal hairs, and you can damn well bet your second-best store teeth that I'm not, either. I'm in the process of finding out that Dechant's been playing me for a fool right along. I don't like it. All the importing he did-with my money, the bastard-was just a blind for whatever else he was doing. He never made a quarter on his legitimate operations. He bought and sold over and over again at cost, even at a small loss. Since he lived like a maharajah ever since I've known him, it leaves me wondering where the money came from.”

Palmer grinned at the obviously unhappy Faulkner. “I'm indebted to Ernest for the information as to the lack of financial righteousness in Claude's affairs. Ernest is sweating it out, because as Dechant's lawyer he signed a lot of little pieces of paper he now knows had no basis in fact. Ernest is afraid he's going to wind up as the bagman. I'm afraid I'm not going to get my money.” He shook free a cigarette from the pack he removed from his breast pocket. He offered it to Johnny, who refused. “So what are you afraid of, Killain?”

“That no one'll pay me enough for my trouble.” Johnny lifted his own empty glass. “Refill?”

“No, thanks.” Harry Palmer leaned forward in his chair. “A couple of people approached me recently-at different times, that is-about giving them a hand with the recovery of an object that had been the subject of some mismanagement.” He grinned faintly. “I wasn't interested, until I found out what kind of a jackpot I was in trying to get my money out of Dechant's screwed-up estate. Right now I could be interested as hell, if you're for real. Tremaine told me you were over at his place this afternoon making noises that you knew something. Arends told me that you were over at his place raising general hell. Before he died.” He paused. “That's something I'd like to know a little more about. Jack Arends was a good friend of mine.” He turned to accept the lawyer's proffered light for the cigarette, which had remained unlighted in his mouth during his speech. He puffed hard twice, and with a wave of his hand dismissed Jack Arends as well as the cloud of smoke around his head. “You gave me the password, Killain.” He stared at Johnny keenly. “I want my hands on something that'll give me a lever toward recovering my money. Do you come in that door?”

“If the door's marked Money.”

Harry Palmer removed a folded-over checkbook from an inside jacket pocket, spread it on his knee and wrote swiftly with a fountain pen. He ripped the check from the book and waved it in the air to dry, leaned forward and handed it to Johnny. “It's not signed, Killain. You turn the stuff over to Tremaine. When he tells me it's the right stuff, I'll sign the check.”

Johnny looked down at the unsigned check in his hand for forty thousand dollars. He flicked it between thumb and forefinger so that it sailed back onto Palmer's lap. “You talk like a man without good sense, Palmer. I don't do business with checks, signed or unsigned. I don't do business with Tremaine, if you're the buyer. I do business with you. For cash.”

“Now don't go off half cocked, boy,” the little man warned him. “I never appear in these things personally. And, as for the check, ask around a little. I think you'll find out that when Harry Palmer says he'll do a thing, Harry Palmer delivers the goods.”

“No cash, no deal, Palmer.” Johnny walked back to the refrigerator and refilled his glass. “It's not enough, anyway.” He leveled a finger at the man in the chair. “I've already had a better offer than yours, but I haven't seen the color of any money there yet, either. I'll tell you right now, the first with the gelt gets the stuff.”

“You've been offered more?” The little man's eyes had narrowed. “I don't believe it. There aren't enough people-” He looked around impatiently as Ernest Faulkner leaned over the arm of his chair to tug at his sleeve. The lawyer murmured in an undertone.

Harry Palmer first looked thoughtful, then shrugged and bounced abruptly to his feet. “You think it over, Killain. And don't try to outsmart a man that makes his living at it. Come on, Ernest.” From the door he looked back at Johnny. “Killain. If it stays like this, I go for myself, understood? No hard feelings if your corns get trampled?” He grinned, waved and disappeared.

He'd overplayed that hand a little, Johnny decided as the door closed behind them. Still, he couldn't afford to let himself be cornered. He'd hear from Palmer again.

He finished his drink and rinsed out the glasses in the bathroom. With all these people milling around, where could the thing be? Or, if one of them had it, could it be that he'd be afraid to come to the surface with it for fear the sharks would tear his throat out?

He left the glasses to drain, and returned to the elevator and the lobby.

He looked up from the desk as Sally called to him from the switchboard. He crossed the lobby in his soft-footed shuffle and leaned on the little gate between them as Sally's brown eyes inspected him. “What did those men want, Johnny?”

“Well, it's like this, ma. They want to buy somethin' I don't have. They don't know I haven't got it, so I'll sell it to them.”

“It sounds like one of your deals,” she observed. “What are you actually-” She broke off, nodding over his shoulder. “Are you sure your customers haven't filed a complaint already?”

Johnny turned to see Lieutenant Joseph Dameron advancing across the lobby toward them, with Detective Ted Cuneo half a pace behind. The lieutenant's apple-cheeked ruddiness was void of expression, but Ted Cuneo's popeyed stare glinted with anticipatory malice. Johnny felt that he could hear the storm-warning signal flags snapping in the wind. “You changed shifts, Joe?” he greeted the lieutenant blandly. “Or just quit sleepin'?”

Lieutenant Dameron nodded briefly to Sally before addressing Johnny. “Can we talk upstairs?”

“We can talk right here, Joe.”

“I'd like it better upstairs, Johnny.”

“Sorry. I'm on duty.”

“A hell of a lot that ever bothered you!” Quick anger flared in the official voice.

“Well, I guess I got to level with you,” Johnny said apologetically. “I got a blonde waitin' upstairs for my coffee break. She's allergic to gendarmes.”

The frost in the gray eyes hardened to ice. “I said I'd like-”

“Joe, I don't give a damn what you'd like,” Johnny wedged in. “You want to talk? So talk.”

The lieutenant's smile was wintry. “Strictly in character.” His eyes flickered to Sally again before returning to Johnny. “You went out to see Arends yesterday at Empire Freight Forwarding.”

“Wrong,” Johnny told him.

“Don't tell me it's wrong!” Ted Cuneo broke in. “I checked with-”

“The pair of you'd make stinkin' witnesses,” Johnny inserted cuttingly. “No wonder you average about fifty per cent convictions. I went out to Empire. Arends happened to be there.”

Two pinpoints of red dotted Cuneo's sallow complexion. “Watch your mouth, man,” he said dangerously. “I mean it.”

“You're aware of course, Johnny, that the situation has changed since we had our little talk the other evening.” Lieutenant Dameron's tone was level. “A man has been killed. This is a police operation now. You can't go around rooting up indiscriminate stumps with your nose.”

“Show me,” Johnny invited.

“Show you what?” Cuneo demanded aggressively.

Johnny kept his eyes fixed on the lieutenant. “Show me the chapter an' section of the statute that says I can't.”

“Now look, you-” Cuneo growled from the side of his mouth.

“A pretty good jackleg lawyer told me one time people would be surprised as hell to know how limited police powers really were,” Johnny said softly. He leaned back negligently on his elbows on the wooden gate. “He said it's the extra-legal powers they assume to themselves that get them their mileage. An' in trouble, too, sometimes.”

“I've listened to about enough of this damn-”

Johnny straightened suddenly, a leveled finger cutting off the other man. “Let's just simmer down a minute, Joe. You didn't come over here to talk. You came over here to threaten. Go ahead. I won't hold you up again. I want to see if you've got nerve enough to do it in front of a witness.”

“You think you can talk to the lieutenant like that?” Cuneo asked harshly. “I'll show-”

“Ahh, bag it, big-mouth,” Johnny said wearily. He met Dameron's bleak stare head-on. “This is a police operation,” he mimicked. “What the hell's that give you, the governor's emergency powers?”

“You cock your nose just once in the wrong direction on the street,” Cuneo snarled. “Just once-”

“Attempted police intimidation of a citizen,” Johnny remarked over his shoulder. “Take it down, Sally.”

Lieutenant Joseph Dameron looked at his man and jerked his head slightly. The detective hesitated, then turned and stalked to the other side of the lobby, obviously fuming.

“That's the idea, Joe,” Johnny approved. “Never back down in front of the hired help.”

“I don't care a bit for your attitude,” the lieutenant rasped. “Not that I could have expected anything different.”

“But here you are, wastin' your time.”

“So it would seem. Some people have to learn the hard way. Look, Johnny-”

“Ahh, here it comes,” Johnny interrupted. “Act One, Scene Two. Threats didn't work. Here comes the soft soap.” “Nobody threatened you!” Steel rang in the authoritative voice.

“No? What program you tuned in on, Joe? Well, the hell with it. I'm still waitin' to hear whatever it was you came all the way over here to say.”

“I said it!”

“You did?” Johnny grinned at the anger-reddened face. “In all the snappin' an' snarlin' I must've missed it. You care to repeat it?”

“If you think for one minute I can't enforce-”

“Now just a minute.” Johnny could feel the irritation mounting within himself. “You try enforcin' any unwritten laws around me an' I'll guarantee to sicken somebody.” Anger sharpened his tone. “Just why the hell is it nobody's supposed to say 'no' to you bastards? You make a production of runnin' everyone off the grass on a murder case. If only the police work on it, then there's nobody to make you look bad by havin' an intelligent idea once in a while. If you can't do it any other way, you bull people off. Try it with me. Just try it. So long, Joe.”

Twice the lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, and twice he closed it. Eyes smoldering, he spun on his heel. Cuneo caught up to him at the foyer doors, and they went out together.

“I wish you wouldn't do that, Johnny,” Sally said worriedly from behind him. “He's furious.”

“The hell with him,” Johnny grunted. “Maybe it'll stir up his tired blood a little. They get my cork.” He turned from his morose inspection of the foyer doors to smile in over the wooden gate at anxious brown eyes. “Forget 'em, ma. Small potatoes, an' not very many to the hill.”

“But they can do all kinds of things, Johnny. They can-”

“Forget it, ma,” he said again. “I got Joe right under the gun. The next time he comes back to see me, it'll be with his hat in his hand. You don't believe it?” He looked at his watch. “It's late, but he'll probably still be up. Plug yourself in there an' call the Rosario an' ask for Cardinal Lucian Alerini. Tell whoever you get on there that Killain wants to talk to him.” He grinned at Sally's stare. “I'm not kiddin', ma. Go ahead an' call.”

He waited while Sally looked up the number and put the call through. She had to repeat her little speech to four different people in the cardinal's entourage before she finally nodded for Johnny to pick up the house phone. He whistled the first eight bars of Edelweiss into it. “Kiki? Your phone on a switchboard?”

“This hotel phone is, Johnny, but I also have a direct line.”

“Call me here at the Duarte. I'm standin' beside my switchboard.” He hung up, waited for Sally's nod and picked up the receiver again. “You could do me a favor, Kiki. Like callin' up the highest police official you know and expressin' unofficial thanks for the help Dameron's givin' you on a delicate private matter.”

“I see,” the cardinal's resonant voice said after a thoughtful pause. “Yes, I think I do see. Consider it done. Do you feel you're making any progress?”

“I've met half a dozen of Dechant's closest associates. They think I've got somethin' to sell. A couple at least are real anxious to buy. When I run onto someone in the crowd that's peddlin' instead of buyin', I figure I'll have somethin'.”

“I see,” the cardinal said again. “I wish you luck.”

“I think we'll break it down. It's kind of a tight little circle, with nobody much likin' anyone else. It leaves room for angle-playin'. Kiki, how big is this thing I'm lookin' for?”

“About eighteen inches by fifteen inches. It weighs nearly thirty pounds. The bulk of the weight is made up of gold and jewels.” The cardinal's tone was dry.

“Thirty pounds,” Johnny mused. “Nobody's walkin' around with it in their hip pocket, anyway. Okay. I'll be callin' you.”

“The other I'll do right now. Thanks for calling, Johnny.”

Johnny replaced the phone slowly, lost in thought. He looked up finally to find Sally's eyes upon him. “See how easy it is, ma? When Kiki makes his call, the police official will call Dameron to give him a pat on the head for renderin' such outstandin' service to a distinguished foreign visitor. With a line-up like that against him, you think Dameron's gonna pull many spokes outa my wheel? He'll know where it came from.” He grinned, and stretched lazily. “I'd give a dollar to watch his mug when he gets the call.”

“That was a cardinal you were talking to? In language like that?” Sally looked horrified.

“It's the only language I know, ma. An' he's a right guy. He an' I were goin' up a cliff on a rope one night a few years back. He was on the rope when it was cut, an' he went to the bottom. I was on a ledge, an' it took me a while to get down to him. I packed him outta there, although for quite a while I wasn't sure it was gonna do any good. He's tough, though. He made it. The next night I went back an' made it to the top. I found the guys that cut the rope. I never told him that.” He roused himself from relived memories, and looked at his watch. “I'll let Marty go on his relief now, I guess. You call Paul to relieve you when you're ready, ma.” He pushed through the wooden gate and squeezed himself along the narrow passageway between the mail racks and the cashier's wicket. Sally's eyes followed him until the angle of the registration desk hid him from sight.

The appearance of Ernest Faulkner's law office was not what he would have expected, Johnny decided. In contrast to the up-to-the-minute cut of the lawyer's two-hundred-dollar suits, the waiting room furniture in the musty office was so soundly and solidly old-fashioned that it looked as though it would still be there when the building itself was gone.

Johnny spoke up when he wearied of the gray-haired, quince-mouthed dragon in shirtwaist and skirt not deigning to notice him. He knew she'd heard him come in. “The name's Killain. I'd like to see Faulkner.”

She looked up from her desk and raised gold pince-nez glasses on a gold chain. From behind them gimlet eyes swept him from head to foot. “Your business?”

“Private,” he said shortly.

Down came the corners of the thin mouth. “I shall have to have some knowledge of the nature of your business, sir.”

Johnny stared at her. “Yeah? Who died an' left yon boss?” He pushed past her desk to the door behind her. She had risen at his first movement; for a second he thought she meant to step in front of him, but if that had been her intention she thought better of it. She was right on his heels when he knocked on the inner door and entered. Ernest Faulkner looked over his shoulder at them from where he stood beside a window, his hands jammed idly in his pockets. “Hi, Ernest,” Johnny greeted him. “You make all your customers run this barrage?”

“Oh, it's you.” The sensitive-featured lawyer nodded to the woman behind Johnny. “It's all right, Miss McPartland. I'm acquainted with Mr. Killain. He has an impetuous nature.”

“He's no gentleman!” Miss McPartland snapped, but backed reluctantly to the door. It banged shut behind her.

“You sure she hasn't got the room bugged?” Johnny asked. “What you got to do to get 'em to take that kind of an interest in their work?”

The corners of Ernest Faulkner's mouth moved nervously. “I inherited Miss McPartland from my father,” he explained, and with a wave of his hand indicated the massive iron safe and dull-backed, book-lined walls. “Along with these less trying legacies.” He seated himself behind his desk and waved Johnny to a chair alongside. He removed his heavy horn-rimmed glasses and began to polish them carefully. “Sit down. May I be of assistance?”

“It depends,” Johnny told him. He sat down. The sound of the lawyer's high-pitched voice lingered in his ears. Without the heavy glasses to strengthen it, the face was almost feminine in its delicacy. A soft bloom emanating from the skin added to the illusion. And there was something about the slightly stilted walk and the quick movements of the slim hands-this boy could have a little trouble, Johnny decided. Latent, if not overt. Still, the scorecards said he was getting to bat regularly against Gloria Philips. No indication of a hormone deficiency there. “You rate yourself near the top in the lawyerin' business, Ernest?”

A ghost of a smile hovered on the soft-looking mouth. “Am I being offered your business?”

“I thought maybe I should talk to you first before I went up against Palmer again.”

“Considerate of you.” Ernest Faulkner replaced his glasses, leaned back in his chair and studied Johnny. “You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't feel they should talk to me first.”

A sense of humor, Johnny thought. Likewise more bitterness than you'd expect. There was more to Faulkner than met the eye. “I've been takin' a few soundin's of the ice, Ernest, since someone in the crowd took on himself to scratch Arends from the entries.”

“If it's the thickness of the piece you're on that concerns you, I don't blame you.” The lawyer settled the glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose. “Although you didn't strike me as the nervous type.”

“It's bad for business, havin' potential customers bothered like that,” Johnny explained, dead-pan. “It's liable to hustle me along a little faster'n I like to go. What's my chances of gettin' paid if I go back to Palmer ready to do business?”

“Mr. Palmer is a reputable businessman,” the lawyer said smoothly. “For value received-”

“The worst kind of thief,” Johnny interrupted impatiently, “does it legally. I'll make you a proposition. You handle the money end of it for me, an' I'll make a deal with Palmer. I got to be sure I get paid.”

Ernest Faulkner stared at him. “Are you serious, Mr. Killain? Do you for one moment imagine that any lawyer can afford to represent you?”

“I thought I came to the right man,” Johnny said mildly. “You're Dechant's lawyer. You're Palmer's lawyer. You're the Winters woman's lawyer. You get to see the wheels go round. You know Dechant was a thief all his life. You know he an' the Winters woman killed her husband. You know Palmer's playin' footsie with the blonde just like Arends was. You know Tremaine's-”

“Just a minute!” Ernest Faulkner appeared to have trouble with his breathing. He looked horrified. “How can you expect me to sit here and listen to these-these gross insinuations! These monstrous-”

“Insinuations, hell! Act your age, Ernest.”

“Let's not be under any misapprehension,” the lawyer said hurriedly. “I was Claude's attorney, it's true. But I'm not Palmer's, and except in the most highly specialized context I'm not Madeleine's, either.”

“Palmer said he paid you a retainer,” Johnny pointed out. “An' when we found Arends in Madeleine's place the other night, who did she call? You.”

“It was the equivalent of calling a friend,” Faulkner protested. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. “She called me because of my knowledge of certain circumstances.”

“It's your knowledge of certain circumstances I'm tryin' to line up on my side,” Johnny told him. “What's the price?”

“You've heard of ethics, Mr. Killain? Legal ethics?”

“Nobody doin' business with these people has ethics,” Johnny said positively. “What're they payin' you?”

“I think that you had better leave now. Immediately.”

Johnny shook his head at the attempted dignity in the shaken voice. “You know I'm gonna do business with someone, Ernest. Why not with you?” He studied the moist-looking face across the desk. “Use your phone?” he asked abruptly, and without waiting for permission pulled it toward him. He picked up the metal tel-e-list from in front of Faulkner and thumbed the indicator down to the W's. A touch sprang it open.

“Here! What do you think you're doing?” The lawyer came halfway up out of his chair and then sank back into it.

“Callin' a mutual acquaintance,” Johnny said, dialing the number listed for Madeleine Winters. Across from him Faulkner removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the faint sheen visible on his white forehead. “I noticed the other night she had a phone in the living room and another in the bedroom. This the unlisted number?” He shook his head in mock regret at the lack of response from the man behind the desk.

“Harry, darling?” the phone cooed in Johnny's ear.

“You tryin' to make me jealous? This is Killain, from the Duarte.”

“How did you get this number, Killain?” Her tone had hardened up like wet leather in the desert sun, he thought admiringly. This woman really had a cutting edge.

“You know anything that's not for sale if the price is right?” he asked her. “Let's get to somethin' important. I want to see you. How about your place tonight? Around nine?” He could almost hear the gears going around beneath the ash-blonde hair.

“Tonight?” she began doubtfully, and then her voice firmed up. “All right. I'll arrange it.”

“Fine. I'll be there.” Johnny nodded casually to a whey-faced Ernest Faulkner as he replaced the phone.

“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” the lawyer croaked.

“Nothin' like that, Ernest,” Johnny soothed him. He moved the indicator on the tel-e-list again, opened it at the P's, and pointed out Palmer's number to the wide-eyed lawyer. “Don't forget to call Harry. You know how he likes to keep posted.”

On his way through the waiting room Johnny bowed gravely to a ramrod-straight Miss McPartland, who looked right through him.

CHAPTER VI

At three minutes to nine that night Johnny walked up the stairs in Madeleine Winters' apartment building, avoiding the elevator. At the door he pushed the white button in the left jamb. Chimes, he was sure, but he couldn't hear them. The place must be well-insulated. Or soundproofed.

Harry Palmer opened the door. “How you do get around, man,” Johnny said to him, and walked inside. Behind him he heard the solid snick of the lock as the door closed again. At the far end of the huge white-and-gold room, Madeleine Winters stood erect with her hands clasped loosely at her waist. She had on something that looked to Johnny like black lounging pajamas, but he had to forgo a closer look.

A big man, who seemed to overflow in all directions from the armchair in which he sat, lumbered to his feet at Johnny's entrance. He had no neck at all, but a lot of face, hammered flat. “This the guy?” he asked hoarsely. Nobody denied it, and he moved forward. His jacket rested on the back of his chair, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled back to disclose thick, hairy forearms.

Johnny circled slowly, one eye on Madeleine Winters. “No sheets on the pretty furniture to keep the blood from splashin'?” he chided her. “You're-” He broke off as the big man rushed him. Johnny side-stepped and put two hundred thirty-eight pounds into the hardest right-hand kidney smash he had in him as the man went by. The big man sucked in his breath, hard. Before he could turn, Johnny was in behind him and, with a bladed hand, chopped savagely twice at the stubby neck. It should have dropped him; all it did was turn him around. Johnny lowered his shoulder, set himself and sank his left hand out of sight in the ponderously advancing, bulbous stomach. He followed it with a right, and the big man went to his knees with a crash that jiggled the shades on the wall lamps. He looked mildly surprised.

Johnny set himself again as the man dropped his fists to the floor for leverage, hoisted his rump in the air and started up. From an angle Johnny blasted him with a right to the bridge of the nose that rolled the big man on his side. Blood spurted. The big man shook his head gingerly, drew one knee up under him, thought it over a second and straightened the leg out again. Johnny found a handkerchief and wrapped his right hand in it gently.

“I hope you're satisfied,” Madeleine Winters said bitterly from the back of the room.

No one answered her. Johnny pointed at an amazed Harry Palmer. “Outside, you.” Johnny strode to the chair, picked up a jacket with enough material in it for a horse blanket and threw it at the little man. “An' take your garbage with you.” He moved in on the bloody-shirted man weaving to his feet, grabbed him by an arm and shoulder and half pushed, half dragged him to the door. He opened it with one hand and spun his burden out into the corridor. He looked back at the still motionless Palmer. “Out, man.”

“You know what we agreed, Madeleine!” the little man cried shrilly. He scuttled sideways like a crab as Johnny left the door and advanced on him, but there was no fear in his face. “You know what we agreed!” His voice trailed off in a squeak as Johnny's hand closed down on his coat collar. Backing and struggling, Johnny marched him to the door on tiptoe, thrust him out and banged it shut. For an instant there was an impotent drumming of fists on the outer panels, and then silence reigned.

Johnny walked back down the length of the room to where Madeleine Winters had seated herself, on the royal blue couch. He removed his jacket, straightened his shirtsleeves, unbelted his trousers and restored his shirt-tails, and put the jacket back on. “Who was payin' for the breakage an' redecoration?” he asked her casually. “Harry darlin'?”

“I told him it was stupid!” she exclaimed spiritedly. “If Max couldn't do it, that clown certainly couldn't.”

“I got news for you, lady. That clown would eat Max for lunch an' me for dinner if he ever got himself untracked. He sopped up more'n the first wave at Anzio, an' he wasn't even close to bein' out. He just decided the size of the job hadn't been taken care of in the wage scale. Us businessmen are like that. We don't-” The phone rang shrilly on the gate-legged table across the room. “That's Harry darlin' from the lobby, pantin' to know if you need the cops to keep me from poundin' on your lily-white body,” Johnny told Madeleine Winters. “If you think you know, tell him.”

The blonde rose languidly and walked to the phone, every movement as studiedly graceful and carefully rehearsed as any on a Broadway stage. “Hello? No, you fool! Next time you'll listen to me. I said no! No! Don't you understand English?” She banged the phone down and turned to survey Johnny from beneath long lashes. “I don't know that I've ever met a man as sure of himself,” she said thoughtfully. She smiled. “But who am I to say it's not justified?”

“What's this agreement with Harry darlin' he was yodelin' about goin' through the door?” Johnny asked her. He removed the handkerchief from his right hand and inspected the knuckles.

The green eyes glinted with amusement. “A suggested pact not to engage in an auction for the merchandise you're selling.”

“He seemed to think it was a little stronger'n that.”

“At his age Harry should be used to a lady's exercising her perogative to change her mind,” she said silkily. Abruptly her mood hardened. “Are you for hire, Killain?”

“By the pound,” he told her solemnly.

“And just where do you draw the line?”

He looked at her. “What kind of business are we in?”

She gestured impatiently. “The kind I just saw demonstrated.”

“You've got a reputation for killin' your own, the way I hear it,” Johnny said.

She turned white. “That's the nastiest-” She stopped as mellow chimes sounded from the front of the room. She started automatically to the door, but her first step in that direction ended up against the iron bar of Johnny's arm.

“That could be Big Stuff back for Round Two,” he said mildly. “I wouldn't want to see those pajamas get rumpled. Unless I did the rumplin'.” He walked out to the door. Silently he turned the knob in slow motion, stepped back and flung it open.

The unexpectedly dark corridor, the shadowy figure, the sharp report, the blue flame and the hard sting in the ribs impressed him simultaneously. His feet became entangled in the door mat as he lunged forward. He shot over the threshold, clawing at the air. The first part of him to make contact was his head, with the wall, making him feel as though his neck had been telescoped. From his knees he shook his head groggily, surged erect and wheeled in the direction of the rapidly diminishing sound of running feet on the corridor's thick carpeting.

Madeleine Winters' thin scream halted him before he ever got in motion. From her apartment doorway she stared unbelievingly at the bright red blotch staining his jacket on the left side.

Detective James Rogers propped his topcoated shoulders against the emergency room wall. He lipped at an unlighted cigarette, his hazel eyes reflective as he watched the crew-cut intern briskly winding adhesive around Johnny's waist.

“That's enough, Doc,” Johnny growled finally. “I'm not fixin' to wear this till New Year's.”

The white-coated doctor cut the wide-backed tape with a shears and stretched the loose end into place. “That'll do it,” he announced.

“Okay.” Johnny slid down from the table. “Where's my pants?”

“You're staying overnight, at least,” the doctor said, surprised. “Precautionary. Possible-”

“The hell I'm stayin' overnight. Where's my things?”

“Out of the question, Killain.” The intern turned to leave. “I'll want to see you in the morning.”

Johnny caught his wrist. “I'll give you an address where you can see me in the mornin'. Meantime, do I get my clothes or do I wear yours?”

“Ridiculous!” the doctor snorted. He looked at the detective for support.

Rogers looked amused. “He's entirely capable of doing it,” he warned.

“Oh, very well, then,” the doctor said impatiently. “When bigger fools are made-” He looked Johnny up and down. “I'll send the nurse in with a release form for you to sign.”

“An' my clothes,” Johnny called after him as the doctor strode out. “These people are nearly as bad as yours for thinkin' they got to get their own way,” Johnny told Rogers. “Throw me a cigarette.”

“Now there's an all-fired black pot calling the kettle ebony,” the detective declared sarcastically. “No smoking in here,” he added as an afterthought. “How much of a chunk of you did that thing get?”

“Not much,” Johnny grunted. He raised his arms gingerly over his head and twisted from side to side at the waist, testing the constriction of his adhesive corset. “Chopped out a furrow under the arm is all. Grazed a rib.”

“What were you doing while all that was going on?”

“Standin' there watchin'. Someone unscrewed the corridor light bulbs, rang the bell an' busted one through me when I opened the door. The door was at the dark end of the apartment, too. All I saw was a kind of outline. Dark Clothes, an' I'd bet gloves an' a mask. I didn't even get a glimmer of skin.”

“How about size?”

“Right quick I'd have said not too big, but after I like to sprung my neck against the opposite wall goin' after him, the runnin' footsteps sounded real heavy.”

“All running footsteps sound heavy,” Detective Rogers said patiently. He removed the still unlighted cigarette from his mouth and placed it carefully over one ear. “When I got there after they'd hauled you in here, your ex-hostess was hysterical. Claimed that, with the difference in height, if she'd opened the door herself she'd be on a slab downtown.”

“Could be, Jimmy.”

“On the other hand, you haven't made many new friends lately, either.”

“I think this is one time I was the innocent bystander. On two counts. That shot came through so fast it had to be just reflex on the part of the gunman. He wasn't pickin' an' choosin' targets. He was all lined up on the door, an' the second it opened-bang.”

“You said on two counts,” Rogers reminded him.

Johnny hesitated. “I didn't use the elevator goin' up there, Jimmy. I used the stairs. There was two people with her when I got there. For anyone watchin' the elevator, when those two people left Madeleine Winters was supposed to be alone.”

“I know it's hopeless asking you why you avoided the elevator, so I'll just ask you who her visitors were.”

“You must've asked her that when you talked to her, Jimmy.”

“Maybe she lied to me.”

“Maybe she did. You don't want any help from me, though. I've got it on the best of authority.”

Detective Rogers glared. “Was one of them this Tremaine? The woman's got him all tagged and labeled as the gunman. She was all for swearing out a warrant until I asked her what she planned to use for evidence.”

“She's got a thing about him. They don't like each other.”

“You don't know that it wasn't Tremaine who fired the shot, Johnny.”

An orderly entered with Johnny's clothes, and he signed without reading the slip offered him. He began to dress. “No. I don't know. I think Tremaine's too big for what I saw, but I don't have to be right.”

“What were you doing up in that apartment in the first place?”

Johnny eased on his undershirt, picked up his shirt and looked at the dark-red clotted stain on it. He got his arms into it and buttoned it slowly. “Dechant had been crooked for years, accordin' to what I hear, an' had been mixed in with the same crowd right along. Everyone enjoyed good health, except Dechant's partner some time back. Then Kiki landed here. Pow! Dechant evaporated, Arends was blasted, someone pitched a shot through the widow lady's door an' all the other lovely people keep makin' noises like they'd like to nibble each other to pieces. Why, Jimmy?”

“What were you doing up in that apartment?”

Johnny settled his jacket gently on his shoulders and covered the red-brown discoloration on the left side with his sleeve. “I just about got time to get back to the Duarte an' knock off a fast forty winks before the school bell rings,” he said. “Seems like a better idea the more I think of it.”

“Johnny, you-”

“I'm the guy that got scragged, Mr. Detective, please, sir,” Johnny said in a falsetto. “Wouldn't you think the police department would be out scufflin' to find out who pegged that iron instead of fussin' with little old me?”

“Little old you can drop dead, as far as I'm concerned,” Detective James Rogers said bitterly. He set sail for the door without a backward glance, the back of his neck rigid with anger.

Johnny went out to the street leisurely. It was surprisingly mild, a pointed reminder that the weather was about to catch up with the calendar. Johnny couldn't truthfully say he thought too well of the idea. He seemed to appreciate the heat of the summer in New York City a little less with each passing year.

He stood on the curb and waited for a cab. He'd have to find some way to smooth down Rogers' ruffled fur. He liked Jimmy Rogers.

It had been quite an evening. Quite an evening.

In the lobby of the Duarte Johnny caught Paul Sassella's head nod, and turned to confront Madeleine Winters rising from an armchair. She came directly to him, her green eyes large in the pale oval of her face. “I want to talk to you. Privately,” she said huskily.

“Just a minute.” Johnny walked over to Paul behind the bell captain's desk. “What time did she get here?” he asked the stocky Swiss in an undertone.

“Three minutes ago. Less, maybe. Hadn't even gotten the chair warm.”

“Any excitement around here?”

“Marty had a no-pay skip on the middle shift. He checked in on our shift. Rollins wants to see you in the morning.”

“Okay,” Johnny grunted. “I'm goin' up an' change.” He walked back to Madeleine Winters. “Let's go upstairs.”

“I called the hospital and they said you'd left against their advice,” she said on the elevator. “I came right over.”

“You sure did,” Johnny agreed. “You had farther to come than I did.”

“You certainly don't look as though you were shot,” she said in the sixth floor corridor, almost trotting to keep up. “If I hadn't seen you hit-”

“It wasn't much of a hit,” Johnny said patiently. He was going to get rid of this woman in a hurry, that he knew. He was in no mood for small talk. Key in hand he stopped at 615, and froze instantly. One glance was enough to show that the lock had been forced with no particular finesse. “Stay back tight against the wall!” he threw over his shoulder at the blonde, and barreled inside with a rush.

The hard-flung door banged off the inside wall. Johnny stood just inside the threshold, and for once in his life stared blankly at the welter of upside-down chairs, torn-up bed, torn-down curtains, overturned chest of drawers, and dumped-out refrigerator. The floor was a tangled litter of bedclothing, cushions, pillows and papers thrown down from table drawers.

Recovering, he made a quick circuit of the room. The bathroom and the closet were the only places anyone could hide, and there was no one there. He turned to find Madeleine Winters surveying the devastation from the doorway. “A pig couldn't find its little ones in here if it didn't hear them grunt,” he said wryly.

“Didn't that expression sound more like 'Un cochon n'y retrouverait pas ses petits a moins de les entendre' the first time you heard it?” the blonde inquired.

“Maybe it did,” Johnny admitted absently, his eyes roaming the wreckage of his room. His attention sharpened. “What was your name before it was Winters?”

“Maillard.” She gestured at the room. “You haven't even looked to see if anything's missing.”

He didn't answer her. He walked over to a chair with its bottom slashed, and handfuls of coarse, wiry hair dribbling out, and kicked it gently. “I sure wish I'd stumbled in here while this was goin' on,” he said in a thinking-out-loud voice.

Madeleine Winters' voice rose. “You haven't even- ”

“I heard you,” Johnny interrupted her. He righted a chair and sat down. “I don't need to look. It wasn't here.” He bent stiffly to unlace his shoes, then changed his mind, got up and went to the phone. “Ring Housekeeping, will you, Sally?” he asked when she came on the line. “Amy?” he inquired of the languid drawl that eventually answered. “Killain. Hustle your tail on down here. Bring an appetite for hard labor.” He hung up and removed his jacket and shirt, carefully.

“But what are you going to do?” the blonde cried forcefully. “Nothing at all?”

“Do? I'm goin' to work,” Johnny said blandly. He removed a uniform from the closet and draped it over the chair back. He noticed that the pockets in some of the other clothing had been ruthlessly slashed, and his lips tightened.

“Work!” the blonde exclaimed scornfully. “I don't understand a man like you in a place like this, Killain.”

“I like it here.” Johnny sat down, and tackled the shoes again. He glanced upward to note the petulance of Madeleine Winters' expression. “I like it fine. Nobody bothers me. Look around when you go back downstairs. You see a night manager? No. You see a house dick? No. You see Killain. It gives a man a little room to spread his wings. Around here I do it my way, an' the brass don't ask me how I get it done.”

The blonde spoke swiftly as he paused. “Killain, I can make it worth-” She stopped suddenly at the sound of a knock at the door.

Amy, the tall colored girl who handled housekeeping nights, sidled in with her attention directed downward at the broken lock. “Mist' Johnny, somebody done bust-” she began, then straightened and saw the room. “Hoo-ee!”

The pretty face crinkled in an impudent grin. “Who you gone an' got mad at this time?”

“This time I wasn't here,” Johnny told her. “I hope you brought a shovel.” He redirected his attention to Madeleine Winters. “Go ahead,” he invited her.

“I can't talk now,” she protested sulkily, an eye on Amy, who was examining her with bright-eyed interest. “Okay,” Johnny shrugged. “Good night.” “Good night?” The green eyes flattened at the corners in the manner of a cat's. “Don't get on your high horse with me, Killain. I came-” She turned suddenly to Amy. “You'll excuse us for just a moment, please?” She really had a charming smile when she wanted to use it, Johnny reflected.

Amy promptly dropped the shredded curtains she had been gloomily regarding. “I'll get my cleanin' things,” she said, and went out.

Johnny forestalled the blonde before she could speak. “You came over here to buy something?” It took her by surprise. “Well, no. I came-“ “You came to put me on the pay roll so you'd have me handy in the oat bin when it come time to slam down the lid.”

“I don't see how you can say that. I never intended-” “You're not buyin',” he interrupted. “That leaves Palmer.” “I didn't say I wasn't buying,” she said quickly. “I said that wasn't my idea in coming here tonight.”

“You figure whoever got Arends winged that one at you tonight?” he asked her casually.

Her features seemed to shrink, and she circled her lips rapidly with the tip of her tongue. “I don't know. I need help. Don't you see that I could buy the thing from you tonight, and wind up dead before morning? It wouldn't solve anything for me.”

“But it would for me. All I want is to convert.” She chose to disregard this completely. “Come to work for me, Killain,” she pleaded. The vibrant voice was artistically husky. “I do need help, and I promise it wouldn't be the worst job in the world. I need someone like you.

Jules Tremaine would kill me as quick as he'd look at me. He proved that tonight.”

“Sorry,” Johnny said curtly.

The beautiful face looked pinched. “You mean-you won't?”

“That's what I meant.”

The change of expression was instantaneous. Madeleine Winters hitched her fur stole about herself with a vicious twist of her shoulders. “I won't forget this. You won't, either.”

“That's better,” Johnny said approvingly. “For a minute there I was afraid you were goin' soft on me.”

She was already on her way to the door. Only the broken lock prevented a really effective slam. Amy thrust her head cautiously inside before entering. “You is shuah rough on 'em, Mist' Johnny. That one got steam comin' out of her ears. She pretty enough to expect to have it the other way aroun'.” Amy's silvery giggle rippled through the room.

“See what you can do with this mess,” Johnny told her. He finished dressing and headed for the service elevator and the lobby. He found Paul in the cloakroom. “A guy about six-one, Paul,” he began without preliminary. “Looks slender, but isn't. Walks like he had a poker up his back. A real cold face an' eyes. Crew-cut gray hair, if he didn't have a hat on.”

Paul nodded. “A man like that came in just after the shift changed. He went directly to the house phones, spoke to someone and went upstairs.”

“He called a number at random, an' if he got an answer asked 'em if they wanted to buy any insurance,” Johnny said musingly. “When they hung up on him he went upstairs as if by invitation. Tore my place all to hell.” Max Stitt's footprints had been all over that job, he decided. A man looking for a thirty-pound object slashes curtains and clothes only from pure meanness. Unless he didn't know what he was looking for? Not likely.

He flexed his hands unconsciously. He would interview Mr. Stitt in the morning. He planned to enjoy it.

CHAPTER VII

Sally Fontaine looked up from her magazine as Johnny's key let him almost noiselessly into the apartment. He grunted at the sight of her in the living-room armchair. “Thought you'd be rackin' up sack-time, ma. Conscience keepin' you awake?”

“There's nothing the matter with my conscience.” She laid aside the magazine and looked him over as he approached her chair. “You avoided me all night at work,” she said accusingly.

He slipped an arm beneath the knees and another about the shoulders of her flowered lounging pajamas and scooped her out of the chair. He sat down carefully with her on his lap. “I was afraid you'd see the blonde I took up to the room.”

“I saw the blonde,” she informed him. “I heard what you found when you took her up there, too.”

“Yeah? You tell that little giggler Amy I'll paddle her two shades darker if it's the last thing I do.”

“Amy knows who to do her talking to,” Sally told him. “She wouldn't say a word to anyone but me!”

“I'll impress it on her that you're not on the free list either, ma.” He rested his head against the back of the chair. “I need about three hours' sleep. Set the alarm for eleven, will you?” He attempted to outstare the close-range inspection of the brown eyes. “Think you'll know me the next time you see me?”

“It's something about the way you're moving,” she decided aloud. She dropped a hand experimentally on one shoulder, probed lightly, passed on to the other, and inevitably descended to Johnny's adhesive-corseted waist. “I knew it!” she declared. “What happened this time?”

“Someone whiffled one through the blonde's front door tonight. I just happened to be there.”

“I'll bet you just happened to be there.” Her eyes widened as his words registered. “You were shot?”

“Creased, ma. Just creased. Your cuticle scissors give me a harder time when you're manicurin' my paws. The hell of it was my foot got tangled up in a mat an' threw me when I went after the gent.”

“And a good thing, too,” she stated firmly. “How you keep from being killed-” Head cocked to one side, she examined his face. “What were you doing there in the first place?” she asked abruptly.

“You mean aside from the obvious, ma?” He ducked a left lead and smothered her hands in his. “That's what's known as a long, involved story. Stop worryin'. It wasn't even meant for me.”

“If you hadn't been there, you couldn't have been hit,” Sally pointed out with unerring feminine logic. “Was it the blonde they were shooting at? She looked just the type.”

“I guess she was supposed to be up at bat, all right,” Johnny admitted. He ruffled the soft brown hair under his hand. “She's a little shook. She's allergic to the clay-pigeon bit.”

Sally dropped her head on Johnny's shoulder and closed her eyes. “From the look of her, it couldn't happen to a more deserving pigeon,” she murmured. The eyes flew open again, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Tell me about it,” she said.

He eased the slim body on his lap to a more comfortable position. “I'm just tryin' to give the man you called for me the other night a hand in retrievin' a piece of goods swiped from him a while back.”

The brown eyes speculated. “And it was Claude Dechant who did the swiping? That's why you asked me all those questions about the people he used to telephone?”

“It was Dechant. An' he killed himself. I'd like to know why.” Johnny stared broodingly across the room over a flower-pajamaed shoulder. “About all I've done so far tryin' to find out is to tie into the damnedest bunch of do-it-yourself characters you ever saw.”

“Did one of them tear up your room tonight?”

“One of them did.” Johnny's eyes darkened. “I'm gonna speak to him about it.” He looked at Sally on his lap. “I'm also gonna tuck it in the sheets, ma. I need a little shut-eye, an' it'll take Amy half a day to straighten out my place.”

She slid from his lap and led the way into the bedroom. She turned down the bed while Johnny stood in the middle of the floor and shed clothes like a snake sheds skin. Sally sighed and picked up after him. He sat on the edge of the bed and tested the mobility of his corset. It wasn't too bad, he decided.

Sally sat down beside him, and he slipped an arm around her. “Johnny, you're not going to get into trouble over the man who searched you room, are you?”

“Divil a bit of it, ma. He's gonna get in trouble.” He gave her a one-armed hug.

“You know what I-mean!” she said breathlessly as her ribs contracted.

He was silent. He could have sworn he'd had only one use for the bed in his mind when he'd come in here, but the feel of Sally against him was rapidly changing his perspective.

She turned her head inquiringly at the more purposeful pressure of his arm. She saw his eyes. “Stop it!” she scolded lightly. “You know you don't feel-”

“The hell I don't. Shuck yourself on in here.” She stood up obediently, but her eyes remained doubtful. She paused with the pajama top half off. “You're sure that you feel like it?”

“It's only my ribs that're taped, ma.” He watched as she disposed of the pajamas and plumped herself down alongside him. “Get those bony knees out of the way.” “They're not bony,” she said placidly. “They're slender.” “So's a picket fence.” For a very short time he could hear Sally's breathing. After that the sound of his own filled his ears.

Johnny stood in warm noonday sunlight outside the Empire Freight Forwarding Corporation's stout wire fence. It was summer sure enough today, and he was not sure that he approved. He felt sluggish. He tried to flex mental muscles and gear himself up for the meeting with Stitt and its explosive possibilities. Based on Stitt's reaction the last time Johnny had been here, sluggishness was not a condition he could afford.

He set himself in motion finally and started up the narrow cement walk. He headed this time directly for the door marked Office. His first quick look around inside disclosed no one but the plain little receptionist at her desk. “I'd like to see-” Johnny began, but he never got to complete it.

The receptionist turned in her chair as a door at the rear of the office flew open. Carrying a huge wooden bucket in both hands, Max Stitt burst into view. There was no other word to describe it, Johnny thought. At a walk so rapid it was almost a run, the erect-looking man advanced to the desk nearest the front of the office and set down his bucket. “Helen!” It was like a bugle's blare, although the girl was less than a dozen feet away. The voice pulsed with excitement. “Come and have a drink!” The girl rose to her feet with an uncertain look outside the railing. Following the direction of her gaze, Stitt looked and saw Johnny. “Killain!” he trumpeted. “Come in and have a drink!”

Johnny stared. The usually dead-white, rigidly controlled features were flushed and animated. Each individual hair in the graying crew-cut seemed to bristle spikily. Max Stitt wore a business suit, a white shirt and a tie, the tie badly askew. A second before Stitt removed a champagne magnum from his bucket, Johnny realized suddenly that the man was half-seas over.

“Come in, come in!” Stitt urged Johnny. He poured liberally into a glass he dredged up from the depths of the ice-packed bucket and handed it to the receptionist, who accepted it with an embarrassed smile. “Drink up, Helen,” he told the girl. “Take the rest of the day off. Have a good dinner on me. Run the ticket through petty cash in the morning.” He disregarded the girl's murmured thanks to walk over and unlatch the gate in the wooden railing. “Come in,” he repeated. He saw Johnny's face. “That affair of last night,” he said dismissingly. “Send me the bill.”

“I brought you the bill, Stitt.”

For a second, at Johnny's tone, the cold eyes congealed and the features hardened to a rigid austerity. Just for a second, and then before Johnny's unbelieving eyes the Max Stitt he thought he knew was gone again. “Any other day of my life, Killain, I would accommodate you. I would accommodate you gladly. Any day prior to today. At ten o'clock this morning I became a half-owner of the business here. It is an event in a man's life. At ten o'clock this morning I was done with affairs such as that of last night.” He held up the magnum. “You will join me?”

“Too early for bubbly,” Johnny said cautiously. “You got any schnapps?”

“I do have schnapps.” Stitt walked to a green filing cabinet in a corner and removed a dark, squat bottle. He half filled a water glass he removed from a desk. He splashed champagne into a glass he took from the bucket, handed Johnny the water glass and raised his own aloft. “To ten o'clock this morning,” he toasted, and downed his champagne.

“Mr. Stitt-” the receptionist put in timidly from the side. “If you really don't need me any more today-”

“Run along,” he told her. “Draw the curtain on the door. I've packed off the warehouse crew, too. Anyone coming in that door this afternoon can have a drink, nothing else. Tomorrow business as usual, Helen.”

After pulling down the yellow curtain on the front door, the girl went out a door in the back, her bag under her arm. Max Stitt seated himself behind a desk, loosened his collar and produced a box of cigars, which he offered to Johnny. He elevated his feet to the top of the desk, slid down on his spine, stripped the cellophane from a cigar and sighed profoundly in the cloud of smoke from its lighted tip. “I have become legitimized,” Max Stitt proclaimed solemnly to Johnny. “I have no further interest in the disposition of Hegel's piece. I'm done with all that. In this life a man steals what he must to set himself up legitimately. After that a wise man steals only from the tax people.”

“I doubt that Dechant would have agreed with you.” Johnny was curious to see how far Stitt's mellow mood would take him.

“Claude Dechant was a fool,” Stitt said flatly. “To be more specific, a fool over women. They bled him. A pipeline to Fort Knox couldn't have kept him going. He lacked my perspective.” The corners of his mouth lifted around his cigar. “To me, women are an irritation ninety-eight per cent of the time. The other two per cent of the time they are merely slightly less of an irritation. I can't stand their gabble, or their grasping.”

Johnny took a swallow of the pungent, colorless liquor in his glass. “You knew Dechant a long time,” Johnny suggested.

Max Stitt nodded. “We were from Colmar. We'd never worked together, but we knew each other. In 'forty he went with the French, I with the Germans. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him in an Italian lieutenant's uniform in a cantina in Florence in August of 'forty-four. Right away, when he saw me, he had a plan. Claude always thought big, give the devil his due. I was a captain in charge of two demolition squads. The one bridge out of six left standing in the general retreat from Florence had not been my assignment.” The natural arrogance was back in Stitt's voice, Johnny noted. “Claude was attached to a Canadian colonel as interpreter and liaison, and, of course, in that Italian uniform a spy. It would have been amusing to have gotten him hung, but I listened to Mm.”

Stitt puffed lengthily on his cigar. “He had detailed maps of three of the larger deposits of medieval and modern art that had been moved in around the city from all over Italy. There were over thirty of them altogether, I'm told. I could get trucks. It looked easy, but the Allied advance overran us. It turned out, too, that other people had the same idea we did. Some stuff was loaded and rushed off God knows where. It was never seen again. We were lucky finally to get out with a whole skin. It came down finally to Claude burying a few pieces himself. It took him three years to get back to get them. I was over here by that time. The pickings looked a little better on this side. I hooked on with Arends. He needed someone with my organizing ability who knew the back alleys of Europe like I did.” Max Stitt shrugged.

Johnny prompted him. “And at ten o'clock this morning-”

“I listened to the lawyer read Arends' will. He'd never paid me what the job I was doing for him was worth, but we had an agreement in writing that, if anything happened to him, half of this was mine. I couldn't be sure of him, though. He could have added a codicil to his will at any time. I had to hope he'd figure finally that his widow would be better off with me running the business, and that's the way-it went. I signed a contract with her at the lawyer's to continue as general manager at an increase, with half the profits.” He straightened up in his chair, refilled his champagne glass and raised it to Johnny. “To the end of the old road. No hard feelings. You'll have trouble disposing of that piece. Not many buyers for a thing like that. That's why Claude was a good man to have around: he had contacts.”

“With you comin' into a windfall like that, you're not afraid of the police tryin' to pin the tail on you for Arends?”

“They might think I hired it. They know I didn't do it.” Max Stitt looked down at his glass. “Arends wasn't alone when he went up to Madeleine's apartment. Two of the help told the police that another man went upstairs with Jack. They never did see him come down. The police had me over there last night. It seems I'm not the man.”

“Did you hear a description?”

“They were careful that I didn't. They shouldn't have too much trouble finding out.”

“You think you know?”

“I know that as of ten o'clock this morning I started minding Max Stitt's business, and his only.”

“Did I tell you Palmer made me an offer for the piece?” Johnny asked casually.

“Palmer did? Palmer? He wouldn't pay a quarter to see an elephant roller-skate. Something wrong there. He stole his money young, and he's been a cautious type ever since. If he ever knew one-tenth the uses to which Claude put his money-“

“What I hear, him an' Faulkner are goin' to school on it.”

Max Stitt laughed, a harsh, unmusical sound. “Faulkner,” he said disparagingly. “That warmer Bruder?”

“He seems to get around with the redhead.”

“She's using him.”

“You were a little rough on her a while back.”

“She told you that?” Stitt looked surprised, then smiled wisely. “She didn't tell you. You saw. So she's using you, too.” He stood up behind the desk. “I showed her that no woman uses Max Stitt.” He lifted the magnum and held it to the light. “Empty. And I've talked myself sober.” His light-colored eyes considered Johnny. “Yesterday it wouldn't have been like this, Killain. Tomorrow it won't be. All I want is to be left alone.” He stubbed out his cigar with finality. “Sorry to rush you, but I'm locking up.”

He removed a heavy key ring from the center drawer of his desk and followed Johnny to the front door. Johnny was already on the cement walk outside when Max Stitt spoke again. “Don't turn your back on that redhead. Take it from a man who knows.”

The click of the lock in the door sounded as Johnny turned. Stitt waved from behind the glass, and disappeared.

Johnny shrugged, and continued on down the walk.

Johnny stood in the lobby of the Hotel Alden with the receiver of the house phone to his ear and listened to it ring a dozen times with no response. He gave up, finally, and recradled it. He thought it over a moment, undecided. He would have liked to talk to Jules Tremaine.

“Ah-sir?”

Johnny half turned at the low-voiced inquiry at his elbow, He looked at the skinny, balding little man in rusty blue suit and frayed-collared, pin-striped shirt who stood nervously dry-washing his hands.

“Talkin' to me, Jack?” Johnny inquired.

“Please,” the man said softly. He was not looking at Johnny. “I'm the clerk at the cigar counter. If it's Mr. Tremaine you're looking for, follow me over there.” He was moving away before he had completed the sentence, his gait a stiff-kneed trot.

Johnny watched him as he moved in behind the stand across from the mail desk, picked up a feather duster and energetically attacked a magazine rack. A glance around the lobby disclosed no one taking an interest in the exchange.

Johnny gave him a couple of moments before he followed. “Couple cigars. Somethin' bigger'n a perfecto.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said clearly. His bald head flashed as he stooped to remove boxes from the cigar case. “We have three or four excellent blunts, if you'd just have a look-” Slim white hands opened boxes and displayed cigars. “Tremaine?” the man asked without moving his lips. Six feet away, Johnny thought, the voice must be inaudible.

“Yeah.” Johnny fingered a well-shaped blunt from a box and held it up to the light. “Where is he?”

“The police took him away. Two hours ago.” This guy should have been a ventriloquist, Johnny thought. Looking right at him you couldn't see his lips move. “I'll take three of these.” He put the cigars in his jacket pocket and waited for his change. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Thank you, sir.” The faintest possible stress was on the pronoun. The clerk returned to his dusting.

Johnny moved away from the stand. Tremaine picked up by the police? Could Tremaine have been the second man the apartment help insisted had gone up to Madeleine Winters' apartment with Jack Arends? Tremaine in Madeleine Winters' apartment? Johnny shook his head. He couldn't see it. Not the way Tremaine felt about her. Unless-

He headed for the phone booths. Eddie Lake was the man to handle this. In the yellow pages he ran a thick forefinger down the “L's,” then stepped inside a booth and dialed. “Eddie?” He listened impatiently to a voice explaining nasally that it was empowered to deputize for Eddie. “Put Eddie Lake on the line,” Johnny demanded. “Eddie? Johnny Killain.”

“Well, well, well,” a bright voice chirped. “The bear that walks like a man. How much, bail? What's the charge?”

Johnny grinned. “You think I'm in trouble, Eddie?”

“Do I hear from you if you're not?” the tenor piped injuredly. “Six months an' never a word.”

“I been a little busy. So catch me up. Tell me everything you learned in the six months. It won't take long,” Johnny gibed.

“I'll tell you everything we both learned,” Eddie Lake said sharply. “That won't take any longer.”

“Same old Eddie,” Johnny said, laughing. “Quick on th' trigger. Listen.” He turned serious. “Grab one of your shysters an' get over to the precinct an' spring a boy by the name of Jules Tremaine. Residence is the Hotel Alden. He was scooped a couple hours ago.”

“Is it bailable?”

“I doubt there's a charge. I think they're goosin' him on general principles.”

“Anything I should know?”

“A monied party got dusted off the other night. I think they're tryin' to put this boy close to the scene.”

“That's a little bit more than general principles. If they do, my money's no good.”

“You get him out before they do. He's not the type to talk quick an' easy. Bring him up to the Alden. I'll be in the lobby. How long will it take?”

“Not so very if you didn't keep me hanging on the phone answering foolish questions. If I spring him at all. I'll see you.”

Johnny smiled as he hung up. He headed for a lobby chair and sank down into one that commanded a full view of the front entrance. By the time he had taken out and lit up one of his recently purchased cigars, the smile had been replaced by a scowl.

He was remembering the evening he had picked up Gloria Philips at the Spandau office for their dinner date. The redhead had locked up. Jules Tremaine had not been there.

Johnny frowned down at the wreathed blue smoke curling from the cigar ash. Could it actually have been Tremaine with Arends up in the blonde's apartment?

He had time to consider another problem that had been tickling at his consciousness for some time. Where could Claude Dechant have hidden a thirty-pound object measuring eighteen by fifteen inches? Hidden it well enough to escape the eager beavers whose sole idea was its recovery?

Knowing Dechant, he probably wouldn't trust it too far away from him, yet Max Stitt, who should have known Dechant and his ways better than any of them, had been unable to find it.

If you believe him, Killain. If you believe him.

Johnny sighed, stretched out his legs and settled down to wait grimly for part of the answer, at least, to be delivered to him.

If Tremaine had been in Madeleine Winters' apartment with Jack Arends, Johnny wanted a few words with Jules Tremaine.

Dan Marlowe

The Fatal Frails

CHAPTER VIII

JOHNNY ROSE TO HIS FEET as Jules Tremaine entered the Alden lobby, a fat man in a flamboyant green suit on his heels. “Eddie!” Johnny called as Tremaine headed for the elevators.

“Ho, there, Big Bear,” the fat man returned in a high, piping voice. “Here's your boy. Good thing I went over there.” He glanced sardonically at the big man, who had stopped and was listening with every indication of impatience. The handsome face looked angry, Johnny thought. “No one was happy to see me, strangely enough. Not Dameron. Not your boy here, either.”

“When I need help, I'll ask for it.” Jules Tremaine bit off the words viciously.

“You needed it when I got there, son,” Eddie Lake told him unruffledly. “Dameron's boys were leanin' all over the apartment help to get a positive identification,” he explained to Johnny. “The first go-round the help had said well, now, we're not sure. After some pullin' an' haulin' the police had one of 'em teeterin' on the verge of sayin' positively. When I got my lawyer in there he broke it up.”

“When I need help-” the big man began again in his clipped, British accent, and looked at Johnny as though a new thought had just occurred to him. “How the devil did you know where to find me? They let me speak to no one.”

Johnny nodded at the cigar counter. “Your friend there.”

“Friend?” Tremaine looked in the direction Johnny indicated. “What friend?”

“The clerk,” Johnny said impatiently. “I don't know his name.”

Jules Tremaine's smile was mirthless. “I'm quite sure I don't, either.”

“What's the gag?” Johnny inquired. “Very hush-hush he told me you'd been picked up. He's not a friend of yours?”

“He'd like to be a friend of mine.”

Eddie Lake chuckled appreciatively and jabbed Johnny in the ribs. “Big Bear, your unsophisticated nature's showing. Don't you know that when a man looks like Tremaine here it's not only the women he has to fight off?”

Johnny looked at the cigar counter again. “I'll be damned. I never had one go to bat for me.”

“With your face?” the fat man snorted. He thrust out a hand. “Drop around sometime when you run out of friends. We'll warm up the pinochle deck.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” Johnny told him, shaking the hand.

“Odd type, that, for a professional bondsman,” Jules Tremaine observed when Eddie Lake had departed. “Cocky beggar. Fairly took over when he walked in down there.”

“You've met so many bondsmen you know the type,” Johnny suggested.

“They're quite of a piece, actually. Come along upstairs.” In the elevator the Frenchman was silent, but he continued in the corridor. “This sending a lawyer and bondsman. I wouldn't have you consider me ungrateful, but I feel quite capable of managing my own affairs. And I frankly don't get the point.”

“Easy,” Johnny said. “I wanted you obligated to me.”

“Indeed?” Jules Tremaine led the way into his apartment. “Why?”

“They asked you over there if you had an alibi for the time the shot came through Madeleine Winters' door?” Johnny countered.

The Frenchman smiled. “It was because they established that I did that your friend had so little difficulty in effecting my release. It quite took the starch out of them. They weren't nearly so assertive then about my alleged presence with Arends.”

“But you actually were there?”

It was Tremaine's turn to ignore a question. From a wall closet he took down a bottle and two brandy ponies. He filled each a third full and handed one to Johnny. “Did you luck into this thing of Hegel's, Killain? Or did you have something regular going with Claude?”

“Nothin' regular,” Johnny said promptly. “Why?” He sniffed at his glass, looked at the Frenchman above the rim and sniffed again. He sipped, and waited. “Man!” he said reverently. He set down his glass, picked up the bottle and revolved it between his palms. “Annagnac. Only the best. Goes down like velvet, an' the glow comes from the inside out.” He picked up his glass and sipped again.

“I've a hundred fifty cases,” Jules Tremaine said casually. Their eyes met above Johnny's glass. Johnny picked up the bottle and looked at it again. “Exactly,” the Frenchman said smoothly. “A deficiency of excise tax stamps.”

“You an' Dechant were bringin' this in duty-free a hundred fifty cases at a crack?” Johnny asked incredulously. “That's a nice piece of pocket change.”

“I supplied the source and the transport,” Tremaine said modestly. “Claude supplied the buyers. With Claude gone, I've a hundred fifty cases and no buyer.”

“Very simple solution, Tremaine.”

“Really? You'll forgive my ignorance?”

“Simple,” Johnny repeated. “Drink it. I'll help.” He held out his glass again.

Jules Tremaine's smile was meager as he poured. “Esthetically I'd agree, but unfortunately it's left me cut off at the pockets. I need the money.”

Johnny sipped thoughtfully at his replenished glass. “You must've had a reason for tellin' me this.”

“You seem an ingenious sort. Since I'm rather at a dead end myself, I'll admit I'm not above taking suggestions where I find them. Or perhaps we might take it a step further.” The liquid dark eye, so feminine in appearance even in so masculine a man, considered Johnny. “You mentioned a desire to have me obligated to you. Why?”

“Maybe I was thinkin' of double-harness.”

“A full partnership?” The Frenchman nodded slowly.

“It had occurred to me.”

“'Course, it'd have to be on shares,” Johnny said. “My contribution is worth a hell of a lot more than yours.”

“But yours is a one-time thing,” Tremaine pointed out.

“Mine is a steady, assured income. And there is the question of relative risk.” He smiled. “However, if we're in general agreement, there's no pressing need for fine print in the clauses right this moment, is there? Let's say that we'll- all-consult on the matter of the Armagnac. I've a couple cases in the closet here. I'll be glad to drop one off at your hotel to aid in your mental processes.”

“You just acquired a consultant,” Johnny said. “Long term.” He pointed at the bottle of Armagnac. “Nobody knows about this, Tremaine?”

“Nobody.” The big man was emphatic. “It was one of Claude's more prominent virtues that his little deals were private. I'm sure he had others-certainly with Stitt-but, as well as I knew Claude, he never dropped a syllable.”

“I was out to see Stitt,” Johnny said. “He's a half owner in the business now. Signed a contract with Arends' widow. He says he's retired from the old game.”

“Has he, now?” Jules Tremaine asked softly. “It would be a shame in a way to permit that source of manipulation to dry up, wouldn't it?”

“He sounded like he meant it.” Johnny rose to his feet. “How quick can you deliver this stuff if I find a buyer?”

“Two hours.” Tremaine looked at him curiously. “Is it that easy? Kindly have the grace to make it look a bit difficult, or you'll have me doubting my own intelligence.”

“It's just an idea.” Johnny moved to the door. “It may not work. Don't forget that consultin' fee.”

Whether it worked or not, he thought on the way down to the street, he had an idea that it could be fun.

Late afternoon sunlight was filtering through the slatted Venetian blinds as Johnny, hearing the sound of a key in the lock, roused himself in the armchair in which he had been dozing. Madeleine Winters entered her apartment with Ernest Faulkner in tow. Her blonde head turned and she addressed him over her shoulder as she closed the door. ”-appreciate it if you would take just a quick look around, Ernest. Ever since the other-” The appealing smile with which she was favoring the lawyer froze grotesquely as she turned and saw Johnny in the chair. “How did you get in here, Killain?” she demanded in a tone that would cut glass.

“You make it sound like it was hard to do,” Johnny said. “That's not much of a lock you've got on that door.”

“There'll be a different one tomorrow,” the blonde promised grimly.

“It may be different, but will it be any better? You'd be lockin' the barn door then after the mare'd eloped, anyway. I already took a pretty good look around.”

The furious green eyes left his face to dart rapidly about the room. Ernest Faulkner spoke for the first time. “Really, Killain,” he said with distaste. “Breaking and entering?”

“You see anything broken an' entered?” Johnny asked him. “I think the lady just forgot to lock her door.” He grinned at them both. “What the hell, Ernest, you're lucky I'm a gentleman by instinct. I could've hidden under the bed.”

“When I want a comedian I'll turn on the television set,” Madeleine Winters said frigidly as Faulkner flushed. “Exactly what do you think you're doing here?”

“Tell you the truth, I come over to see how you stack up in the daylight, Madeleine.” Johnny rose deliberately from his chair, took the blonde by the arm and with two fingers tipped up her chin into a ray of sunlight. “You're givin' it a hell of a battle, kid,” he told her. Eyes flashing, she raised a hand to slap him. Johnny slightly increased the two-finger pressure under the firm chin, and Madeleine Winters tilted backward on her high heels. Her hand dropped to her side as Johnny eased up just before she went completely over. “I also come over to talk a little business, sugar.”

The green eyes raked him angrily. “I want nothing to do with you. Nothing!”

“This is money I'm talkin' about,” Johnny said reasonably. “Dinero. Mucho moolah bux. You allergic to it?”

Her eyes went from him to Faulkner, calculatingly. Her manner underwent a transformation nothing short of miraculous. “Ernest,” she cooed. “I'm sure that I can handle him now. Why don't you run along? You can call me later if you like.”

“Do you think it's wise?” he asked doubtfully. “The man's obviously a ruffian.” He scowled at Johnny, if the weak face could ever be said to scowl, Johnny thought.

“I can handle him, Ernest,” she repeated rapidly. She put a placating hand on his arm. “I appreciate your concern, believe me.” The hand on his arm had the lawyer on his way to the door before he even realized it. “Be sure and call me this evening, Ernest. And thank you very much.” With a brilliant smile she patted his arm and ushered him through the door.

Johnny congratulated her. “Very efficient removal job. What's that boy got that I haven't that he gets invited in?”

“An L.L.D. after his name. Now what were you looking for in here?” she demanded in a no-nonsense tone.

“That was just propaganda for Ernest,” Johnny said comfortably. “You know the only reason I'm here is to road-test those black silk sheets.”

She stared at him, her lower lip lightly pinched between even white teeth. “Sometimes I think you're mad. You said you had business to discuss!”

“Oh, if you got to talk business-” Johnny waved a negligent hand. “Can you find a buyer for a hundred fifty cases of Armagnac under the market? Ten dollars a case finder's fee if you produce one. Fifteen hundred gefilte fish to line your girdle with.”

“You're serious?” She sat down on the couch opposite and smoothed her dress down over her knees. “Under the market? What's the price? It's smuggled, isn't it?” she asked shrewdly.

“Now don't you worry your little blonde head about that, sugar, or about the price, either. That's between me an' the buyer, if an' when you find one. Just you concentrate on findin' me a live one for little Johnny. A live one's worth ten clams per case.”

“I might know someone,” she said meditatively. “Yes, I think I might. I'm almost sure of it.”

“Okay.” Johnny stood up quickly. “That takes care of the business.” He extended a hand to Madeleine Winters on the couch. “Let's adjourn the meetin' to the playground.” He pushed the hand at her insistently when she tried to ignore it. When it was in her face she took it in self-defense, and he drew her slowly to her feet.

“You are crazy,” she said calmly. “You don't feel there's something a little cold-blooded about your approach?”

“We're adults, sugar. Who needs the moonlight an' roses?” He led her into the bedroom. She watched with amusement tinged with wariness as he turned down the bed and ran a hand lightly over the exposed ebony glossiness. “Nice,” he approved, and sat down in a boudoir chair and removed his shoes and socks.

Madeleine Winters stood at the foot of the bed and eyed him, the corners of her mouth twitching, as he shed clothing in a rainbowed shower. He climbed naked onto the bed, bounced on it twice, experimentally, and rolled onto his back, grunting pleasurably. He sat up immediately to look at her. “Well, come on. Let's roll the wagons.”

“If you aren't the damnedest-” the blonde said between her teeth. She stepped back to the wall and flicked a switch. A motor purred, the Venetian blinds slatted together and darkness rushed in upon the bedroom. There was another click, and rows of tiny lights came on at baseboard height all around the room. Two brighter ones appeared at either side of the large boudoir mirror, and Johnny looked up to find himself portrayed as Nude on Bearskin. “And I supply technique, not calisthenics,” Madeleine Winters continued. A third click produced a whirring noise, and a flash of light directed Johnny's attention upward, where he saw himself in a ceiling mirror.

“Damn if you don't supply technique, sugar.” He reached for her as she slid easily onto the bed. “Remind me to give you your grade afterward.” He rolled her up onto his chest and admired the ceiling view. “That LX.D. of Faulkner's. He earn it in here?”

“That, you big buffalo, is none of your damned business,” she told him sweetly.

“What the hell, I've got a degree of my own. Had it longer'n Faulkner's had his. Meet Johnny Killain, C.P.B.” She lifted her head to try to see his face. “You never heard of it? Nothin' honorary about my degree, kid. I was valedictorian of my class at Roll-Up-Your-Sleeves-an'-Spit-on-Your-Hands University, too.”

Her voice was muffled as her body moved beneath his hands. “And what is-this degree-of C.P.B.?”

“Certified Prize Bull.”

He bit her, lightly, and smothered her giggle and her gasped protest against his big chest.

The Heritage Building was so brand new that some windows on the upper floors still had supporting white adhesive x's on them, Johnny noticed as he crossed the street. The ground floor interior seemed composed of tastefully polished sandstone and people in a hurry. There were no wall directories that Johnny could see. Aimed by a harried brunette behind a makeshift desk he descended a flight of stairs to a basement smelling of damp cement and powdered plaster and found Harry Palmer drinking coffee from a paper cup in a room that, in its jumbled litter, resembled a carpenter's workbench.

“Thought I'd anyway find you in the penthouse,” Johnny told the little man, who bounded energetically to his feet from the depths of a battered office chair.

“I can buy and sell six times over the boob paying the rent on that penthouse,” Harry Palmer announced snappily, “but does that mean I have to be a boob, too, and give that rent away?” He turned behind him to a door half hidden by leaning plywood panels. “Tiny!” he yelled. “More coffee!” He turned back to Johnny, rubbing his hands together. “We'll have a hundred per cent occupancy by the first of the month. I'm my own rental agent, too. Why give it away?”

“Who's your building superintendent?” Johnny inquired, already knowing the answer. He held up a hand. “I know. Why give it away?” He looked at the little man curiously. “You actually tryin' to run a building this size out of your hat?”

“Why not?” Harry Palmer bristled. “It's my building.”

“You're gonna get damn sick of the noise you get,” Johnny predicted.

“I'm sick of it now,” Palmer admitted gloomily, suddenly deflated. “Headaches. Squawks. Oi. You want a job?” he asked, briefly hopeful.

“How can I go to work for a man guns me in the dark just for easin' him out of a blonde's apartment?”

“You know goddam well that wasn't me,” Harry Palmer growled. “Or anyone connected with me.”

“Yeah? Remind me, champ. How do I know it?”

“I've got a witness,” Harry Palmer said slyly. “Here he is now.” Johnny looked up to see the big man from the apartment that night come out of the back room with a container of coffee lost in a massive paw. A chauffeur's cap that looked about the size of a beret perched squarely on top of the bullet head. “Tiny, here's a friend of yours,” Harry Palmer said gleefully, and moved back out of the way.

“H'ya, Tiny,” Johnny said easily. “Thanks for not makin' me look bad in front of the blonde the other night.”

Tiny's smile displayed snaggleteeth. “Y'got y'self t' t'ank, buster. I'da done th' giant swing wit'cha if I'da reached ya.” The man-mountain's words were hoarse, breathy and run together. “Whachuweigh, Killain?”

“Right at two forty.”

“You go pretty good for a guy don't weigh no more'n that.” The big man looked at Johnny thoughtfully. “You work out around town a-tall?”

“I go up to the Russian's once in a while.”

“How d'ya rate with Dmitri?”

“He plays handball with me off the walls.”

“Dmitri don't get onto the mat with no one he can play handball wit' off the walls,” Tiny said impassively. He rubbed his chin, looked at the coffee in his hand and set it down on the desk. “Like to try you on again sometime,” he concluded almost absently.

Harry Palmer snorted indignantly. “Aren't you two going to fight?” he demanded.

“That what you want?” Johnny asked him. “Throw a couple hundred dollars up there on the table.”

“Four hundred,” Tiny stipulated. He smiled his broken-toothed smile. “We'll split,” he told Johnny.

“You two go to hell.” The jaunty little man moved away from the wall to which he had retreated. “For four hundred I can buy a massacre.”

“For four hundred that's what we'll give ya,” Tiny informed him hoarsely. “Right, Killain?” He placed a huge palm, fingers wide-spread, in the center of Johnny's chest and slowly brought the weight of his shoulder to bear behind it. “Mebbe my foot didn' slip,” he said reluctantly after a moment. He looked at Palmer. “For four C's we could fin' out?”

Harry Palmer shook his head. “Right now I want him healthy,” he said briskly. His face darkened. “So long as I don't go on hearing about my bushwhacking him in doorways. You just come over here to needle me, Killain?”

“Guy I'm thinkin' of goin' into business with gave me your name as a character reference,” Johnny said. “I thought I'd check. Jules Tremaine.”

“That gonif!” the little man exploded. “He never gave you my name as a character reference. He knows better. He killed Jack Arends. The damn fool police might not-”

“The damn fool police picked him up an' questioned him on that. He's still walkin' around.”

“That's why they're damn fools. He did it,” Palmer insisted stubbornly. “I sent Tiny over there with a picture of him, and the doorman identified him as the man who went upstairs with Jack before you and Madeleine and Gloria arrived. No one saw him leave.”

“Speakin' of damn fools,” Johnny said drily, “you didn't stop to think that if the doorman mentioned that to Tremaine it would warn him to spread a little grease around to smear identification? The police had to let him go because they couldn't get a positive.”

“Is that right?” The little man looked momentarily abashed. “I don't care,” he said, rallying. “Tremaine killed Jack, and he tried to kill Madeleine. Only thing prevented him was that you opened the door instead. He hates her. It's-”

“He's ironclad on an alibi for the time I got nipped,” Johnny interrupted.

“Alibi!” Palmer sneered. “Gloria Philips is his alibi, and when Tremaine snaps his fingers that roundheels falls over backward. Alibi!”

“The police-”

“I don't give a damn about the police!” Harry Palmer's graying hair stood up all over his head as he ran an excited palm through it. “They couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with the sides out. I tell you this Tremaine is no damn good. He's a cutie, right in Dechant's class. I had to fire him myself when I had him working for me in Europe. I had to read every report of his three times looking for twists and angles. Even after I'd warned her, Madeleine caught him flimflamming her on a job she'd hired him for in Basel, and she hung him out to dry. He swore he'd get even.”

“Then why would he go to her apartment with Arends?”

“He didn't know why he was there.” Harry Palmer paused, as though considering. “Jack's gone now; I guess it won't make any difference if I tell you. This is a little involved. Jack had this long-time girl friend he'd set up in a lingerie shop down below Herald Square. The place even made a little money.”

He smiled as though at some secret joke. “I don't know why the hell it is even the smartest guys think they're putting something over on their wives. The day after the funeral Mrs. Arends didn't even wait to sell the lingerie shop; she just went down there and turned the key in the door. It's in a broker's hands now.” He gestured dismissingly. “Anyway, a couple of years ago Claude Dechant came to Jack and offered to supply him with duty-free perfume, the expensive stuff, for the lingerie shop. The place was a natural outlet for it, Jack went for the idea, and the arrangement continued until Dechant's death.”

Palmer shook his head wonderingly. “Then a lot of things happened. It turned out Claude had only been the middleman; he picked up the stuff at this end of the line and turned it over to Jack. When Dechant died the purser on the steamer who'd actually been bringing it in had perfume and no place to put it. Somehow he knew that Claude knew Tremaine, and he went to Tremaine. That smart bastard put two and two together and went to see Jack. Among the three of them they got the perfume wheels turning again, but then Jack got hungry.”

Harry Palmer drew a deep breath. “I told you this was involved. Jack went to Madeleine. He wanted her to open up a couple of shops as additional outlets, and he told her why. He never mentioned Tremaine, knowing Madeleine would have run five miles at the sound of his name. Where Jack made his mistake was he didn't realize Jules felt just as strong the other way. Having a good-sized streak of larceny in her, Madeleine liked the sound of the thing, all except the part about the investment required to open the new shops. Madeleine's idea is bully for the profit motif, but risk her own capital to obtain it? Don't be silly, dear man. Madeleine came to a bloke named Harry Palmer.”

The little man leveled a finger at himself. “Right about there was where that shmuck Harry Palmer began to get an idea for the first time of what Dechant had been doing with Palmer's money that supposedly was being used for legitimate importing. Now you should understand, Killain, that when Madeleine asks me for something, mostly she gets it.” He shrugged. “So I'm a sucker. I'll probably die of a heart attack in that wide-screen bed of hers one of these days, and it will be damn well worth it. Anyway, this time I turned her down. I'm afraid of the Treasury Department, and before I'd finished talking to her she was afraid, too. She went back and told Jack no dice, but Jack wasn't the type to give up that easily. I figure he brought Tremaine over there to try a little head-knocking. When he gave Tremaine the pitch to warm him up, Tremaine blew his stack, particularly that Madeleine of all people should have been told of the original operation. I think he threatened to pull out altogether, right there, that Jack got a little ugly and Tremaine a damn sight uglier. Tremaine blasted Jack, and took off.”

Armagnac, and now perfume, Johnny thought. Jules Tremaine was fast getting to be a boy tycoon. Johnny grinned at Harry Palmer. “So you didn't like the perfume business? I wonder how you'll like the liquor business?” He started backing to the door.

“Liquor business?” Palmer asked puzzledly. His eyes widened as he noted Johnny's flank exiting. “Hey! I want to talk to-”

“I'm late,” Johnny said from the doorway. He wanted none of the little man's shrewd questions right now. “Damn it, Killain! There's a couple of things-”

“Drop over and see me, Harry.” Johnny went up the passage at a fast walk, with Palmer's irritated bark ringing in his ears.

CHAPTER IX

Johnny awoke, with a start, in total darkness. Animal instinct told him that he was not in his own bed. In the second it took him to claw his way back to full consciousness he realized that what had awakened him was a round knee in the small of his back. In the same second he knew where he was.

“Awake?” Gloria Philips' husky voice murmured in his ear.

“Yeah.” He was wide awake, and shaken. “Listen, kid. Don't wake me like that again. Some things I do by reflex. You wouldn't appreciate it.”

“Well-” she said, pouting, “you must admit it's not very flattering, having you fall asleep like that. Cigarette?”

“Yeah. An' I can sleep anywhere.”

“Obviously.” She sat up beside him, and he heard the double click-click of her lighter as it misfired once before catching. In its sudden flare he saw the long, curving sweep of bare shoulders and back, and the frown of concentration on the beautiful ivory oval of her features as she lighted two cigarettes at once. Golden freckles splashed lightly on the milky skin down to the full white breasts, then vanished. “Here.” She handed him a cigarette, snapped-off the lighter and lay down beside him again. “The carpet's the ashtray.” She turned restlessly onto her side. “I'm about ready to move out of here, anyway.”

“Seems comfortable enough,” Johnny said lazily. He folded his hands behind his head.

“I want style!” Gloria said emphatically. She punched her pillow with a soft thump. “I want an apartment like Madeleine's, but paid for by me. I like independence.” “You should've gotten your name on the list for some of Claude's variations on the theme,” Johnny told her. He turned his head to try to see her face. “Or did you?”

“Sometimes I wonder what you think you know,” the soft voice said resentfully. “And sometimes I wonder if you know anything at all. How much time do you think Claude had for me with Madeleine all over him all of the time?”

God pity the man if he'd been burning that candle at both ends, Johnny thought to himself. Even a bullet in the head might have seemed like sweet, sweet peace. Max Stitt had said that Claude Dechant had lacked perspective where women were concerned. Johnny remembered the importer's face as he had seen it that last night at the registration desk, worn and weary. “What I saw of him, I'd have thought Dechant stressed the dollar sign,” Johnny said lightly. “But then I guess you ladies saw another side of him.”

“After we saw the dollar-sign side,” the redhead said grimly. “Speaking personally, anyway. Of course I'm not qualified to speak for the chief whore.”

He was surprised at the venom in her tone. “Strong language for a stockholder of the company that hires you,” he suggested.

“I hate her!” Gloria Philips sat up and drummed on her knees with clenched fists. “I've always hated her. That sneaky smile of hers, the cat-that-just-swallowed-the-canary look, the things she says about me she doesn't think I know. If it wasn't for that stinking money of hers, she'd be nothing but a skinny, washed-out, peroxided bitch.” Her tone changed. “Money,” the redhead said softly. “That's what I want.”

“So what's the master plan? Marryin' Palmer? Or Tremaine?”

“Palmer!” she sniffed. “The blonde has him wrapped around her little finger. “And Jules has no money.” She said it impatiently. “Jules and I understand each other, but Jules has no money.” She stretched out on her back again. “I had hopes for you when you first came bursting into view,” she said sulkily. “But you talk, and talk, and nothing happens. I wouldn't have thought one little bullet in the side would have so discouraged a great big man like you.” Irony flavored her tone.

“You never know, do you?” Johnny said amiably. “You don't hate the blonde so much you'd give Tremaine an alibi he wasn't entitled to for that job, would you?”

The glowing tip of her cigarette described a flashing arc as she turned to try to see his face. “How did you know-” The anger ebbed from the husky voice. “Not that it matters, since you do. Anyway, it wasn't Jules who did it. I can vouch for that.”

“You did,” Johnny pointed out. “It helped him. Who's your candidate?”

“Max Stitt.” Gloria said it with no hesitation at all. “Although he didn't mean it for you. He meant it for Madeleine.”

“You don't like Stitt, either, so-”

She interrupted him. “My not liking him hasn't a thing to do with it. He tried to kill her because he knew she'd turned him and Claude in to customs a month ago.”

“On this unchanged-over symbol business?”

“No. I told you before that Stitt had nothing to do with that. This was much more elaborate. Three months ago Claude bought ten thousand cheap watch movements in Switzerland. Packed five hundred to a case, it made twenty cases. On a big shipment like that, the customs inspectors spot check. That is, they'll open each case, but they won't examine each movement. They might look at the whole top layer of one case, and on the next they might remove the top layer without checking it and check one movement in each succeeding layer all the way to the bottom of the case. Now suppose you knew that a customs team would inspect all the even-numbered cases by checking the top layer only, and all the odd-numbered cases by checking the bottom layers only, what would you do?”

“Put the biggest diamonds I could buy in each of the movements I knew wasn't going to be checked, I guess,” Johnny said drily.

“Or at least substitute a very expensive movement for the cheap ones,” Gloria agreed. “There's no difference in size.”

“But there's a big difference in the duty. That must have run into some money,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “Why the hell would she turn them in on it?”

“Because they tried to pull it off without saying a word to her, and it had been her idea originally. She had had the first contact with the air-customs team, and the word got back to her. She just didn't realize they'd find out where the tipoff came from. In some manner that I don't understand Stitt was in the clear, but Claude would have been indicted.”

Johnny threw back the covers, sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched slowly. He began to dress. “You think that's why he killed himself?”

“If he knew, I think it very likely. It would have been the end of the line. I don't see how he could have known, though, just off the Swiss plane as he was.”

Johnny thought of the importer standing at the desk the night of his return and separating one letter from his stack of mail. Had the police ever found that letter? “The shipment was knocked off?”

“Impounded under Treasury seal in a government-bonded warehouse. Forty-two thousand dollars of Harry Palmer's dearly beloved money tied up.”

“How is it that you know all-” Johnny began, and stopped. “Oh, sure. Dear Ernest is still unravelin' the kinks. It must be aging the poor boy.” He bent over and groped for his shoes. “Put the light on, will you?” He blinked in the soft rush of light. The shoes tied, he turned to the bed to find Gloria Philips chastely beneath the spread, her blue-gray eyes steadily upon him.

“You don't have the monstrance,” she said suddenly. “I don't know why I didn't see it before. You should have told me. I've been wasting time. Since I thought you had it, I wasn't watching anyone else. If you'd told me, I could probably have steered you to it by now.”

Johnny stared down into the wise eyes. “You're with me, is that it?”

Her upper lip curled. “If I'm with you, it's because nobody else is with me. I couldn't get a dime out of the whole crowd put together.” She smiled at him. “Faint hope is better than no hope. You're my faint hope. But you should have told me.”

“If you're right, I should have told you.”

“I'm right,” she said confidently.

“Dechant was really overboard on the blonde?”

She was suddenly angry again. “It was almost pathological, the hold she had on him! I've never-”

“Okay, okay. Don't blow your boiler, little sister. Thanks for the entertainment. Send me a bill sometime.”

“No need.” She stretched luxuriantly beneath the spread, her smile impish. “My accountant says it comes under tax-deductible depreciation of a business asset.”

He had to smile. “Now I've heard it called everything. Toodleoo, queenie.”

“Johnny!” she called from the bedroom when he had a hand on the doorknob in the hall. He went back and looked in the door. She was kneeling up in the bed. “If you find out anything, call me,” she said earnestly. “I might have an idea that could help.”

“You never know,” Johnny agreed, and retraced his steps. In the corridor he looked at his watch and avoided the elevator. He ran lightly down the stairs.

The night air was mild. The stars were out, he noticed. Warm day tomorrow. Make that hot. Tough on night workers trying to sleep. Not as-

His feet did an instinctive shuffle to put himself on balance as a dark shadow detached itself from the building wall and loomed up in his path. “What are you doing snooping around up there, Killain?” Jules Tremaine demanded in a tight, hard tone. Even in the comparatively poor street light Johnny could see the heavy scowl on the handsome face.

“I didn't see any claim stakes on the property up there,” Johnny told him. “What's your beef with me, Frenchie?”

“You're too damned nosy!” Tremaine said violently. “And she's worse, playing both ends against the middle. I should never have said a word to you.”

“Maybe you're makin' sense to you, but you're sure as hell not to me,” Johnny said. “Take your troubles to the chaplain, sonny. Now get out of the way.”

“When I'm ready,” the Frenchman said deliberately. “First-”

“First, hell!” Johnny said abruptly, and drove a shoulder into the big man, who staggered backward half a dozen steps.

“Merde!” Tremaine growled, and bounded forward. His hand flashed from the pocket of his jacket, and his arm swung at Johnny's head. Johnny ducked, but not far enough. Something heavy struck him a glancing blow on the scalp and knocked him into the apartment building wall. He came off it with a muttered sound, deep in his throat, and grabbed Jules Tremaine by the forearms before the big man could swing again. Tremaine gasped and whitened as Johnny's hands clamped down on his arms. There was a clatter of metal as the gun in the big man's hand fell to the street.

“Break it up! Break it up over there!” Detective James Rogers ran across the street, his lightweight panama pushed back on his head. “Let go of him, damn it!” he said to Johnny, and Jules Tremaine slumped loosely against the building as Johnny reluctantly complied. “What the hell's going on here?” Rogers demanded. He stooped and picked up the gun. “You got a permit for this thing?”

Tremaine nodded. “Hip pocket,” he said weakly.

Rogers stared. “Then get it out-” he started, and stopped. “Turn around,” he said shortly. He slipped Tremaine's wallet from his back pocket as the Frenchman obeyed. The detective thumbed through it rapidly, removed a stiff, folded paper and deliberately put it and the gun in his pocket. “You come by the station in the morning and we'll see if you still have one.” He restored the wallet. “Now take off.” Without a word Jules Tremaine stumbled up the street.

“You followin' me or him, Jimmy?” Johnny wanted to know.

Detective Rogers' eyes were still on the man moving away from them. “Look at him. Can't lift his hands to his beltline. Might be able to comb his hair in about three days.” He swung on Johnny indignantly. “I swear you ought to be under lock and key.”

“I'm supposed to stand still while he works out on my head with that iron?” Johnny asked irritably.

“And why was he working out on your head?”

“Jealous, I guess. Only reason I know.”

“That's a likely damn story. Where did you come from just now?”

“So it was Tremaine you were followin',” Johnny said with satisfaction.

“I asked you a question! And another one is what is this man's connection with Dechant?”

Johnny shrugged. “Damned if I know. Oh, I'll grant you I got three, four people all lyin' to me from different directions about his connection and theirs, but as far as the truth is concerned right this minute I don't know up from sideways.”

“But if you knew you'd be happy to tell me, of course?” the detective inquired sweetly. Hands on hips, he surveyed Johnny crustily.

“You know it, Jimmy. Say, you remember that letter of Dechant's I told you to look for? The one he seemed to give special attention to the night he came in? You guys ever find it?” He grinned at Rogers' silence. “I see you did. Was it a letter to the effect that a certain shipment had been impounded and put in a government warehouse by the customs?”

“There was no letter.” Rogers paused, and seemed to be tasting the flavor of what he'd just said. “Where are you getting your information, Johnny?”

“Right now, from you,” Johnny said promptly. “You wouldn't kid me? There almost had to be a letter.”

“There was no letter,” the detective repeated. He looked at Johnny steadily. “It was a newspaper clipping.”

“Ahh,” Johnny said softly. “What a body blow that must have been to the master thief. All the years with never a bruise to show for it, and he stands there reading that and sees himself hung from a hook in the icebox. He couldn't take it. When I stood there in his room and hollered 'Food an' visitors' to him in the bathroom, he might not even have looked. He just went for the gun in the dressing gown an' dented his brain.”

“Who was in with him on the deal, Johnny?”

“You want hearsay?”

“It could be better than what I have.”

“I was told — ” Johnny emphasized the word-“that it was Max Stitt.”

Rogers looked surprised. “That's not what I expected to hear.”

“'Course it wasn't, if you're followin' Tremaine. How come you turned loose of him so quick just now?”

“Maybe it wasn't Tremaine I was following, Johnny.” Amusement glinted in the hazel eyes.

“Then the next place you can follow me is back to the hotel,” Johnny said. “The boat's leavin' right now.”

“I may be over later,” the detective said easily. “Don't let me keep you.”

Johnny turned away a little uneasily. He walked up to the corner, and stood there undecided. If Rogers stepped inside the apartment building and saw G. Philips on a mailbox-hell, Johnny reminded himself impatiently, Jimmy had her address anyway. That ever-present little notebook of his must have told him in whose neighborhood he'd found Killain and Tremaine at each other's throats. And, if Rogers decided to go up there and talk to her about it, there sure as hell wasn't anything Killain could do to prevent it. And, for that matter, he'd wager that G. Philips was perfectly capable of holding her own.

He shrugged finally, and hailed a cab. He wondered why Jimmy Rogers was more willing to believe it was Tremaine than Stitt he was looking for. Because the doorman and the other help at the Winters' apartment building hadn't identified Stitt? They hadn't identified Tremaine, either, but it had evidently been a near thing.

He stood on the sidewalk in front of the Duarte after paying off the cabbie. There was another possibility. Jimmy Rogers might know, something about Jules Tremaine that Johnny didn't. If Rogers-

Johnny became aware of Paul Sassella inside, waving to him vigorously through two sets of glass doors. Johnny went through the foyer in a hurry. “Call the Rosario,” Paul said to him the second he had his head in the lobby. “Urgent.”

Johnny headed for the booth phones, dredging up change. He was passed so swiftly up the line of the cardinal's filtering-out section it was obvious his call was expected. “Kiki? Killain. Trouble?”

“I thought I should call you, Johnny.” The cardinal's tone was grave. “I talked to my office at home today. One message said that a dealer in Barcelona had called and reported a monstrance offered to him for purchase.”

“Ow!” Johnny breathed. “Any details?”

“It happened four days ago, the offer was made in the form of a cable and it came from New York. The dealer was inquiring as to my interest.”

“Sabotage,” Johnny said wryly. “I been workin' on Dechant's associates, tryin' to give the impression I had the thing. You'd given me enough information to give it a good pitch. I'd hoped to get enough of a 'You're crazy, Jack' reaction from the guy who had it to give me somethin' to go on. This offer goes to show you I haven't been talkin' to the right people.” He thought a moment. “Any signature on the cable that meant anything?”

“The signature was E. McPartland. No return address. Reply to be addressed 'Will Call' to the cable office in New York.”

“E. MacPartland,” Johnny repeated. “Never heard of him. More'n likely it's a phony, anyway. Sent 'Will Call,' it could be addressed to John Doe.”

“Where do you feel you stand, Johnny?”

“Nowhere,” Johnny admitted promptly. “I hate to have to tell you I'm such a muttonhead, Kiki, but it's the truth. Oh, I've got these people playin' footie with me on crooked schemes Dechant had cooked up, but so far nothin' leads back to the monstrance.”

“The thing that concerns me, of course, is that an offer might be made to a dealer who has a private client or two with no scruples about acquiring such an objet d'art.” The cardinal's voice sounded tired. “And there's the worse possibility that someone might break it up for the jewels.”

“I'll keep punchin',” Johnny promised gloomily. “Somethin' might drop. This Dechant was a whingdizzler. The man never drew an honest breath. Every stone I turn over there's a chance I'll find the right slug skitterin' off, but I don't see much daylight.”

“Well…” the cardinal's voice trailed off. “Good night, Johnny. Thanks. If I hear anything further, I'll call again.”

“Fine. Hope I can come up with somethin'.” Johnny replaced the receiver slowly. He stared out bemusedly through the booth's glass door at the darkened lobby. He roused himself finally, and went upstairs to change.

Vic Barnes waved a white envelope at him from the registration desk as Johnny stepped off the service elevator back into the lobby thirty minutes later. “Just came in, Johnny. Special messenger.

“Special messenger?” Johnny walked to the desk and took the plain white envelope with his name and that of the hotel on it. There was no return address. The envelope felt almost weightless. “What kind of special messenger?”

“Some kid in a kind of uniform. Western Union?” Vic asked himself. The round face creased with the effort of remembering. “No, I don't think so,” he decided. “Just some kind of uniform.”

Johnny slit the back flap with a thumbnail. He extracted the single bit of paper inside and looked at a check for seven hundred and fifty dollars, made out to Johnny Killain and signed in a bold, flowing hand by Maximilian Stitt. There was no message.

Now here's a man so anxious to avoid trouble he can't wait for a bill, Johnny thought. “Lend me a pen, Vic, will you?” Johnny endorsed the check, folded it, put it in the breast pocket of his uniform and went back upstairs to find Amy.

He found her in the laundry room counting sheets. “Take this an' pay off your sub-jobbers for the reclamation project,” he instructed her, handing her the check. He looked at her as she eyed him warily. “What's the matter with you?”

The colored girl's silvery giggle tinkled through the room. “Miss Sally said I should give you some elbow room 'cause you was mad at my tellin' her about your room.”

“Well, maybe I was right then.” He looked with amusement at Amy's widening eyes as she saw the check for the first time. “If you don't knock down on the deal for the price of an outfit, you're cheatin' on Amy,” he told her.

“Mmm-mhh!” she confirmed enthusiastically. “Man, man! I'll have ev'ry buck on Lenox Avenue fixin' to snap my garter.” White teeth flashing, she looked from the check back to Johnny. “Even with that chair not worth re-up-holsterin' it shouldn't come to nowhere near this.”

“I'll add what's left to the Killain Bourbon Fund.” He started for the door. “Don't skimp on that outfit.”

“Don' you worry your head one little bit about that,” Amy's voice floated after him.

Back in the lobby he found Paul at the bell-captain's desk, glumly studying the log. “Four check-ins on our shift,” Paul said. “They'll be padlocking the doors. I know I gripe when those school kids are here running up and down the corridors nights every spring, but they sure keep the old place from seeming so much like a tomb.”

“It's the permanents keep this place alive,” Johnny grunted. “Those cut-rate school bus tours don't add much except to the room occupancy percentages. Say, when the police went over Dechant's room after you and Rogers sealed it that night, who was with them from the hotel?”

“I guess someone from the auditor's office. It would have been on the day shift.”

“I'll talk to Rollins,” Johnny decided. “Hell have a list of anything removed.” He pulled at an ear lobe. “Dameron an' I are both lookin' for somethin' Dechant should have had in his room, or anyway not too far away from it,” he explained. “It struck me that the police could have found it right off the bat, or a claim check or somethin' like that, an' I could be spinnin' my wheels lookin' for a gadget Dameron already had on ice. I wouldn't put it past him.”

“How big?” Paul asked interestedly.

“Thirty pounds. Eighteen inches by fifteen inches by- hell, I don't know the other dimension.”

“If it only weighs thirty pounds, there can't be too much to the other dimension,” the practical Paul observed. “If you're carrying your burglary tools, there's a bag in the cloakroom been there since before Dechant's last trip.”

“Oh, no,” Johnny said softly.

“Don't tell me 'Oh, no',” Paul asserted sturdily. “I was looking at it over the weekend, wondering when they were going to do something about it.”

“I meant 'Oh, no, it couldn't be that easy,'“ Johnny said. “Let's have a look.” He followed the stocky Swiss through the door in the recessed niche between the elevators. Paul reached up to a rack and lifted a black bag down by the handle. “No good,” Johnny announced. “The way you swung it down it doesn't weigh enough.”

“Could be empty,” Paul admitted.

Johnny lightly toed the scuffed, cheap, pressed paper finish with its reinforced corners. The bag slid on the floor. “Not a chance,” he said disappointedly. He looked at the broad cloth straps encircling each end and buckled down at the top. “Looks like a sample case. What the hell. Watch the door.”

Quickly he unfastened the straps and tested the flimsy lock with his thumb. From his wallet he removed a thin strip of celluloid. He bent down for a second, and the lock popped open with a click. Johnny separated the two sections that nested within each other. From the bottom section he took four nine-by-twelve glossy photos swaddled in tissue, and knew the second he uncovered the top one that he was looking at a picture of the monstrance. Even in the stark black-and-white, thickly studded jewels were plainly visible in the base and along the graceful golden spikes.

The only other object in the bag was a battered black automatic.

“Call Rogers at the precinct, Paul,” Johnny said. “If he's not there, leave word for him to come by.”

CHAPTER X

“This was the bastard's sample case,” Johnny said to Detective James Rogers two hours later. Paul Sassella looked on silently as the sandy-haired detective shuffled glossy photographs. “He couldn't very well lug anything as valuable as the monstrance around with him all the time to show it, so he did the next best thing. He took pictures of it an' the other stuff he stole from Hegel, had 'em blown up an' he was in business.”

“He didn't need a case this size for four pictures and one handgun,” Rogers objected. He balanced the automatic on his palm.

“He needed a case this size if he contacted a live one who wanted to see the actual merchandise,” Johnny said. “It's our tough luck there's nothing in it now, that's all.”

The slender man held the automatic up to the light and squinted up the barrel. “Crime to leave a gun in this condition,” he said absently. “Hasn't been fired in months. Or cleaned, either.” He looked at Paul. “You got a little dab of machine oil around?”

“Sure,” Paul said readily. “I'll get it.”

Detective Rogers removed the clip from the base of the automatic and laid it aside. “Empty,” he said tersely. He took a key chain with a tiny screwdriver on it from his pocket and laid it beside the clip. In movement too quick for Johnny to follow, Rogers balanced the automatic between his palms and twisted, and with two loud clacks it came apart in his hands. Swiftly he spread out barrel, slide, grip and recoil action, picked up the barrel, sniffed at it and put it down again.

“You do that like you'd done it before,” Johnny said.

“I fool around with them.” The detective nodded as Paul came back in and handed him a small bottle and clean rag. “Thanks. Exactly what I need.” He looked at Johnny. “If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right.”

Paul looked down at the dismantled gun in surprise. “Don't you test them first for fingerprints?” he blurted, and almost blushed to find himself the center of attention.

“Metal gives a poor transfer,” Rogers said smiling, “despite what you read. We're not looking for any guns, anyway. We've got the one Dechant killed himself with, and we've got the one that killed Arends.” The slim hands flew over the piecemeal bits of metal, wiping, oiling, wiping again.

A buzzer sounded overhead. “Front desk,” Paul said conversationally, and went out to answer it.

“There was no question about the gun that got Arends?” Johnny asked. “It was the one layin' beside him?”

“No doubt at all, according to Ballistics, and they haven't made a mistake since 1908, if you listen to them.” In what looked like three deft movements, the sandy-haired man slapped the automatic back together in seconds. He wiped his greasy hands on a clean corner of the rag, his eyes appraisingly on Johnny. “Why the question?”

“I don't know,” Johnny said slowly. “It leaves you with a choice of an amateur tryin' to make it look like suicide by leavin' the gun, or an amateur gettin' the lump an' droppin' the gun in a panic when he flew.”

Rogers dropped the reassembled automatic back into the sample case. “One more for the police property officer.” He replaced the top on Paul's bottle of oil. “What's the matter with either of those pictures?”

“Nothin', probably. I just wish-”

The cloakroom door opened for a second, and Paul's head loomed in it. “Emergency, Johnny.” The door started to close as his head disappeared. Moving with a speed his bulk appeared to make impossible, Johnny caught it before it shut and was out into the lobby with Detective Rogers at his heels.

Johnny took one look at the woman being supported between two men just inside the foyer doors, her face a bloody mask in which the only recognizable feature was one eye fixed in staring shock. “Take her up on the mezzanine, Paul!” he said over his shoulder, and continued on to the switchboard without breaking stride. “Ring Doc Randall, ma,” he said to Sally, and picked up a house phone. He heard the click of the connection in the middle of the second ring. “Killain, Doc. Bring your bag down to the mezzanine. Don't wait for your pants.” The connection was gone with an explosive grunt.

“What is it?” Sally wanted to know as he hung up.

“Car accident, looks like. Call the hospital and get an ambulance over here.” His eyes were on the little group of men moving carefully up the mezzanine steps with their burden. “Doc'll probably give me hell for movin' her, but the lounge up there's a damn sight better'n a marble floor.”

He went up the mezzanine stairs three at a time and reached the top as Dr. Randall emerged from the elevator with Paul beside him. In pajamas and dressing gown with trailing cord, and his white hair standing up all over his head, the doctor hurried into the oval, curtained lounge, carrying his little black bag. Johnny could hear his brisk voice. “All right. Let's get half of these people out of here.”

Johnny was halfway to the lounge entrance when Detective Rogers burst through it, heading for the stairs. He pulled up at sight of Johnny. “Recognize her?” he asked grimly.

“You mean I'm supposed-” Johnny looked at the blood-streaked piece of fur in the detective's left hand. He had seen that mink stole before. “Madeleine Winters?” he asked incredulously.

Rogers nodded. “Viciously assaulted twenty feet from the hotel marquee by a man who got out of a car.”

“Christ! I thought it was some woman went through a windshield. What was she doing-”

Detective Rogers was no longer listening. He ran quickly down the stairs. After one indecisive glance at the curtained lounge, Johnny followed him. At the switchboard Rogers passed telephone numbers in to Sally as fast he could copy them down from his notebook. “Call all these people,” he said crisply. “If they come on when I'm on another line, hold them on. Don't let them get off.”

Sally's hands flashed over the board as she set up lines and dialed. “The first one doesn't answer, Mr. Rogers,” she said in seconds. His mouth a thin line, the detective marked an “x” beside the first number of a duplicate list he jotted down. From where he stood slightly to one side, Johnny could see that there were five of the numbers. He strained to get a look at least at the exchanges, but Rogers' body half blocked his view. “Pick up the phone beside you, Mr. Rogers,” Sally said suddenly.

“Hello!” the detective barked. “Who is this?” He cut right back into the sounds emerging from the receiver. “I know perfectly well whom I'm calling at this hour of the morning. This is Detective Rogers.” He must be talking to Stitt, Johnny thought. Only Stitt would give him a growl like that. “Are you alone?” the detective continued. “Is there anyone who can verify how long you've been there?” He listened briefly. “All right. I'll talk to you again in the morning.”

“The third one doesn't answer yet, Mr. Rogers,” Sally said quietly. “The first one still doesn't answer. The- Pick up your phone again, please. Here's the fourth one.”

“Who is this?” Detective Rogers began again. “This is Detective Rogers. Are you alone?” Something indefinable in Rogers' tone made Johnny feel the detective was talking to a woman. Gloria Philips. Had to be. “Is there anyone who can verify-”

Johnny tried to listen and at the same time catch the attention of the intern and the ambulance driver who appeared from the foyer with a folded stretcher. They finally caught his silent hand-signals and went up to the mezzanine.

“I've been holding the fifth one for a minute and a half,” Sally was saying when Johnny could again pay attention. “The first and third numbers still do not answer.”

“Hello,” Rogers said into his phone. “Who is this? This is Detective-”

A sound from the stairs brought Johnny's head around. The stretcher was descending the stairs, Paul and the ambulance driver at its head and two strangers at the rear. Alongside walked the hatless intern and Dr. Randall.

Attracted by the voices, Detective Rogers turned at the phone, into which he was still speaking, until he could see the little procession. ”-in the morning,” he said. “No. No. Damn it, no! I'm busy!” He hung up abruptly. “Oh, Doctor!” he called. Both the intern and the hotel physician stopped and looked. Rogers waited long enough to glance in at Sally and receive a negative headshake before walking over to the two men. “Can I talk to her?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” Dr. Randall said emphatically. “Speaking for myself, of course. She's under heavy sedation, and will remain so for some time.” The interne nodded agreement. “A vindictive assault,” the older man continued. “A superficial examination indicates that every blow was facial. As brutal an attack as I've ever been called in upon.”

“When can I talk to her?” the detective persisted.

Dr. Randall looked at the intern, who shrugged. Looking frustrated, Roger jerked his panama down over his sandy hair and started for the door. Halfway there he turned and came back. In front of Sally's switchboard he swept off the hat and bowed. “That was a damn fine job,” he said sincerely. “Thanks.” Sally flushed with pleasure as the slender man crammed the hat back on and half trotted from the lobby.

There goes a real sharp cutting tool, Johnny thought to himself as Rogers disappeared through the foyer doors. You keep fooling around with that boy, Killain, and some one of these days he's going to nail your ears to the wall. How'd you like that question he slipped in on each of them asking if anyone was present who could verify how long they'd been there? Let one of those jokers come back in the morning now and try to supply an alibi for someone who needs it. Rogers had them already on record. It took something more than a head like a billygoat to come up with that on the spur of the moment.

He roused himself and went to look for Amy to have her clean up the mezzanine lounge.

In his room an hour later Johnny poured himself his third double shot of bourbon. He slipped down his tie, unfastened his collar and, as an afterthought, kicked off his shoes before he returned to his armchair and settled down with the bourbon. He took a small swallow, chasing it around his mouth with his tongue.

Five telephone numbers, now. Roger was hot on Tremaine. Say Tremaine's was the first number the detective had had Sally call. So Tremaine had no alibi. At least he wasn't home. And for this Tremaine could need an alibi.

Stitt had been home, assuming the second number to be his. From the growl Rogers had got for an answer, it about had to be Stitt. Stitt wanted no trouble, he claimed. The savagery of the attack was right up Stitt's alley, though. And Gloria said that Madeleine Winters had turned Stitt in on a deal that could have cost him a prison sentence. Could Stitt have hired the job done?

Then there was Gloria Philips herself. She didn't like Madeleine, either. But on the face of things at least it was unlikely she disliked her enough for this sort of thing.

Harry Palmer must have gotten the last call. It must have been gabby Harry hanging on asking questions with Rogers trying to shake him off. Which would leave the lawyer Faulkner not answering the third call. Still, Faulkner was a talker, too. Maybe the last call had gone to him, and Palmer hadn't answered the third call. Not that it made much difference as between those two. There was no apparent motive for either.

Johnny had his glass halfway to his lips again when a solution occurred to him. He tossed off the balance of his drink hurriedly, rose and in his stockinged feet walked to the phone. “Say, ma-”

“I've got a call for you,” she interrupted him.

“Wait. Those phone numbers Rogers handed in to you to call. Read 'em off to me, will you?”

“You're too late, man. That sour-looking Detective Cuneo came in a few minutes ago and asked me for them. He had to go all through my wastepaper basket, but he found them.”

“That Rogers is gettin' too damn smart,” Johnny grunted. “Cuneo still downstairs?”

“Not in sight, anyway.”

“Okay. Put on the call.” There was a second's dead air before he got the connection. “Yeah?”

“Killain?” Johnny thought the voice was guarded. “Don't use my name. This is the man who sent you the check. I'm over at Toffenetti's. Take a walk around.”

Toffenetti's was on Broadway, a block west and two blocks south of the Duarte. “What's the matter with right here?” Johnny asked, more to be contrary than because he had any real objection to Toffenetti's.

“I don't know who's watching your place. I don't think you do, either. I had two phone calls tonight I don't like. I want-”

“Two phone calls?” Johnny interrupted.

“Yes.” The voice paused. “You sound as if you might have known about one of them.”

A shrewd Prussian, Johnny thought. “Maybe I do. I'll be right over. Tell Danny at the soda fountain Killain wants the usual.” He hung up and dressed hurriedly, took the service elevator down to the lobby and told Paul he was going out for a little while. He swung down Forty-fifth Street in the mild night air, waving to Joe taking care of his last minute customers in the bar across from the theater. Joe waved back, and beckoned with the bottle in his uplifted hand. Johnny pointed to his wrist with a circular motion to indicate fleeting time as he passed by. On the corner, Shorty, the newsstand man, reached out to punch Johnny on the arm. Johnny scooped him up with an arm around his middle and carried him kicking and hollering half a block up Broadway before he let him go. Shorty stood in the middle of the sidewalk, and of the first fifteen words of his cheerful diatribe the only two printable were “big walrus.” A hundred yards up the street, Jackie Dolan, the owlhoot night patrolman, jabbed Johnny in the ribs with his billy and ducked a left to the body. This was the world of Killain.

At Toffenetti's Johnny found Max Stitt in a back booth. The cold-eyed man was distastefully regarding the enormous four-scoop sundae with berries, nuts and whipped cream across the table from him. “You're actually going to eat that sickening-looking thing?” he demanded as Johnny sat down and pulled it toward him.

“Goes just right on top of three double bourbons,” Johnny told him, spooning busily.

“Bourbons! And then that?” Words appeared to fail the other man.

“I always claimed that anything a boa constrictor can eat, I can eat,” Johnny said. He looked at Max Stitt across the booth table. “What's on your mind?”

“What's on my mind is that I received a phone call tonight from that detective who's been making a nuisance of himself out at the warehouse recently.”

“That's one call,” Johnny said as Stitt paused. “Oh, I got your check. What was the hurry?”

The cold-eyed man waved a deprecating hand. “I want no trouble. That phone call, now. If I hadn't been home what would I have been accused of tonight?”

“Hospitalizin' Madeleine Winters.”

Max Stitt pinched his chin thoughtfully between a thumb and forefinger. His eyes never left Johnny's face. “Another shooting?”

Johnny shook his head. “Knuckle job. Broke her face all up.”

Max Stitt's hands opened and closed. One thin streak of color flared in the pale features. “Someone is trying to involve me!” he said gutturally.

“It looked like it could've been your work, all right,” Johnny said in a detached tone. “Not but a couple pieces of bone left together anywhere in her face.”

“I tell you someone iss trying to inwolve me!” Max Stitt's consonants had tripled on his tongue in his icy rage. “I want no trouble, but if it iss brought to me, someone will wish he had never been born!”

“That second call you got,” Johnny said casually. “That from anyone we both know?” He dredged up a full-sized strawberry from one corner of the sundae and considered Max Stitt's obsessed silence. Johnny doubted that Stitt had even heard him. His hands clenched on the table-top before him to white-knuckled rigidity, the cold-eyed man seethed with an inner fire. Behind Johnny's back he sent searching glances darting up to the front of the restaurant, and once turned his head to look suspiciously at the roped-off, darkened section behind them.

“You know damn well-” Johnny began again, still trying, and turned curiously as Stitt's eyes again raked the front of the restaurant. “Oh-oh,” Johnny said softly. Detective Ted Cuneo sat upon a counter stool halfway to the door.

Stitt's eyes were upon Johnny immediately. “You know him? I thought he was paying too much attention to this booth.”

“A detective. He doesn't like-”

“I'll teach you to bag me, Killain!” Max Stitt's furious right hand swept upward in a blurred arc and crashed against Johnny's cheekbone. Still going backward from the force of the blow, Johnny hit Stitt in the chest with the sundae. Dripping fruit, nuts, syrup and ice cream, Max Stitt roared out of the booth. Johnny boiled out of his side, and they met in the aisle, head-on. Max Stitt's lightning fast hands nailed Johnny twice on his way in before Johnny could grab him, and then they went to the floor in a thrashing tangle.

Stitt fought with hands, feet, elbows, knees, head and teeth. Hooked fingers clawed at Johnny's face as they banged under a booth. A table leg smashed with a crackling of wood, and a capsized booth table pursued them as they rolled back out into the aisle, hammering at each other. Grimly, Johnny sought for a handhold on the eel-like Stitt, trading roundhouse clubbing lefts as he groped for a throat-hold with his right hand.

Surging up from beneath, Johnny tried to use his weight to pin the dervish spitting at him. Ignoring the lefts to his face, he grunted with satisfaction as his right hand slipped solidly home. Hitching his shoulders together for additional leverage, from the very corner of his eye he caught sight of a shadow standing behind him with uplifted hand. Instinctively Johnny dived and rolled, carrying Stitt up on top of him as a shield. Ted Cuneo's descending night stick caught the plunging Stitt squarely behind the ear, and he went limp on Johnny's body.

Johnny slung him aside like a sack of sugar and scrambled to his knees. “Take a sucker shot at me, will you, you sonofabitch!” he growled at Ted Cuneo, and started up.

“No, no, Johnny!” His high-pitched voice like a steam calliope in Johnny's ear, Danny Giardino, the tough little night manager, jumped from the thin circle of wide-eyed late-hour onlookers. Clamping a headlock on Johnny, he tried with his weight to prevent him from rising. “You can't swing at a cop, Johnny!”

“The hell I can't!” Johnny came up anyway, plucking at Danny hanging from his head. Peeling Giardino off himself like wet paper from a wall, Johnny threw him at Cuneo. The pair of them crashed backward into a booth, which splintered and collapsed beneath them. Johnny charged the shambles of the booth.

“No, no, no, Johnny!” Danny begged from the floor. He spread his arms wide over Cuneo beneath him, the tough face pleading. “Don't take a fall over this, Johnny!”

Some part of the rugged little Italian's sincere plea reached Johnny's bubbling ferment. He knew Danny was his friend. Reluctantly his hands came down, then up again as he reached down and picked Giardino up and set him on his feet. “Sorry, Danny,” he said, and turned to look for a place to sit.

The crowd parted instinctively to let him through. Johnny sat down in the nearest upright booth and looked around, trying to control his heavy breathing. That end of the restaurant was a mess. Johnny's uniform was in shreds, both forearms gone completely, as well as the entire right leg from mid-thigh. Rough, red streaks, from floor burns, abraded his forearms and his visible leg.

Ted Cuneo raised himself slowly from the wreckage of the booth, his face like ashes. No one had lifted a hand to help him. He glared around wildly until he saw Johnny, then started for him, his hand slapping at a side pocket. He stopped, slapped again automatically, turned and started pawing through booth fragments.

“Your bat slid up under the rope,” Giardino growled at him from the side. “What'cha need it for now?”

Cuneo straightened and turned to look at him, then glanced fleetingly at the rim of spectators. He scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets, his sallow features darkening with angry blood.

On the floor Max Stitt sat up slowly, a hand gingerly at the back of his head. A wet gob of fruit and syrup stains was still visible on what remained of his suit. One knee was split out completely through a trouser leg. Danny Giardino gave him a hand to his feet. Stitt flexed a wrist and fingers, and touched his throat experimentally. Looking at Danny, he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Owner?” he asked. His voice was a croak.

“Owner, hell,” Danny snorted. “Manager.”

“No trouble,” Stitt said, and swallowed visibly. He started to remove bills from the wallet, looked around at the debris and handed the wallet to Giardino. “Want no trouble,” he said, and swallowed again, hard. “Take out for-”

“What is this?” Ted Cuneo demanded in a hard tone, coming to life. He walked over and planted himself in front of Stitt aggressively. “You're making charges against this man.” A jerk of his head indicated Johnny in the booth.

“No charges.” Stitt's Adam's apple worked painfully. “No charges,” he repeated. He looked at Danny. “Enough? Write you a check if-”

“Plenty, man,” Danny said cheerfully. He separated and removed a thin sheaf of bills, showed Stitt what was left and handed him back his wallet with a flourish. “I like a guy what don't hold no grudge after a little difference of opinion.” He looked at Cuneo. “Well?”

“I'll make my own charges.” Cuneo stabbed a finger at an onlooker. “You saw him-” another jerk of the head in Johnny's direction-“try to assault me.” The onlooker stared back woodenly. Cuneo flushed and whirled to another.

“I'll swear he didn't lay a finger on you,” Danny Giardino said mildly before the detective could speak. He chuckled. “An' by God, he didn't.” He looked pleased with himself.

Detective Ted Cuneo stared at the array of faces ranging from impassive to hostile, cursed under his breath and stamped from the restaurant, the tips of his ears scarlet “Good riddance,” Danny Giardino pronounced when the door swung to behind him. The squat man beamed at the group. “Coffee's on the house, boys. Come an' get it.”

CHAPTER XI

The offices of the Spandau Watch Company presented a deserted appearance to Johnny's inspection. He had knocked at the outer door, opened it after an interval of silence, but had found no redhead at her desk. When he had walked beyond it and tried the door to the inner office, he'd found no Jules Tremaine, either. Retracting his steps, he was debating leaving a note when he heard high heels in the corridor outside.

“Mornin', little sister,” he greeted Gloria Philips as she entered.

“Oh,” she said listlessly. “It's you.” She appeared neither surprised nor pleased to see him, Johnny thought. Dark circles ringed the area under her blue-gray eyes.

“It's me,” he agreed. “Where's Tremaine?”

“He called and said he wouldn't be in this morning. He's not feeling well.”

“Somethin' he ate?”

“I didn't inquire,” Gloria said with more snap to her tone. “Why don't you ask him if you'd like to know?”

“I'm plannin' to. How was your sleep last night?”

“Oh, about the sa-” She pulled herself up. “I don't know who I think I'm kidding. It was terrible. That was an awful thing that happened last night.”

“How'd you hear about the awful thing?”

“Not with anybody's help!” she said swiftly, again with more spirit in her voice. “After that detective called and left me dangling without a word of explanation, I had to know what had happened. I called Jules, and couldn't get him. I called you, and couldn't get you. I called the police, and got bucked around from extension to extension by people who knew nothing, or weren't talking. I finally called Harry. He said he'd had much the same experience, but having more brains than I have he'd started calling hospitals. The third one he found her.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It must have been-well, awful's the only word I can seem to think of this morning.” “It covers it.” He wouldn't have expected to find her this shaken, Johnny thought. “What did Harry do?”

“He went over there right away. Then he went home for a few hours and went back this morning. He called me about an hour ago. She's on the critical list.” She sat down heavily, little grace apparent in the plump body. “Did you see her?”

He nodded. “You don't want to bear about it,” he said gruffly.

“She was-oh, I don't know-” Gloria Philips ran her palms up over her arms as though suddenly cold. “It makes you wonder if any of us knew what we were getting into in this thing.”

“Specifically, which thing?” Johnny asked her. “Oh, run along,” she said tiredly. “Yap, yap, yap, that's all I hear. Poke a little, pry a little, prod a little. Watch the animals squirm. All I've wanted all along-” She checked herself. “Yeah?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I'm not going to tell you what I've wanted all along. But I'm not going to get it. I feel that I'm not. I feel-oh, run along,” she repeated. “I mean it. I'm not fit to talk to anyone today.”

He moved toward the door. “Harry still at the hospital?” “I guess.”

He left her sitting slumped and hollow-eyed. Enough to shake any woman, when she hears it, he thought on his way to the street. That their incorporated capital can be blown in three bloody minutes.

All the uptown cabs were full. He had to cross the street and hail one going the other way. “Hotel Alden,” Johnny said, and successfully fielded the driver's indignant stare. He settled down for the long ride.

The first person he saw in the lobby of the Alden was Harry Palmer. Striding along with his chin in the lead, the aggressive-looking little man was headed for the elevators.

“Harry!” Johnny called.

Palmer looked startled as he turned a step or two away from a waiting elevator. “You following me?” he snapped.

“Wouldn't dream of it. What's on your mind upstairs?”

“Not a damn thing you can handle. Butt out, Killain.” Palmer stepped aboard the elevator, and Johnny followed right behind. The little man's voice rose. “I said-”

“I heard what you said. Relax.”

“Killain, I'll-” The elevator doors opened, and Palmer stepped off, again followed by Johnny. Palmer glared. “If you aren't the damnedest buttinsky I ever-”

Johnny waited only until the clash of the elevator's doors behind him signaled its departure. He took Harry Palmer by an arm and turned him, took him by the collar of his suit coat and marched him on tiptoe to the wall. Holding him aloft until only the tips of his toes touched, Johnny began a swift-patting manual examination. “Don't kick,” he advised soothingly. “You'll just take all the polish off your shoes on the wall. Ahh-” He removed a blue-steel revolver from inside Palmer's belt. “All you gunmen, Harry, and I haven't found a shoulder holster in the crowd. Don't you read up on what the well-dressed goons are wearin' these days?”

“Give me that damn gun back, Killain,” Palmer stormed when Johnny released him.

“You gonna plug him with me standin' right there, Harry? Then you'd have to plug me. Which'd make it a little silly of me to give you back the gun, right?”

Without another word Palmer plunged off up the corridor. He had to knock three times at Tremaine's door before anything happened. When it opened Jules Tremaine stood in the door and stared out at them irresolutely. The Frenchman was badly in need of a shave, and his eyes were bloodshot. “What d'you two birds of ill omen want?” he asked thickly. “In, I suppose,” he answered his own question, and walked back inside as though it were a matter of indifference to him whether they followed or not. When Johnny got inside Jules Tremaine was pouring himself half a water glass of Armagnac from a bottle two-thirds empty.

“Goddammit, Tremaine, I want to talk to you,” Harry Palmer bristled.

“Unfortunately I hear you.” Tremaine raised his glass and swallowed three times rapidly. He bowed exaggeratedly when he found Johnny's eyes upon him. “Sacrilegious, I know, to gulp in such a manner, but circumstances alter cases.”

Not drunk, Johnny decided, but not far from it, either. The room could have used a good cleaning. It appeared different to him from the last time he had been there, and he suddenly realized why. The large short wave radio and the table upon which it stood were both gone. “What happened to your radio, Tremaine?” he asked the Frenchman.

Harry Palmer cut in, angrily malicious. “After so many years a man can get tired of his hobby of listening to the short wave marine band, you know.”

Johnny looked at him. “So what's with the marine band?”

“Don't be naive, Killain. In certain lines of business it pays a man to know on which tide a certain ship is going to dock, even at what hour. If he knew that he might know, not only specific workmen unloading freight, but the customs crew checking it in.”

“You've got a lot to say, Harry,” Tremaine said from the sofa upon which he'd seated himself. He didn't appear particularly concerned. Glass in hand, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

“I'll have a damn sight more to say, you murdering bastard!” the little man flared. “I'm going-”

“Murdering?” Johnny interrupted. “Madeleine Winters died?”

“No, no,” Palmer said impatiently. “Although she still could. It's Jack Arends he killed. There's no-”

“Harry-”

“Shut up, you!” Palmer's complexion was mottled from the violence of his emotion. “For that matter, Madeleine might have been better off if you had killed her. The doctors say there's a serious question as to what her mental condition will be. If she recovers at all.”

Jules Tremaine re-opened his eyes, which had remained closed. “I didn't lay a finger on Madeleine, Harry,” he said softly. “I have an alibi.” He smiled. “Attested to by the police.”

“I don't believe y-” Harry Palmer swung to Johnny. “I don't believe him. He hated her. He'd said time and time again he'd get her.”

“True,” the Frenchman said unruffledly. He raised his glass and drank from it, his bloodshot eyes on the little man. “But someone saved me the trouble. And through a most fortunate circumstance I have an alibi. I very nearly didn't.”

“You weren't here,” Johnny inserted.

“I wasn't,” Tremaine agreed. His glance that had difficulty in focusing moved over to Johnny speculatively. “Although I don't know how you knew. I was-disturbed, last evening. Upset, if you like. I am given to moods. I have a-treatment for them. Early in the evening I repaired to a little place I know where the bartender is an artist in the preparation of that much neglected drink, the French Seventy-five.” He smiled at Johnny, not quite vacuously despite the clouded eyes. “You're familiar with the drink? Champagne over a cognac base? Terrific morale builder. I had-several, after which I decided a spot of visiting was in order. I've no idea, actually, how long my stay lasted, but upon my departure-”

“Who'd you go to see?” Johnny drilled at him.

“A friend.” Tremaine took a long, meditative pull at his glass. “Yes, I believe that covers it. A friend. As I say, I'm not clear as to my departure time. For some reason, also unclear to me at the moment, it had been decided that despite the hour I was to drive up to the Bronx and deliver a package. Really a most inconsequential package.”

He waved his hand, nearly dropping his glass. “I actually started, before it occurred to me that I could accomplish the same thing far more conveniently today by messenger. Having arrived at this brilliant conclusion, I drove back to my bartender and more French Seventy-fives. Magnificent drink, really. It was latish when I got in downstairs to find that damnably narky Rogers waiting in the lobby. You will agree, gentlemen, that if I'd made the trip to the Bronx I'd have been unable to take Rogers to my bartender friend who assured him of my presence at the critical time? In my relief I insisted that Rogers have a French Seventy-five. I'm afraid his palate needs cultivating.”

Johnny glanced sardonically at a discomfited Harry Palmer. “Want your gun back now, hot shot? I'll steady your hand for you.”

“He still killed Arends,” Palmer blustered. “You know he did.”

Jules Tremaine re-opened the bloodshot eyes he had again closed. “Gun? You were going to kill me, Harry, because of what I'd done to Madeleine?” He looked surprised. “Why?”

“Why!” Palmer shouted emotionally. “Anyone who'd do that to a woman's not fit to live, that's why!”

“But why you, Harry?” Tremaine persisted gently. “It's a bit thick you're passing yourself off as her protector, or avenging angel, either. I know she's been blackmailing you for years.”

For the first time since he had known him, Johnny thought the brash-looking little man appeared completely taken aback. Tremaine winked at Johnny gravely. “I owed him a dig for that bit about the wireless,” he confided. He transferred his attention to Palmer. “Did you suppose no one knew about your financial arrangements, old boy?”

“That was a long time ago,” Palmer said quickly, recovering. “The relationship has-changed.”

“Recently? For the better?” the Frenchman inquired significantly. He drained his glass, stooped and groped for the bottle alongside the sofa. “I'm sorry, but you people will have to excuse me now. I'm getting drunk. Disgusting, I know, but my own method of-ah-reassessing certain — ah-ambiguous assets.”

“You want a ride downtown?” Harry Palmer said abruptly to Johnny, who nodded. Jules Tremaine did not accompany them to the door. The last Johnny saw of him he had again half-filled his glass and was contemplating it in the light. “Doesn't know what he's talking about,” Palmer said jerkily with a side glance at Johnny at the elevators. “It's not like that at all now.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped aboard. “Not like that at all,” Harry Palmer repeated loudly.

Johnny was still trying to catch up with the sudden reversal of the no-motive feeling he'd had about the aggressive little man. He wondered cynically about Palmer and Arends.

Palmer was watching Johnny's face. “Ridiculous listen drunken clown-” he was rattling off in verbal shorthand when the car stopped in the lobby. Johnny looked out at Ernest Faulkner waiting to get on. Ernest Faulkner looked in at them, obviously flustered.

“Visitin' the sick?” Johnny asked him blandly. He maneuvered the lawyer away from the elevator as he and Palmer got off.

“Is he sick?” Faulkner asked anxiously.

“He's drunk!” Palmer sneered caustically.

“Oh. He sounded-upset when he called me,” the lawyer said. “I'll-I'll see what I can do for him.” He flushed under Johnny's eyes. “Jules is my friend,” he said importantly.

“What'd he call you about?” Johnny asked.

“Really, Killain. You're the crudest-I dislike having to descend to your level and inform you that it's none of your business.” Ernest Faulkner drew a deep breath, trying to strengthen the sensitive features behind the heavy glasses. “Now if you'll kindly get out of my way-”

Johnny silently stepped aside. He watched until the doors closed behind the slender lawyer.

“Let's go, if you're coming with me!” Palmer ordered brusquely. Johnny followed him out to the curb. He thought for a minute they were waiting for a cab until a Lincoln Continental pulled slowly in to them from the traffic stream. Tiny bulked up behind the wheel, the preposterous chauffeur's cap perched squarely on top of his head.

The little man took a quick look at Johnny as they settled down in the back seat. “Listen,” he began rapidly. “It may have been the way that jerk says once, but that was a long time ago. What's a few dollars to me? At my age, what I was getting there I appreciate.” He tried to outstare Johnny. “You think I'm lying to you?”

Tiny pulled out from the curb without even a by-your-leave, and Johnny winced as the squeal of brakes and the blat of a horn sounded simultaneously from behind them. Tiny never even looked around. At the first light a cab pulled up alongside and the driver leaned over and rolled down his window. Tiny turned his head and looked at him, and the cabbie rolled his window back up without saying a word.

“I'm wonderin' what I'd hear about you an' Arends if I asked around a little,” Johnny said to Harry Palmer. “It just come to me I been takin' you on faith, man.”

“Don't you think the police have taken care of that?” Palmer snapped. He leaned forward and rapped on the glass that divided the front and back seats to within eight inches of the car's ceiling. “Let me out at the Circle, Tiny,” he called, and sat back as Tiny nodded. “He'll take you down to the hotel,” the little man added sulkily. He folded his arms and stared straight ahead at the road.

They rode in silence until Tiny pulled in at Columbus Circle. Harry Palmer got out hurriedly as though to forestall any further attempt at conversation. He trotted off without a backward glance.

Tiny started off again and headed down Seventh Avenue. “I was up t' Dmitri's d' udder day,” he rumbled from the front seat in the familiar, breathy hoarseness. “I ast 'im how he rated us. You know w'at he said?”

“No,” Johnny said shortly. He had other things than Dmitri on his mind.

“He said on da mat wit' th' strangle barred I'm six to five.” Tiny cut around a cab picking up a passenger, forcing the car in the next lane to pull up abruptly. “I tol' him he's crazy. I got t' be better'n six to five over a jerk never made his livin' at it. Right?” Johnny made no reply. Tiny evidently expected none. “Th' kicker an' th' t'ing made me laff is that crazy Rooshian's sayin' wit' nothin' barred, I'm only five t' eight. I tol' him, nuts, man, I want-”

“You're in the wrong lane,” Johnny interrupted as they crossed 50th. “You got to go east on Forty-fourth an' circle the block.”

Tiny might never have heard him. “I tol' him I can use a little of that five t' eight, mebbe more'n a little. Any time I outweigh a man fi'ty poun's an' he lays me eight t' five I got to see it.” Approaching 45th, the Continental slowed.

“Another block!” Johnny said sharply. “An' left, not right!”

“Sure,” Tiny said, and swung right on 45th.

“You goddam-” Johnny sucked in his breath as it came to him. He reached for a doorhandle. Locked. Front-seat mechanism. Tiny was watching him in the rear-view mirror as they crossed Eighth Avenue. Grimly Johnny took off his jacket, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up his sleeves.

“'At's a boy,” Tiny approved hoarsely from the front seat. “In fi' minutes now I want t' see how mucha that eight t' five you're layin'.” Catching all the lights, the Continental sailed across Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh. It threaded its way between trucks loading on both sides of the street from narrow warehouse platforms, nosed out under the elevated highway at the wharves, turned left on the cobblestones, and almost at once turned sharp right and darted into a narrow opening that widened as the cobblestones gave way to crushed stone.

Tiny swung the big car in a circle and stopped it with the driver's side nearest the lane by which they'd entered. He got out and stretched, reached in and touched a button on the dash. “You c'n git out now, hardhead.”

Johnny climbed out on the side opposite. In this neighborhood of busy loadings and unloadings of the world's largest liners, he wouldn't have believed it possible for this still, deserted dock with its splintery planking and rotting pilings to exist. “This Palmer's idea?” he asked tightly as he came around the front of the Lincoln.

Tiny covered his nose with a massive paw. “The boss gimme th' office when ya got in th' car ya had a big nose,” he said solemnly. “I been tellin' 'im that. You go inta dry dock a while, chum, as of now.”

He advanced ponderously, crouched forward, arms semi-circled. The stone crunched under his shuffling feet. Johnny circled, to his right, just outside the reaching arms. Tiny pursued patiently, in a narrowing orbit. Johnny speeded up suddenly. Tiny's upper body pivoted to face him, but the legs floundered. In the second the man-mountain was off balance Johnny smashed the heel of his shoe against Tiny's left knee. There was a loud pop. When the pursuing man's entire weight came down on that leg he went down like a falling tree. He lay in the crushed stone, wheezing.

Johnny walked around him to face him. “That was your kneecap, sucker,” he said in a hard voice. “Satisfied, or should I get a tire iron out of the trunk an' take a few divots out of your thick skull?”

His face gray and perspiration beading his broad forehead, Tiny muscled himself up on his forearms. “Jus' lemme get muh han's on ya, pal.” He tried to drag his great weight forward.

“Ahhh-” Johnny said disgustedly. He walked away, toward the Lincoln. “I'll send somebody in here after you. If you're plannin' on walkin' again, quit draggin' that knee.”

He drove out onto the cobblestones. At the corner of 44th he leaned out to tell a blue uniform he'd heard a man hollering behind the fence across the street. The cop took in the Lincoln in one all-encompassing glance and started across the street.

Johnny drove to the Duarte and parked in front, illegally at that time of day. In the lobby he ran into Gus. “Who's on the beat?” he asked the black-haired Greek.

“Desmond. Why?”

“I left a Lincoln out front. Tell him to use up his book of tickets on it.”

He went upstairs to his room for a drink.

CHAPTER XII

Twilight had come and gone before Johnny's vigil outside the precinct station house was rewarded by the appearance of Detective James Rogers in his unmarked black sedan. Johnny stepped from his doorway and walked rapidly to the car as Rogers parked in the only open space in the block, squarely beside a fire hydrant. The sedan's wheels were still moving when Johnny opened the door on the passenger's side and slid into the front seat.

The nose dipped as Rogers instinctively hit the brake. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Isn't it fortunate that I'm the cool, even-tempered type who looks first before he shoots? That kind of an entrance can get you lead dimples.”

“Or a night stick behind the ear? How's my friend Cuneo?”

“Johnny, I want to talk to you.” The detective swung about on the seat until he was facing Johnny squarely. “You're going to get yourself so thoroughly-”

“I hear you're acquirin' a taste for French Seventy-fives, Jimmy,” Johnny interrupted.

“You hear a hell of a lot that's none of your business,” the sandy-haired man said acidly. “I'm warning-”

Johnny interrupted again. “You get a decent description from anyone of the guy that stepped from the car to break up Madeleine Winters?”

The detective was silent a moment before replying. “Man Mountain Dean, without the whiskers,” he said finally.

Johnny nodded. “How many arrests you made, Jimmy?” At Rogers' flat stare he grinned. “Like Perry Mason, I'll rephrase the question. Would you like to make one?”

“What do you know, Johnny?”

“Your Forty-fourth Street beat man at the wharves found a guy in a lot this afternoon with a flat wheel. You find out what hospital he sent him to, an' you toddle on over there an' tell the guy in the bed his boss is swearin' out a warrant accusin' his ex-employee of the assault. You might get some action.”

Detective Rogers' regard of Johnny was unwinking. “Who is his boss?”

“Harry Palmer.”

The resulting silence lasted fifteen seconds before the detective spoke again. “Motive?”

“Blackmail. Long-time.”

“I'll send someone over,” Roger said. He glanced at his watch. “I've a nine o'clock appointment myself.”

“Send a fast talker,” Johnny cautioned.

“Bob Hope's understudy,” the detective promised. “Well pick up Palmer, too. Would it do me any good to inquire how the man happened to be in a lot with a flat wheel?”

“He didn't believe a guy who said the odds were eight to five.”

“I guess that makes about as much sense as most of what I hear from you,” Rogers observed. He swung about in the seat again and reached for the door handle. With his hand on it he paused, looking straight ahead through the windshield, his voice uncomfortable. “This and a dime will get you a cup of coffee from me any time,” he said gruffly. “Understand? The first time that Cuneo-”

“Could Palmer have killed Arends, Jimmy?” Johnny cut in.

“The first time that Cuneo sees you,” the sandy-haired man continued doggedly, unheeding, “I won't be responsible.”

“I don't like people who carry their hardware around in back of me, Jimmy.”

“Cuneo was trying to break up a brawl in a public place, which he had every license to do!” Rogers' voice had risen sharply. “Which it was his duty to do,” he continued more quietly. “Each of us does his duty as he sees it.” He threw up the door handle and opened the door part way. With his legs already out he spoke over his shoulder. “I forget that question you just asked, but the answer is negative. Physically impossible.” He climbed out, slammed the door, walked around the car and ran lightly up the worn white stone steps of the old building.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Johnny said softly after the departed figure. He climbed leisurely from the sedan and looked at his watch. Eight twenty-five. Thirty-five minutes to Rogers' appointment time. Johnny was more than a little curious about this appointment of Jimmy Rogers.

He walked up to the corner. Before he was halfway there two cruisers rushed out of the private police parking lot and roared past him nose-to-tail, a low rrrrrr of the sirens and the flashing red dome lights denoting urgency. Johnny smiled to himself. Tiny would be having company.

The smile faded as he walked. If he'd been sure this afternoon, that tire iron might have been a good idea. Madeleine Winters might have been and done a lot of things, but no woman deserved what had happened to her. Palmer might not have killed Arends, but he had a lot to answer for.

And it still left the question of who had killed Arends.

Johnny stepped off the curb at sight of a cruising cab, and it slowed and backed up for him. He pointed out Detective Rogers' sedan to the driver as they passed it. “See that one, chief? Circle the block an' pull in at the corner above here. Double-park if you have to. When he takes off don't let him get away from you.”

The driver looked. He flashed a glance back at Johnny, his voice unenthusiastic. “You see where he's parked, Mac? You sure it's not the fuzz?”

“I don't give a damn if it's an Episcopal bishop!” Johnny barked. “Get around this block an' in behind him. We lose him I'm gonna be mighty unhappy with you, chief.”

The driver surveyed Johnny in his rear-view mirror. The sight appeared to convince him. They circled the block in silence, and pulled in at the corner where Johnny had hailed him. Lights on and motor idling, they sat, with the cabbie casting nervous glances up and down the street.

Perhaps ten minutes had elapsed when Johnny saw Detective Rogers' slender figure run down the station-house steps, slip out of his jacket in the mild night breeze and slide under the wheel. The driver saw him, too. “I hope you know what you're doin', Mac,” he grunted, easing forward. “Anyways, I got him covered.”

They followed out to Eighth Avenue, and as Rogers turned north Johnny had a hunch. The Hotel Alden was their destination, he suddenly felt sure. He watched closely as they eased up to within a quarter block of the sedan, the cabbie with one eye on the lights ahead.

When they turned off Columbus Circle onto Central Park West Johnny sat back in the seat and relaxed. No question about it now. When they turned into 82nd he leaned forward again and watched until he was sure the sedan ahead was slowing. “Okay, chief,” Johnny said as soon as it did. “Anywhere's right here's good enough.” He dropped a bill on the front seat and got out in the middle of the block. Leisurely he sauntered up the street toward the lighted Alden marquee.

He saw Rogers' sedan at the first meter beyond the hotel no-parking zone. In the same glance he saw something else. Two cars ahead of the black sedan, a long blue Cadillac regally pre-empted a space and a half. Johnny quickened his stride. This could be part of Rogers' appointment, but Johnny didn't think so. And, if the detective walked in on them unknowing, there could be some firepower in that package upstairs.

“Four,” he said shortly to the gum-chewing, uniform-trousered brunette in the elevator. She ascended with him boredly. There was no sign of Rogers in the corridors. Johnny paused outside 407. He was going to need a hell of an opening line to talk his way in here. Tremaine nor nobody else wanted to see him.

He tested the knob, cautiously. Locked, of course. He shrugged, raised his hand to knock-and then heard, from what sounded like just beyond the door, a muffled thumping noise, twice repeated. Without even stopping to think, Johnny backed off the width of the corridor and charged the door with all the momentum he could generate. At the last second he barely remembered to lead with his right shoulder to protect his still-bandaged left side.

The door burst inward shiveringly in a shower of wood splinters from around the shattered lock. Johnny scrambled for balance as he lunged into Max Stitt, who was standing with his foot drawn back to kick Detective Rogers' prostrate body on the floor. Stitt backed off with a snarl, his colorless eyes lethal, his hand darting to a pocket. Johnny's quick reach and bone-crushing embrace clamped Stitt's arms helplessly to his sides; then Johnny swung him aloft with his feet to the ceiling. Abruptly Johnny released him, and the furiously struggling Stitt crashed floorward, head first. Stunned, he offered no resistance as Johnny bent quickly and removed a blued-steel Mauser from his jacket. It felt sticky to the touch, and Johnny looked down at bloodstains on his palm.

He took two quick steps to the doorway off the hall and looked through it at Jules Tremaine sitting slackly on the sofa, the handsome face lumped, red-streaked, and sick-white. Behind Johnny, Stitt rolled over and came up on his knees. Without a word Johnny stepped back inside, reversed the Mauser in his hand and slapped it tightly alongside a lean cheekbone. Max Stitt went over backward as bright juice spurted beneath his right eye. Raging, he doubled on himself like a snake and flung himself at Johnny's legs. The Mauser knocked him sideways along the floor in a sliding skid. He came halfway up to his knees again and paused.

“Keep comin',” Johnny invited him in a voice he had trouble recognizing. “Do me a favor. See can you wear out this iron. I wouldn't break up my hands on a puff adder like you.”

“Cut it-out, Johnny,” a voice said weakly from the floor to one side. Johnny half turned, one eye still on Stitt calculating his chances. Detective Rogers grimacingly pushed himself erect from hands and knees, one hand at the back of his neck and the other at his left side. “You want to- kill him?”

“Not all at once. Come on,” Johnny said to the taut-lipped, cold-eyed Stitt. “Do something. Give me an excuse.”

“Cut it out,” Rogers repeated in a stronger tone. Half doubled over and dragging his left leg, he moved past Johnny inside to the sofa on which Jules Tremaine sat with his head in his hands. “Let's have a look,” the detective said gently, and removed one of the hands.

“Nothin' thirty, thirty-five stitches won't fix up,” Johnny said sarcastically from the doorway.

Rogers turned away from the criss-crossed welts and oozing bruises on the shocked face and walked to the telephone. “Get the police up here,” he said into it.- “And an ambulance.” He walked back out to the hall, where Max Stitt was kneeling on the floor, his hands slackly at his sides, his pale eyes expressionlessly upon Johnny six feet away. A lowly pulsing tide of red ebbed down the lean visage from the slash beneath his eye.

“I'll get around later to how you happened to come through that door just then,” Rogers said to Johnny. One hand gingerly at the back of his neck, he looked down at Stitt. “I'd knocked four times before anything happened, and then it happened all at once. The door opened, he yanked me in and sapped me down. I don't know what the bootwork was for when he got the door closed again.”

“That was because he likes it.” Johnny half leaned in Stitt's direction. “Don't you, sweetheart?”

“Cut it out, I told you,” Rogers ordered. He looked inside in the direction of the sofa. “I don't understand it. Tremaine would make two of him.”

“You got to see this wart go to appreciate him,” Johnny assured him. “Fastest pair of hands I run into in a long time. An' I do mean run into. You were meetin' Tremaine?”

“So I thought.” The detective pointed a toe at the silent Stitt. “What's his mad at the Frenchman?”

“Both of 'em were wired into Dechant for a long time. Makin' money at it, too. Dechant was the contact man, an' a crackerjack. He provided the outlets for half a dozen little schemes that had stuff gettin' into the country illegally. When he died, the stuff was still comin', but there was no contact to the outlets. Tremaine hustled around, but he damn soon found out he wasn't no Dechant. He even had me tryin' to peddle a hundred fifty cases smuggled brandy for him. He couldn't carry the load, an' he started to go to pieces. At the same time our friend here, when Arends was knocked off, all of a sudden becomes one of the landed gentry an' he's no longer interested in grubby little smugglin' deals. Tremaine figured he had to be kept in line, both because of the warehouse facilities an' knowhow, an' Stitt's European contacts. I'm just guessin' now, but I think Tremaine made the mistake of hintin' to our boy here that, unless he continued to co-operate, the police were goin' to get word to look in his direction for what happened to Madeleine Winters. It looked so much like his trademark it would've been easy to do. If he had an alibi, okay-he hired it done.” He waved the Mauser at Max Stitt. “Stitt come over here to show him who was givin' the orders.”

“You'd have to say he made his point,” Detective Rogers said drily. “I don't see why these two-” He broke off as the battered door opened to admit two blue uniforms followed by an apprehensive looking gentleman obviously an assistant manager. “Come in, men,” Rogers said, and waved at Stitt. “Take him on down. I'll think up the charges later.”

The assistant manager paused in the doorway at sight of Jules Tremaine. “Dear me,” he said involuntarily. He turned to look uncertainly at Rogers. “A physician is needed? Unfortunately we have no house man. We use one from the neighborhood. I'll call-”

“Ambulance should be here any second,” the detective said. He watched as Max Stitt went out the door in the custody of the two patrolmen. “You'd better get that door fixed, though. I want to lock this room.”

“Certainly, sir. Certainly. I looked at it on the way in. I believe it can be fixed temporarily well enough to lock it.” He walked importantly to the phone.

Johnny silently handed the Mauser to Detective Rogers, who pocketed it. The ambulance crew arrived, and the white-coated doctor took one look at Jules Tremaine's face and eyes and stretched him out on the sofa. He worked on him for quite a long time before he signaled for the stretcher. “Come on, Johnny,” Rogers ordered when the tide had ebbed from around them. “I want to talk to him as soon as I can.”

“Sure, Jimmy.” Johnny followed him on out past a workman in carpenter's overalls muttering under his breath at the state of the door.

In the lobby, when he was sure that Rogers was in full flight after the stretcher, Johnny veered off to one side. He wanted a look at that room of Jules Tremaine's, and he wanted no one looking over his shoulder while he did so.

Ignoring the elevator, he headed for the stairs.

CHAPTER XIII

The corridor was deserted when Johnny stepped out onto it from the fourth-floor landing. He moved rapidly to the door of 407 and tried the knob. The lock in the patched panel rattled loosely, but it held. Johnny debated trying his Duarte passkey, and decided against it. It probably wouldn't work, anyhow, and he didn't know how much time he had. He put his shoulder to the door and applied steadily increasing pressure. The lock burst with a grieving sound of overstrained metal and he stepped inside and pushed the door closed.

Inside he went directly to the large closet at the rear of the room. After opening it he found it so dark inside he groped for a light switch, then for a cord. Finding neither, he backed out and turned on the room's overhead light. This time, when he returned, he could see the glint from closely aligned bottles in a case of Armagnac at his feet. He toed the case thoughtfully. Tremaine never had come through on his promise to drop off a case at the Duarte.

When he raised his eyes, Johnny found himself looking at an attache case on the eye-level shelf. Because of its dimensions he reached for it hopefully. He shook his head in disgust as soon as he lifted it down; it didn't weigh enough.

He set it down out of the way, and swiftly went through the rest of the closet. Disappointed, he backed out and ran his eye around the rest of the room. It offered few likely looking hiding places for thirty-pound objects.

He tested the frame and the base of the sofa, fruitlessly. He was considering the bed when he heard the voices at the door. “-lock's been forced, Ernest,” a feminine voice said hollowly from outside. “What can have happened here?”

Johnny padded noiselessly back to the closet, closed the door, snatched up the attache case from the floor and fled to the bathroom, whose door he pushed three-quarters shut. He looked out to see Ernest Faulkner cautiously reconnoiter the apartment from the hallway with Gloria Philips at his shoulder. The lawyer's prim mouth pursed soundlessly at the sight of the disheveled interior.

“Look at the place!” the redhead exclaimed, less reticent. “What in the world-” She pushed past Faulkner and click-clacked rapidly in her three-inch high heels across the room beyond Johnny's range of vision. He was left in no doubt as to her whereabouts when he heard the closet door reopen. Her voice came again immediately, muffledly. “It's gone!” Almost at once she spoke again more clearly, as though she had turned to face the lawyer. “The case is gone, Ernest. Where can he have put it? He wouldn't have any reason-”

Her voice died out as Faulkner moved forward to join her. “Let me look,” he said nervously.

“I tell you it's gone,” she repeated impatiently. The tap-tap of her high heels sounded as she evidently got out of Faulkner's way. “I don't understand why-”

In the bathroom Johnny snatched a bath mat from a wall rack and swathed the attache case in it, to muffle sound. Probing with his big thumbs through the mat's thickness, he found the case locks and popped them one at a time with a barely discernible sound. From outside he could hear a flurry of movement and half-questions and quarter-answers as the man and woman searched in an obviously increasing state of anxiety.

Johnny discarded the mat and opened the case, silently. He groped around inside and felt his knuckles brush against a piece of metal. He picked it up, and stared down uncomprehendingly at a snouted, tubular piece of steel attached at a right angle to a flat metal plate. He hefted its light weight in his palm puzzledly, turned it over and looked at it from another angle. He started to return it to the case, opened that wider for a better view of its other contents and nearly dropped the whole thing at the sound of another voice outside.

“What are you two doing here?” Detective James Rogers' voice demanded crisply.

Johnny shoved everything back in the case, closed it and tucked it under his arm. Back at the door he looked out through the aperture at Ernest Faulkner's white, shaken features, peering in dismay at the sandy-haired man standing in the hallway arch.

“I-ah-have a key,” the lawyer got out in a voice that sounded better than he looked. “Not that we-I needed it. Upon our arrival we found the door had been forced.” Johnny could see him gaining confidence at the sound of his own voice. “I really-”

“I asked you what you were doing here!” the detective rapped back at him sharply. Johnny couldn't see the redhead at all. “And where's Killain?”

“Killain?” Faulkner echoed blankly.

Johnny opened the bathroom door and stepped out. Faulkner's jaw dropped ludicrously. Gloria Philips stood at the end of the sofa. There was no particular expression on her face that Johnny could decipher, but her eyes were on the attache case under his arm.

“There you are,” Rogers said drily. “I missed you downstairs. What the hell's going on here?”

“I just been catchin' up on my homework as to how Jack Arends was killed, Jimmy,” Johnny said easily.

“I know how Arends was killed. You missed the excitement downstairs by skipping off back up here. I just barely got to Tremaine in time to keep him from gunning Stitt with an automatic he'd dredged up from somewhere. The wagon and the ambulance were loading side by side.”

Johnny ignored the interruption. “If you had to kill a man so bad you couldn't wait, Jimmy, and you had two minutes alone with him in a room two closed doors away from other people in the same apartment, how would you do it?”

Detective Rogers opened his mouth, and closed it again. He looked at Ernest Faulkner, who looked baffled, and at Gloria Philips, who looked as beautiful as ever. He looked back at Johnny. “With a silencer,” he said finally. He shook his head impatiently. “If I could get it out past the other people in the apartment. And if you're still speaking of Arends, that's where you're all wet. We found the gun, and there was no sign of a silencer. And the gun was an automatic, which can't take a silencer.”

“Can't, Jimmy?”

The sandy-haired man gestured irritably. “You know what I mean. Stop being difficult. Instead of fitting on the barrel as a silencer does on a revolver, because of the barrel's action on an automatic the silencer would have to go on the slide. It would be a tricky damn job, one for a craftsman. I've never seen one.”

Johnny removed the attache case from under his arm, opened it, picked up the snouted piece of metalware and tossed it to the detective. “So now you have, Jimmy.”

The sandy-haired man turned it over and over in his hands. He reached in a jacket pocket, removed Stitt's blued-steel Mauser, looked at it questioningly and shoved it back. From the opposite pocket he removed a black automatic — Tremaine's, Johnny realized-and looked at it searchingly. “Let's see,” Roger murmured, half aloud. “I come into the room-” He ran through it in his mind. He turned back to Johnny with a negative shake of his head. “Still no good. You're forgetting there was no silencer on the automatic beside Arends.”

“Get yourself in gear, Jimmy. There wasn't supposed to be. You come into the room with a silenced automatic ready to go. You pop the guy. If you've come ready with another slide, how long does it take you to break down the automatic, remove the slide with the silencer and shove in the plain one? Stick the silencer in the attache case in which you lugged the whole works in there an' put it back under your arm, drop the automatic on the floor beside the body an' holler murder?”

Jimmy Rogers' hazel eyes were slits. “Let's find out,” he said grimly. He walked to a small table and pushed aside the lamp on it. He placed Jules Tremaine's automatic and the wicked-looking silencer attached to its slide down together, slipped out of his jacket, rubbed his hands together and looked around at Johnny. “Okay. This won't work perfectly unless this is an identical gun, but it looks close. Anyway, it'll give me an idea. This is the reverse, now- silencer onto automatic, instead of off. You time me. Say when.”

Johnny waited for the second hand on his watch to creep around to straight up. “Go, man.”

The detective's slim white hands flew into action. He had the automatic broken down in what seemed no time to Johnny, but in snatching up the silencer with its slide he had to make three tries before he hit the groove. After that, the automatic with its ugly-looking silencer fairly sprang back together. Rogers laid it down, slapped his hands together and looked inquiringly at Johnny.

“I made you in a tick over seventy seconds,” Johnny announced.

“I could do it faster, with practice.” “Look at your hands, Jimmy.”

Roger looked down at his greasy, oily hands. “What did you expect? You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.” With the tip of two fingers he fished out a handkerchief and wiped off his hands.

“You just don't plan your murders, Jimmy.” Johnny opened the case again, removed a pair of white women's gloves and tossed them to the detective. Rogers' lips tightened at the sight of the dried black grease marks on them. “She kept me from goin' back up there that night to fetch these for her when I thought she'd forgotten 'em,” Johnny said quietly. “She had a good reason. An' you talk to Tremaine now about the night I got winged in the blonde's doorway an' I'll bet you'll find she wasn't supplyin' any alibi for him that night. He was supplyin' one for her, for value received. You got to give her credit-she played the field. She used Tremaine, me, Palmer, even Stitt who had her scared half to death, an' finally Ernest here.” He grinned at the lawyer, who was standing in shocked silence. “Tremaine lost his usefulness to her when he went to pieces an' started drinkin'. Tremaine knew too much. He had to go. She put Stitt onto Tremaine's back by tellin' Stitt that Tremaine was goin' to frame him for the muscle job on Tremaine's face with his gunbutt, Ernest?”

The lawyer paled. “They-did?” he croaked. He swallowed noisily. “Stitt did?” He glared at Gloria. “You did that to Jules?” He advanced on her, his already high-pitched voice sliding shrilly up the scale. “Why I ever listened to you, you nasty bitch-” His hands clawed at her face.

Gloria Philips swung her handbag on its strap and hit the lawyer in the chest, knocking him backward. “You goddam queen!” she raged, and swung the bag again. Ducking ineffectually, Faulkner stumbled and fell. He rolled onto his back as Gloria Philips rushed at him and sank a three-inch high heel out of sight in his body as she stamped on him. Ernest Faulkner screamed and doubled up into a fetal position.

Johnny's backhanded slap knocked her away from the lawyer before she could repeat the performance. “Grab her, Jimmy, and keep her hands out of that handbag!” he said sharply. He bent down over Faulkner, and saw that the lawyer was out cold. Johnny sighed, picked up the slender man and started for the bathroom with him. “I'll bring him around. You better get on the phone an' put the wheels in motion, Jimmy.”

In the bathroom he eased the limp body down onto the tile. Ernest Faulkner's weak features were bloodless. Johnny hurriedly soaked towels one after the other and knelt down to apply them to the lawyer's forehead. He looked up at a scuffling noise in the bathroom doorway to see Jimmy Rogers backing in, a silly grin frozen into a grimace on his face, Gloria Philips' handbag in one hand. Right behind him came the redhead, herding him with a small, pearl-handled gun competently aimed at his middle.

“Thigh holster,” the detective said over his shoulder as if he still couldn't believe it. His body was between Johnny and the redhead, but Johnny could see her face. “Thigh-”

“Watch it, Jimmy!” Johnny punched the sandy-haired man hard behind the right knee. The detective went down in a spiraling spin just as Gloria Philips fired. The bullet thudded into the wall behind the detective and Johnny a second before Jimmy Rogers' head hit the wash basin heavily and he pitched sideways, unconscious.

“Well, isn't that nice,” the redhead said tightly. “I always knew you'd be good for something one of these days. Love and kisses, sweetheart.” She shot Johnny in the chest as he surged up from his knees. He was still stumbling backward from the smashing blow when she ran out the bathroom door and slammed it.

Too high to mean anything, Johnny told himself, and tried to rock himself forward into motion. Too high. His legs didn't believe it. He stepped on both Faulkner and Rogers getting to the door. He couldn't help it. Each time it almost threw him.

He had a terrible struggle with the door before he got it open. His hands wouldn't co-ordinate. He shuffled through the apartment, swaying from side to side. He wasted seconds at the door into the corridor before he remembered it opened inward.

In the corridor he could see her in front of the elevator shaft, punching furiously at the button. He lumbered toward her, his legs like two shafts of pig iron. She turned at the sound and incredulity gave way to panic. Her hand darted to her bag.

They both heard the sound of the ascending elevator. She raised the gun deliberately when he was still yards away. She looked at him, looked at the elevator indicator, turned to run, turned back, screamed despairingly, raised the gun again and, as the elevator doors opened, shot herself in the head.

Still six feet away and unable to check his lead-footed progress, Johnny catapulted heavily over her falling body. The last thing he remembered was the pop-eyed stare of the uniform-trousered brunette operator, her jaws still working rhythmically on her gum as she bent down over him.

CHAPTER XIV

Johnny lay back in his half-cranked-up hospital bed and grinned at Cardinal Lucian Alerini at its foot. “Imagine a li'l ol' twenty-eight caliber job puttin' me down like that, Kiki?”

A snort from the side of the bed directed attention to the sandy-haired Detective Rogers. He addressed the cardinal. “After he climbed over two bodies on a bathroom floor, after he wrestled two doors open and got out of the apartment, and after he covered thirty-five yards of hotel corridor- then it put him down.”

“That is the man I know,” the cardinal said soberly.

Rogers turned to Johnny. “We found the thing in Faulkner's safe, like you said.”

“Hindsight,” Johnny said bitterly. “Beautiful hindsight. When you see everything else, you see that, too. The cable is signed E. McPartland? The dragon over in Faulkner's office is Miss McPartland? No connection. No connection at all, till I get hit in the head with it.” He looked at the cardinal. “How you gonna make out, Kiki?”

The big, beaming smile appeared on the moon face. “Let's say that at the moment the jurisdiction is unsatisfactory to all three claimants, but that I have every confidence right will triumph.”

“Which freely translated means foxy grandpa is yankin' hawsers all over town?” The cardinal maintained a discreet silence, the smile still on his florid features. “You gonna be around, Kiki?”

“I'm not, Johnny, and I'm sorry. I feel guilty leaving you here when I return home day after tomorrow.”

“Don't you worry about leavin' me here. I'm about to cut outta here any day now. The night supervisor changed my night nurse last night, so there's not much point in my hangin' around any longer.” Johnny winked at Jimmy Rogers, who colored. “An' when I do take off outta here, maybe I'll take a little vacation. Haven't taken one in a couple years.”

The cardinal advanced around the end of the bed and held out his hand, which Johnny took. “At least I can hope that some day a vacation will take you to places that we knew together?”

“One of these days,” Johnny promised. “One of these days, for sure. Take care, Kiki. Stay off those ropes.”

The cardinal smiled, raised a hand, nodded to Rogers and left the hospital room, his dark, flowing robes brushing the doorway on either side as he passed through.

“There's a mighty big man,” Rogers said, looking after him thoughtfully.

“In more ways 'n one,” Johnny said lightly. He hitched his shoulders slightly to change his position in the bed. “You finished scratchin' over the gravel, Jimmy?”

“Most of it.” Detective Rogers stared at the bandaging on Johnny's chest. “Thanks to you, I come out of it alive plus a few departmental gold stars. I can still feel that bullet parting my hair after I was part way down from that whack behind the knee.”

“I had to get you of there,” Johnny said with great seriousness. “If I'd let her stick that slug into your hundred 'n five pounds, it'd have gone right on through into me, anyway, an' no doubt infected me with your undernourished blood. I couldn't take the risk.” He tapped his bandaged chest. “Imagine a twenty-eight caliber stoppin' me! Man, I'm gettin' old.”

“You sure are,” Rogers agreed. “The least I'd have expected is for you to have caught it in your teeth and spit it back at her.” He pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. “When did you think it was her?”

“About thirty seconds before I heard your dulcet tones askin' 'em what they were doin' there. I'd just busted open that damn attache case.” Johnny ran a hand over his chin. “Twice before that I'd taken a good hard look at her, but never in connection with Arends. Before she realized Tremaine didn't have the weight for the job she hoped to get out of him, she was tryin' to steer me away from him. She gave me a long story about Madeleine Winters cookin' up a scheme that Stitt an' Dechant used an' didn't cut her in on, so she blew the whistle on 'em an' a big shipment got grabbed. That was supposed to be why Stitt tried to kill the blonde. If I substituted Gloria Philips every time for Madeleine Winters in the story, though, I had a different picture. I knew she'd gone to Stitt with a proposition to sell him, an', bein' the kind he was, he'd laughed at her an' beat it out of her tail. Gloria had contacts, an' when she knew they were tryin' to bring it off, she went to Dechant for her end. It would be right in character for that weasel to tell her she'd have to make her arrangements with Stitt. Since Stitt's arrangements had already had her in bed for five days, she got mad an' turned 'em in, an' when she knew Dechant was due back from the trip she mailed him the newspaper clippin' to rub it in.”

Johnny drew a long breath. “Wish I had a cigarette.” He glanced at Rogers, who made no move. “What Gloria didn't realize was that Jack Arends had damn good contacts of his own with the customs people, and he found out who gave 'em the tip. Arends threatened to tell Stitt, which panicked Gloria. The night that I first met Madeleine an' we went up to her apartment, when Gloria learned Arends was goin' to be there she went back up to her office and came down with the attache case.”

“Which she had very conveniently loaded with a very complicated piece of mechanism,” Rogers said ironically.

“You can bet me that the setup originally had been intended for the blonde,” Johnny said, grinning. “Gloria only went into action against Arends because she felt she had to. That slick silencer deal was meant for Madeleine at the first opportunity. They hated each other.”

“Why did they hate each other?” the detective asked practically.

“The blonde had somethin' the redhead wanted-Harry Palmer. Gloria wanted to run her hot little hands in Harry's money. Madeleine suspected it. She half said as much to me that very first night. As for Harry, all of a sudden he saw a chance to get rid of a long-time drain an' at the same time acquire Gloria's beautiful white body. He liked the idea. The silencer gimmick an' havin' it made was his contribution. When Gloria used up his idea on Arends, Harry was on the hook. He couldn't disown her. He started peddlin' Tremaine as the killer, but then he made a mistake.”

“The assault on the blonde?”

“Right. I don't know whether Tiny chickened out on what was supposed to be a fatal beating, or if Palmer figured makin' her mental was enough. Anyway, he an' Gloria set up Tremaine as the fall guy. Gloria was supposed to send Tremaine off on an errand that would leave him with no alibi for the time of the assault, but Tremaine was just drunk enough to break up the pattern. I took a gun away from Palmer outside Tremaine's door the next mornin'. Whether he'd actually have had the nerve to gun him right then an' there I don't know, but before we got out of there Harry had new problems. Jules had told me in front of Palmer about the blonde's blackmailin' him. That an' the attempt to frame Tremaine had all of a sudden given me the Gloria-Harry axis, an' Palmer knew it. He had his goon Tiny try to shut me up right quick. When Tiny missed, the roof was down on them, an' Palmer knew it. He blew, but Gloria wouldn't quit.”

Detective Rogers sat in silence for several seconds. Finally he shook his head. “She surely played the hand out. The way she went after Faulkner-”

“That must have been the final frustration for her, I guess,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “She'd figured out that Ernest had the thing, which I never did, an' I'll never know why. Well, if Ernest had been one of the boys an' she'd been able to roll over in bed for him she'd never have needed any of the rest of us she was foolin' around with. But Ernest was wired on a different trolley, an' he was suspicious of her. I imagine the cable was a joint venture of theirs, but Gloria was never able to get Ernest under her thumb. Oh, she wanted Palmer's money bad enough to cut him in on that deal, too, but she wouldn't have been at all bashful about pullin' it off herself. Ernest was a real problem to her. She never knew when Ernest was goin' to run to Tremaine, another reason Tremaine was at the head of her list.”

Detective Rogers rose, panama in hand. “You still think it was her that shot you that night?”

“Had to be. Palmer must've about gone out of his mind when I threw him an' Tiny out of the blonde's apartment. They had it all set up, an' he couldn't stop it. He couldn't reach Gloria to let her know Madeleine wasn't alone as they'd planned. The hell of it was that, even with me there, if Madeleine'd opened the door they'd probably have gotten away with it. How's she doin'?”

“They're making her a new face. In time they seem to feel she'll recover from the shock.” The sandy-haired man raised the panama in a brief salute. “I'll give your regards to Dameron.”

“You do that,” Johnny grinned. “Take care, Jimmy. Preserve that law an' order.”

Detective Rogers nodded and left the room. Johnny eased himself onto his side and stretched his legs gratefully. A little lower down in the thorax, Killain-ahh, he told himself impatiently, a little higher up would have been a clean miss.

He stared at the white wall. Had to hand it to the redhead in one-way: she'd given it a hell of a riffle. Better man than any oft them. Love and kisses, sweetheart. Bang. And a hell of a woman in bed. Too bad. Too bad…

His eyes closed, and he slept.

Content

Dan Marlowe
The Fatal Frails

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