Stewart Sterling

Collection of Stories

Killers Carnival

Thrilling Detective, July 1940

Chapter I

No Blunt Instrument

When Gil Vine laid three cents on the cigar stand in the lobby of his office building and said: “Times,” he noticed a pair of legs. Good-looking’ legs they were, encased in sheer chiffon, standing by the elevator bank. He glanced up, but the fur collar of her coat was pulled up around her face so he could only see a pair of hazel-green eyes watching him intently.

When the tobacconist gave him his morning paper with the greeting, “Looks like a real snowstorm, Mister Vine,” the proprietor of the Vine Investigating Agency saw the girl start violently. And after he’d entered the up-car and the girl followed, there was no further doubt in his mind. This girl was waiting for him and she didn’t want anyone else to know about it

He got off at the fourth. The girl tagged along a few feet behind, all the way down the corridor.

“Come on in,” he said without turning his head. “Nobody around.”

She gasped. “Gilbert Vine?” she said, softly.

“Yeah.” He acted as if it was an every day occurrence for a smartly-dressed girl to trail him cautiously to his office door. “Close the door. That’s right. The armchair, there, is for clients. Sit down and catch your breath.”

He was doing his best to put her at ease, but she didn’t react. She sat down, threw open her coat and waited, white-faced and grim. When he had slid into the swivel chair behind his desk, she said:

“You used to know Bill Corinth, Mister Vine?”

“Sure. Bill and I worked out of the same office for the F.B.I. Bill send you to me?”

The detective saw her lips tremble.

“Not exactly. He used to talk about you a lot. He always said if he were in a jam, he’d rather have you working for him than the whole police force, so...”

Gil Vine grinned. When he grinned, a network of crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes and his long bony face seemed suddenly to contradict the steel in his gray eyes and the iron in his grizzled hair.

“I’ll buy Bill a drink on that.”

“You can’t — not anymore.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her voice was unsteady.

“I didn’t know.” He reached over and patted her sleeve. “Want to tell me about it? Bill was a damn good friend of mine.”

She looked miserably down at her lap.

“He was a good friend of mine, too. We were going to be married.”

Vine waited. There was something more to this than heartbroken distress. He couldn’t figure what it was. She pointed to the folded newspaper he had laid on the desk.

“It’s in there. He was killed. Last night.”

Vine flipped the paper open, found the heading:

CUSTOMS INSPECTOR

BEATEN TO DEATH

Police Puzzled By Brutal

Crime at Society Rink

She went on, and her voice was husky as she spoke.

“The terrible thing is, the police think I killed him.”

He rattled the paper without looking up.

“It doesn’t say that here, Miss...”

“Estabrook. Louise Estabrook. It’s almost as bad as that. It says, ‘a citywide search is under way for the young woman who accompanied Mister Corinth to the skating rink at the Radio City Plaza last night.’ I was with him. But I didn’t...”

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, soothingly. “Probably the police don’t believe you did, either. But they have to say something to reporters. And they will want to question you.”

“They’ll arrest me,” she insisted, “but I don’t care about that. It doesn’t make any difference what happens to me, now Bill’s dead. The only thing I want is to see that the person who murdered Bill is made to pay for it. So I’ve come to you.”

He stood up, walked over to the window and watched the snow for a minute, with his back to her. Then he said:

“I’ll do what I can — on one condition.”

She nodded. “Anything.”

“It’ll be tough. You’ll have to give yourself up.”

“Go to prison for something that I didn’t do?”

He made an impatient gesture.

“You’re a long way from a cell. Even if they hold you without bail, I wouldn’t worry. Look at it this way — if you had murdered Bill, sooner or later, they’d shove you in the jug, anyway. Since you didn’t, your being arrested may throw the real murderer off his guard for a while. Now” — he tapped the newspaper with his forefinger — “tell me the straight of it. What did they leave out here? How much of this is on the level and how much is hoke, made up by someone on the rewrite desk?”

She thought for long seconds before replying.

“What they’ve got is true, as far as it goes. Bill called me for dinner last night. We went over to one of those steak places, off Broadway. He didn’t seem to have his mind on the meal at all. Once, when I asked him if there was anything wrong, he said” — she caught her breath — “ ‘Not between you and me, there isn’t, hon. Don’t mind me. I’m just trying to dope something out.’ Then, after dinner, we walked back through Fiftieth Street. Out of a clear sky, Bill suggested we go down to the glass-enclosed restaurant beside the skating rink at the Plaza and have a couple of drinks.”

Vine made his swivel chair squeak.

“Seems to me I read something about an ice show they’ve got there this week.”

She nodded. “The St. Moritz troupe. Fancy skaters and a couple of those daredevils who jump through blazing hoops. Anyway, we got a table where we could watch, but before the waiter brought our order, Bill got up and said, ‘I’m going to make a couple of phone calls, honey. Don’t worry if I’m not back right away’.”

“What time was this?” asked the detective.

“It must have been half-past nine when he went away and that — that was the last time I saw him.”

“You didn’t see him meet anyone? Talk with anyone?”

She bit her lips to keep from crying.

“No. I just waited there for him to come back. He never did. I watched the troupe do their set and then got dizzy following the crowd on the ice, skating round and round. Finally, when the music stopped and the lights went out and everybody went home, I decided Bill simply wasn’t coming back, so I paid the check and went home, too.”

“Didn’t you try to get in touch with him?” Vine asked.

“Oh, yes. I phoned his hotel half a dozen times. He hadn’t come in. I was worried, of course, but it never occurred to me anything serious had happened to him. Then I opened my paper this morning and learned he’d been found in the lower courtyard of the Plaza, his head crushed in and the ice underneath him all...”

She flung her arms on the desk, buried her face and wept soundlessly.

He let her cry for awhile.

“We better get it over with, Miss Estabrook.”

She lifted her head, dully.

“If I’m going to be arrested on a charge of murder, shouldn’t I get a lawyer?”

He shook his head. “Don’t bother with that, yet. They won’t charge you with homicide. Worst they’ll do is hold you a couple days for investigation.”

They went down to the street, and walked over to the Forty-seventh Street station. Just before they went up the steps between the green globes, he gripped her arm.

“You’re not holding anything back, are you? Because if I’m going to work on this thing, I need to know all there is to know.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea why Bill was killed or who did it — or anything,” she said. “He never talked to me about his work.”

“He wouldn’t,” Gil Vine said. “Government men get that way.”

They went in.

He asked for Captain Dougherty, introduced the girl, turned her over to the station matron.

“Cheer up!” He patted her shoulder. “You’re doing the thing that’ll help most. Don’t forget that, if the going gets rough. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

Then he got Dougherty to one side.

“She didn’t know what to do, Cap, when she read about it, so she came to me. You can ask her all the questions you want. She’ll tell you everything she knows, which is next to nothing.”

“Thanks, Gil,” said Dougherty. “I’ll see she gets a break with the press boys. We haven’t anything on her. It just seemed peculiar she ran away.”

“She didn’t,” objected Vine. “She was practically the last customer out of the restaurant. Corinth had left her, saying he’d be right back. So she waited until they closed the place up. She didn’t know anything had happened to him, so she went on home.”

“Okay,” answered Dougherty. “I’m just trying to crack this thing because the Federal boys are boiling over. Where do you stand on it, Gil?”

“Bill and I both wore the same badge for a long time,” said Vine simply.

“Sure.” Dougherty nodded. “Well, I won’t be able to turn over anything my plainclothes boys pick up, but right now you start even. We haven’t got a thing to work on.”

“How about a permit to view the body?” Vine asked.

“Go right ahead. I’ll phone the morgue, now.”

Vine picked up a cab, went downtown, and east. In the chill, damp, receiving vault of the city morgue, he stood stone-faced, while an assistant medical examiner described the injuries.

“No blunt instrument this time, Mister Vine. This was sharp, pointed. But about a quarter of an inch thick. He was hit three times. Only blow that counted was this one — right on top of his head. Penetrated the skull, clear to the brain pan. This one nearly tore off the top of his left ear, and that one ripped the fleshy part of his neck — that’s where the blood came from. But those others wouldn’t have been fatal.”

“What would you say the wound was made with?” asked Vine thoughtfully.

“Now you’ve got me.” The doctor pulled at the tip of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Looks something like injuries I’ve seen made with the sharp corner of a spade, but it’s too thick for a spade. Anyway, that’s not my job.”

Chapter II

Murder Weapon

After the rubber sheet had been replaced, Gil Vine got out to the street and rode uptown to where the towering buttes of Radio City threw shadows across the great sunken plaza. Vine spent the time wondering about those wounds, particularly the one on the head. What kind of a murder weapon could it be?

The rink of artificial ice wasn’t open to the public at that hour, but the restaurant was open for business. Vine slid into a chair at one of the round tables, ordered a sandwich and coffee.

The waiter was eager to discuss the crime of the previous evening.

“I, myself, never see this gentleman until he is dead. I notice the lady, sure. She is sitting by herself for so long. She was at one of Morris’ tables. Morris is not here now. The police took him to Headquarters.”

“That so?” Vine was only mildly interested. “Do they think Morris killed the man?”

The waiter snorted. “Not Morris. He will not even kill a fly on the tables here, in the summertime. But Morris saw this dead man talking to someone.”

“Man or woman?” Vine asked the question disinterestedly.

“Oh, a man. But such an investigation will be no use. Morris does not even remember what the other man was like. You see so many people every day, on a job like this.”

“I can imagine.”

Vine pointed to a colored placard of an entrancingly slim girl in a Hussar’s costume, pirouetting on skates. In flaming red type was inscribed:

TROUPE OF SAINT MORITZ

Internationally Famous Daredevils and Dancers

of the Silver Blades

“When do they go on next?”

The waiter cocked his head on one side, sadly.

“It is a pity. No more. Last night was the last. Do you know what I think about this murder?”

“No. What?”

The waiter leaned over confidentially.

“A crime of passion. No less. A beautiful and mysterious woman, a jealous lover.” He snapped his fingers.

“I never thought of it like that.” Vine showed his astonishment. “You ought to be a detective.” He sat motionless and silent for half an hour, his sandwich untouched. Then, he left a tip, went to a phone booth. He talked with the sporting editor of a metropolitan daily and was finally given a name and a number. He hung up, dialed again.

“Want to talk to Mike Prouty,” he said into the mouthpiece. “This Mister Prouty? This is Gil Vine, private investigator... Yeah... You’re handling the publicity for this St. Moritz skating troupe? Like to see you about it... Right away? Fine.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a hotel bedroom, accepting a light from a breezy, well-tanned young man who wore a light gray suit, a black shirt and a cherry-colored necktie.

“You realize, Mister Vine, I got to be careful what kind of stories get printed about my clients. Just what makes you think they might know something about this here Bill Corinth?”

Gil Vine held up a finger. “Corinth was killed at the Radio City Rink. The St. Moritz troupe were at that rink when he was killed.”

He raised a second finger. “Corinth was a customs man. His job was to see travelers from abroad don’t put anything over on Uncle Samuel. This skating troupe just checked in from Le Havre four days ago.”

“For God’s sake,” muttered Mike Prouty, “that’s jumping a hell of a long way to conclusions.”

Vine held up a third finger. “The wound in Corinth’s skull was made by something sharp and pointed — probably of steel and about a quarter of an inch thick.” He saw the apprehensive glint in Prouty’s eyes. “That’s right. You guessed it. A skate.”

Prouty squirmed in his chair and laughed a little uncomfortably.

“Sounds pretty thin, fella. You don’t even know that this dead man ever saw any of my troupe, to say nothing of having had a fight with any of them.”

Vine stared at him coldly.

“This wasn’t a fight. If there’d been a fight, someone else would have been smashed up, too. Corinth was that kind of a guy. This was murder.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about it?”

“Tell me where your troupe is,” Vine said. “Fix it so I can see them, talk to them, without their suspecting anything.”

The publicity man seemed very unhappy.

“Look, Mister Vine. I have a call from Dick Wilson over at the paper about you, and if he says you’re a leveler, it goes with me. But suppose you’re wrong about this? I think you are wrong. If you make any accusations or stuff like that, it’s gonna wreck all the bookings I’ve made for these people. I just closed a week in Chicago for them, this morning.”

Vine swore heavily. “I’m not going to make any accusations. There won’t be a peep out of me unless I put my hands on proof. Don’t try to stall me or I’ll sic some of the Washingtons on you.”

Prouty held up two fat palms.

“Pull over to the curb, brother. I’m not trying to stall you. I’ve got an income to protect, but gee whiz, I don’t want to make my dough off a killer.”

“That’s better. I’ll go up as a reporter. Get an interview.”

Prouty turned his head from left to right slowly, then back again.

“Wouldn’t look right. All the interviews were here in town, three weeks ago. If you went clear up there for one, they’d be sure it was phony. But maybe I could” — he opened a closet door — “here. Tell you what...”

“What?”

“I could loan you this, if you’d take good care of it.” The agent brought out a square, black leather case. “Can you use one of these things?”

“I can fake it.”

“There’s a book of instructions that may help.” Prouty fished it out of the camera’s carrying case. “I’ll stick in some flash bulbs, too. You can say you’re from some news syndicate and you wanted to wait until you could get them in the appropriate surroundings. That’ll sound okay.”

“How many are there in this skating company?”

“Just four. Here—” Prouty pulled a folder out of his pocket. “Here’s a brochure I got up on ‘em. They’re really terrific. Best in the world. You look this over and I’ll answer any questions you’ve got, going up on the train.”

“Where’s the troupe now?”

Prouty glanced at his watch. “Just about pulling into Lake Placid. They took the sleeper right after they got paid off last night. There’s a train leaving about eleven tonight, gets us up there in time for breakfast.”

“First rate,” said Vine. “You take it.”

Prouty looked puzzled. “I thought you...”

Vine slung the shoulder-strap of the camera box over his head. “I’m going over to the airport. There’s a kid over there has a charter plane. He’ll put me up in the Adirondacks in a couple of hours.”

A worried crease showed between Prouty’s eyebrows.

“You act as if you had a grudge against my performers, Mister Vine,” he said.

The detective’s face was expressionless.

“Bill Corinth saved my life once by putting a slug through a guy who had a tom gun in his hands and a load of coke in his system.” He went to the door. “I’ll be looking for you up there, tomorrow morning.”

Prouty didn’t answer.

The investigator found his man at the flying field. An hour later, Vine was the lone passenger in a four-place cabin plane winging its way northward under a thousand foot ceiling of snow clouds. As the snaky length of the Hudson slipped beneath the plane, the detective ran through the booklet of instructions on the Graflex, practiced making a few adjustments so that he could bluff at being professional. Then he turned his attention to the brochure.

There were three men in the Troupe de St. Moritz, one girl. The featured performer was a short, stocky blond youth by the name of Wolf Rachau, referred to by Prouty as the “Neck-breaker.” According to the leaflet, Rachau had fractured his spine twice and received many other injuries in the course of a short but spectacular career as a stunt skater. It was Rachau who did the barrel-jumping on flashing steel blades, leaped through hoops of fire, raced over hurdles on the ice. He had the appearance of an irresponsible adolescent.

The girl in the troupe, Ilma Brant was the one who had been pictured on the advertising poster at the rink-side. By her photograph, she was a diminutive and graceful elf, billed as:

“Holder of more first awards for fancy figure-skating than any other woman in the world.”

Ilma’s features were those of a mannequin off the boulevards.

The picture of her partner, Jon Vezel, showed a short, dark man with a figure like the Winged Mercury and a sinister slit of a mouth, like that of a devil cheated of his victims. The eyes were deep-set in hollow sockets, the cheek-bones high and protruding, giving an effect of macabre gauntness. Gil Vine thought Jon Vezel would need plenty of make-up under floodlights.

But the face which held the investigators attention longest was that of Charles Lagand, featured as “The Daredevil Supreme.” This tall, handsome, mustachioed individual was advertised to skate blindfolded on a foot-wide, ice-covered beam twenty feet above the ice.

But it was not this publicity of Lagand which arrested Vine’s faculties — it was the recollection of a face which Vine had seen in the Federal Grand Jury room a dozen years before. Gil Vine was no “camera eye.” He depended upon accurately compiled files of “Wanted” individuals rather than his ability to classify types. But there had been something about the complacent assurance of that witness which had registered permanently on the film of his memory.

The plane slid to a stop in a spray of snow on the mountain-circled lake and he paid off his pilot. Yet it was not until he checked in at the Evergreen Club that Vine was quite certain about Lagand.

Down the rustic staircase into the log-walled lobby came the four members of Prouty’s skating troupe. The tall man holding Ilma’s arm was undoubtedly Charles Lagand. Just as certainly, a dozen years ago, he had been “Cherbourg Charlie,” youngest and most notorious of all confidence men on the trans-Atlantic liners.

Chapter III

Something to Show You

Vine strolled over, accosted Lagand.

“Like to come along and take a shot or two, if you people are going to the lake, now. Mike Prouty said you’d be glad to run through a few routines so I can get some action stuff. Maybe a little leg art.”

He smiled sardonically at Ilma, who wore a chartreuse costume that was meant to show her shape.

“Marvelous.” Lagand beamed. ‘We make you welcome, eh? Any pal of Mike, he is a pal of us, also.”

Vine was made acquainted with Ilma, with Wolf Rachau and Jon Vezel.

“We do our new jitterbug number for you.” Ilma smiled with her eyes, “The man from the newsreel, he call it ‘Ice-Trucking’. It is ver-ee crazy. You will like it.” She clutched the black skate-bag under her arm gleefully.

Their equipment had not yet been set up, the Neck-breaker growled, they wouldn’t be able to demonstrate the hurdle race or the “tight-rope” skating until the evening. Vezel suggested slyly that the cameraman might like to take pictures of the intrepid Wolf Rachau going off a ski-jump on skates. Vine said it would be great. Rachau’s lips thinned. He made no attempt to conceal the sneer in his voice.

“But certainly. One picture of Rachau, he is worth a dozen of Vezel’s posing. Anyone recognize this. I will be glad to oblige.”

The Neck-breaker obligingly hurtled down the steep incline of the small ski-jump, rocketed precariously down an ice-encrusted runway of boards — while Gil Vine frantically snapped the shutter of a filmless camera...

Vezel and Ilma stood at the foot of the ski-run. He kept his back turned toward the hair-raising performance of his troupe-mate, but he paid plenty of attention to the girl.

Then Vine fiddled with shutter and focus adjustments for nearly an hour while Ilma and her partner executed rhythmic swoops and curvettes on the glassy surface of the lake. While this impromptu rehearsal went on, Rachau contented himself with caustic comments about Vezel’s appearance and ability. But he never once mentioned the lovely Ilma.

Vine observed Vezel angrily scolding Ilma under his breath as he started to whirl her about his head, by a grip on one wrist and ankle. Lagand did his best to make light of the poorly-concealed antagonisms but took the part of none.

Finished with his fake photography, Vine observed the troupe ending its practice. He was seated on a bench beside their equipment, watching the flashing blades cut gleaming furrows in the hard ice on abrupt turns and stops. But his eyes had a distant look, as though he was trying to puzzle something out, something that had little to do with the scene before him.

Then the four of them skated over to him, the rehearsal finished. He reached for the girl’s black skate bag and, holding it by the tubular runners of the skates within, handed it to her.

“The most beautiful skating I’ve ever seen, Miss Brant,” he said, grinning broadly.

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling graciously while her eyes searched his. I hope that the photos, they are good.”

The four from St. Moritz never separated long enough for the detective to get into conversation with one of them, alone.

Not until they had tramped back along the snow-packed trail to the club, did the investigator get his opening. Lagand brought up the rear. Vine dropped behind, waited for the florid ex-confidence man.

“Been in America long?” he inquired, casually.

“We leave Le Havre ten days ago. A very bad crossing.” Lagand was curt.

“Too bad. I haven’t been over the pond for five years,” Vine said. “I always used to prefer Cherbourg.”

Lagand plodded along for a dozen steps before he answered.

“I thought it. You are no photographer. Always you were too easily satisfied. Those others, they made us pose over many times. But yon...”

Vine made no admission. “You might drop around to my room, 201, say right after dinner. We could talk over old times in Cherbourg.”

“What can I do?” Lagand said. “I will come, naturally.”

He kept his word, knocked on Vine’s door, softly, shortly before eight.

“What is it you want, my friend with the long memory? If it is blackmail, I have not enough money to make it worth your while.”

The detective laughed harshly.

“I’m not going to put the bee on you. I don’t want your lousy money. I want information.”

Lagand blew a cloud of cigarette smoke so Vine couldn’t see the skater’s eyes.

“Information about—”

“Murder.”

If Vine had expected the foreigner to show surprise, he was disappointed. Instead, Lagand inhaled leisurely and let the smoke dribble insolently from his nostrils, before answering.

“I expect this. Actually, I do. It is concerning’ this customs man who was found dead, no?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!” Lagand’s hand turned palm up, as if he expected to catch some of the snowflakes that were swirling outside the windows. “If you are so familiar with my histoire, my friend, you will know that never did I break the laws. Never.”

“I know Cherbourg Charlie never got caught. But you were close to the edge, more than once.”

“But certainly. That is excitement, no? To be close to the edge and not go over? That is why I like this skating for stunt. Yes? The same thrill. Only now, I risk my own bones instead of my money. And all I take from those who enjoy watching me, is what your pal, Mike, he gives me.”

“Get to it, Cherbourg. What are you driving at?”

Lagand ground out his cigarette carefully. “This, only. I broke no laws then. I break none now. Especially not one that may one day bring me to kiss the Widow of Paris or, here, to sit in your electrical chairs. No? So I tell you the truth, I know not one thing about this man who died, unless” — he leaned forward, glanced slyly up from under quizzical eyebrows — “he was a tall man, big of nose and red as to hair? Yes?”

Vine yanked him savagely to his feet.

“Spit it out, Cherbourg, or I’ll knock it out of you. What do you know?”

“This man I have describe — if he is the one the paper here calls William Corinth — he talked with Wolf the last night. Off in a corner, this was. In secret, as you say.”

Vine released him.

“I’ll check on that. It better be on the up and up. I’m not kidding. And you stay here until I have a chat with this Rachau. I don’t want anybody getting tipped off. What’s his room number?”

“Two-naught-five.” Lagand smiled craftily. “It is not for nothing they call him the Neck-breaker. When he is aroused, he is a veritable madman.”

“Yeah?” Vine opened the door. “We’ll be even then. I’m pretty damned mad myself right now.”

He went to 205, but he didn’t knock on the door. It was partly open.

Vine called out, got no answer. He kicked the door wide open quickly and went in.

Wolf Rachau was kneeling beside the bed, as if praying. But his head was resting on the bed and the top of it was a gory mess.

His skin was still warm but he was thoroughly dead.

Beside the bowed-down corpse was a green-japanned, metal box about two feet long. The lid was open and on it, as well as on the floor, were scattered screwdrivers, a hacksaw, hammers, mallets and files.

Vine got down on his knees, looked under the bed. He took out his handkerchief, gingerly lifted off the carpet a short, razor-edged cold-chisel. The gleaming metal of the blade was stained crimson for half an inch above the beveled edge.

Wolf Rachau had obviously been down on the floor doing something with that tool kit. Vine cudgeled his brains, searched the room carefully, found nothing on which such an array of implements might be employed.

But on the bureau he found a leather letter-folder of continental make. He went through it. There were many letters of German script, postmarked from Berne and Zurich. And one newspaper clipping. It caught his eyes immediately.

He spread it out flat. Its fine type and light-faced heading spoke of Parisian journalism:

L’Horreur du Carnival d’Hiver

There was half a column of it under a Chamonix dateline.

Vine’s French was good enough to let him piece together most of it. When he had finished, his jaw set grimly. He searched Rachau’s pockets, found the key to 205. Then he went out and locked the door.

Down in the dining room an orchestra was playing: “The Man Who Comes Around.” From outside came the jingle of sleighbells fixed to tire chains, Vine stalked down to the lobby, went to the desk.

“Where can I get hold of the sheriff?”

“There’s a deputy right here in town, Larry Aker. It’s four-one-four, ring two. Want me to phone him?”

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.” As he turned, Vine collided with a red-faced man in a tan polo coat, the shoulders of which were dusted with snow. It was Mike Prouty.

“Drove up, Mister Vine,” he explained, chuckling. “Couldn’t wait for that night train. After you’d gone, it struck me there was something I should’ve told you.”

“If it’s anything important,” Vine said, “come on over where nobody’s going to be listening to your broadcast.”

The detective wondered why Prouty hadn’t phoned if the message was so urgent, but he didn’t say so.

“Well, I don’t know...” Prouty shrugged out of his polo coat, slapped the snow off his hat. “It might be nothing at all. But when you were talking to me I guess I didn’t take in what you were saying about Corinth being a customs inspector.”

“One of the best,” Vine said shortly. “He wasn’t one of the dock watchers. They put him on the big jobs.”

One of Prouty’s eyebrows twitched nervously. He rubbed his hand alongside his forehead in irritation.

“Maybe I ought to have gone right down to the customs people, but you seemed to be pretty hot on this thing, so I took a chance. What I had to tell you was this — I went down to meet the troupe when they got off the boat a few days ago, and there was some trouble over the customs inspection.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know exactly. Ilma came up to me practically in tears, said that the inspectors were throwing all her nice things all around.”

“Bunk!” said Vine. “The boys on the piers know how to handle women’s clothes better than women do. What happened?”

“They got it all straightened out, finally. It looked to me as if they were paying most attention to Jon Vezel’s baggage. Of course, he and Ilma had an extra trunk apiece because of their costumes. But as far as I could tell, they didn’t find anything that hadn’t been declared. It just occurred to me that possibly Corinth was still on the trail of something when he came to see the show at the Plaza.”

“He was on the trail of something all right.” Vine took out the clipping. “Read that.”

Prouty went through it, his lips forming the French words as he read.

“Holy cats,” he exclaimed. “Somebody pulled a butchery just like that over at Chamonix. Only this man who was killed. He was a jeweler’s messenger?”

“Got the top of his head caved in before he had a chance to deliver a necklace of matched diamonds to some society dame,” Vine agreed. He watched curious little beads of perspiration spring out on Prouty’s forehead. “Happen to know if this St. Moritz four ever played Chamonix?”

“I think they did. But cripes almighty, Mister Vine, if any of them had gotten away with a hundred and sixty thousand dollars worth of diamond necklace, he wouldn’t be skating five-six nights a week for a lousy two hundred bucks.”

Vine put the clipping back in his pocket.

“Might. There’s a war on over there. The killer couldn’t sell those stones in open market, and they tell me most of the fences have shut up shop, now the boys’re hanging out the washing on the Maginot Line.”

Prouty mopped his face with a silk handkerchief.

“His best bet would be to come over here, try to sell the stones in the u.S.A.?”

“Sure,” Vine said. “Don’t bother to check in just yet. Have your bag sent up to my room if you want. Come on upstairs, I got something to show you.”

Chapter IV

Crimson Snow

Prouty stood by Rachau’s body, mouth agape, eyes bulging.

“Same way Corinth was killed!”

“Not quite,” Vine said through his teeth. “Murderer used the cold-chisel, this time.”

Prouty looked away from the body, gulped.

“What was he doing with all those tools?”

“Safe-cracking, maybe.” Vine was enigmatic. “It’s a good bet he didn’t get what he was after.”

Out on the lake, a rocket exploded, sending booming echoes shuttling back and forth between the mountain peaks. A red glare made the snow a crimson mist.

“That’s the signal,” Prouty said, “for the beginning of the carnival.” His eye twitched, spasmodically. “It’s the end of it for me — and the troupe.”

“Still worrying about your bookings, Prouty? With two men murdered in the last twenty-four hours?”

Prouty shook his head in horror.

“No, no. Of course not. But, aside from business, I liked these people. This Neck-breaker” — he shuddered — “wasn’t a bad guy. Maybe he pawed over Ilma a little too much, but he’d do anything for you, if he liked you. Lagand’s a pretty swell gent, too, when you get to know him.”

Vine picked up the hacksaw, slid it in his coat pocket.

“I’ve known him longer than you have. I’ve got him in my room, down the hall now. Let’s see what he says about this.”

What Lagand said, when he saw Prouty, was:

“Mike, my friend! Now, maybe you fix things so the show, she go on, eh? Jon and Ilma, they just now go down to the lake in costume. Wolf and I, we are due for our act in ten minutes.”

Prouty put a forefinger up to keep his eyelid from jerking.

“Wolf is due for a session with the embalmer, Charlie. He’s on the floor in his room with the top of his head chopped to mincemeat.”

Lagand’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned.

“Who?” he said, softly. “You know who did this?”

Vine climbed into his overcoat, slipped on his hat.

“You tell us who’s hiding a hundred and sixty grand worth of glitter, and we’ll go on from there. Come along. Get your things on.”

Lagand was incredulous. “You charge me with such a crime? Impossible!”

The detective pushed him through the door, along the hall.

“I’m not horsing around with charges, Cherbourg. I’m after proof. Let’s go.”

The stunt skater made no protest. He seemed more puzzled than worried. When they went downstairs, Prouty and Lagand went first, Vine brought up the rear, hand in coat pocket. He stopped at the desk.

“You better ring that deputy, after all. Tell him to double-time it over here and look me up down at the lake. It’s important.”

Then the three men went out, joined the gay throng moving down the slope toward the cleared surface of the lake. Red, blue and yellow electric lights, set in five-foot cubes of ice, made a rainbow of the snow-covered ground. A loudspeaker sent over the countryside the rhythmic melody of ‘Winter Wonderland.” All about them bells rang, horns blew, people laughed and shouted.

“Going to arrest the whole troupe, Mister Vine?” Prouty muttered.

“Going to round up what’s left of it, Prouty.”

Lagand swore obscenely in French.

“It makes one astonished, you are so certain this killer is one of us!”

“The killer,” Vine said sharply “is one of two persons” — he could hear the hissing intake of their breath as they waited — “either the one who has those damned diamonds and is trying to keep anyone else from getting them. Or the one who knows who does have them and is trying to get them.”

Across the rink they saw Jon and Ilma. Vezel was kneeling, his head down, lacing tip the girl’s fancy-skating shoes. Vine half-paused in his stride, breath hissed through his taut lips.

The man glanced up, saw them coming. Hastily, he finished the boot-lacing, stood up on his skates. The girl had not noticed them. She executed a short outside curve and a ballet dancer’s pose, swung gracefully into a dizzy spin. She came to an abrupt stop as she recognized Prouty.

“Michel!” she squealed in delight. She ran daintily toward him on skate-toes, flung her arms about his neck, embraced him rapturously. “It is good to see you. I did not think you would be here when we open tonight.”

The booking agent disengaged her arms, dejectedly.

“We’re not going to open tonight, Ilma.”

“No. But why? Why? Nom d’un nom, Charles, why do you stand there so strange, so solemn?”

She backed away from Prouty, and stared in growing uneasiness from one to the other.

“Rachau’s been murdered,” Vine said bluntly.

The girl screamed, once, piercingly, put her fists to her mouth in horror. The detective had no time to pay attention to her. He was moving after Jon. Ilma’s partner had skated, with casual indifference, a few yards further down the rink. He did a backward inner circle, passed close in front of an iron bench placed at the edge of the rink. As he swung past, he reached down, nonchalantly, and picked up the black leather skate-bag, tucked it under his arm.

“Vezel!” Vine shouted. “Drop it!”

He drew his gun, started to sprint.

The figure-skater had a twenty yard head-start. He made good use of it. He crouched low, leaned his lithe body forward, drove his blades up the ice toward the circular path which had been cleared on the ice for the speed trials the next day.

“You’ll never catch him!” yelled Prouty. “He’s fast as hell!”

Vine knew he would be outdistanced in a matter of seconds, raised his gun to fire a warning shot. Past him flashed a green-clad figure on flying blades.

“Ilma!” cried Lagand, “Prenez garde! He will kill!”

Vine saved his breath and ran. He couldn’t keep pace with either of the skaters, but there would be an end to the clear ice and then he would have his advantage in the deep snow.

Far ahead, he saw a vivid pencil of orange flame. The brittle crack of a pistol shot came distantly on the wind.

It was the girl who was shooting. The girl!

“That proves it,” Vine muttered, trying to increase his speed over the treacherous ice.

The cold air bit into Vine’s lungs like a million needles. The gap between him and the skaters increased at every step. He slipped and slid on the glassy surface but he kept on doggedly.

The cleared track was half a mile in circumference. Jon and Ilma were floundering in knee-deep snow before the detective got halfway to the far end. He heard another shot. Behind him, an outcry had sprung up, but neither Prouty or Lagand were near enough so he could distinguish what they were saying.

By the time Vine reached the end of the cleared ice, there was only one figure plunging through the drifts between him and shore.

It was a hundred feet further on, before he came across a dark body lying in the snow with out-flung arms. It was Vezel.

He was groaning in agony. The snow was flecked with crimson beneath his mouth.

Vine bent over him. The man was beyond speech. There wasn’t anything that could be done for him. And, anyway, the others would be there in a minute. The detective ran on, but not until he had made sure the black skate bag was not beneath the dying man’s body.

The girl was fifty yards ahead, but making slow progress through deeper snow-banks at the edge of the lake. Vine ran with short steps, knees high, gained rapidly.

Above, on the shore, loomed the forbidding hulk of an abandoned icehouse. Down from the door cut into the lakefront wall of the dilapidated wooden structure, ran a steeply inclined ice-trestle up which the frozen blocks had once been hauled, Ilma readied the foot of the trestle, turned at bay.

She crouched low in the snow, against the gloomy shadow of the icehouse. She was almost invisible. Vine got to the bank, dropped to his hands and knees, crawled toward her cautiously.

She waited until he was within point-blank range, emptied her pistol at him as fast as she could fire.

He counted the shots. When the magazine of her automatic was empty, he sprang up, raced silently toward her.

She dodged around the base of the trestle, ran lightly up it, her skates making the wooden ties resound hollowly.

He followed, went up more slowly, testing the ties cautiously before he threw his weight on them.

From above, she spat vicious curses at him. Once, he had to dodge the hurtling automatic she threw. He put his own gun away. He’d never shot at a woman in his life and he didn’t intend to start now.

“Why you not come close?” she taunted, halfway up. “You big, strong man. Not afraid, no?”

“Sure,” he gritted. “I’m scared stiff, Ilma — of those skates of yours. They’re too close to my skull. I don’t want to wind up the way Corinth and Rachau and that messenger at Chamonix did.”

There were frantic yells from below, now. Prouty and Lagand had reached the shore, had seen them.

Their arrival made her desperate. If she could reach that high platform there, get through that door!

Vine reached out to grab her ankle. There was a dull splintering of rotten wood, a nerve-shattering shriek.

Then, after a split-second of terrible silence, a fearful thud from below.

When the detective reached the ground, he was drenched with sweat, despite the bitter cold. Prouty and the only remaining member of the four from St. Moritz were kneeling beside the still body.

“Broke her neck,” mumbled the booking-agent.

“Mille tonnerre!” whispered Lagand. “This little one, she kill three men? Incredible, non!”

After a brief inspection to confirm Prouty’s verdict, Vine busied himself with the skate-bag. From it he drew a pair of small red-leather boots and a pair of tubular speed-skates. He got out the hacksaw.

“Never knew a figure skater to use this sort of skate,” he said, sawing steadily. “When I first discovered she had them, carried them with her, it puzzled me — a figure skater carrying an extra pair — of tubular skates. Then, when I saw Vezel kneeling to tie her laces, I realized how she could have killed Bill Corinth — and I knew where she could be hiding those diamonds. That was why she always kept those useless skates near her! She hadn’t used them. They’ve never been worn.

“That must have made Wolf suspicious first, that’s what he was trying to do with the tool kit in his room. He’d doped out where she’d hidden the loot, borrowed tools from the janitor at the club, stole this bag. He was ready to get to work when she crept in his room and drove that cold-chisel into his brain.”

The saw whined shrilly. The end of one of the tubular runners dropped onto the snow. Vine held up the skate. A twist of cotton batting showed inside the hollow tube. He pulled it out.

Something gleamed like ice against the snow. He stuffed the cotton back, stood up.

“Took Rachau a long time to dope out where she’d hidden these rocks. He must have been the one who tipped off the customs she was bringing in diamonds with blood on them. When Corinth cornered her at the Plaza, she tricked him into bending down to fix her shoelace, and then kicked a hole in his head with her other skate.”

“Sure,” Prouty said. “That’s about the only way you could hit a guy square on the top of his head, with a skate,”

“Corinth probably talked with Rachau, first, at the Plaza, to make sure the tip was straight. After he was sure, he must have gone right after Ilma. But he wouldn’t have known how the jewel messenger died, at Chamonix. So he didn’t guard against those deadly skates of hers.”

“But Jon,” murmured Lagand. “If he had known where these jewels were, would he not have tried to get them before?”

“Probably Vezel only got wise today. She’d been rattled. She showed more anxiety to keep the skates near her, and since her partner would know she never wore them, he’d get suspicious.”

Lagand sighed, wearily.

“At the last, I’m glad she does not suffer, greatly.”

“Who says she doesn’t,” Vine began. Then, at their stares of astonishment, he added, apologetically. “Sorry. I was thinking of another ‘she.’ I’ve got to go and send a wire.”

Kindly Omit Flowers

Black Mask, March 1942

Chapter One

A Gruesome Exhibit

Lieutenant Teccard rocked back in his swivel chair. His fingers gripped the shiny oak arm-pieces tightly. It was an instinctive movement to get as far away as possible from the thing on his desk. Ordinarily, his office in the headquarters building seemed large enough. Now, suddenly, it was oppressively small and close. He kept his eyes away from the long, glass tray on the flat-top, as he reached for the phone. “O.K. for Sergeant Dixon.”

The woman who came in wouldn’t have been noticed in the average Manhattan lunch-hour crowd. She was pretty, but she hadn’t worked hard at it. A man might not have paid particular attention to her as he passed her on the street, unless he happened to meet her glance. Her eyes were gray and curiously calm — as if they had seen a lot they hadn’t found amusing.

She wrinkled up her nose. “My God, Jerry! A man can live without food for three weeks and without water for three days! But you can’t last three minutes without air!”

Jerry Teccard shoved his brown felt back off a harassed forehead. “Light a cigarette if it gets you, Helen.” He indicated the roll of checkered oilcloth resting in the photographic tray. “You don’t have to turn yourself inside out, gandering at this. You can take the medical examiner’s word for it.”

Acting Detective-sergeant Helen Dixon, second grade, regarded him grimly.

“After that year I put in at the Forty-seventh Street station, it’ll take something to turn my stomach,” she declared.

He lifted one corner of the oilcloth cylinder. “What’s left of a woman’s thigh. After the wharf rats worked on it awhile.”

Her lips compressed a little, but none of the color left her face.

“Where’d it come in?”

“Twenty-third precinct. East Hundred and Fourth.” He consulted a report sheet. “James Boyle, probationer, found a child trying to salvage the oilcloth that had been tied around it with some string. Boyle’s beat takes him along the Harlem docks, foot of Ninety-eighth. This thing was on the tide flat at the side of the Ninety-eighth Street pier.”

“When was this, Jerry?”

“This a.m. Quarter past ten. Doc says it’s been lying there, or under the head of the pier, more’n a week. Some pupae of flies in the end of the bone. Eggs must’ve been laid seven, eight days ago, anyway.”

Helen Dixon bent over the tray. She didn’t peer at the discolored bone, her finger pointed to brown shreds of fiber which clung to the outside of the oilcloth.

“You said it was tied with string?” she asked.

Teccard pointed to a soggy tangle of frazzled gray in one corner of the tray. “Was. Doesn’t mean a thing, though. Million yards of that stuff used every day.”

“But these look like rope strands to me.”

He squinted at them. “I noticed those. I’m going to send ’em up to the lab, for a microscopic. But the reason I sent for you—”

“You figure this might be one of the Happiness cases?” She moved past his chair to the window, opened it from the bottom a few inches, stood staring down into Centre Street.

“There’s better than an even chance. That’s why I asked the Policewomen’s Bureau to send you up here. I know you’ve been plugging like hell on that assignment. If Crim. Ident. can help, maybe you and I can work together on it. Like old times, when you were playing Big Sister to the floozies we picked up on Sixth Avenue.” He swung around toward her. “My office wouldn’t want any credit.”

She touched his shoulder lightly for an instant, spoke without turning around.

“Damn the credit! If I could only break the case. I’ve been running around in circles for three weeks, hoping it’s just another flock of old maids forgetting about friends and families because wedding bells are still ringing in their ears. But if this,” she inclined her head toward the tray, “is one of them, it means the very nastiest kind of murder.”

Teccard nodded. “Never knew a suicide to cut off her leg. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Any special reason to think she was one of this matrimonial agency’s customers?”

He lifted his chin, ran a finger around under his collar uncomfortably. “Remember what you said that day we had lunch at the Savarin? About the kind of heels who have to find their females through an ad? Especially when they pick on dames who’ve had the lousy luck to be disfigured or crippled?”

Her voice was bitter. “I’m not likely to forget. Every one of those five appeals for inquiry come from friends or relatives of women who have some physical disability — or some facial blemish that would put them at a disadvantage in the national pastime of husband-hunting. Of course those poor lonely lambs could be led to the slaughter, by some unscrupulous devil who flattered them and promised them... whatever he promised.”

Teccard fiddled with pipe and pouch. “Well, that thigh bone was broken. In two places. While she was living, I mean.”

Helen Dixon turned, perched on the window sill. “The left leg?”

“Yair. Wasn’t there one of those dames...?”

“Ruby Belle Lansing.” The sergeant eyed the oilcloth with repugnance. “Spinster. Thirty-six. Grade-school teacher in Tannersville. Hip broken in automobile accident, October 1939. Double fracture, set at Catskill Memorial Hospital. Entered into correspondence with the Herald of Happiness in August 1941. Came to New York, October sixth, after being introduced, by mail, to Philip Stanton, then of 4760 Madison Avenue, this city.”

The lieutenant consulted his report sheet. “Length of femur, 18.1 inches. Let’s see — factor for women is three and six-tenths. About sixty-five inches tall. Would this Lansing—”

“She was just five feet, five, Jerry. By the Tannersville Board of Education records. What must have been more important to Stanton, Ruby Belle had a little more than two thousand dollars in the savings bank at Phoenicia. Three days after her arrival, she had this deposit transferred to the Emigrant Bank here. On October tenth, the next day, it was withdrawn, except for ten dollars. Since then, there hasn’t been a trace of her. Or of Stanton!”

“Any description of him?”

Helen shrugged. “Nothing to count. He never went to Tannersville. Her uncle — the one who asked us for a check-up — said he saw a snapshot of Stanton. But all he remembers is, the fellow was good-looking and had a mustache.”

“That’s a great big help!” Teccard called for a policeman to take the thigh-bone back to the morgue. “What about the people where Stanton lived?”

“A rooming house. Man who runs it’s nearly blind. Stanton didn’t seem to use the room much, anyway. Half the time the bed wasn’t disturbed. Best I could get was, he was kind of dark.”

“Ah! Send out an all-borough to pick up dark guys with mustaches! And reserve Central Park to hold ’em in! Yair! How about the other four who’re missing? Same skunk, each time?”

Helen bent over the oilcloth, peered at the brown fiber again. “I wish I could remember what that stuff makes me think of. About the men in the other cases — I’m up against one of those things, Jerry. The disappearances were strangely similar. In every instance, the man resided in New York. The woman involved always lived in some small town, upstate. And every time the man sent the woman a ticket to come to the big city. What’s more, flowers were invariably sent. Can you tie that? A bouquet for the unseen bride! Also, every one of the five dropped out of sight within three or four days — after sending for their home-town funds.”

“All cut from the same pattern!”

“I thought so, at first. But the men in each of the cases had different names. Different addresses.”

“What the hell! A crook of that kind could pick out a new alias or a new address as easy as you choose a blue plate!”

“I saw some of the letters these men wrote. In the agency files. The handwritings don’t bear any resemblance.”

“He could fake them. Or get someone else to write them for him.”

“Not usual, is it? A murderer taking someone into his confidence? Unless it’s a gang. Which it might be, from the varying descriptions of the men — according to the photos. There was always a snapshot, you see. One of the Happiness rules. One man had a beard. Another was partly bald. One was around fifty. The fellow in the Schwartz case couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, the victim’s brother claims. You wonder I’ve been stymied?”

Teccard spread his hands. “We’ll have to go at it from this end. That oilcloth probably came from the five-and-dime — be tough to trace. But if this killer chopped the Lansing woman up, there’d have been more than a thigh bone to dispose of. Not so easy to get rid of a cadaver. And he slipped up this once. If he was careless again, we’ll get somewhere. I’ve put a crew from the precinct on that. They’ll sift that whole damn waterfront through a sieve, if necessary.”

The sergeant sauntered toward the door. “I hope you beat me to it, Jerry. I haven’t been sleeping so well, lately. Thinking about some other poor, lonely fool on her way to meet a murderer. If this guy — or this gang — has gotten away with it five times, there won’t be any stop now. It’s about time for another one. They’ve been spaced about a month apart.”

Teccard frowned. “I thought you said you were up a blind alley on it. What do you mean, beat you to it?”

She smiled, tightly.

“I didn’t say I was licked. I still have a card to play.”

“If we’re going to work together—”

“That would be all right with me. But this is something you couldn’t very well come in on. I’m entered in Cupid’s Competition.”

He jumped to his feet. “Now what in the hell!”

She nodded, calmly. “Current issue of the Herald of Happiness, Meeting Place of the Matrimonial Minded Department. ‘Miss Mary Lownes, single, thirty-one. Of Malone, New York. Pleasant disposition. Capable housewife, though suffering from slight spinal complaint. Occupation, nurse.’ I was, you know, before I turned policewoman. ‘Anxious to meet amiable, sober businessman under fifty.’ That ought to get him, don’t you think?”

“Just because you were assigned to an investigation doesn’t mean you’re supposed to risk running up against a killer, Helen.”

“After the slimy specimens I’ve been running up against, a murderer’ll be a relief. This chasing up and down subways and elevateds to trap exhibitionists, those hours of sitting through double features to nab mashers in the act — that’s not only hard work, it kind of gets you to thinking half the world’s made up of perverts.”

“Yair. But that’s the sort of stuff only a woman can handle. Homicide isn’t for the Women’s Bureau, it’s a man’s job.”

“It’s my job to put a stop to any matrimonial agency that’s doing business like this — to see that love-hungry women don’t get murdered when they figure on getting married.”

“You find the man. We’ll put a stop to it — without your getting into it.”

“That would suit me swell. But it might not work. I may have to get into it, to find the evidence necessary to convict.”

The lieutenant put his fists on his hips and glared. “Hey! You don’t mean you’d go so far as to marry the murdering so-and-so?”

“I’ll go as far as I have to, Jerry. Maybe you’ve forgotten I had a sister who fell for a slimy snake like this Stanton. Alice turned on the gas one night — without lighting it. I found her body. I hate men like that worse than those phoney abortionists I rounded up this spring. At least those girls knew they were taking a terrible chance. These poor, misguided love-seekers don’t even realize their danger until it’s too late.” There was a dull, hurt look in the gray eyes. “But so far, there’s been no proof that any of these women wound up with any legal certificates. No record of any licenses at City Hall, even.”

“God’s sake, Helen! You know the regulations forbid any infraction of ordinances in attempting to trap a criminal!”

“Nothing criminal about getting married, is there, Jerry?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again, glared at her. When he spoke, it was in the tone of a commanding officer. “You let me know before you go through with any damn nonsense like that, hear?”

She saluted, stiffly. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

He wasn’t more than a minute behind her in leaving the office. The police clerk by the rail in the outer room spoke out of the corner of his mouth to a plainclothesman one-fingering on a typewriter. “Geeze! The Lieutenant musta just swallowed a cup of carbolic or something.”

“Teccard? He always looks like that when the Dixon dame gives him ‘No’ for an answer. He’s been carryin’ the torch for her so long, he sleeps standin’ up, like the Statue of Liberty.”

Chapter Two

Herald of Happiness

The detective-lieutenant drove his department sedan up Broadway to Twenty-eighth, studied the directory board in the lobby of a ten-story office building, pushed into the elevator.

The Herald of Happiness was housed in a single room at the rear of the third floor. The door was locked, but there was a bulky shadow moving against the ground glass. He rapped.

The man who let him in was fat. Tiny purple veins laced the end of a bulbous nose. The eyes that searched the lieutenant’s were slightly bloodshot.

“You the proprietor of this agency, mister?”

“I am, sir. T. Chauncey Helbourne, if I can be of service to you. You are a subscriber?”

“I’m from police headquarters.”

“What, again? I’ve already put up with a distressing amount of annoyance from a Miss Dixon...”

“You’ll be putting up with a prison diet, if you’re not careful.”

“Prison! You can’t frighten me, sir. I run a legitimate business.”

“Nuts! You come close to being a professional panderer. Don’t tell me you have a license, it doesn’t cover complicity in fraud!”

Helbourne’s neck reddened. “I won’t be bulldozed by any such tactics, officer!”

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Teccard.” He surveyed the cheap furniture, the unpainted rack of pigeonholes along one wall.

“It makes no difference to me if you’re the commissioner, himself. I have influential connections at City Hall, too. And my records are always open for inspection by authorized parties.”

“O.K. I’m an authorized party. I’ll have a look at any letters that’ve come in here the last week or so.”

The fat man waved vaguely at the row of green-painted files. “Help yourself. It would take me a couple of months to locate ’em. I don’t file by dates.”

“I’ll make a start at it.” Teccard pulled out a steel drawer marked L. He ran his thumb along the tabs until he came to one with the letters LO, took out all the folders in that section. “How many letters you rake in, per day, mister?”

“You mean the preliminaries?”

“What the hell is a preliminary?” There was a folder with the name Mary Lownes at the top. It was empty, except for an envelope in Helen’s handwriting, addressed to Herald of Happiness — and a clipped-out advertisement.

Helbourne picked up a proof-sheet of a page. “Subscribers are allowed one free advertisement to each subscription, plus as many answers to other advertisements as they wish. Our only restriction is, these replies to ads must be addressed to the box-number of the Herald.” He pointed to one. “Any letters coming in, addressed to that box-number, are copied and sent along to the advertiser, no charge. Without the name or address of the sender, naturally.”

Teccard slid the folders back in place. “The old come-on. What do you tap them for giving out with the address?”

The proprietor of the Herald frowned. “Our fee is five dollars.”

“At each end of the transaction? Five from the snappy skirt who wants the address of some dope who’s given her a line of mush? And another five from the dope himself, if he wants to get in touch with her direct?”

“I don’t like the way you put it, Lieutenant.”

“Catch them coming and going, don’t you! Next thing you know, you’ll catch five years in the pen.” Teccard drifted toward the rack of pigeonholes. There were letters and folded carbon copies in most of them. Under each space was pasted a copy of some Herald advertisement.

Helbourne watched him sullenly. “I’m not responsible for what my subscribers do after I’ve performed an introduction.”

“Hell you aren’t! You’re wide open for prosecution. You were warned some New York crut has been rooking old maids from upstate, using you as a go-between.” There was a cubbyhole with two letters, over an advertisement reading:

YOUNG LADY OF BREEDING

seeks companionship of amiable, sober businessman, under fifty, with quiet tastes. One who would appreciate a better-than-average table and a comfortable home. Not wishing to be supported, as have slight means of own. Able and active, though slight spinal injury. Brunette, thirty-one, former trained nurse. Box LL27.

Helen was a brunette — the age and the references to the spinal injury and having been a nurse clinched it. Teccard reached for the letters.

The fat man caught his arm. “You’ll have to get a court order, if you’re going to ransack my mail, Lieutenant.”

Teccard disengaged the pudgy fingers. “One side, mister. A minute ago you told me to help myself. I am. You want any trouble, I’ll see you get plenty.” He crackled the letters open. The first one read:

Dear Miss Box LL27.

Your ad made a great deal of an appeal to me. I am a farmer, widower five years now, age forty-six. It’s a seventy-acre fruit farm, paying good, too. I have a piano, radio, Chevrolet, nice furniture. The part about better than average cooking appealed to me.

Do you play the piano? Hoping to hear from you,

Very sincerely yours,

MERMAN SCHICHTE

Rural Route Six

Pathanville. N. Y.

The lieutenant stuck it back in the pigeonhole. “Park your pants in a chair, mister. It makes me nervous to have anyone reading over my shoulder.”

Helbourne sat down. Has mouth was open and he was panting as if he’d been climbing stairs. He kept rubbing his palms on his knees while he watched Teccard run through the other letter.

Your message in the Herald was like music heard far off over the water at night. Perhaps I am wrong, dear LL27, but I sense in your heart an aching desire for the finer things which life too often denies those best fitted to enjoy them. If I have understood you rightly, your appeal for companionship strikes a very sympathetic chord in my own soul.

I am thirty-five, dark and, though no Adonis, not bad to look upon, I have been told. I have a comfortable business and am fond of travel, theater and books. Possibly you would care to write me so we could exchange photographs and perhaps — quien sabe — perhaps, some day, rings to symbolize even more than companionship!

With eager anticipation,

Your friend,

MAROLD WILLARD

971 East 88th Street

New York City

Teccard put the letter in his pocket. East Eighty-eighth wasn’t so far from the pier where that grisly bone had been found.

“This Harold Willard,” he said. “Let’s see the other letters you’ve had from him.”

Helbourne shook his head quickly. “That’s the only one. I never heard of the man before. I can’t keep track—”

“Yair. I heard that one. You recognize his signature?”

“No. Not at all.”

“You sent the copy of this drool along to Box LL27?”

“Not yet. It was going out today,” Helbourne said.

“Don’t send it. And don’t send out copies of any letters that come to you from New York City. Not until I’ve had a look at them. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Helbourne held his head sideways, as if he expected the lieutenant to take a punch at him. “Is there — ah — any cause for you to believe the writer of that letter — has been involved in these — ah — irregularities you are investigating?”

Teccard stuffed a copy of the Herald into his coat pocket. “Only that he writes phoney as hell. You ought to have your butt booted for handling that kind of sewage. And if I find you’ve passed on any more of it, I’m coming back and rub your nose in it.”

It was dusk when the sedan reached the Twenty-third Precinct station house. Teccard was glad to get out of the chill wind whistling across Harlem from the river. “Cap Meyer around?” he inquired of the desk sergeant.

“You’ll find him in the muster room, with a couple boys from Homicide, Lieutenant.”

Teccard strode into the back room. Four men stood about the long table under a green-shaded bulb. Three were in plain-clothes, the fourth was in uniform. There was a black rubber body-bag at the one end of the table, at the other a piece of wax paper with as grisly a collection as the Identification man had ever seen.

“What you got, Meyer?”

The captain turned. Has face was a curious greenish-yellow in the cone of brilliance. “I wouldn’t know, Teccard. But whatever it is, you can have it.”

One of the Homicide men finished tying a tag to the third finger of a skeleton hand. “All we’re sure of, it was an adult female.”

His partner stripped off a pair of rubber gloves. “That’s all you’ll ever establish, for certain. Person who hacked this woman up was pretty tricky.” He indicated the cracked and flattened end of the finger bones. “Mashed the tips to prevent any print-work.”

Meyer tongued around his stub of cigar. “Wasn’t really necessary, though. The rats took care of that.”

The uniformed man spoke up. “All this mess had been dumped under the shore end of that Ninety-eighth Street pier, Lieutenant. There was a loose plank there, somebody must of ripped it up. It was near covered by muck, but we shoveled it out and used the hose on it, well as we could.”

“Including that thigh bone, we got everything but one foot now,” the first Homicide man said. “But it wouldn’t do any good to try a reconstruction. All the teeth were hammered out of that head, before it was dropped in the mud.”

Teccard bent over the yellowish skull, stained with dirty, grayish mold. “Parts of some fillings left. Jaw still shows where she had some bridge-work done. We can check the dentists, up around Tannersville.”

Captain Meyer exclaimed: “You got a line on her, already?”

“Yair. Schoolteacher who thought she was coming to town for her wedding ceremony. ‘Till death do ye part.’ It parted her, to hell and gone, didn’t it?” He turned away. “How about letting me have one of your men who knows the Eighty-eighth Street beat? In the nine hundreds.”

Meyer and the uniformed man looked at each other. The captain gestured. “Patrolman Taylor, here, had that beat up to a month ago. How long you need him?”

“Depends. Bird we’re after may have flown the coop already.”

“O.K. You’re relieved, Taylor. And if you have any trouble when it comes to putting the arm on the crut who did this,” the captain jerked his head toward the table, “do me one favor.”

The policeman touched the rim of his cap. “Yuh?”

“Shoot him a couple times where it’ll really hurt. All he’ll feel, if he goes to the chair, will be a few seconds’ jolt. Way I feel, that’d be letting him off easy...”

Out in the car, Taylor pulled a folded-up newspaper from his hip pocket. “That kid who found the leg this morning squawked all over the neighborhood. We warned him to keep his puss shut — but the papers got it just the same.”

Teccard didn’t read it. “They can’t print much, if they don’t know any more than we do, Taylor. What you know about number 971?” He pulled up half a block away.

The patrolman craned his neck. “Nine-seven-one? The old brick house? Nothing much. Just four- or five-buck-a-week furnished rooms. No apartments.”

“Who runs it?”

“Old dodo named Halzer. Ham and his wife. They got 969, too — operate ’em together. He’s harmless, stewed about half the time.”

“Yair? You ever hear of a guy, name of Harold Willard, in this parish?”

“Harold Willard. Harold Willard. I don’t recall it, Lieutenant. What’s he look like?”

“Dark, about thirty-five years old. That’s all we’ve got to go on. My guess is he fancies himself for a double of one of the movie stars. Likely to be a flash dresser.”

“I can’t seem to place him. Maybe he’s just moved in. They keep coming and going in a joint like this.”

“Yair. If he happens to be in now, we’ll keep him from going.”

“We can do that, Lieutenant. There’s no rear doors on this side of the block.”

“You go on ahead, then. Go into 969. Find out from Halzer what room Willard has. When you know, stand in the door of 969 and wait for me to come past. You can give me the high sign without anyone watching you from one of the windows next door,” Teccard explained.

“Check.”

“And after I go in, nobody comes out. I mean nobody. Until I say so.”

“Got you, Lieutenant.” The patrolman strolled away, idly twisting his night-stick.

Teccard stood on the curb, tamping out his pipe. He gazed curiously up at the lighted windows of 971. What kind of murderer could it be who took such care to hack his victim to pieces — only to attempt to hide all the remains in one spot? There had been other instances of dismembered corpses in the records of the Criminal Identification Bureau but, so far as Teccard could remember, limbs and head and torso had invariably been strewn far and wide, to prevent any reconstruction of the body. Was he up against one of those unpredictable, pathological cases of sadism — where mutilation gives the killer a diabolical satisfaction? That didn’t seem to match up with the carefully planned disposition of the victim’s funds...

Taylor’s club showed, in the areaway of 969. The lieutenant walked along, briskly.

“Third floor rear,” the policeman whispered hoarsely. “Room J.”

Teccard didn’t turn his head, or answer. He marched up the steps to 971. The front door was unlatched. There was a row of battered, black-tin mailboxes. He paused just long enough to make sure one of them bore a piece of paper with the penciled scrawl: Harold M. Willard. Then he went in.

The hallway smelled of cooking grease and antiseptic, the carpeting on the stairs was ragged. Somebody was playing a radio. A baby squalled. There was a sound of running water from a bathroom somewhere on the second floor.

Over the sill of room J was a thread of yellow light. Someone was moving about in the room, but Teccard, with his ear to the panel, heard nothing else. He transferred his gun from his left armpit to the right pocket of his coat, kept his grip on the butt.

He knocked and, without waiting, raised his voice.

“Telegram for Mister Willard.”

The movement behind the door ceased. There was a pause, then: “Slide it under the door.”

Teccard kept his voice high. “You got to sign a receipt, mister.”

“Shove your receipt book under, too. I’ll sign it.” The answer came from halfway down the door — the man inside was evidently trying to look through the keyhole.

“The book won’t go under. You want the telegram, or not?”

Another pause.

“Wait a second. I’m not dressed.”

“O.K.” Teccard tried to make it sound weary.

“Where’s the wire from?” The man had moved away from the door, but the tone was strangely muffled.

“We ain’t allowed to read telegrams, mister. If you don’t want to accept it—”

The door opened.

The man was in his underclothes. He stood sideways, so Teccard couldn’t get a good look at him. Has black hair was rumpled, he held a towel up over his mouth and the side of his face, as if he’d just finished shaving.

“Is there anything due—” He reached out with his other hand.

The lieutenant stepped in, fast.

“Yair. You’re due, mister. Put down—”

There was a faint “Hnnh!” from behind the door, the uncontrollable exhalation of breath when a person exerts himself suddenly.

Teccard whirled.

The blow that caught him across the top of the head knocked him senseless before his knees started to buckle!

Chapter Three

Murder in Room J

Talor poured a tumbler of water over Teccard’s head. “Take it easy, now. Amby’ll be here any second.”

The lieutenant rolled over on his side. “Quit slopping that on my head.” The floor kept tilting away from him, dizzily. “Lemme have it to drink.”

The cop filled the glass from a broken-lipped pitcher. “You been bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Teccard paused with the tumbler at his lips. Was that a pair of shoes lying on the floor behind the patrolman? He shook his head, to clear away the blurriness. “Who in the hell is that?” he cried.

Taylor’s jaw went slack. “That’s the lad you was battling with. You fixed his wagon, all right!”

“I wasn’t fighting with anybody! Someone slugged me from behind that door, before I could even get my gun out.” The lieutenant got his elbows under him, propped himself up. The man on his back was T. Chauncey Helbourne — and his skin was a leaden blue.

The officer nodded sympathetically. “A crack on the conk will do that, sometimes. Make you forget what’s been goin’ on, when you snap out of it.”

Teccard felt of the back of his neck. Has fingers came away wet and sticky, the ache at the top of his skull was nauseating. “I didn’t kill him, you dope!”

“Geeze! You had a right to drop him, didn’t you! He was resistin’ arrest, wasn’t he?”

Teccard crawled on hands and knees to the dead man’s side. There was an irregular dark blot on Helbourne’s vest, just inside the left lapel; in the center of the blot something gleamed yellow-red, under the naked bulb overhead. The lieutenant touched the fat man’s face. It was still close to normal body temperature.

“You got him first clip out of the box.” Taylor pointed to the gun on the floor, by the side of the iron cot.

Teccard stood up shakily, sat down again, suddenly, on the sagging edge of the cot. Taylor, the corpse on the floor, the barren furnishings of the room — all seemed oddly far away. He bent over to let the blood get to his head again. “Where’s the other gent who was in here? The one in shorts?”

The uniformed man squinted as if the light hurt his eyes. “The only lug I saw is this stiff, Lieutenant.”

Teccard closed his eyes to stop the bed from shimmying. “He let me in here. How’d he get downstairs, past you?”

Taylor put up a hand to cover his mouth, his eyes opened wide. “Now I swear to God there wasn’t a soul on them stairs when I come up. If there’d been a guy with his pants off—”

“How’d you happen to come up, anyway?”

“Why, geeze, Lieutenant. When this dame comes scuttling down to the front door, yelling for ‘Police’ naturally I hotfoot over from next door.”

“A woman? What kind of a woman?” Teccard demanded.

“Why, just an ordinary mouse like you’d expect to find in one of these joints. Kind of blond and plump — I don’t know.”

“What’d she say?”

“She says, ‘Officer, come upstairs quick. There’s a couple of men fighting and making a terrible racket right over my room.’ She says, ‘Hurry!’ So I figure it’s you subduing this Willard and maybe needing a hand. I come up on the jump.”

Teccard started to shake his head, thought better of it. “Where is she now? Bring her here.”

The policeman pounded out in the hall, downstairs. He left the door open. There was an excited hum of voices from the corridor.

Teccard took a pencil out of his pocket, stuck it in the barrel of the pistol, lifted it off the floor. He wrapped his handkerchief carefully about the butt, broke his weapon. Only one chamber had been fired from the .38. The bullet hole in Helbourne’s chest would be about right for that caliber.

Taylor came clumping upstairs. “She put one over on me. That room underneath ain’t even occupied. And she’s scrammed, anyway.”

“So has the jerk who was half undressed.” The lieutenant put down the revolver, poured himself another drink of water. “That’s over the dam, don’t get gidgety about it. You were right, according to the way you figured it.”

The cop wiped sweat off his forehead. “It’s all balled up in my mind. Was this Willard the one who shot the fat boy, here?”

“Might have been. The gun was still in my pocket when I went down. Somebody took it out and used it on T. Chauncey Helbourne. Somebody else. Not me.” Teccard gazed grimly around the room. “The worse of it is, I couldn’t absolutely identify Willard, even now. He was covering his smush with a towel and he sort of kept his back to me, anyhow.”

He didn’t bring up the point that bothered him most — it was a cinch Willard hadn’t been the one who crowned Teccard from behind that door. Maybe his unseen assailant had been Helbourne. In any case, what was the proprietor of the Herald of Happiness doing up here, when he had claimed complete ignorance of Willard!

A siren wailed, out in the street.

“Holler down to the doc, Taylor. Tell him all he needs to bring up is a few stitches for my scalp.”

“You’d ought to go to the hospital, Lieutenant. Have an X-ray, to be sure there ain’t any fracture.”

Teccard went over to the closet door, opened it. “There’s nothing more the matter with my head than’s been wrong with it for thirty-seven years. Did you buzz the station, too, Taylor?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Cap Meyer is coming right over, himself, with a couple of the boys.” Taylor went out into the hall, shouted down the stairwell.

The lieutenant sniffed at the empty closet. The only things in it were a few coat hangers and a sweet scent that made him think of church. Queer thing to find in a place like this, probably came from clothing that had been hung up here.

He looked around the room for the weapon with which he had been slugged. There wasn’t anything heavier than a cane wastebasket. The wastebasket was empty, too, except for a crumpled piece of cellophane stripped from a pack of cigarettes. He fished it out with the point of his fountain-pen, put it on the bureau.

The interne arrived, went to work with needle and sutures. Meyer and two plain-clothesmen came up. While the doctor jabbed the needle through his scalp, Teccard told the captain what was wanted.

“Box up that cellophane, run it down to my office. There might be prints on it. Get a photographer up here from Homicide. Have him powder the knobs, the bureau drawers, the iron part of the bed, those hangers in the closet. Run a vacuum over the floor, ship the dust down to the lab for examination.”

Meyer crouched over the fat man. “Who’s this guy, Lieutenant?”

“Crumb who ran a matrimonial agency. That’s what’s back of those bones your boys dug up today. Go through his pockets, will you? And mark someone down for going through the house, here, to see what they can get on Willard. Taylor, you learn anything about him from the landlord?”

The patrolman scratched his head. “Not much. Oh, one funny thing. He must have a night job. Because he only comes here in the daytime. And he must write a lot of letters, because practically the only thing old Halzer remembers his having up here, outside his clothes, is a box of writing paper and a bottle of ink.”

“Yair? See can you find if he threw any of his scribbling in the wastebasket. Maybe some of it is still in the trashcan.”

Meyer said: “Not much dough, but plenty of unpaid bills, on this fella. He’s been hitting the high spots, you ask me. Here’s a credit-jewelry store summons for non-payment on a diamond wristwatch. And a bunch of duns from department stores and an automobile company.” He tossed the sheaf of papers on the bed. “Eleven fish and some chickenfeed, a cheap ticker, two nickel cigars, a silk handkerchief stinking of whiskey, and a bunch of keys.”

“No weapon?”

“Not even a pen-knife, Lieutenant. You’re pretty positive he wasn’t the fella cut up that girl’s body?”

“He’d have been well-padded with folding money, in that case, Cap. No. You rustle around, get a description of Harold Willard.”

Teccard waited until the doctor growled: “Kind of a patchwork job, Lieutenant. You’d be smart to take a couple days’ sick leave. That’s an ugly gash.”

“If that stuff about the stitch in time is on the up and up, you must have saved about ninety-nine of ’em. Thanks. I’ll be around, for you to rip them out again.” He picked up the keys. “I might use these, Cap.”

“Want Taylor to go with you?”

“No.” Teccard examined his hat. There was a right angle cut where the brim joined the crown. He smoothed the felt thoughtfully. “You might let me have a gun, though. Mine’ll have to go to Ballistics.”

Meyer brought out an automatic. “You can take Betsy, if you don’t mind a big caliber.”

The corners of Teccard’s mouth curled up. “A forty-five is just the ticket.”

“You after big game?”

“Yair.” Teccard checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. “You ever go after moose, Cap?”

“Moose? Hell, no. Duck is my limit.”

“Well, when a guy goes after moose, he uses a horn that makes a sound like a female moose. The bull comes a-running — and the hunter does his stuff.”

A puzzled scowl wrinkled Meyer’s forehead.

“I’m going to get me a horn, Cap. But there’s nothing in the book says for the rest of you to stop hunting.”

He went downstairs.

The night elevator man in the building housing the Herald of Happiness regarded Teccard coldly. “Who you want to see on the third, mister?”

“Just giving the premises the once-over.” The lieutenant held his badge out on his palm. “Snap it up. I haven’t got all night.”

“Ain’t anyone up on that floor.”

“That’s why I’m going up. Do I push the lever myself?”

The car started. “I can’t have people going in and out alla time. I’ll lose my job.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s strictly copacetic.”

The elevator door clanged loudly. Teccard swung around the corner of the corridor into the hall where Helbourne’s office was located — and stopped short. Somewhere ahead of him a light had been suddenly extinguished. He stood still, listening. There were none of the noises to be expected when an office is being closed for the night. No door opened.

He balanced the heavy automatic in his left hand, held the keys in his right, tightly, so they wouldn’t rattle. Quietly, on the balls of his feet, he moved to the Herald’s door. Still he heard nothing, except the faraway roar of Broadway. He tried the key which showed the most signs of use. The latch turned. He stepped aside swiftly to the right, kicked the door open.

If there was anyone inside, the only target would be Teccard’s hand, holding the pistol. He snaked his wrist around the jamb of the door, fumbled for the light switch he knew must be there. It clicked. The office flooded with brilliance.

There was a laugh.

“Kamerad!”

He swore under his breath, stepped out into the doorway. She was sitting back in Helbourne’s chair, her feet cocked upon the desk. There was a pile of letters in her lap, a flashlight in one hand and a short-barreled .32 in the other.

“Imagine meeting you here,” he said dryly. “I phoned the Policewomen’s Bureau for you. They knew from nothing!”

Sergeant Dixon took her high heels off the desk. “I’ve been using the super’s passkey every night for the last two weeks. How’d you get in?”

He jangled the keys. “Property of T. Chauncey Helbourne. For the evidence clerk.”

She looked at him sharply. “Evidence? Is Helbourne... dead?”

Teccard sat down on the edge of the desk. “That’s what happens when you take a slug under the fourth rib.”

“Who shot him, Jerry?” The sergeant tossed the letters on the desk, stood up.

“There seems to be a general impression I did. The bullet came from my Regulation, all right. But I’d say the killer was the same one who did away with Ruby Belle.”

She saw the bandage on the back of his head. “Jerry! You were in it! You’re hurt!”

“Yair.” He managed a lop-sided grin. “That was no love-tap. Somebody dropped the boom on me, but good.”

She reached up, lifted his hat off gently. “That was close, Jerry.”

“They meant to kill me, at first. Changed their minds when they fished through my pockets, found my badge.”

“They? Were there two of them?”

The lieutenant nodded. “One K.O.’d me while I was putting the gun on the other one. I went bye-bye before I got a square look at either of them. They both scrammed. Now they know we’re closing in, they’ll be foxier than ever. If they’ve got anything on fire, they may try to pull it off before they do the vanishing act. But we’ll have to move fast, if we’re going to catch up with them. That’s why I came down here, to see if there might be any other poor boobs readied up for the kill.”

“You might have asked me. Just because I spent two years putting fortune tellers out of business and running around to disorderly dance halls, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use my mind.” She held up a sheet of pink notepaper. “I dug this out of Helbourne’s private postoffice, there. It has all the earmarks. Box KDD. A Miss Marion Yulett, seamstress of Algers. Thirty-three. Possesses certain means of her own. Has a cheerful, homeloving disposition, yet is full of pep. Miss Yulett encloses five dollars to secure the address of a certain Peter Forst who’s apparently been giving her a buildup about his charms.”

“He live in New York City?”

“Can’t find any folder for Mr. Forst. Peculiar. Not even any letters to him — or from him.”

Chapter Four

Teccard chewed on his pipestem. Was Forst another one of Willard’s aliases? Had Helbourne been putting one over when he claimed to know nothing about other letters from the mysterious individual who always wrote from Manhattan? “When did this deluded dame come through with Helbourne’s fee?”

“Week ago today.”

The lieutenant reached for the phone. “Hustle me through to your super, pal. Supervisor? This is Lieutenant Jerome Teccard, New York Police Department, Criminal Identification Bureau. Talking from Bryant 32717. Yair. Get me the chief of police of Algers, New York, in a hurry, will you? Algers is up near Whitehall. Yair... I’ll hang on...”

While he was waiting, Teccard tried the only-flat key, from Helbourne’s bunch, on the locked middle drawer of the desk. It fitted. In the drawer was an empty cigar carton, some paper matchbooks, an overdue bill from one printer and a sheaf of estimates from another, a half-full flask of Nip-and-Tuck Rye, and a torn, much-folded plain-paper envelope, addressed to the Herds of Happiness, Box KDD!

The envelope was postmarked three weeks ago, from Station U, New York City.

Helen looked up Station U. “East One Hundred and Sixth Street, Jerry.”

“Same precinct as the bones. And friend Willard. One will get you ten that’s where we find brother Forst, too.”

There was a voice in the receiver. Teccard held it to his ear, muttered “Yair” a few times, added “Much obliged, Chief,” racked the receiver.

“Too late. Sucker Yulett left Algers on the morning train.”

Helen punched the files with her fist, angrily. “For New York?”

“Didn’t know. Southbound, anyway.”

The hurt look came into her eyes again.

Teccard shoved his hands into his pockets, gloomily. “All he did know — she had her suitcase, and the station agent said she was wearing a corsage.”

She showed teeth that were clenched. “Those damned flowers again!”

“They’ll probably last just long enough to be used on her casket,” Teccard brooded. “Wait, though. We might still be in time.”

“It wouldn’t take her all day to get to New York!”

“It might. Station master didn’t tell the chief what time the train left, this a.m. Might have been late morning. And those trains up north of the capital run slower than a glacier. If the Yulett girl had to change at Albany, and wait...”

Helen got the phone first, called train information. It was busy. The sergeant kept pounding the desk with her fist until she got her connection.

Before she hung up, Teccard was asking: “Can we stop her?”

“Only train making connections from Algers to New York arrives at Grand Central, eight forty. Gives us about twenty minutes.”

He caught her arm. “Hell it does. We’ll have to burn rubber to make it. We can’t wait until she gets off the train. We’ll have to find her, convince her we’re on the level, tip her off what she’s to do. Chances are, Forst’ll be waiting for her. We’d scare him off before we spotted him.”

She was streaking down the corridor toward the elevator. “We catch the train at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, come in with her?”

“If she’s on it. If we can locate it. And if she’ll listen to reason. That’s a hell of a lot of ‘ifs.’ ”

The department sedan zoomed over to Park and Thirty-fourth — went through the red lights with siren screeching. They didn’t stop to park at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, sprinted up the stairs as the conductor gave the “Boa-r-r-r-d!”

The sergeant saw the bunch of lilies-of-the-valley first. “That sweet-faced one, in the dark blue coat and that God-awful hat, Jerry.”

“Yair. You better break the ice. She’ll be suspicious of a man.”

Helen dropped into the empty seat beside the woman in the unbecoming hat. The lieutenant stayed a couple of paces in the rear.

“Miss Yulett?” the sergeant inquired, softly.

“You’re Miss Marion Yulett, from Algers, aren’t you?”

The woman smiled sweetly, opened her bag, produced a small pad and a pencil.

Swiftly she wrote: Sorry. I am hard of hearing.

Teccard smothered an oath. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been crippled or scarred up — Helen would have been able to fix it so the Yulett woman could step into a ladies’ room, somewhere, and give her instructions to handle the man she was going to meet. But there wouldn’t be time to write everything out in longhand, without arousing “Forst’s” suspicions. And if the killer had an accomplice, as the lieutenant believed, this deaf woman couldn’t hear what “Forst” and the other would be saying to each other — and that might prove to be the most important evidence of all!

Helen scribbled away on the pad. Teccard sidled up alongside so he could read.

I am Sergeant Dixon from the N. Y. Policewomen’s Bureau. Are you Marion Yulett?

The woman shrank back in her seat.

“Yes. Why do you want me?” Her voice shook.

The pencil raced in Helen’s fingers.

Only to save you unhappiness. Maybe worse. You plan to meet a man named Peter Forst?

“Yes. Is anything wrong?”

The sergeant held the pad out, again.

We believe he’s a killer who’s murdered several women who became acquainted with him through the Herald. Have you a picture of him?

Miss Yulett fumbled nervously in her bag, produced a small, glossy snap-shot. Teccard’s forehead puckered up. This couldn’t be a photo of Willard, by any possibility! The man in the snap-shot was round — faced and pudgy-cheeked. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and his hair receded at the temples, from a high forehead!

Helen wrote: How will Forst recognize you?

“I had my picture taken, too. I sent it to him day before yesterday.” Miss Yulett bit her lip to keep from crying. “I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good likeness — I don’t photograph well. But I was wearing this hat and these beads,” she touched a necklace of imitation pink jade, “and I’m wearing his flowers, too.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, she turned her face toward the window. “You must be mistaken about Peter, his letters were so sweet and kind. I can’t imagine his... hurting anybody.”

The train began to slow for the track intersections in the upper yard. There was no time for softening the blow, with sympathy.

Helen made the pad say: If he’s the man we’re after, he doesn’t intend to marry you at all. If you have any money, he’ll wheedle it away from you and then— Did he mention anything about money?

The words came out between convulsive sobs: “Only that he had a small and prosperous business. With a partner who wasn’t... quite honest, perhaps. If Peter and I... got... along... he said I might want to buy out this other man’s interest. So my... my husband and I... could be partners.”

The pencil moved so swiftly Teccard could hardly follow it.

Brace up now, Marion. We’re getting in. Take off your hat. And your beads.

Miss Yulett dried her eyes on a tiny handkerchief, did her best to smile. “You’re going to meet him, with me — so he can have a chance to explain?”

No, I’m going to meet him. As you. Wearing your hat and beads. Unpin those flowers, too.

“But, please! Please let me—”

Don’t waste time arguing. If he looks all right to me, I’ll let you meet him later. I’ll take your bag, too. You take mine. And wear my hat.

The disturbed woman unclasped her beads. “But what on earth am I to do? Where will I go? I don’t know anybody but Peter—”

The gentleman standing behind us is Police Lieutenant Teccard. He’ll see that you get to a hotel. Stay where he tells you to until I can get in touch with you.

Teccard gripped Helen’s shoulder. “No you don’t. You take Miss Yulett to the hotel. I’ll meet pal Peter.”

Sergeant Dixon looked up at him. “What evidence do you think you’d get out of him, Jerry? He’s not the same man you ran into uptown, is he? As things stand, you haven’t a thing on him.”

“I’ll sweat the evidence out of him, all right.”

“Maybe you couldn’t. There’s always the possibility this fellow’s on the level. If he is, I turn him over to Miss Yulett. If he isn’t, I’ll be able to give first-hand testimony as to how he operates. This is a job only a policewoman can handle effectively.”

Teccard grimaced. “Put your gun in her bag, then. And don’t be dainty about using it. Another thing: I’m going to turn Miss Yulett over to one of the pick-pocket squad in the terminal and tail you and your intended.”

“All right, as long as he doesn’t spot you.” Helen adjusted the ridiculous brim of the hat, snapped the beads around her neck. Hastily, she used the pad once more.

Did Forst tell you where you were to stay in New York? Or how soon you’d get married?

“As soon as we could get the license.” Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes again. “He said I could stay with his family. But I don’t know just where they live.”

“I bet Peter doesn’t, either,” Teccard muttered, beneath his breath. He watched Helen go through the contents of Miss Yulett’s bag — the little leather diary, the packet of envelopes like the one in Helbourne’s desk drawer, the savings bank book.

The train slid alongside the concrete platform, redcaps kept pace with the slowing cars.

Helen put her arm around Miss Yulett’s shoulders, hugged her lightly. Teccard pulled down the worn, leather suitcase from the overhead rack. “I’ll get a porter for you.”

“Don’t be silly.” The sergeant hefted the bag, easily. “She wouldn’t spend a quarter that way. So I won’t.” She nodded cheerfully at the woman, joined the procession in the aisle.

Teccard got out his notebook, penciled: I’m going to get a detective to take you to the Commodore Hotel. Right here in the station. Register and stay right in your room until Sergeant Dixon comes for you. Don’t worry about your bag, or expenses. We’ll take care of them. Understand?

She didn’t hide her fear. “Yes. But I’m afraid.”

He patted her shoulder. “Nothing to be scared of—” he said before he realized she wasn’t reading his lips. He followed her out to the platform, located one of the boys on the Terminal Squad, told him what he wanted done. “Keep her here on the platform for a while, too. Better take her out through one of the other gates — in case the man we’re after is still waiting there. Phone my office and tell them her room number. Notify the desk at the hotel to route all calls to her room through the office of one of the assistant managers.”

He tipped his hat to Miss Yulett, left her staring blankly at the bandage on the back of his head. The poor soul must be scared stiff, he knew. Well, better than being a stiff...

He had managed to keep sight of Helen’s abominable hat, thirty or forty yards ahead. He put on steam to catch up with her. She was playing the part of the timidly anxious woman, to the hilt — searching the faces of the crowd lining the gate-ropes with just the right amount of hesitancy.

Teccard couldn’t see anyone who resembled the snapshot. He was completely unprepared for what happened. A young man of thirty or so stepped abruptly out of the thinning crowd and took the suitcase out of the sergeant’s hand.

Except for the exaggerated sideburns, his thin, clean-cut features could have been called handsome, in a sinister sort of way. If it hadn’t been for the cream-colored necktie against the extravagantly long-pointed soft collar of his mauve shirt, he might have been considered well-dressed. There was no goatee, none of the full roundness of the face in Miss Yulett’s snapshot. Yet Teccard was sure he recognized the man. He had only seen those dark eyebrows in side view — the deeply cleft chin had been covered with a towel when the lieutenant had pointed a gun at him. But this would be Harold Willard, beyond much doubt.

Teccard couldn’t get too close to them. “Willard” or “Forst,” or whatever his name was, would be certain to recognize the man who had crashed the room on Eighty-eighth Street! How could the lieutenant shadow them without being spotted himself?

Evidently “Willard” knew that Miss Yulett was deaf, he showed no surprise when Helen offered him the pad. But apparently there was some difference of opinion going on. The sergeant was shaking her head, as if she were bewildered.

When her escort took her arm and led her across the great central lobby, toward the subway entrance, she evidently protested. She made her way to one of the marble shelves alongside the ticket windows, pointed vehemently to the pad. “Willard” began to write, furiously...

Teccard bought a newspaper, unfolded it, kept it in front of his face so he could just see over the top. He edged, unobtrusively, within a dozen feet.

“But I don’t understand.” Helen gazed at “Willard” in obvious fascination. “You’re so much better-looking. Why did you send me the other man’s photograph?”

The youth favored her with a dazzling smile, proffered her a sheet from the pad.

She read it, crumpled it, seemed to thrust it into the pocket of her jacket. “I would have liked you even more, Peter — if you had trusted me — told me the truth.”

They moved on toward the Lexington Avenue subway. Willard was having difficulty holding up his written end of the conversation. He kept setting the bag down, scribbling rapidly, then seizing her arm and rushing her along again.

Teccard followed them through the stile, downstairs to the uptown platform. They boarded the rear of one crowded car. The lieutenant squeezed onto the front platform of the car behind. He saw Helen’s hand release the crumpled paper, before she was pushed into the car. People surged in like a mob pressing to the scene of a fire. Teccard struggled through the door over the car-couplings, into the space Helen had just vacated. He stooped, retrieved the paper.

He held it down at his side, unfolded it.

I wanted to be certain you were not attracted to me merely because of my looks, darling. That’s why I sent you the other picture. Now I am sure you will love me, for what I really am — not merely what I seem to be. Is that not better, dear one?

Teccard spat out a sibilant, jammed the paper in his pocket. The doors closed, the train rumbled out of the station.

He searched the crowded car aisle, ahead. They must have found seats somehow.

He unfolded the paper again, elbowed his way slowly forward.

They were nowhere in the car. Long before the brakes had screamed for the Eighty-sixth Street stop, he knew they were nowhere on the train.

Chapter Five

Primrose Path

Teccard was in a cold rage as he shoved through the throng and up to Eighty-sixth Street. “Willard” had made a sucker of him with the old on-again, off-again, Finnegan — gone in the rear door, made his way, with Helen in tow, up by the side door at the middle of the subway car and — at the last instant — stepped off to the platform while the lieutenant was perusing the note Helen had dropped.

Of course, the sergeant couldn’t have stopped the man without giving her hand away. Of course, also, “Willard” must have caught a glimpse of Teccard. Now, the make-love-by-mail guy would be on his guard — and likely to suspect Helen. Teccard had dragged her into this mess, by requesting her assignment from the Policewomen’s Bureau. Now she was literally in the hands of a cold-blooded killer!

By force of habit, he called the Telegraph Bureau first, to get the alarm out for the dark-haired youth. The description was complete now. Teccard was good at estimating weight, height, age. Long experience in the Criminal Identification Bureau made him remember points that the average policeman wouldn’t have noticed. “His ears are funny. Kind of pointed, at the top of the helix. He brushes his hair to cover them as much as he can. And his chin looks as if somebody had started to drive a wedge into it. And don’t forget, this man is sure to be armed and dangerous.”

Then he called Captain Meyer, repeated the description.

“Send a car around to check every man on beat, will you, Cap? Odds are good he hangs out in this parish somewhere. Have ’em keep an eye out for Sergeant Dixon, she’ll be with him.”

He had half expected to find a report from her, waiting for him when he called his office. He was wrong about that. The office didn’t have much — there hadn’t been any prints on the cellophane, too many on the knobs and furniture in the Eighty-eighth Street room. They hadn’t been able to find any of record, though.

Talking with the Telegraph Bureau had given him an idea. He called Western Union, located the night traffic manager. “There was a bunch of flowers wired from this city to Miss Marion Yulett in Algers, upstate, sometime this a.m. Chances are, they went through Floral Telegraph Delivery. Find out what shop put in the order, will you? Buzz me back.”

He fumed and stewed in the drugstore phone booth for what seemed like an hour. When he passed the clock over the soda fountain, on his way out, he found it had been seven minutes.

The address the telegraph company had given him was only a few blocks away. He didn’t bother with a cab, but went on the run. Over to Second, up to Eighty-seventh. There it was, next to the undertaker’s place in the middle of the block.

THE REMEMBRANCE SHOP.

Potted ivy and cactus in the window, flanked by lilies and dried grasses in tin vases — inside, a glass-front icebox with cut flowers, roses and carnations.

Carnations! Now he knew why that fragrance in the closet had reminded him of church, there had always been a big bunch of white carnations in front of the pulpit, when he was a kid. “Willard” must have had a carnation in the buttonhole of the coat he hung up in the closet...

A girl stood talking to the shirt-sleeved man behind the counter. As Teccard walked in she was saying: “You’ll send those wreaths over to the sexton right away? He’s waiting for them.”

The florist nodded impatiently. “I’ll get ’em right over, right away.” He turned inquiringly toward the lieutenant. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Teccard drew a deep breath. This was the man in the snapshot! Round face, goatee, receding hair! “You can tell me who ordered some lilies of the valley wired to a lady up in Algers, New York.”

“Was there some complaint?” asked the florist.

“Just checking up on the person who sent them. I’m from the police department.”

The girl paused, on her way out, to stare at him out of stolid blue eyes set deep in a square, pleasant face.

“Police! What’s the matter the police should come around?” The man waved his arms, excitedly.

Teccard said softly: “You have a duplicate record of your F.T.D. orders. Let’s see it.”

The florist ran stubby fingers through his hair, dug a flat, yellow book out of the debris on a bookkeeping desk. He ruffled the pages. “It ain’t against the law, sending flowers like this!”

The carbon copy of the wired order wasn’t helpful. All it indicated was that Peter Forst had paid two dollars and fifty cents to have a corsage delivered to Miss Marion Yulett at Algers.

“Who took the order?”

“Nobody. The envelope was under the door when I’m opening the shop this morning. With the cash. What’s the matter, eh?”

Teccard’s hand clamped on the other’s wrist. “You sent those posies yourself, Mr. Forst.”

“Forst! What’s it, Forst?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m George Agousti, I run this business, no nonsense. I pay taxes.”

The lieutenant’s grip remained firm. “Then someone’s been framing you, Agousti.”

“Framing me? For what!”

“Murder.” Teccard spoke quietly.

Agousti recoiled as from a blow. “It’s terrible mistake you making. So much as a single flea, I ain’t ever hurt.”

“You don’t know this Peter Forst?”

“The first time I ever hear his name, so help me!”

“What about Harold Willard? Heard of him?”

The florist shook his head.

“You don’t feel like talking, do you? Maybe you’d feel more like it if you came down to headquarters with me.”

Agousti shrugged. “I’m telling you. There ain’t nothing on my conscience. I ain’t afraid to go anywhere you like.”

Teccard made one more try. He described the man Helen had gone with.

“Know him?”

Recognition crept into the florist’s eyes. “I ain’t dead sure. But from how you putting it, this one might be Stefan.”

“Who’s Stefan?”

“Stefan Kalvak. He’s no good, a low life, sure.”

“Yair, yair. Who is he? What’s he do? Where’s he live?”

“He’s Miss Kalvak’s brother, she really owns this shop. I run it for her. She’s O.K., fine. But Stefan’s a bum, a stinker. Always stealing dough out the cash register when I don’t watch. Or getting girls into trouble, you know.”

“He’s done his best to get you in trouble. He sent your picture to this girl up in Algers — so she’d come to New York to get married.”

“Holy Mother!”

“Where’s he live?”

“You got me. His sister threw him out of her apartment. But you could phone her—”

A freckle-faced boy burst into the shop. “My pa sent me for the ivy for ma’s birthday, Mr. Agousti.”

“All right, Billy. Excuse me, one second.” The florist whisked out of sight, back of the showcase.

The boy jingled seventy-five cents on the counter, an elevated roared overhead — and Teccard began to sweat, thinking of Helen Dixon and Stefan Kalvak.

The youngster called. “Pa says you needn’t bother to wrap it up, Mr. Agousti.”

There was no answer from the rear of the shop, though the sound of the elevated had died away.

Teccard stepped quickly around the glass case.

Agousti was leaning, face down, over a wooden bench — his head under the spreading fronds of a potted palm. There was a dark puddle on the boards of the bench, it widened slowly as drops splashed into it from the gash in the florist’s neck.

A sharp-bladed knife that had evidently been used to cut flower stems lay with its point in the glistening disk of crimson. There was blood on Agousti’s right hand, too. Teccard lifted the limp wrist, saw the slash across the base of the fingers.

That settled it! A man didn’t cut his hand that way, when he slashed his own throat! The florist had been attacked from behind, while he was putting the ivy in a flowerpot. He had tried to block off the blade that was severing his jugular — and had failed.

Not five feet from the dead man’s back was a rear delivery door, with a wire screen nailed over the glass. The door was closed, but not locked.

Teccard tore a piece of green, glazed paper from the roll fixed to the end of the bench, wrapped it around the knob and twisted it. Then he opened the door.

A narrow alley ran behind the two-story building. It was floored with cement. There wouldn’t be any footprints on it — and there wasn’t anyone in sight.

He came inside, shut the door. He stuck his nailfile through the oval handle of the key, turned it until the bolt shot home.

The boy stuck his head around the corner of the glass case. Teccard stepped quickly between him and the body.

“Is he sick?” the youngster began.

“Yair. You go home, tell your father the ivy will be over later.”

“O.K., mister. Gee, I’m sorry—”

“Wait a minute, son. You seen Stefan Kalvak around tonight?”

The boy made a face. “Naw. Steve ain’t never around, except with girls. I don’t like him, anyways—”

“You know where he lives?”

He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “I guess he lives right up over the flower store, here.”

Teccard was startled. “That so?” Maybe the kid didn’t know about the sister tossing Stefan out on his ear...

The boy ran. When he’d gone, the lieutenant felt in the pockets of the dead man, without disturbing the position of the body. There was a leather container, with four Yale keys. He took them.

One of the keys fitted the front door. He used it, from the street. Then he stepped into the entrance-way to the second floor stairs.

There was only one mailbox, a big brass one with a mother-of-pearl push button and a neatly-engraved card: Vanya Kalvak, Floriculturist.

He went up the stairs, noiselessly.

There were two doors opening off the second-floor hall. The one nearest the front of the building had another of the engraved cards tacked to it.

He heard voices. They came from the room behind the door at the head of the stairs.

The tones of the girl who’d asked Agousti to deliver the wreaths were very distinct.

“Why do you come here, anyway, Miss Yulett?”

“Your brother brought me here,” Helen answered. “He said it was all right.”

Teccard’s heart skipped a couple of beats. What was Helen doing, talking? She must have been startled out of her wits by this other woman and been caught off guard. He put his ear to the panel.

“I’m very sorry for you, Miss Yulett.”

“I don’t understand! Why should you be?” The sergeant was still playing her part. “Peter said he would be back in a moment. He’ll explain.”

“Peter!” The girl’s tone was one of disgust.

“His name is Stefan. Stefan Kalvak.”

“It all seems very queer. I can’t imagine why he lied to me about his name. But you ought to know, since you’re his sister.”

The girl laughed harshly. “You stupid idiot! He is my husband.”

“What!” The sergeant didn’t have to fake that exclamation, Teccard thought.

“It is the truth. I am his wife, God forbid.” The girl spat out the words. “I know what he told you. The same as he told those others.”

“You’re just trying to drive me away from him.”

Teccard decided they were in the kitchen of the apartment. One of them kept moving about restlessly — probably Mrs. Kalvak.

“I’m trying to save your life. You don’t know Stefan. He’s a fiend, absolutely. After he’s taken your money — have you already given it to him?”

“No,” Helen answered. “Tomorrow after we get the license, we will talk over buying the business.”

“Tomorrow, you will be dead — if you do not let me help you get away.”

“I should think you’d — hate me, Mrs. Kalvak. But honestly, I didn’t know Peter — Stefan — was married.”

“I don’t care about you one way or the other. The reason I’m praying to God for you to get away quickly is that I don’t want him caught.”

“No...”

“I know what would happen to him, if the police got him. My eyes haven’t been closed all these months. Stefan hasn’t earned the money he’s been spending. Nevertheless—” she hesitated — “nevertheless, I love him.”

A phone bell jangled in the front room. Mrs. Kalvak stalked away to answer it. Teccard waited until he heard her answering in monosyllables, then he tried the door. It was locked.

“Helen,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “Helen!”

The sergeant didn’t hear him.

Mrs. Kalvak was storming back into the kitchen. “You talk of lying!” she cried. “You... trickster!” Mrs. Kalvak’s voice rose in anger. “That was Stefan on the phone.”

“He’s coming back, then?”

“Sooner than you like, my fine deaf lady!”

“Wait—”

“You’re no country innocent, Miss Yulett. I know who you are. You’re a detective — trying to trap my man. And all the time I was sorry for you, thinking you were caught in his net!”

Helen screamed, once. Teccard heard a thud. He lunged at the panel. “Helen! Get the door open!”

There was no answer.

He pointed the muzzle of Meyer’s automatic an inch from the edge of the jamb, at the lock.

Before he could pull the trigger he felt something, like the end of a piece of pipe, jab painfully into the small of his back. A suave voice murmured: “Use my key! It will be easier.”

Chapter Six

Cupid Turns Killer

The lieutenant held the pose. A hand came around his side and relieved him of the .45.

“Come on, Vanya! Open up!”

The door swung wide.

The girl stared, white-faced. “I didn’t know you were out here, Stefan. I heard him — trying to get in.” She held a heavy, cast-iron skillet at her side.

“I came upstairs while he was bellowing like a bull.” Kalvak prodded Teccard between the shoulder-blades with the muzzle of the automatic. “Get inside, there.”

Helen sprawled on the floor beside the refrigerator. Her hat lay on the floor beside her, the wide brim crushed by the fall. The sergeant’s head rested on a brown-paper shopping bag, her hair over her forehead.

Kalvak whistled, softly. “You killed her, Vanya!”

“She’s only stunned.” The girl lifted the skillet. “When I found she was a detective, I could have killed her.”

“We’ve enough trouble, without having a cop-murder to worry about. Did you search her?”

Vanya kicked the sergeant sullenly. “There’s no gun on her. What are you going to... do with them?”

Kalvak snarled at her. “I’ll take care of them.” He dug a spool of adhesive out his pocket. “Sit down in that chair. Grab the back with your hands. Close your eyes.”

“Hell! You’re not going to tape us, are you?”

“You think I want you to follow us, you—!”

Teccard saw a peculiar bulge inside the lining of Miss Yulett’s hat. He couldn’t be certain what it was — but it might be worth a gamble. “If you don’t want to fret about a cop-murder, you better call a doc for her.”

“She’ll snap out of it, all right.”

“Damn it! I tell you she’s dying!” Slowly and deliberately, so Kalvak couldn’t mistake his intention, Teccard moved a step closer to Helen — dropped down on one knee beside her.

The weapon in Kalvak’s hand swiveled around to follow the lieutenant’s movement. “Leave her alone.”

Teccard rested his weight on one hand, close to the hat brim. The other he put on Helen’s forehead. “She’s like ice — if you don’t get her to a doctor, fast—” His hand touched cold metal under the loose lining of the big hat.

Kalvak sensed something wrong. “Keep away from that hat!”

Teccard fired without drawing the stubby-barreled .32 out from under the hat-lining where Helen had hidden it. It was an angle shot and risky as hell — but the lieutenant knew the risk he and Helen were running, if he didn’t shoot. The bullet hit Kalvak about three inches below his belt buckle. It doubled him over and spoiled his aim with that automatic. But the heavy slug ripped across the lieutenant’s hip. It felt as if molten metal had been spilled all along the thigh. He lifted the .32 — hat and all — emptied three more chambers. The first bullet missed its mark. The second one caught Kalvak under the V-cleft in his chin. The third wasn’t needed.

Vanya sprang, caught him as he fell. She slumped on the floor, held his head in her arms, whimpering.

Helen struggled to sit up. “You and the U.S. Cavalry, Jerry,” she mumbled.

He helped her to stand. “I was a sap to lose you, there in the subway.”

Helen pressed her hands on top of her head, winced. “Peter — I mean Harold — or Stefan— Gone?”

“Thanks to your hiding that .32 in the Yulett dame’s bonnet.”

Vanya whined, wretchedly: “I know you’re glad he’s dead. I ought to be glad, too. After all the terrible crimes he’s committed. But I’m not, I’m not.”

The lieutenant limped over to her. “It was a good act, while it lasted, Mrs. Kalvak. But it couldn’t last forever. You can take off the disguise.”

She stopped rocking. “You mean I knew about Stefan’s having committed murder? Yes, I knew. When it was too late to prevent them.”

“I’ll say you knew.” He picked up Meyer’s pistol. “The one who didn’t know — for sure, anyway — was Stefan!”

Helen said, “What?”

The girl sat there, as if stupefied.

“All right. O.K. See what that innocence stuff gets you after Patrolman Taylor identifies you as the woman who ran downstairs at Eighty-eighth Street to tell him there was a fight going on over your room. Why’d you chase over there after your husband, anyway? Because you’d read that story in the newspaper about the kid finding the Lansing girl’s bones?

“That’d be my guess. You were up there in the room Stefan had rented as Harold Willard, so he could get his hooks into another dame,” he waved ironically toward Helen, “and you were packing up the clothes he had in the closet, or maybe just arguing with him so he wouldn’t think you knew too much about those bones under the pier. Then who should ride up on his charger but T. Chauncey Helbourne. When he heard about the disappearing dames and the dough that vanished along with them, he wanted a cut of that, too. And he went to the right place to get it.”

Vanya laid her cheek against the bloodless one in her lap. “You do not really believe such horrible things. No one could believe them.”

Helen was at the sink, using cold water. She held up a small camp hatchet. “Could it be this Boy Scout meat axe? Somebody’s been scouring it with steel wool.”

“The head of it would fit the gash in my fedora just ducky,” Teccard answered. “But it didn’t kill Helbourne. It knocked him cold. He was shot after I’d had my light put out. You shot him, Mrs. Kalvak — so I’d either get blamed for bumping him myself or think Helbourne was the rat responsible for the Happiness murders.”

“I was there at Eighty-eighth Street.” Vanya stroked the corpse’s forehead. “I did hear the fight. I told the truth to the policeman. You shot that man yourself.”

“No cop shoots a man lying down, lady. The blood stain on Helbourne’s vest was round, with the bullet hole in the center. If he’d died on his feet — the way it would have been if he was shot in a fight — the blood stain would have been tear-shaped — with the point down. How’d you beat it out of the house? Rush your husband down to that bathroom on the second floor — have him wait there, while you murdered Helbourne without Stefan’s knowing it? And then take a powder after the patrolman ran up to the third floor?”

The sergeant went over to pick up what was left of Miss Yulett’s hat. She picked up the brown-paper market basket at the same time. “Don’t tell me this girl cut up that Lansing woman, all by herself, Jerry!”

“Yair. Probably did it all with her little hatchet.”

“But why?” The sergeant held the bottom of the market bag up to the light. “If Stefan got the money out of these women, with his honeyed words...?”

“Stefan wheedled it out of them — and turned the cash over to Mrs. Kalvak. She’s the sort of skirt who wouldn’t mind her husband monkeying with other femmes, if it paid enough.”

Vanya kissed the corpse on the lips. “Darling! Listen to the hideous lies they make up about me!”

“Talk about lies, Mrs. Kalvak! You must have lied plenty to your husband. You’d probably promised to get the lovelorn out of his way after he’d garnered in the gold.” Teccard turned his back to inspect the wound on his hip. “Maybe he thought you scared them off by that ‘he’s-a-married-man — I’m-his-wife’ line. I don’t know. But I’m damned certain you thought the easy way to keep the suckers quiet was to plant them. Why you had to hack them to pieces—”

Helen held up the market bag, by its brown-twine handle. “Recognize those brown fibers that clung to the oilcloth, Jerry? From this twine. Goes through the bottom of the bag to give it strength. She used this to carry... them... in.”

“Yair. Yair. That’s why she had to axe them in small hunks. So she could carry the pieces out of here and down to the wharf, without being conspicuous!” He went over, hauled the girl to her feet. “Or maybe it’s you just like cutting up people. Like Agousti.”

Vanya touched the wound in Stefan’s neck, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Stefan went to... see Agousti. I know nothing of that.”

“Don’t, eh? Then it won’t be your prints on that stem-cutter or the doorknob downstairs, eh? You didn’t decide Agousti’d have to be shut up before he prevented your getaway, then?”

Mrs. Kalvak looked up at him. There was murder in her eyes.

Helen hurried to the front room. “I’m going to call the wrecking crew, to take over here.”

“I’ve had all of this I want,” Teccard agreed. “And I’ll sure be glad when you don’t have to muck around in this kind of slop.”

“Man works from sun to sun,” the sergeant twiddled the dial, “but woman’s work is never done. In the police department.”

“Far as that goes,” he got out his twisters, “one cop is enough... in any one family. Don’t you think?”

A Breath of Suspicion

G-Men Detective, July 1948

It really was one devil of a night, “Demon” Ames told himself bitterly. Stinging cold, pitch black — with a gale from the Adirondacks to whip freezing rain off the lake with biting force. Just the kind of night a gun-crazy killer would pick to blast his way free from the Great Meadow pen.

Bad enough for the Demon himself to have to be out in this devil’s brew of sleet and slush — a lot worse for Minnie, his motorcycle, to be here with him. He should have come without her. The ole gal wasn’t used to this rugged exposure. It wouldn’t take much to lay her up for a few days. He patted her rear, consolingly.

“We’ll stick it out five minutes more, Minnie.” He pulled up the cuff of his sheep-lined jacket to glance at the radium dial on his wrist. “If we don’t pick up any scent by ten o’clock, we’ll scoot back to barracks. This Medini gunned his way out of that mess hall at suppertime. Say around six-thirty. Comstocks’ seventy-five miles south of here. If the creep is making his getaway in anything speedier’n an ox cart, he’d be long gone past Crown Point, hours ago.”

He broke an icicle off Minnie’s tail light; removed one leather mitten, warmed the lens to dissolve the film of sleet. Across the road, the three red flares he’d set out flickered fitfully in the gusts lashing westward from the Champlain bridge along NY 46 — died momentarily to thin scarlet tongues tasting the witches’ broth of swirling air, ice and water.

There’d been no traffic for his one-man road block to halt, anyhow, the last half-hour. It was too early for the big sixteen-wheelers thundering through freight up from the south — too late for stray vans or empty tank trucks to be rumbling down US 9 from Plattsburg up north. And nobody with sense enough to shift gears would be crossing the lake into Vermont in weather as foul as this.

The Demon would have put out the flares an hour ago, except his was the last road block between Comstock and the border. If Medini, by any combination of luck and ruthlessness, should get past this point, he might escape clear to Canada.

But the killer would figure the state troopers would expect him to make a dash for the line. Naturally he wouldn’t try to run the blockade by the most direct route. It was silly for the Demon to be freezing his whiskers like this, waiting for nothing. Even supposing Medini was heading this way, the Demon had no idea what the getaway car would look like. And not too much of a picture of Medini.

All the shortwave had given out was a staccato description: — Five-nine, hundred fifty, thirty years, black hair, dark eyes, narrow face, long nose, small mouth, olive skin, no scars, voice high and squeaky.

He wouldn’t be wearing any striped con suit by now, obviously. A hat would be covering that clipped prison haircut. Most likely he’d timed his break to synchronize with outside help, so there’d be somebody with him — maybe several somebodies. Trooper Demon Ames touched his holster by way of reassurance, but the odds were against his needing the .45 tonight.

The troop’s patrol at Whitehall, down at the foot of the lake, would use a fine-toothed comb on everything bigger’n a tricycle that tried to roll northward tonight.

The sheriff’s deputies from Glens Falls and the town constables at Ticonderoga would flag down everything that came their way in case the Whitehall check missed. There really wasn’t any sense in the Demon’s putting on this solo patrol at a godforsaken crossroads that even the Greyhounds avoided.

“It’s my own fat-headed fault, Minnie.” He revved her motor in apology; she answered with a surly backfire. “I know. I know. No trooper is required to take his motorcycle out in rain or snow, unless he volunteers to risk his skull. That’s what the book says.” He slapped mittens against puttees to beat blood into his chilled fingers.

“If I hadn’t been hellbent on squaring myself with the Cap, I’d be warming my feet back at barracks right now — waiting to go out on relief in one of those cozy patrol cars. Yeah. An’ you’d be toasting your mudguards against that big radiator in the garage.”

He pushed his goggles up under the brim of his pinseal cap to squint at distant yellow eyes which winked blurrily at the crest of the hill to the south.

There were no top lights; it wasn’t a truck. The eyes disappeared, took a count of seven to reappear after the dip. That meant the vehicle would be traveling about thirty-five. Probably some farmer bringing the family back from the movies at Ti.

Well, it would be a relief to talk to somebody besides Minnehaha. He’d welcome anything. Anything except another stolen heap that might get past him and give him another black mark in the Ole Man’s book.

Cap Matthews would reduce him to making up barrack bunks if he slipped up on another “Wanted” car. The blistering scorn of his superior still reddened the Demon’s ears. He could remember the Captain’s vitriolic remarks even if he couldn’t manage to memorize all the license numbers on the Hot List:

Called you the ‘Demon’ when you were burning up those motordromes, did they, Ames? Sizzling stuff in those pace races, huh? Hell on wheels stunting up those hill-climb tests? Maybe so, maybe so. But let me tell you something. You may be able to ride that Indian of yours over anything except a lake but you’ll still be a pain in the padukas in this troop unless you can speed up your gray matter when necessary.

“We need men who can remember from one day to the next that there’s an alarm out for a black ’46 Chevvy with Jersey pads and a crumpled left front wing. If you can’t keep the license numbers in mind, if you haven’t brains enough to check your list, we’ll give you a new name around these barracks, trooper. We won’t call you Demon. Around here you’ll answer to Dumb One, Ames.”

He’d been set to scrubbing down the patrol jeeps on account of letting that Chevvy get by him. Cap Matthews hadn’t even assigned him to a patrol unit when the news of this jail break at Comstock had flashed in on the shortwave. The Demon had taken a deep burn at that. When the last of the troop had grabbed Thompsons from the armory racks and piled into the cars, he’d protested angrily.

The Captain had seemed surprised, had stared coldly at him, through him, before swiveling around to the district map. “If you think you’d be able to remember this Medini’s description for more than five minutes” — his pencil had touched the intersection of US 9 and NY 46 on the big scale roadmap — “you might be of some use here. If this murderer slips through the net at Whitehall, that’d be the only place we could pin him in, between here and the border. North of there, there’d be a dozen routes he could take.

“But I haven’t anyone to send with you. And I can’t order you to take your cyke out on a night like this. If you go, you’re strictly on your own.”

Naturally, under the circumstances, there had been only one thing for the Demon to say. He’d saluted smartly and said it. Had slithered his Indian sweetheart over nineteen slush-greasy miles to set out his solitary road-block. A gesture, to show his willingness to be a good trooper. And what would he get out of it? The sniffles.

The headlights of the approaching car slowed, a couple hundred yards down the road. The Demon switched on his blinker and his headlight, kicked down the rest-bar, dismounted. He grabbed his flash, moved into the thin wedge of white light so the driver could see his puttees, and made a “Come Ahead” gesture with the flashlight.

The car moved up, slowed, stopped a dozen yards from the row of flares. A girl cranked down the window beside the wheel, leaned out anxiously. The Demon pushed up his ear flaps to hear her.

“What is it, officer? Road under repair?”

It was a two-tone green ’47 Buick four-door she was driving. Even under its coating of ice it was glossy, shiny with bright chrome. Maryland pads VR 21-744. The Demon couldn’t recall any such car on the Hot List at the moment. But he didn’t have time to take out his mimeo sheet and check, now. There was something more important. He walked over; the girl seemed to be alone.

“Just checking licenses, Miss. See yours, please?”

She frowned, irritated. She would have been right pretty, he thought, if it wasn’t for the scowl. Curly blond hair, sort of a pert, snub nose and a mouth that was certainly intended for better things than being turned down petulantly at the corners. He couldn’t tell, about her figure under the beaver coat, but she looked like the sort of cutie somebody’d buy this kind of car for.

“Here.” She fumbled in her bag, produced a celluloid case, handed it through the window.

It was a blue Maryland license. One of those lifetime issuances. Kathryn F. Caudle, it read. #938363, 21 McCormick Ave., Baltimore. Underneath were cryptic symbols: W. F. 5/4122-1923. It seemed to check. She was white and female, all right — that Nuit de Passion or whatever she used on her hair was very, very, feminine, the Demon decided. She would weigh around a hundred twenty or so, yeah. And she didn’t appear to be more than twenty-five.

He gave the license back. “Which way you going, Miss?” He opened the rear door casually, peered in.

“Lake Placid. Where do 1 turn for Ausable?”

“Westport. Ten miles beyond Port Henry.” He felt beneath the plaid blanket on the floor behind the front seat. Something lumpy was hidden under the blanket. It was a suitcase and a duffel bag.

“My ski stuff,” she said crossly. “If I ever get to Placid without skiing off the road.”

“I’ll help you put your chains on, if you want.”

“No thanks!” Was he imagining it, or was there a sudden panic in her voice? “They make such a horrible racket when the highway is clear of snow.”

“Yeah. Car skidding into a telegraph pole doesn’t sound very sweet, either.” He guessed he’d been wrong. He was looking for trouble and expected to find it even where there wasn’t any.

He grinned and it made his homely, wide-mouthed face attractive in a weather-reddened fashion. She smiled back at him, amiably. He closed the rear door, vaguely uneasy about something — annoyed with himself that he couldn’t put a name to it.

What was there about this dame and her shiny new bus that bothered him?! “They’ll have chains at Hoffman’s Garage at Westport, if you change your mind.”

“I might.” She blinked long lashes provocatively. “I do, sometimes. Play it safe, that’s my motto.”

“Good motto. Good night.” He waved her on, watched the Buick’s purplish tail lights dwindle into the darkness up US 9, slow momentarily at the curve an eighth of a mile ahead, disappear. He splashed back to his machine with a disturbed feeling that all was not according to Hoyle in that setup.

“I’m getting gidgety as an ole woman, Minnie. Just because the Cap bawls me out.” Suppose he’d made that girl get out and unlock the trunk compartment for inspection. She’d have had a right to raise a smell that would really get him a bawling— Wait!

Smell! That was it! He’d caught a good, strong whiff of garlic when he’d opened that rear door.

And the girl had been wearing perfume, so it couldn’t have come from her or he’d never have noticed the garlic.

Garlic. Italian cooking. Medini. The Demon wondered. Of course a lot of people besides Italians did like garlic. To be sure the odor of those powerful little cloves could hang around clothing or, say a blanket, for quite a while. And the Demon had no certain knowledge that they ever cooked with the onion’s little brother down at the Comstock penitentiary.

“Urgent! All patrols!... Urgent, Urgent!! All patrols!!” Minnie was sputtering a warning. He tuned up her one-way. “Special to Units Seven, Fourteen and Twenty-two...!” The Demon’s heart hammered. Twenty-two was Trooper Damon Ames!! “Special to Units Seven, Fourteen, Twenty-two. Fatal shooting on US 9 two miles south Crown Point at Wistor’s Grocery about fifteen minutes ago. Proprietor killed. No details except murderer escaped in car.”

Brad Wistor, the Demon muttered. The roly-poly little guy who would never take a nickel from a trooper for sodas or an apple. A harmless ole Humpty Dumpty with a heart as big as his fat stomach. Chopped down in cold blood.

“No identification of attacker. Halt all cars moving away from area, bring to Crown Point for questioning.”

He kicked up the rest-stand, slewed out in the highway. He’d stop the one car that was moving away from the area past his block, or bust a few of Minnie’s spokes.

Fifteen minutes ago? He was four miles north of Crown Point. Four and two made six miles. Just about right for a Buick traveling thirty-five.

She didn’t look like a kid who might have gunned out a friendly ole geek like Brad. But she might not have been alone in that car. There might have been someone hidden in that trunk compartment. Someone who liked garlic.

It was only the merest breath of suspicion, but it was all he had to go on.

He gave Minnie the spurs, got up to seventy on the straightaway. Then he saw the swinging red light at the grade crossing.

A wild wail of approaching danger shrilled from the locomotive — another.

He twisted Minnie’s tail into fourth speed; the pickup nearly left him sitting flat in the slush. His Indian baby could do a hundred and ten on dry ground. He kept his eyes off the speedometer as he roared into the crossing.

It was one of those long freights clattering toward Schenectady and the west. He could beat it to the grade crossing.

Fifty feet from the oscillating red glare he saw the headlight coming from the opposite direction. The Montreal express coming like a bat.

He could slide Minnie through a lot of tight places where a car wouldn’t be able to squeeze by — but he couldn’t ride the cinders between two trains. He wrenched the handlebars blindly, rocketed off the road onto the side of the railroad embankment.

For one heart-stopping moment Minnie’s momentum carried them sliding and slipping right up the grade into the white beam of the express train’s headlight. There was a bedlam of frantic whistles, the scream of steel brakes biting into steel, the hiss of escaping steam.

Then he was bouncing and jouncing along beside the cab. An instantaneous glimpse of the peak-capped engineer. The orange flash of the firebox. A cloud of blinding vapor. He jerked on the chromium reins again. Minnie plunged down the embankment, hit the gully, threw him.

He spraddled her again, hobbled through a briar thicket into a dump of tin cans and rusty wire, circled back to the road.

“Hate to dish it out to you so raw, Minnie. But you got to expect a few scratches at roundup time.”

He might be held up another couple of minutes by the freight; with the time he’d already lost, the chick in the Buick might have a two or three-mile lead. It wouldn’t make any difference until she got to some cross-road where she could switch off and leave him guessing which way she’d gone. But that would only be ten miles away at Port Henry.

Now that he’d had a few seconds to mull it over, he was pretty sure he wasn’t up against any dumb Dora. Except for that spasmodic indication of panic when he’d suggested getting chains out of the trunk compartment, she’d played the part of a typical traveler made grouchy by villainous driving conditions.

The more he chewed on it, the less certain he was that there had been anyone in that luggage compartment of her car. He remembered — now that it was too late — the momentary slowing a few hundred yards before she got to his roadblock. That could have given a man like Medini plenty of opportunity to open one of the rear doors and drop out into the darkness. She’d have closed the door before she came on to answer the Demon’s beckoning “Come ahead.”

Then she’d slowed again, up the road, thirty seconds or so after he waved her through. The time he’d spent questioning her would give an active man enough leeway to circle around in the blackness and cut back to the road so she could pick him up on the north side of the road-block. That would explain the stench of garlic!

The one bloodshot eye of the caboose loomed into view. Minnie hurdled the tracks close enough for the Demon to have grabbed the brakeman’s lantern off the rear end. He bent low behind the windshield, slurring over on the curves, his blinker light winking furiously as he tore along the deserted road.

If that blond bambina was Medini’s gal, there’d be a shortwave in the dash of that Buick. She’d know the news of Bud Wistor’s shooting was being broadcast over the countryside. She’d not be loafing along at thirty-five now, glare ice or not. With any luck, she’d tear into Port Henry ahead of him. There wouldn’t be anyone there to stop her; no troopers, no deputies — and the lone cop wouldn’t be on the job this time of night.

It was even steven she’d get through the sleepy little burg without anyone knowing which of the two possible routes she’d chosen north from the fork at the village green. There wouldn’t be any tire marks to show the Demon which way she’d gone, either. Even if he’d taken pains to notice what kind of treads she had on her 6.50 x 16s, the Port Henry streets were black asphalt. They held the sun’s heat longer than the white concrete of US 9 — and the sleet would melt soon as it hit them.

One route went to Plattsburg and Rouses Point — the border. The other, to Ausable and ski country. She’d told him she was going to Placid. She’d expect him to think she was trying to throw him off the trail. He decided she would head for Placid. Via the Ausable fork.

It wasn’t quite a toss-up. If she laid her course due north, there’d be another ninety miles in which to catch her — and whoever the garlic-eater was, with her. If she took the Placid route, the Demon knew a short cut that would save him five or six miles and possibly — just possibly — bring him back into the highway ahead of her to cut her off.

It wasn’t a road he’d have picked for Minnie to negotiate on a slick night. It was steep, narrow and as full of curves as a spiral staircase. But it was shorter.

He passed an ambulance going full clip — lost the long white car in his rearview mirror within half a mile. Port Henry was a flash-bulb view of huddled stores, one lighted building — the engine house.

A dog raced alongside him as he swerved into the Ausable-Placid road at the green, nipped at his heels. He twisted the throttle grip, startled the dog into a backflip. Three miles out of town, at the foot of the mountain, he swung right, began to climb.

He hobbled and straddle-walked up the steepest part, hopped and joggled to brake his speed on the precipitous down pitch. Halfway down he let Minnie feel her gas on a looping U-curve, realized his mistake the instant he saw the faint amber gleam of a lantern bobbling along in the middle of the narrow road.

A chicken wagon, going to the freight shed at Westport — two ancient Percherons hauling a cart piled high, wide and handsome with crates full of clucking hens.

There was no room to pass, no time if there had been room. He pulled onto the shoulder. There wasn’t any shoulder. It was a ditch, full of water, frozen over. Like stepping on a piece of soap in the bathtub!

Minnie slipped sideways, kept going in spite of the power the Demon poured to her. They went off the road, through the remnants of a low rail fence, into a plowed field saw-toothed with ruts. The Demon took a header.

The farmer on the chicken truck swore at him. The horses shied. The chickens made the night hideous. Minnie backfired like a three-inch rapid fire.

The Demon wiped the blood off his nose, spat out a mouthful of dirt, made sure no bones were broken. Then he lifted Minnie, examined her with more care than he had himself. She had a bent crashguard and a smashed headlight. But her wheels were in alignment. She would take him where he had to go.

He dragged her back to the road, lit out again. When he hit the Placid through highway, he saw a wrecker towing a Model T coupe that had mashed its radiator against a narrow bridge.

“Seen a green ’47 Buick sedan come past, last few minutes?”

“Ain’t seen a single soul,” the garageman answered. “Not for the last half-hour.”

The Demon whacked Minnie’s gas tank. “We’ve caught her,” he whispered. “We’ve got her in a trap.”

But before he’d covered two miles toward Port Henry he was mentally booting himself. The Buick couldn’t have been more’n five or six miles ahead of him before he shot up over that short cut. By now, the girl would have caught up with him, even counting the time he’d saved on the cut-off.

Maybe she’d had a blowout or something. Maybe.

More likely she’d crossed him up, taken the straight road to the border. Nothing for the Demon to do but find a phone and report in.

He didn’t like the idea much. When Cap Matthews found the Buick had slipped through the bottleneck, one goose would be cooked. For keeps!

“Whoa!” He scuffed to a drag stop.

A dirt road branched off at a sharp angle, almost paralleling the highway back toward Port Henry. A signboard at the turn said Trout Landing — Lake Resorts. The signboard glistened.

He dismounted, touched it. It was wet. Spattered slush that even now was freezing, silvering like Christmas tinsel.

The sign was at least twelve feet off the concrete. The car that had splashed slush as far and wide as that must have been taking the turn at fairly high speed. The gruel of sleet and water on the roadbed wasn’t deep enough to have sprayed to that distance if the vehicle had kept to the straightaway.

The Demon used his flash on the cement. A car had slurred around there. In a three-quarter circle. The marks of the tires hadn’t been obliterated by the steady sleet, either. They’d been 6.50s, he figured.

The stuff splashed on the sign would have frozen solid if it had been there more than a few minutes. If the car was the Buick, it couldn’t be far ahead. Quite an “if,” he realized.

He nosed Minnie along cautiously. Around a bend lurid neons quivered in a St. Vitus invitation:

ONE-EYED JACK’S

Grill & Bar

Fill Up Ur Car

The vibrating vermilion illuminated a half-dozen parked cars — but no ’47 Buick.

Beyond were gas pumps, a glow of bluish fluorescence. In the garage a man in a mackinaw lay on his back under the sedan with the Maryland pads.

“Little trouble?” The Demon saw no sign of the girl.

“Chains.” The man swore wearily. “Lady oughta be chained up herself, if she insists on driving tonight.”

“Where is she?” The man rolled out from under. “Eatin’, I s’pose. Anything wrong?”

“Just checking.” He couldn’t say more, with only a whiff of garlic to go on, could he? “Use your phone?”

“Right there. Help ‘self.”

The Demon got through to headquarters. Cap Matthews wasn’t there. Russ Drake was on the board. He repeated the message, as per regulations.

“Ten-seventeen peeyem, Trooper Ames calling from Port Henry fower two, One-Eyed Jack’s,” — hey, that sounds like a wild joint, Demon — “escorting to Cee Point green ’47 Buick sedan Maryland VR 21 dash 744, owner Catherine — oh, K as in Kokomo, huh? — Caudle, Baltimore, EmDee, driving, for investigation Wistor case. No one else in car. Right?”

“Think so, Russ.” If there was anyone else in the car, he’d know pretty quick! “Anything on that Comstock break?”

“Yair. Medini was reported driving a ’40 or ’41 Ford station wagon through Mechanicville toward Albany, ten minutes ago. Guess he figured the northern routes were too hot.”

“Must have.” Medini — sixty miles south, ten minutes ago! That was that. So much for garlic! “I’ll call in from the Point, Russ.” He hung up.

He’d have to go easy with the girl, now. Wasn’t a thing to connect her with Brad’s murder.

She’d come the route she told him she meant to. She’d even followed his advice about the chains. And if there had been anything — or anyone — in that trunk compartment, would she go into the cafe and leave the car like this?

As far as that slowing down before she hit the roadblock, and afterwards, anyone might do that in weather that was only fit for a walrus. She’d said she believed in playing it safe.

He went in the cafe. She perched on a stool at the lunch counter, nylons neatly crossed. When he took the adjoining seat, she recognized him, smiled.

“The nice cop.” Then she frowned. “Say, you hurt yourself!”

“My girl scratched me.” He watched her carefully — no sign of alarm at all. “She plays rough sometimes.”

“Anybody’d think—” she laughed at him over the rim of a thick, white mug — “you were following me.”

“I was.” He ordered Old Black Joe.

“Should I be flattered? Or frightened?”

“They just want to ask you some questions back at Crown Point.”

She set her cup down slowly. “Who does?”

“Police.”

“What about?” She began to be indignant.

“A murder.”

The hamburger she’d started to bite remained suspended an inch from her lips — her mouth stayed open. “I don’t understand! Are you arresting me? What for? What happened?”

“Guy got shot down there tonight.” The garlic hadn’t been on her breath, in that was one sure thing. She smelled nice and kind of exciting. “Little while before you drove past my post. They want to find out if you saw anybody who might have done it.”

“For Pete’s sake! How would I know who did it! I don’t even know who was killed!”

“They’ll tell you all about it.” He stirred sugar in his black coffee. “You stop in Crown Point at all?”

“Not even for a traffic light. No. Not until you stopped me.”

“Happen to notice a little grocery store couple miles the other side of town? Wistor’s?”

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t see why I have to—”

“Orders, that’s why. Hope you don’t mind driving back.”

“Certainly I mind. I mind plenty!”

“Sorry. You’ll come back, anyway.”

She banged the hamburger on her plate, exasperated. “I don’t even know if there’s a decent hotel in Crown Point where I can stay.”

“They’ll find a place for you somewhere.” He left it at that, laid a quarter on the counter. “Take your time. I’ll be out at the car.”

“Imagine! Wouldn’t this happen to me!” She eyed him with a mixture of derision and incredulity.

When she came out he was bending over the trunk compartment of the Buick which had been backed out onto the apron, a few feet outside the garage door. The odor of garlic, he decided, had its source in or near that rear end.

“I have to pay the man for the chains.” She strode angrily into the garage office, settled her bill.

The garageman switched off the light, followed her out curiously. “Take it easy on the bare cement, miss.”

“Thanks.” She was curt. “I won’t be able to help myself.”

The man in the mackinaw locked the door, went away. The girl tilted her chin up at the Demon.

“You want to drive, officer?”

“Uh, uh. You go ahead. I’ll follow.” The Demon waited until she climbed in back of the wheel. “Let me have your keys.”

“What for?” That queer, panicky tone in her voice again.

“Check your trunk compartment.” He held out his hand.

“I’ll open it for you.” She unlatched the door, tense, wary.

He shook his head. She gave him the keys. He closed the door again, went around back.

She watched him in the rear-view.

He used his left hand to manipulate the keys. The right fist went to his holster, came back loaded.

He got the lock open, swung up the lid.

A tarpaulin covered something bulky. He reached out, jerked at the canvas.

As he bent forward he caught the merest glimpse of a glitter on the chrome of the rear bumper beside his knees.

That wasn’t all he caught.

His fur cap broke the blow. The force of it knocked him into the trunk compartment. He wrenched around, tried to bring his gun up. The glittering weapon smashed at his wrist. His fingers went numb. The .45 clattered against the bumper.

“Help!” The Demon half-rolled, half-slid to his knees, scrabbling in the slush for the automatic. The man above him clubbed him across the mouth.

The Demon kicked at trouser-clad shins, twisted toward his motorcycle. As he slithered sideways he had a good clear view of dark eyes blazing ferocity in a narrow, olive-skinned face, small lips drawn back wolfishly beneath a long nose. “Help... Help!”

The door of the cafe banged open. Voices calling. A scurry of feet.

The Buick roared, began to back.

“Come on!” screamed the girl.

Medini snatched at the .45: The car backed over it, kept him from grabbing the automatic. “Fix this cop, first.” He lifted a nickel-plated hammerless, took careful aim.

The Demon scrunched behind Minnie’s rear wheel. Livid flame spat at him. Metal rang loudly. Pain lanced at the side of his neck.

Medini swung on the running-board, snarling commands:

“Run over him! Run him down! Smash that machine!”

The Demon dived, slid on his face, clawed at the .45.

The Buick had stopped, started forward, toward him. He propped himself on his elbow, fired at the windshield. A cobweb of shattered glass spread out in front of the girl.

She swerved the Buick away, into the road. From the running-board, Medini’s revolver barked twice more, like a threatening puppy, before the sedan sped out of range.

The Demon was straddling Minnie by the time a short-order cook in a stained apron and a stout man in a leather jacket reached him.

“That’s Medini!” Escaped con!” He had no seconds to waste on explanations. “Call state police!” Minnie responded to the spark. He zoomed onto the highway.

It was rough going. His right wrist had no feeling in it at all. Might be a bone busted, he thought. He had to hold the .45 in his left. Minnie would have to take the bit in her teeth, practically steer herself.

“Saved my life, ole gal,” he muttered, leaning his elbows on the handlebars. “If you hadn’t deflected that pill, I’d be a sick boy right about now.”

The Buick’s tail-lights vanished over a crest. They might stop, over the hill, ambush him. Had to risk that. Probably wouldn’t, wanting to get away from the hue and cry.

He fed Minnie power. She shivered, wobbled, when the speed indicator topped fifty.

“Cry sake,” he grumbled. “Hit your fork, did he, Minnie?! Threw your sprockets out of kilter!” He held her at fifty.

When he topped the rise, there were no purplish tail-lights in sight. They couldn’t have gained that much, could they?

They hadn’t. At the foot of the hill, a wood road opened out. Headlights emerged from it, swung toward him, coming fast.

He flicked on his blinker, threw the siren on. The oncoming car stuck to the middle of the road. Then he knew.

They’d run him down. Head-on smack-up. Wouldn’t damage the Buick too much to travel. But for the Demon to hit a car at this speed would be like jumping out a ten-story building and landing on the pavement.

He waited until the headlights were twenty feet away, heading way over on the wrong side of the road, pinning him. Then he flung himself to the left, let Minnie ride on her crash bar into the ditch.

The Buick lurched toward him, too late. The girl had to fight the wheel to keep the sedan on the road. The Demon crawled out of an icy puddle, rubbed the skid burns on his left hip, cursing futilely. He hauled Minnie back to the road, remounted, gave her the ethyl.

They’d come about three miles from One-Eyed Jack’s; on the back track the Demon met only one pursuing car, a Mercury, driven by the man in the leather jacket. The Demon didn’t even bother to wave him around; the Buick was out of sight again.

The Demon poured it on, whizzed past the neon-lit road-house with Minnie clattering like a Model T on a corduroy road.

“Old gray mare — ain’t what she used t’be,” he mumbled, through swollen lips. “Just hold together another ten, that’s all I ask, Minnie. Then I’ll turn you out t’ pasture.”

At the turn where he’d spotted the wet sign he saw the tail-lights again. Disappearing west, toward Placid.

He began to gain. Another half-mile. A yellow pencil of flame pointed at him from the right hand window. He couldn’t hear the shot.

He waited another minute before he rested the barrel of the .45 on the windshield and fired at the gas tank. He emptied the clip into the back of the car at tank level. Maybe there were sharpshooters who could hit a tire at sixty mph. But not the Demon. Not with his left hand — riding a bronc that shivered like one of those barber’s massage gadgets.

He could have passed the Buick then. But he dropped into third, watched the iridescent film widening on the smooth satin of ice beneath his headlamp.

Minnie’s affliction became suddenly aggravated. Her front wheel slewed wildly. He slowed to forty. The motorcycle threatened to shiver itself apart. He cut to thirty, to twenty-five, before he could handle her.

The tail-lights began to narrow together, draw away into the darkness of a long upgrade. At a bend, they blacked out momentarily. He didn’t dare push Minnie too hard but in a quarter-mile, he caught sight of them again.

If he hadn’t drilled those punctures low enough in the gas tank, they might still have enough fuel to escape. He kept his siren going full blast to inform any late wayfarer which way the chase was going.

The Buick hit the crest of the big hill a full mile ahead. When he got to the peak, he saw the loom of the headlights far below. They were swerving, turning. Maybe they meant to make another stab at crashing into him.

No! The car was in a skid. A long, sweeping slide. The gas had been used up. The motor’d died. They hadn’t had power to use on the curve.

He was a hundred yards behind when the headlights dipped, somersaulted, lunged off into the darkness of the pine woods, came to rest, pointing up into the night from a deep gully.

He slurred Minnie around in the middle of the highway, kicked down the stand, left her chuttering softly with her blinker light still going. That would halt any passing traffic and tip off any of the troop cars that might be answering a phone from One-Eyed Jack’s.

He plunged off into the soft, wet mulch of leaves and spruce needles — flashlight in his right hand, 45 in the fist he could depend on.

The Buick lay on its side, far below on the steep slope — the broken ice of a brook wriggling alongside it like a spotted snake. The Demon could see no sign of movement.

But after fifty yards of scratching his eyes out on thorny scrub and barking his shins on ice-coated boulders, he saw something that looked like a raveling of red yarn on the ice. It was above the car; it couldn’t have dripped from the Buick.

Someone had been hurt, had managed to get out. It wasn’t the girl. He could make out her blond curls tangled with the wheel where she lay slumped over, clamped in the wreckage.

The Demon kept rigidly quiet, heard nothing. He went on twenty steps, stopped again. There was no sound other than the whining of the wind in the evergreens, the lashing of sleet against branches. But through the aromatic pungency of the pines — the clean, fresh fragrance of the spruce — he caught the unmistakable odor of garlic.

Medini was coming toward him! Heading straight for the road — with the idea of kidnaping Minnie and riding her out of the danger zone!

The Demon knelt in the slime of sleety leaves and twigs and needles. The smell became stronger. He thumbed on the flashlight switch, threw the plastic tube down the slope. The cone of light turned and twisted like a landing beacon gone crazy.

The brusque bark of the .32 answered, but the Demon was dazzled by his own pyrotechnics. He couldn’t see the finger of flame to shoot back.

The flashlight bounced off a tree, caromed onto a rock, slid a few feet, came to rest on its side — the beam half pointing toward the Demon!

A tapering evergreen, silhouetted against the luminous blur, became suddenly thinner at its base. A shadow; like that of a misshapen boulder, detached itself from the trunk.

The Demon held his automatic with both hands, sighted, fired.

The answering snarl was that of a wounded animal. The Demon crawled toward the sound. He couldn’t see Medini. But there was no difficulty about smelling him.

The .45 held stiffly before him, the Demon inched nearer. The man might be playing ‘possum.

Medini coughed — a harsh, strangling cough. “I told Katie — I should’ve taken time — to punch your ticket — back there at the joint—”

The Demon shoved the automatic against the killer’s ribs, reached for the hammerless. The stench of garlic seemed overpowering. It didn’t come from the man’s breath. It was on the gun. It had been on Medini’s right hand.

“How was it?” The Demon felt the soggy spot at the breast pocket of the coat the murderer wore. “Did Brad Wistor have a handful of garlic when you jumped him? Grab your gun? When you shot him? That how it went?”

“The hat,” the dying man said painfully. “The hat Katie brought me — too big.” He struggled to sit up, succeeded only in rolling to his side. “Tried to grab a hat from that runty grocer. He put up a battle — had to give it — to him.”

“How’d you get by the road-block, Medini?”

“Hid — trunk compartment. Lifted lid — jumped out. Got back in other side.” He coughed again, weakly. “Get me — to a doc!”

“And leave your girl, like that?”

“She’s gone,” Medini gasped.

You won’t be far behind her, the Demon thought. But he said: “We’ll do what we can for you — Minnie and I.”

But by the time he’d checked on the girl to make sure she was beyond help, and had lugged Medini up to the highway, a patrol coupe came screaming in from the south.

Cap Matthews got out, cradling a submachine gun in his left elbow. Two other troopers piled down the hill to the sedan.

The Demon had his say.

When he’d done, the Captain grunted approval. “Not bad, for a one-man job. Not bad.” He regarded the Demon critically. “We’ll take the bodies in. You look a little blue around the gills. Better stop in somewhere and have something good and hot. There’s a nice spaghetti joint, couple miles south.”

“Not for me.” The Demon shook his head. “I’ve had all the garlic I can take, for one day.”

Alibi Baby

Popular Detective, September 1948

The patrol-boat Vigilant furrowed the oily blackness of the Sound like a plow turning soft mud. The probing finger of her searchlight groped past the rusty hulk of an anchored tanker, found the red nun buoy, slanting sharply in the ebb.

In the pilot house the big sergeant spun the spokes to circle the channel marker. “You’ll be havin’ your name on the promotion roster, sure, Steve.” In the dim glow flooding up from the binnacle bowl, his fleshy Celtic face had the appearance of an aggrieved Kewpie. “The powers that be can do no less than up you to a Captain’s berth after the neat way you pin a lily on that dock rat’s chest.”

“Ah, Sarge, I wouldn’t bust up our partnership like so.” Steve Koski’s lean, muscular figure relaxed against the port bulkhead. The reflection of the running light off the foredeck ruddied his long, narrow features, varnishing the prominent cheekbones with a weathered-oak effect which made him appear more like a stoical cigar-store Indian than the Harbor Squad’s most feared plainclothes lieutenant. “What’d a captain’s badge get me? Swivel-chair spread. Executives’ pot. Uh-uh, I’ll stick to a deck instead of a desk, long’s they’ll let me. Our trouble is, cops get no more chance than undertakers. Usually we don’t get called in until the corpse is cold. How often do we save anybody?”

Mulcahey protested. “Show me any boat in the Marine Division with a better record of rescues than the Vigilant, now!”

“I wasn’t referring to cock-eyed bargehands we drag out of the drink, or the desperate dames we fish out of the East River.” Koski held the white funnel of light on a floating object, about the size of a man’s head bobbing in a black eddy some thirty feet off the buoy. “Speaking of rescues, let’s peek at that.”

“ ’Twill likely be a half melon off a garbage scow. Or a rare, vintage derby blown off the night boat.” Mulcahey throttled the grumbling exhaust down to a hollow mutter.

The police boat lost way. The hrrrush of the bow wave fell to a whisper. Koski leaned but over the gunwale, dipped his boathook.

“I’ll score you fifty percent, Sarge. It is a hat. But no derby.” Koski turned the dripping headgear over in his knotty fingers beneath the glare of the searchlight beam.

It was a wool yachting cap of navy blue. Its patent-leather visor was cracked and split, its gold braid torn and tarnished. Above the visor and between the braided anchors was pinned a white celluloid button with bold black lettering: BATHING BEAUTY INSPECTOR’S LICENSE.

Around the button’s rim, in smaller type: Official Navel Inspector O! O! O!

Mulcahey grinned through the pilot house window. “Dost deem it worthy of listing in the log?”

Koski didn’t answer. He touched a dark spot about the size of a cookie on the cloth top. Under the bright white light his finger tip looked as if it had been smeared with ketchup.

Mulcahey let the motor idle, came back to the cockpit. “Wouldst crave to have us head back for Pier One so we can turn this in to the lab boys?” he asked. “They could put it under their microscopes, analyze it in their test tubes and so on and forth. Eventually comin’ up with the startling information that the owner thereof had a severe nosebleed or maybe cut his toe on some barnacles.”

“Oh, sure!” Koski answered sarcastically. “Top of a cap’s just the thing to use for stanching a nosebleed!” He turned the cap over, peered at the inside. Stuck to the underside of the bloodstain were two white hairs.

“That,” Mulcahey said, “don’t look so good, now. I wouldn’t kid about that!”

“Could be the owner lent the cap to his St. Bernard, or course!” Carefully the lieutenant pulled open the worn leather sweatband. Stuck against the stiff-wired fabric frame was a water-soaked and sweat-stained business card, which read:

CITY ISLAND DELICATESSEN

3144 City Island Avenue

Sandwiches & Picnic Lunches A Specialty

Stock Your Galley — Discount To Boat Trade

“Top of the cap is dry,” Mulcahey pointed out. “With that air caught underneath it and the tide runnin’ fast, it might have been kept from sinkin’ — all the way from the Island.”

“Yair. Would mean it hasn’t been in the water more’n an hour. Figuring the current at two point five knots. Make it around nine p.m. it started to drift down here.” Koski examined the other side of the card. In purplish indelible ink were scrawled names:

Mulcahey whistled. “That last one sounds like a hot biscuit. Perchance this Lothario was fidoodling around with too many frails. Mayhap one of ’em found she was being crossed up and belted Casanova over the dome.”

“Boats,” Koski said irritably.

“Huh?”

“Not names of dames, Sarge. Names of boats. With the phones of owners. Gents who want to sell their craft. Plenty dough, every spring.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mulcahey nodded. “Lots of guys offering their boats as a bargain before they put the hulls in the water.”

“That Ansy Pansy. Sailboat, isn’t she? Comet class champ couple years ago, if I remember.”

“They’s quite a few of them one designs haul out at the Trident Yacht Club, Skipper.”

Koski took cap and card into the pilot house, deposited them carefully on the glass chart case.

“Give with that gas, Irish,” he said.

Mulcahey jammed the reverse lever ahead, revved the two hundred horses to a thundering roar. The Vigilant’s nose lifted. Her tail squatted. White wings of spray planed out from the quarters. The square green flag whipped taut in the rush of air as the blunt-bowed thirty-two footer overtook a long row of black dominoes silhouetted against the ghostly green of Stepping Stones light.

When the pilot house windows were abeam of the tug hauling the string of barges, Koski asked:

“What kind of guy’d be likely to have the phone numbers of four different boat owners, Irish?”

“One these brokers?”

“Not wearing a cap like that. No. Not around the Trident.”

“Ship chandler, now? Marine supply man? Sometimes they sell—”

“Those boys keep their dope in office file, not in their hats.”

Mulcahey gave up.

Koski stuffed a bulldog briar, silently. Then:

“How about some yacht club employee?”

“Yuh. Sure. That could be it. Steward, like?”

“Trident’s not that tony. When the season’s under way, they might go so far as to hire a cook, but their flag doesn’t go up until Decoration Day. However, even in April, they have a watchman.”

“Old geezer, yuh. I seen him.” The sergeant sighted along his samson post, lining it up with the four vertical blue lights on the Trident’s clubhouse mast. Then he gazed at Koski with something approaching awe. “That would fit in with those white hairs!”

Koski squinted at the sergeant before answering.

“Name’s Versena. Pete Versena, something like that. Always goes around needing a haircut and a shave. They call him Poodle Pete along the Island.”

“That lid, with the snappy crack gimmick in place of the regular club button,” Mulcahey agreed. “Yuh, that would be just his speed, now.” He shot another sidelong glance at his superior and shipmate. “If ever I am tempted to dally with a career of crime, I will steer me a course one hundred eighty degrees away from you, so help me!”

“Don’t go jumping off the deep end yet.” Koski shaded his eyes to squint toward the club float, past the moored sloops, cabin cruisers, outboards and strings of rental rowboats. “Chances are Poodle Pete’s just looked too long on the wine while it was red and is sleeping it off on a bridge-deck somewhere.”

But when the Vigilant nudged the Trident’s float, there was so sign of the elderly watchman, nor any answer to Koski’s hail.

Mulcahey was troubled. “If he’s up and about, ’tis queer he’s not here. You could not say we arrive on tiptoe.”

Koski half-hitched the stern line over a float cleat, used his hand lantern. On the opposite end of the float, staining the wet canvas binding of the rub rail, he found more blobs of dark and ominous red.

“We can eliminate the barnacles, Irish. Just to play it safe, take a punch at that short-wave. Tell the Sentinel to hustle in from the Harlem.” He moved up the gangway into the gloom of the yacht yard. “And dust off those grappling irons.”

The lights on the signal mast washed the clubhouse with a ghostly blue and gave a sepulchral tinge to the canvas-shrouded hulls not yet uncovered for spring refitting. The only noise Koski heard was the crunch of his heels on the gravel.

Up the yard, beyond a score of hooded motor boats and high-masted sloops, an amber glow warmed the portholes of a small cabin cruiser. The lieutenant frowned at it, then turned toward the back porch of the clubhouse.

“Hi, Pete” Silence. “Hey — Poooodle.” Nothing answered but the slap of the tide against pilings.

He tried the back door. It was unlocked. The kitchen was dark. Grim lines at the corners of Koski’s mouth hardened. The old watchman never would have left the premises, without first locking up.

Koski took his time in going through the yard, peering beneath squat-sterned catboats, sharp-nosed speed boats. No Pete. Nobody.

Brass lettering on the transom of the lighted cruiser proclaimed C-Urchin, New York. She was a raised decker with steering shelter glassed in and protected aft by new khaki cockpit curtains. Her hull was freshly painted, a smart emerald bootstripe setting off the gloss white of the topsides. Somebody knew how to look after a sea-going lady, he decided.

A home-made ladder of paint-bespeckled 2x4s stood against her, amidships, surrounded by sawhorses, paint cans, an upturned dinghy. Its upper end reached to one of the cockpit curtains which had been left unfastened, flopping loosely in the night breeze.

“Ahoy, on the Urchin,” Koski hailed. He knuckled the hull loudly.

There were hasty steps. A white face appeared timidly in the gap beside the loose curtain — a girl, dark hair bound in a yellow bandana, dark eyes wide with fear.

“What is it?” Her voice was tremulous.

“Harbor Police,” Koski said.

“Oh!” She gasped, clutched at a stanchion. “What’s wrong, officer?”

“Take it easy.” Koski wondered whether it had been his arrival that so frightened her. “Just looking for the club watchman. Seen him around the yard tonight?”

“Pete?” she managed. “No. Not since supper. Why do you want him?”

Koski half turned, as if to go. “You alone on the boat, miss?”

“No.” She seemed relieved at his indication of departure. “Ken’s here — my husband. I’m Marya Caton. If I see Pete, I’ll tell him you want to see him.” She started to withdraw.

He moved back to the ladder. “Ask Mr. Caton if he’s seen Pete.”

“Why — Ken’s not here now.” She was alarmed by Koski’s fresh show of interest. “When I said he was here, I didn’t mean he’s on board right now.”

“When you expect him back?”

“Most any minute. He just went out — to see if he could find some — some stuff to fix our sink drain.”

Koski put a foot on the first rung.

She retreated to the shadowy interior of the cockpit.

“That’s what scared me,” she went on hurriedly, “your saying you’re from the police. I thought something’d happened to him.”

Koski climbed up. “If he’s coming right back, I might wait for him, Mrs. Caton.”

He paused at the top of the ladder, holding onto the new canvas where a jagged piece had been torn out of one corner.

“I’ll stay here in the cockpit,” he suggested.

“No, no,” she apologized nervously. “I guess you can come below. It’s only — Ken’s always warning me about letting anybody come aboard when he’s not here.”

“Wise gent.” Koski pushed the canvas aside, got a leg over the coaming. She retreated down the companionway.

With the light from the cabin on her, Koski could see how pretty she was. She was not more than twenty-five, with delicate oval features made to seem a bit more rugged by a warm, winter tan. The smallness of her hands was emphasized by her quick, fluttering bird-like movements.

One of the hands moved to her throat apprehensively.

“Has Pete done anything to get him into trouble?”

“Not that I know of.” Koski let her worry about it.

The cabin was like the girl — small, attractive, neat as a pin. Brasswork gleaming, brightwork glistening with varnish, bright cretonne at the ports, cozy cushions on the bunks, framed photos on the forward bulkhead. One, of a youth in a corporal’s uniform.

“Your husband?” he pointed.

“That’s Ken. Yes.” Fear stayed in her eyes, her voice. “We married just before the war. We haven’t been together much. He’s only been back a year. We haven’t been able to find a place to live.” Under Koski’s gaze, she shivered suddenly, though the shipmate range should have kept the April chill out of the cruiser. “So Ken bought the Urchin with a G.I. loan. We meant to charter her for fishing, but—” her voice faltered.

“Plans change?” Brittle glass crunched beneath his shoes as Koski crossed to the companionway. He looked down. One of the splintered shards had a curved edge like a watch crystal, only larger.

His right hand, hidden from the girl, felt along the cabin roof. In a box set into the rounded roof, just forward of the steering wheel, was a four-inch compass hung in gimbals. The mahogany top of the box had been smashed, the thick glass lens broken. Other fragments were on the deck, in the groove of the hatch slide.

“Prices have gone up so.” She’d had time to figure out her answer. “We thought we could charge twenty-five dollars for taking out a party of four. With meals, that is. But, things the way they are, we’d have to ask forty. There won’t be so many who’ll pay that.”

He nodded sympathetically, wondering why a boat owner whose craft was otherwise so shipshape — or a boatkeeper whose galley pans were so spic and span — would a leave broken compass around like that.

“That’s the kind of difficulty the police aren’t much help on, Mrs. Caton. But if there’s anything else bothering you?”

“Oh, no,” she cried, biting her lip. “There’s nothing. I... I just get so lonely — sometimes — with Ken — away.” She turned aside so he wouldn’t notice the tears in her eyes.

A low whistle shrilled close by; high note, low note, repeated.

She froze, rigid as a child playing still-pond-no-more-moving.

Koski said: “That him?”

Marya nodded.

“Tell him to come on in.” Koski didn’t appear to notice her tension.

She stumbled up the companionway. “Ken!” she called, almost hysterically. “It’s all right, Ken. Come on up.”

Koski was right behind her. He caught her before she got to the head of the ladder, pushed her aside, looked out.

He didn’t see anyone. Or hear anyone. The whistle wasn’t repeated.

When he got to the ground, she leaned out of the cockpit above him, shouting: “Ken! Ken!”

Koski glanced up. “Never mind,” he said. “You’ve warned him enough.”

She shook her head violently, terrified.

“Not that it’ll make any difference,” he told her. “We’ll get hold of him. Don’t fret about that.”

Mulcahey was using the probe pole in the soft mud alongside the float when Koski got back.

“What was the commotion, Steve? Did I not hear some babe crying aloud in the night?”

“Dame on the C-Urchin. Yair. When the Sentinel pulls in, tell ’em to use care with those hooks. We don’t want to mark up — whatever’s down there. No more’n it’s been marked up.”

“ ’Twill be the watchman, then?”

“He’s not around, anyway, Sarge. And I wanted to ask this dame’s husband about that. But he’s not around, either. When the boys get to dragging, you go up and keep a peeper on that cruiser. Something smells fishier’n a week-old halibut.”

Koski strode away. Everything was quiet on the Caton boat when he went past and out to City Island Avenue.

At the delicatessen whose card had been in the cap, he asked about the Catons. The proprietor was obliging, but wary. He was sorry, but he couldn’t remember seeing Marya or her husband for some time. If the matter was urgent—

Koski said it was urgent, all right.

The delicatessen man frowned. Had the lieutenant asked at the Anchor? The Catons frequently dropped in at the Anchor.

“Thanks,” said Koski. “I’ll do the same.”

The bar-and-grill with the pink neon anchor over its door was practically opposite the Trident Yacht Club. Through grimy windows, Koski could see a long bar, a kaleidoscopic juke box, half a dozen tables covered with red-checkered cloth. A dozen waterfront characters were draped over the bar. At one table sat a solitary woman.

The blare and beat of Harry James greeted him as he swung open the door:

Bongo, Bongo, Bongo

I don’ wanna leave the Congo

The stench of stale beer, rank tobacco, sour sweat and strong disinfectant had the force of a blow. The men at the bar turned to eye the newcomer. None of them looked like the photograph on the C-Urchin’s bulkhead.

Only the woman greeted Koski. She was a scrawny specimen of indeterminate age, with red-rimmed eyes and a shiny beacon of a nose.

“Ah-ha,” she hiccoughed loudly. “Me old chum! Me bucko mate and buddy! Pull up one of m’knees an’ siddown, pal.”

Koski smiled, striding toward the bar. “How they going, old-timer?”

“Down.” She lifted an empty whisky glass. “When I c’n get ’em.” She hiccoughed again, drooped over the table.

“Rum,” Koski murmured to the bartender, a blond wide-shouldered youth with sunbleached hair like new rope ends and a homely genial face. “Demerara, if you have it.”

The barkeeper grinned cheerfully. “We used to carry that stuff, but our customers couldn’t. How’s Jamaica?”

“Jake.”

The man behind the bar slopped three fingers of the molasses-brown liquor into a glass. “Something with it?”

“Little information.” Koski held out a half-dollar. Under it, in the hollow of his palm, the gold badge with Marine Division in blue enamel.

The bartender raised one eyebrow. “Don’t know’s I can furnish that, either. What’s it?”

“Seen Poodle Pete tonight?”

“Nah. Hardly ever do. He don’t patronize high-grade joints like ours.” Candid gray eyes smiled along with the wide, homely mouth. “Pete belts that buck-a-bottle sherry around, for his. What you want him for?”

“Seems as if the old guy might have got himself hurt. Just checking around to find out.” He took the rum straight. “Ken Caton been in here tonight? Or Mrs. Caton?”

Suspicion clouded the gray eyes instantly. “Neither hair nor hide of ’em.”

“Mmm.” Koski shoved the glass across the bar. “Ask your regulars if they’ve run across him this evening.”

The bartender hesitated, scowling. Then he shrugged.

“Any you boys seen Ken lately?” he asked.

“Not me.” “Not since last night, Rikky.” “That creep? Uh-uh.” The bunch at the bar were curious but unconcerned.

The woman at the table spoke up, thickly. “I seen him. At the chandler’s. He was buyin’ a piece of pipe.”

“Ah, shut up, Lize.” Rikky made a pushing-away gesture with his palm. “You were prob’ly seeing double.”

One of the drinkers, standing close to Koski, bobbed his head sideways toward the woman at the table.

He said: “Easy Lizzie can point you out pink ellyfants, if you want ’em.” He laughed uproariously.

“Easy” Liz swung around, making her chair creak. “Yah! You crumb bums! I know Ken Caton all right. Know all ’bout him.” She hiccoughed, got heavily to her feet.

Rikky swaggered around the bar. “That’ll be all from you, now, Liz. You’re schwocked! Shuddup!”

Unsteadily, she waved him away. “Got a ri’ t’say — what I please. Know all ’bout Ken — rotten way he treatsh — treats — sweet li’l wife ’f hish — rotten, shtinkin’ temper ’f his—”

Rikky grabbed her, pushed her toward the door.

Koski moved swiftly, caught the bar-keep’s arm just as Easy Liz was bellowing: “You was shayin’ shame thing yourself, tonight, Rikky Lundgren. Y’know you said jus’ them very words to Poodle!”

Koski said: “Keep your hair on, brother. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

“Ah! This old frowz don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s plastered right up to the ceiling!” Rikky glared. “Sign there over the bar says we don’t serve intoxicated people. One side, mister.” He shoved Easy Liz to the door. The men at the bar circled them.

Koski swung the bartender around. “Leave her alone.”

Rikky spat in his eyes.

In the second it took Koski to blink his back vision Rikky reached the bar, snatched a half-empty whisky bottle, swung it behind him, smashed it on the mahogany back bar. He held the jagged remainder out before him, retreating behind the bar.

Koski did a one-hand, up and over. His feet caught Rikky in the chest, drove him against a pyramid of glassware which crashed down. Rikky slashed the bottle at Koski’s abdomen before the lieutenant got his feet under him. Koski twisted, grabbed a fistful of apron high up, yanked viciously and butted his head at the bartender’s chin.

A knife edge of the bottle gashed the lieutenant’s hip like a red-hot wire. But with the impact of Koski’s forehead, Rikky’s chin snapped back, struck a shelf. A mountain of bottles fell on him, cutting his face, drenching him with mint liqueur, cherry brandy, rock and rye.

Koski let go of the apron, wound his fingers in Rikky’s tow hair. He banged the blond head against the back bar hard enough to bring down more bottles, kept banging until a handful of hair came loose in his fingers and Rikky sagged limply to the floor.

Koski wiped his face on a bar towel, turned to the men gawking, wide-eyed, on the opposite side of the bar.

“That’s it,” he mumbled. “Show’s over. Close up now. Don’t crowd, going out.”

The men filed out, swearing under their breaths. Easy Liz wasn’t among them; she’d departed as soon as the fight began, Koski guessed. He couldn’t see her outside on the street, either.

He locked the front door, switched out the sidewalk neon, examined his wound. The bottle had slashed open a foot of his pants leg but only gouged an inch-long tear in the sensitive part of his thigh.

It bled a lot. He doused some of the Jamaica on it, felt the sharp bite of the alcohol. He went to the rear of the joint. Adjoining doors were marked Pointers, Setters.

He tried the first. It was locked.

In the other he found hot water and a roller towel. He used his knife on the towel, made a passable bandage. When he went out, Rikky was on his knees behind the bar, moaning and holding the top of his head in both hands.

“Plenty more where that came from, Tough Stuff.” Koski touched him with a toe. “If you want it.”

Rikky wavered to his feet, groggily.

“Help yourself to a drink.” The lieutenant gestured broadly. “On the house.”

The bartender cursed him, found a broken bottle with a half pint of Irish whisky in it, put the razor-sharp edge to his lips, drank deep. “What’s it all about, copper?”

“You tell me.”

“I was only covering up for a good guy.”

“Covering up for a killer. Poodle Pete got his. You know who gave it to him. Spill.”

Rikky drained the rest of the half pint. “Well. If you know that much. I didn’t want you to catch wise — on Mary a’s account as much as Ken’s.”

“Get to it,” Koski said tightly.

“Liz was right. Ken was looking for a piece of pipe to fix his sink. He found it — somewhere in the Trident yard. Maybe it belonged to some other boat or came out of one. I wouldn’t know.” Rikky inspected a loose tooth in the cracked back-bar mirror. “What I do know is, Pete caught him with the goods, started an argument. Ken got sore, or scared maybe, and took a clout at the old gazink.” He made a brief gesture, clenching his fist, pointing it at the floor. “Down goes McGinty”

“How’d you find that out? Caton come here after slugging Pete?”

“Yeah. He wanted to borrow a few markers — we used to be pretty good friends before the war — so naturally I get a double sawbuck on the line. I ask him why does he need the dough so fast, and he tells me.”

“Said he killed Poodle Pete with the pipe?”

“Shucks, no. Said he crowned him. Thought the old coot might be hurt bad. Wanted to beat it until the thing cooled down, that’s all. Jimminy, I didn’t know he killed Pete!!”

“Mrs. Caton know all this?”

“You can’t prove it by me.” Rikky found another whisky bottle, poured liquor on his palm, rubbed it on his scalp, grimacing. “I s’pose Ken told her something.”

“Let’s go over and find out.”

Rikky flung his fingers out stiffly toward the wreckage. “Aw, have a heart! Leave my place like this? Look at it!”

“Didn’t look so hot to begin with. Come on.” Koski inclined his head toward the door. Rikky slammed a felt hat on his head, groaned with pain, stalked out stiffly.

Koski marched him across to the Trident yard, up the Urchin’s ladder.

Marya came to the torn canvas before Rikky reached the coaming.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Rikky? I thought—”

“Your husband,” Koski put it to her brusquely, “won’t be back right away. As if you didn’t know.”

He stared helplessly at the bartender. He hunched up his shoulders, held his hands out, palms up.

“The brass buttons knew it all, anyway, Marya. I had to tell him I lent Ken some moola to get away.”

She made that quick fluttering movement of fingers to throat again. “He... knows?” She avoided Koski’s eyes.

“I know you made a mistake trying to protect a creep who’d beat the brains out of a harmless old man, Mrs. Caton. Trying to warn him when he came around the boat—”

“Steve!” Mulcahey called loudly, from the foot of the ladder. “We found him.” Marya gasped, tumbled down the companionway, flung herself on a bunk, sobbing. Rikky followed her, fumbled at soothing her.

Koski went to the ladder. “Head bashed in, Sarge?”

“Like you figured, yuh. What do you want us to do?”

Koski told him, quietly and quickly.

“Holy Mother!” The sergeant was startled. “Can such things be?”

“That’s for you to find out, Sarge. The sooner the quicker.” Koski went below.

Rikky was doing his best to console Marya. She wasn’t having any. She crouched miserably at one end of the starboard bunk, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Koski sat down opposite her. “You don’t want to feel so bad about losing a guy who’d crack open an old man’s brain and then fix things so you’d be holding the bag.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Rikky muttered.

“Yair. You have so. You told me Ken Caton was a no-good rat who abused his wife and—”

“That’s a lie!” Marya screamed. “A horrible lie!” she repeated more calmly, glaring at the bartender. “You know it’s a lie, Rikky! How can you stand there and let him say things like that about poor Ken when you know he never hurt me or anybody. Why don’t you tell him the truth, Rikky Lundgren! Why don’t you!”

“Maybe, I can make a stab at part of it myself,” Koski said. “I saw that busted compass up in the cockpit — that place in the curtain where somebody tore out a hunk so blood spattered on it wouldn’t be noticed. I’d say there must have been quite a fracas right here on board the Urchin.”

It was so quiet in the cabin Koski could hear a tug hooting for the right of way at Hell Gate. He went on:

“Liz said Pete had been in the Anchor tonight, Rikky. That would have been to tip you off that Ken was going to be away from the boat for awhile, and — stop me if I get it wrong, Mrs. Caton — to warn you what Caton had said, that he didn’t want anyone coming on board while he wasn’t here. Meaning especially you, is my guess.”

Marya watched Rikky like a person hypnotized. Rikky kept his eyes fixed on Koski.

“I expect that was all you needed to get you into the trap, Rikky. From the way Liz talked and the things you let slip yourself, plus the fact you managed to get this babe, to set up an alibi for you—”

“No!” Marya breathed. “I never did.”

“Sure. In reverse, sort of. But an alibi, just the same. What else is it when you don’t contradict his story that your husband’s run away? What do you call it when you phony things up by hollering ‘Ken — Ken,’ when all the time you knew your husband was dead?”

Tears streamed down her face. “I didn’t mean to — didn’t want to — but—”

“Yair. This big creep had something on you. Or you thought he had. He raised a hand in the “Stop” gesture to keep her from saying anything. “I don’t want to know what it was — and where he’ll be going, nobody else will have a chance to find out. If you’d been cuddling up to him a little while your husband was overseas — if you were hoping to keep him from finding it out—”

“I told Ken.” The cry sounded as if it had been wrenched out of her by torture. “He knew. He hated Rikky because of it. But I didn’t want everybody to know what a mess I’d made of things. And Rikky said... he said—” She couldn’t finish.

“Yair. He would.” Koski stood up slowly. “Just the sort of lad to bully you into clearing him and laying the blame on the man he’d just murdered. Your husband didn’t have any intention of leaving you alone with the wolf practically on your doorstep. After he’d sent Pete over to bait the trap, he waited until Rikky slid out of the Anchor. The back way, eh, Rikky? Never mind, you got here. And Ken found you here. You fought. He got it.”

Rikky shook his head unhappily. “You got part of it right, copper. I didn’t come over to make a play for Marya at all. I came over because he had killed Pete.”

“See if you can sell it to the D.A. He buys those things once in a while. For my dough, you took the pipe away from him, hit him with it.”

“If that was all there was to it,” Rikky roared, “I could claim self defense and get away with it!” He stepped back to the foot of the companionway stairs, leaning against the gravity gas tank on the after bulkhead. “I was right here. He jumped me.”

Koski drew his gun, let it dangle at his side. “Don’t waste it on me. Your legal beagle will probably think it’s terrific. To me it’s a lot of mahaha. I’d say you slugged him up by that compass box. But I don’t care how you killed him — you did it. Then you threw the fear of God into this babe by threatening to expose your relationship with her or whatever. After you got that set, you carted the body overside. Down the ladder. That’s when the blood got on the curtain.”

Rikky put a cigarette between his lips, flipped open his lighter, watched the small blue flame with a sort of dejected intensity:

“Tell him, Marya. Give him the straight on it.”

“The straight,” Koski retorted, “is that Pete saw you lugging the corpse, got suspicious when he saw the blood on Ken and wanted to call the police. You beat him to the punch. You brained him, too — and dumped him off the float near Ken. Hoping somebody’d be dumb enough to think Ken had murdered Pete and then drowned himself.”

Rikky’s right hand stroked the slender copper tubing which curved from beneath the gas tank to the Urchin’s motor. He kept his eyes on the flickering flame of the light.

“If you won’t speak up, Marya, I’ll have to!”

He tugged ferociously at the macaronisized tubing. It came loose before Koski could raise his gun. Pink fluid spurted out. Rikky tossed the lighter at it.

There was a whoosh of blue incandescence and a sheet of vivid flame cut off the cabin from the cockpit.

Koski had time for one instantaneous snap shot before Rikky scrambled out of sight up the companionway. Then the lieutenant whirled, ducked into the “head” behind him, reached up, unhooked the hinged hatch over the toilet, banged it open.

He dived back into the cabin where Marya huddled, as if paralyzed, watching blazing rivulets trickle toward her.

He got his arms around her, tossed her up through the hatch on deck.

He put one more bullet through the companionway before he followed.

As he dropped the nearly unconscious girl to the ground, the rear of the cruiser opened up like the unfolding petals of a huge orange blossom...

The avenue was crowded with shiny red apparatus. The bloodshot eyes of motor pumpers and chemical trucks spilled claret over the canvas covered hulls in the Trident yard. The night was noisy with gongs, sirens, much shouting.

Mulcahey watched the cloud of steam rising from the charred ribs of the Urchin.

“I thought these guys weren’t allowed to keep their gas tanks filled while they are in yard storage, Steve.” He turned to Koski.

“Aren’t, Sarge. Ken was about ready to launch his boat, though. He’d been retiming his motor, thought he’d take a chance and test it out on dry land, I suppose. He had ten gallons put in yesterday. Rikky knew that, I guess.”

“You’ll never know for sure, then. He didn’t have an inch of skin left on him that wasn’t crisp as a piece of burnt bacon, when they dragged him out.”

“Eventually, why not now?” Koski murmured.

“Huh?”

“He’d have been burned anyway, sooner or later.”

“I see what you mean. What I do not see is this: how did you figure this Caton’s body was in the water, too, when you told me to have the boys grapple a second time?”

“The washroom. In his joint.”

“Is that supposed to clear it up for me?”

“It was locked, Irish. Joints like that, you have to keep the men’s room open. Rikky’d used it to clean off the blood on his clothes after the murder. Some of the clothes were still in there. He didn’t have time to dispose of ’em, and he didn’t want to be away from the bar too long and start suspicions...”

“Oh! Yuh. Simple! When you state it thus.”

“Well. Of course he gave his hand away when he tried to shut up dizzy Liz. If he’d just let her gabble on, I might not have given him a second s thought.”

“No?” The sergeant turned to gaze at the black hulls of the patrol boats — lightning-bugs, showing fitful lights around the float.

A distant hail went up. Searchlights dipped straight on the surface.

“They will have found Caton, Steve. Another of them post mortems you were talking about.”

“We’re improving, though, Irish.”

“Are we now? With three casket cases on our hands in one night?”

“I think so. Too little help, maybe. But not entirely too late.” Koski stared soberly at the internes standing by the blanketed figure of Marya Caton near the ambulance. “We were in time to save a little something out of the wreckage. Something worth saving, if you ask me.”

Never Come Mourning

Detective Book Magazine, Winter, Sept.-Nov. 1948

It seemed futile to hunt through that steaming jungle of twisted metal and charred wood. A screen of blackish water dripped from the warped girders above. A veil of smoke hung sluggishly over the smoldering wreckage. Searchlights, shooting up from the street, cast grotesque shadows through the gutted hotel.

As he followed the fat python of canvas which coiled up the staircase around the steel bones of the elevator shaft, he appeared to be methodically following another, more obscure, trail through the clutter. His eyes, reddened from too much exposure to acrid fumes, held the bleak bitterness of a boy helpless to prevent the agonies of a pet dog.

He moved, cautiously, focusing the cone of light here on a lump of fused glass, there on the drooping angle of a buckled pipe. The melted metal of electric fixtures held peculiar interest for him.

On the landing between the third and fourth floors, he flattened against wet brick to permit gangway for a helmeted pair clumping streetward with a limp burden. It didn’t seem to disturb them when the head of the sagging figure they were lugging banged against a beam.

The man with the flashlight asked: “Many more up there?”

“Plenty on nine and ten, Marshal.” One of the laddermen recognized him. “Ain’t any hurry about getting ’em out, now, though.”

His partner cursed in corroboration; they clumped on down. Chief Fire Marshal Pedley went up.

He left the stairs, moved slowly down the corridor of the fourth floor. The boards became suddenly springy beneath his feet. He went down on hands and knees, distributing his weight.

It was slow work, crisscrossing the corridors from door to door, creeping over jagged shards of glass, slivers of metal. The drenched woodwork was still blistering. The planking grew spongier underneath him. He kept on, hacking lightly at the inside and outside of each door with his emergency axe. All the chips showed a greater depth of char on the corridor side than on the room side, until he reached room 441.

The blackened fragments from that door showed the roomside burned much more deeply than the exterior. He started in the room. There was a sound like a ripping canvas; the floor sagged, tilted away from him.

He spreadeagled — as he would have on ice too thin to support him — inched on.

His fingers touched fibrous jelly interlaced with coiled wire; what was left of the mattress. Two-thirds of the way across the bed, the drenched pulpiness became greasy residue, where the mattress-filling had burned away. This was where the blaze had started...

With infinite caution, he worked his way around the room. The front legs of the bureau had burned first, tipping the glass top and what had been on it, forward onto the floor. Woman’s things. Hairpins. A long nail file. The fused back of what had been a silver hairbrush. A compact.

The beam of his flashlight glinted on a thin, round neck of glass. The remnants of a liquor bottle. Beside it, flat pieces. An ash-tray that had cracked in two, folded over on itself as if made of cardboard. Between the two segments was the sopping stub of a cigarette — unburnt — the paper-stained tobacco yellow. He fished it out of its place of protection with a pair of tweezers as if he were extracting the fangs of a cobra.

Below in the street, gongs clanged as pumpers and combinations rolled back to their stations. Pedley remained for long minutes in room 441, wriggling across the insecure floor, putting shoe-eyelets into envelopes, scooping up ashes with a spatula, scowling...

By the time he had descended to the lobby, only the big quad and the hook-and-ladders remained in the street; their long fingers pointed accusingly up at glassless windows. Hosemen were uncoupling. Police were forcing the fire lines back toward the avenue. The bloodshot eyes of ambulances glared at shiney black rubber and crisp white jackets moving among the rows of tarpaulin-covers stretched along the curbs...

Inside the lobby, firemen, policemen and a few individuals in civilian clothes milled about wearily. One of the latter, a blocky man with a raw hamburg complexion, signaled to the Marshal across the wreckage of the room clerk’s desk:

“Those babies’re raising hell, Ben. They want out of here, bad. That manager’s ready to blow his fuse. Says he’s going straight to the Commish...”

“Tell him to go to hell. This fire was set. He’s partly responsible. Before we get through with him, he’ll wish he was lying out there on the sidewalk with the others.” Pedley’s voice was a gritty file on rough metal. “I’ll take ’em in the manager’s office. One at a time. That floor patrol, first.”

The Deputy Marshal pushed a heavyset, white-haired man into the manager’s office. The man’s puffy face was shiny with sweat; his eyes dull with shock. The absence of his left eyebrow and part of his hair on the left side gave him a lopsided appearance. The port sleeve of his light blue uniform had been slashed off at the elbow; his wrist and hand were encased in a bandage.

“Doc says this gent has to hustle to Polyclinic for treatment,” the deputy explained. “He hung out one them seventh floor windows twenty minutes before they got the big ladder up to him. That’s a second-degree burn on his duke. He got a bellyful of fumes, too.”

“Don’t fret about him, Ed.” Pedley wasn’t impressed. “Plenty of others aren’t getting to the hospital, either.”

“Yeah. Name’s Lester Harris. Here four years. Okay record.” The deputy went out, closed the door behind him.

“You phoned the alarm, Harris?”

The patrolman nodded glumly. “I’m up on the ninth, see? I smell this smoke. So I beat it for the hand extinguisher down the end of the hall. When I get down there I see smoke’s comin’ from the stair door. Comin’ up from eight. So I run down there an’—”

“What time was this?” Pedley cut in.

“Only a couple minutes before I phone in. Don’t know exactly. I just punch my clock on nine when I get that whiff of smoke. When I get down to eight I still can’t tell where it’s coming from. I figure it ain’t safe to delay any longer. So I push in 802 — that’s a vacant they’re repapering — and grab the phone.”

“Been making your regular tour up to that time?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where’d you start?”

“From the mezz.”

“When?”

“Midnight. Maybe a little after. Clock’ll show.”

“The alarm hit the Telegraph Bureau at 1:07. How long’s it take you to cover a floor?”

“Suppose to be around five minutes. They allow an hour for me to cover ten floors.”

“Why’d it take you sixty-seven minutes to inspect eight, then?”

“Crysake!” Harris coughed. “I don’t generally gallop up them stairs. An’ I took out for a personal. On six, that was.”

“Didn’t notice anything out of the way on any of the lower floors when you came through?”

The floor patrol’s glance flickered for a split second.

“No sir.”

“Know the party in 441?”

Harris repeated the number with a rising inflection.

Pedley consulted a card. “Register says it was occupied by a Mrs. Doris Munson, Danbury, Connecticut.”

“She’s a permanent.” Harris fumbled at his bandage, showed his teeth in a grimace. “Works here. On the switchboard. Day side.”

“Know anything about her?”

“A blonde. A nifty. Thirty or so.” He rubbed his bald eyebrow. “Why? What’s she got to do with it?”

“Fire started in her room.”

The floor patrol’s eyes grew round. “Holy cats!”

“Smoking in bed, looked like.” Pedley’s face told nothing. “Was she much of a boozer?”

“Not that I hear of. But—” Harris didn’t finish whatever it was he had been going to say.

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

The Marshal took two quick steps, wound his fingers in the cloth of Harris’s uniform coat at the second button, jerked the shorter man up on tiptoe. “This blaze put twenty people in the morgue! Twice that many in the hospital!” He put his face close to the other’s, growling: “If you know one damn thing about how it started, spit it out! Fast! Or you’ll have a long time to wish you had!!”

“I don’t know,” Harris looked as if he was about to sneeze, “if I do know anything...”

“Let me decide.” Pedley released him.

“This Mrs. Munson. She’s kind of... uh... friendly... with Check Wayner...”

“Who’s Wayner?”

“Bell captain. Night side.”

“Keep pouring.”

“He goes up to her room once in a while. He ain’t suppose to; it’s strictly against house rules. I don’t know if anybody else knows it. But I seen him coming out of 441 a couple times when he didn’t know I was around. He was in there tonight.”

“You see him go in?”

“No, sir. I hear him. When I’m comin’ along the corridor on four. They’re havin’ some kind of argument.”

Pedley eyed him stonily. “So you listened at the door.”

“I’m suppose to see nobody roams around in rooms where they don’t belong,” the patrolman protested. “Mrs. Munson was a single.”

“What were they battling about?”

“You couldn’t prove it by me. I only horn in on it a minute. I figure it’s one of them things and none of my business. Except I wonder how Check gets away with bein’ off his desk so long.”

“What were they talking about?!” Pedley stepped in close again.

Harris retreated a step. “Near’s I can make out from the little I hear,” he muttered defensively, “Check is bawlin’ her out for fidoodling around with some other joe. An’ she’s tellin’ him to peddle his papers, she’ll do like she pleases.”

“That all?”

“Well, Check gets pretty sore, from the way he sounds. I figure he’s about due to come bustin’ out of the room. So I mosey along. Last thing I hear him say is — “I’d rather see you dead than living this way, Doris!”

Pedley waved brusquely at the short, dapper youth in the snappy bellman’s uniform.

“Sit down, Wayner.”

Check Wayner didn’t make any move toward the straight-backed chair beside the manager’s desk. “You got no right to hold me.”

“Get the idea out of your mind, fella. I’ve the right to hold you, arrest you, try you and convict you — right here and now. At the scene of a fire I’m cop, prosecutor, judge and jury, all in one. You better take my word for it but it won’t make a damn bit of difference whether you do or not. What you know about this blaze?”

“Nothing.”

“Still alarm came in at one-seven ayem. Fire had a ten, maybe a fifteen minute start by then. Where were you, around ten minutes to one?”

“Taking a bucket of ice up to somebody, chances are.”

“Your call sheet doesn’t show any entries after 12:25.”

“Then I was in the lobby.”

“Weren’t up on the fourth?”

“No.” Wayner’s eyes became wary.

“Not in 441, maybe?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you were up in that room?”

“Don’t the call sheet tell you that, too?” the bell captain inquired sullenly.

“You were up in Mrs. Munson’s room about quarter past twelve. How long’d you stay?”

“I don’t remember...”

Pedley looked unhappy. He got up from the chair behind the desk, shucked his coat. “I’ll lay it on the line, kid. This hotel was torched. The fire started in Mrs. Munson’s room. It was set so it would look as if she’d been smoking in bed and fell asleep...” He rolled up his sleeves; Wayner watched him.

“A lot of people got killed,” the Marshal went on. “A lot more got hurt, some of ’em so bad they’ll die. Most of ’em were guests in this hotel but some of them were firemen. Friends of mine.” He stared down at his big hands, flexing the fingers slowly. “I’m going to find out who touched off this blaze. I don’t know whether it was you, or not. But you know something. I’m going to get it out of you, one way or another. Up to you, how I do it...”

Wayner spoke through set teeth. “You think I’d start a fire that put my sister in the hospital?”

“Mrs. Munson your sister?”

“Yes. I got her the job on the switchboard here.”

“What were you quarreling about, tonight?”

“We weren’t.”

“Les Harris says he heard you when he came past 441 on his twelve o’clock tour.”

The bell captain snarled: “He’s a liar.”

“He says he heard you tell Mrs. Munson you’d rather see her dead than living the way she was. What was that all about?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Pedley turned, tapped the telephone. “The doctors just told me she wouldn’t be answering any questions, Wayner.”

“She’s dead?” He breathed it, as if it hurt him to speak.

“Not yet. She’s going to die.”

The youth whirled for the door. Pedley caught him:

“If you want to see her before she goes, you better loosen up, kid. I can’t let you go until you do.”

Wayner’s lips trembled, he stared blankly at the carpet, his head rocking from side to side in misery. “All right. She was fooling around with the manager here and—”

“Broodman?”

“Arnie Broodman, yuh. Doris—” tears began to stream down his face — “she was in love with the crumb. He tells her he’s going to marry her — all the time he’s got a wife an’ a couple of kids out on Long Island. He keeps sayin’ he’s going to get a divorce so he can marry Doris but I know better. He don’t intend to do nothing of the kind. I been trying to get her to break it up, quit her job, move out of the hotel. She tells me to keep out of it, she’s old enough to know her own mind. Maybe she is, but she don’t know Arnie’s... and now—” he closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling.

“Was your sister drinking heavily tonight?” Pedley didn’t ease the pressure.

“Some. Arnie’d been up to see her around eleven an’ he brought her up a fifth of brandy. To celebrate the good news, he says. He was feeding her a lot of yatadada about the hotel closing down for six months — repairs or something — an’ him going down to Miami to run another place so that’s when he’ll split up from Mrs. Broodman an’ marry Doris. I tell her she’s feeble-minded if she falls for an old line like that but she laughs me off. Finally I ask her how long she’s going to stand for the runaround an’ she says if Arnie doesn’t file suit or whatever as soon as the hotel closes here an’ he goes to Florida, then she’ll know he isn’t on the level and she’ll raise plenty of hell with him.” He opened his eyes, staring fiercely at Pedley. “Y’know what I think? I think she told Arnie that, too — an’ he hadn’t any idea of bustin’ up his home, so he was afraid of what Doris might do and he beat her to it, tonight. That’s what I think!”

“You didn’t see him go up to the fourth again — after you left?”

“I didn’t see the crumb at all!”

“Not after the alarm went in?”

“No. Soon’s I heard those sirens I grab one of the service elevators and run it up to take people off the eighth — that’s where Harris says the fire is...”

“You don’t know where Broodman was, from the time you left your sister’s room until the apparatus began to come in?”

“No.” Wayner’s mouth hardened. “But I know where he’ll be when I get my mitts on him! I’m going to—”

“—go out in the lobby and sit down and keep your mouth shut. Understand me?”

“You said you’d let me go to see my sister.”

“I’ll tell you when you can go.” Pedley rolled down his sleeves, put on his coat, opened the door.

“Ed...?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Keep an eye on this kid. Send Broodman in.”

Arnold Broodman was a tall, gaunt, sandy-haired individual with deep frown-creases slashing the bridge of his nose; he had a golf-course tan and a slightly disheveled look about him, as if he had dressed hurriedly.

Pedley didn’t ask him to sit down. “A week ago,” the Marshal read from a tissue carbon, “the Bureau of Fire Prevention wrote you as follows:

ARNOLD J. BROODMAN

RESIDENT MANAGER, HOTEL GROLIER—

You were directed by the Fire Commissioner on... March 7, 1947... to:

1. Equip with steel doors all exits from all floors

2. Install acceptable fire breaks on floors 2 to 10, inclusive

3. Satisfactorily enclose two elevator shafts

4. Erect an additional fire escape on the Forty-fifth Street side of the building

5. Provide for an automatic smoke alarm system

within... 60 days... at the premises occupied by... the Grolier Operating Corporation (leased) by you, said premises being considered dangerous to life and property and in its present condition a violation of law.

Having failed to cause the ordered reequipping to be done within the... 60 day... period, I am required by law to notify you that the said premises are hereby ordered to be... vacated.

“That notice was signed by John M. Bresnahan, Deputy Fire Commissioner, City of New York.”

Broodman laced and unlaced his fingers wretchedly but said nothing.

“Three days after you received that notice, your lawyers obtained a two-week stay of ejection from Judge Potter. In your application for this deferral, you promised to cease operating this building as a hotel within ten days; you pleaded inability to get labor and materials with which to make the required alterations to date.”

The manager sweat it out in silence.

“A couple of days ago you attempted to obtain an additional policy of fire insurance to the tune of forty thousand dollars—”

“To cover the improvements on the property,” the hotel man interrupted.

“The companies turned you down. After checking with us. Anyhow, failing to get your additional coverage, today you began to give your employees their week’s notice. And tonight you have a fire.”

“Nobody can feel worse about this than I do.” Broodman combed his hair nervously with his fingers.

“A hell of a lot of people feel a hell of a lot worse!”

“The corporation won’t attempt to deny its responsibility.”

“You won’t, either.”

“You’re not suggesting—?”

“I’m making a flat statement, Broodman. This blaze was incendiary. You... and your other stockholders... are the only persons who could profit from it.”

The manager’s tan became a muddy gray. “As far as profit is concerned, every cent I have was in this hotel. The insurance won’t cover sixty percent of the loss. I’m wiped out... even if the corporation wasn’t liable for damage suits. Don’t talk to me about profiting from a ghastly business like arson. I’ll sue you for defamation of...”

“After I get through with you, you won’t have any character that could be defamed, mister. The fire started in Mrs. Munson’s room. You were up in her room tonight. She was liquored up. You supplied the liquor. You were in a jam with her. Now she’s going to die; you think you’re out of that jam. Well, you’re in another and it’s a lot worse. They electrocute people for first degree arson in this state, in case you didn’t know.”

Broodman scowled. “You sure the fire started in Doris’ room?”

“I can make it stand up in court.”

The manager sat down suddenly in the straight-backed chair, buried his face in his hands. After a minute he groaned:

“I guess you’re right, saying I’m responsible. But not for arson. Only because of Doris.”

“Trying to say the girl deliberately burned herself.”

“That’s what she would do, Marshal — what she must have done. She threatened as much, though she didn’t say anything about... setting a fire.”

“When was this?”

“Tonight. Half-past eleven or so. We’d been threshing the thing out — apparently you know about it...?”

“Only what I got out of Harris and Wayner.”

“Well... I told her I had to shut the place up... was going south to run a hotel there. It would take a while for me to get a divorce and so on. She wanted to know how she was going to live in the meantime. Couldn’t she go with me and so on. Finally I got sore. Told her if she wasn’t satisfied to play it my way, we’d call the whole thing off.”

“And then...?”

“She bawled and got hysterical, the whole damn rigamarole women put on. But I’d had enough of it by then — I suppose worrying about the shutdown made me kind of jumpy — and I told her we were all washed up. Finally she said she’d kill herself; she’d make me sorry for treating her that way if it was the last thing she ever did.” Broodman chewed at his lower lip. “That’s the kind of break I get — for her to be so badly burned she can’t tell you the truth of it. You could ask her...”

“I will,” Pedley said. “She might come to and talk a little before she signs off.”

Broodman shivered.

There were more reporters than firemen in the lobby when the Marshal left the office; more photographers than internes, in the street. The crowd had thinned; the fire lines were permitting traffic on the opposite sidewalk. Pedley spoke to a haggard man in a white helmet:

“How about Maxie?”

“Died on the way over, Ben.” The Battalion Chief spat. “Rest his soul. He was a good man.”

“He was.” Pedley nodded, walked to the red sedan. Maxie Rhine had been in the old Engine Eleven Company with him when they were probationers. They had rolled to many a bad blaze together; once Maxie had waded through the acid-loaded water of a drug warehouse cellar to drag Pedley out from under the I-beam that had pinned him. Now Maxie had taken a gust of flame from a back draft up on the tenth floor of this firetrap and they’d be sounding the four 5’s for him in the morning. And there were three other wearers of the Maltese Cross who’d never answer the gong again, though Pedley hadn’t known them as well as he had Maxie. There’d be those who’d miss every one of them...

At the hospital the doctor confirmed what Pedley had learned on the phone. Doris Munson had been seriously burned about the breast and throat; was suffering from shock and smoke inhalation; barring pneumonia setting in, she’d recover. The matron said it was all right for the Marshal to talk to her, long’s he didn’t excite her. He said he’d try not to.

The girl on the cot in Ward C couldn’t have been identified as a blonde; there wasn’t enough of her hair left. She looked up at Pedley out of bandages swathing her like a mummy.

“First thing I remember,” she mumbled, “was someone at the window yelling ‘Water!’ ”

“Had you been smoking in bed?”

A negative shake of the head.

“Were you feeling pretty good — you know — hit the cork quite a bit — before you turned in?”

Another negative. “I only had three little drinks,” she added with an effort. “I was feeling terrible. I’d just found out something that would have sobered me, if I’d drunk a gallon.”

He told her what Broodman had said. “Is that true?”

Doris nodded, her eyes widening with horror. “Oh! Arnie thinks I... started the fire!”

“You could have.”

She struggled to sit up. He put a hand on her forehead, forced her back on the pillow.

“Maybe I did!” she whispered. “If I did, I hope I don’t live. I couldn’t bear to know I’d... caused all that!”

“Take a sleeping pill to get you to sleep?” He knew there must have been something to make her doubt her own actions.

“I took... six.”

“Yeah.” Not enough to kill her. Enough to scare Broodman if he’d learned about it. “You wash your face before you went to bed?”

“What?”

“Wash your face? Or use cleansing cream?”

“No.” she was puzzled. “Why...?”

The nurse came in. “Phone for you, Marshal.”

He took it out in the corridor.

“Ed, Skipper. I been keeping an eye on Wayner, like you suggested.”

“So...”

“He didn’t head for the hospital at all.”

“Know he didn’t. Where is he?”

“Seven fifty West Twenty-eighth. Rooming house. No savvy if he lives here or not. Name isn’t on the mail box. That don’t necessarily mean anything at a fleabag like this.”

“Where you calling from?”

“Candy store. Across the street.”

“Stay there till I get down.”

He didn’t bother to go back to the ward. The red sedan made it in four minutes, with the blinkers but without the siren.

Shaner stopped devouring a chocolate bar long enough to say: “Must be in one of the back rooms, Ben. None of the fronts have lighted up since he went in.”

“He could be rooming with somebody,” Pedley said.

“Or he could be calling on somebody. Better let me go in with you.”

“You go back, sit on Broodman’s neck. I want him handy when the grand jury meets, in the morning.” Pedley went across the street, into a hall that smelled of cabbage and pork and carbolic. In the front of a black tin mailbox was a cardboard with a dozen names printed on it; a couple of them had been crossed out. Harry Lester, C-6, hadn’t been crossed out; the Marshal thought it was close enough to Les Harris to be worth casing.

He went up a staircase, where the paint flaked off the walls like skin off sunburned shoulders; he made no particular effort to be silent about it.

On the third floor, lights showed under two of the doors — none under 6. He walked on up to the top floor, opened the door of the common bathroom, closed it. Then he took off his shoes, went down one flight in his stocking feet.

He listened at 6-C long enough to make sure somebody was opening a window inside, quietly, in the dark. Pedley set his shoes down carefully, took out his flashlight. He tried the knob, turned it noiselessly. The door wasn’t locked.

He pushed it open suddenly — swung his flashlight in an arc covering as large a segment of the room as possible.

A washstand. A bed, rumpled up. The toe of a shoe just behind and beyond the open edge of the door. Pedley reached around the jamb for the switch. The movement took his head and shoulders into the doorway for an instant.

Long enough for a gun butt to smash down across the crease of his hat...

The room was still dark, but dull red flashes pulsated before the Marshal’s eyes. It was some seconds before he realized they came from a neon sign high on a building on the next block. The ruddy reflection from a polished shoe-tip was the thing that made him recognize it.

He reached out, touched the shoe. There was a foot in it; the foot didn’t move when he felt it. Pedley pulled himself up by the bedpost, found the light switch, snapped it.

The foot in the shoe belonged to Les Harris, who lay on his back with a small scarlet worm wriggling down from a dark spot in his right temple. There was a purplish lump an inch above his right eye. The body was still warm. An automatic lay on the grass matting of the floor about eight inches away from the dead man’s head.

The Marshal looked at his watch. 4:52. He hadn’t been out more than ten minutes or so.

He felt in the pockets of the floor patrol’s uniform. Nothing but a fistful of silver coins and a couple of keys. No bills of any denomination. But on the chair beside the bed was a strange collection.

Six wristwatches; two men’s, the others the tiny diamond doodads women go for. Four rings; one wedding, two solitaires, a pinky set with what looked like real rubies. A black opal brooch. A gold comb. A platinum cigarette case with the initials K. T. M.

Pedley stripped a pillow-slip off the bed, tilted the chair so the jewelry slid gently into the white sack. He lifted the gun by sticking a pencil in the muzzle, deposited it on the loose end of the pillow-slip, wrapped the surplus fabric around the weapon.

He retrieved his shoes, put them on. When he left 6-C, he took the key from the inside of the door, locked the room.

“Every arsonist has a twisted mind.” The Marshal stared coldly across the manager’s desk at Broodman. “I don’t mean pyros, either; they’re psycho cases, anyhow. But every firebug is so snarled up in his mental processes that he figures a fire has to be set by some tricky method... and it always backfires on him.” He opened a flat metal case, like a child’s paint box. “This one used a cigarette, hoping it would look as if Mrs. Munson had fallen asleep smoking and set the bed on fire. But he forgot the lipstick.”

Broodman leaned forward to peer at the brown-stained stub. “I don’t see—”

“There isn’t any. Would have been if Mrs. Munson had been smoking it — no matter how water-soaked it had gotten. She used lipstick, of course; she hadn’t wiped it off.”

The hotel man sighed. “She didn’t start it, then.”

“No. She was hurt enough to do it, maybe. But her mind didn’t run to endangering other people’s lives — only her own. She took an overdose of luminol. Not enough to kill her. But enough to keep her from waking up until the blaze had a better start than the firebug ever intended it should have.”

“Who—?”

“He opened the door with a master key, after Mrs. Munson had gone to sleep — say twenty minutes to one. After he made sure she wasn’t awake — he probably assumed she was drunk — he tiptoed in, took the lighted cigarette out of his mouth, laid it on the edge of the ash-tray that was on her bed-table, put the ash-tray and cigarette on the bed so the burning stub would fall off and ignite the mattress. He thought Mrs. Munson would wake up after the mattress started to smolder and filled the room with smoke. She didn’t; the sleeping pills prevented her from waking up until the flames from the burning blankets began to sear her.”

“What was the idea.... if he didn’t mean to burn down the building?”

“To cause a panic. Get people running around the corridors in their nightgowns and pajamas, half scared to death. With the corridors filled with smoke, the apparatus rolling in with bells clanging and everybody screaming “Fire!!” — it was easy for the bug to go through the guests’ rooms on the pretext of routing them out and starting them for the elevators and the stairs.”

“Why!”

Pedley slid the contents of the pillowcase out on the desktop. “So he could loot their rooms; their clothing. Most people don’t lock up their money or jewels when they go to bed. They leave their money in their purses and wallets — their rings and watches on the bureau. With a hotel employee yelling at them to get out of their rooms in a hurry — with those sirens and the smoke stampeding them — not many would take time to go for their valuables before they rushed out into the hall.”

“Wayner!”

“There’s another screwy thing about firebugs,” the Marshal shook his head. “They always have an alibi. In twenty years I haven’t run across one who hasn’t claimed he was somewhere else when the fire was set — who didn’t try to prove he couldn’t possibly have been around when the fuse was lit. Now your bell-captain didn’t have any alibi at all — any more than you did.”

“That damned Harris!”

“Sure. He kept impressing me that his patrol clock would show by the times he punched it, on each floor, that he couldn’t have been down on the fourth at the time the place was torched.”

“But why—?”

“Your fault, partly. You gave him his notice today. He didn’t know where to get another job, probably. By the room he was living in, I’d say he didn’t have much money saved up. He saw a way to get even with you for firing him and to get his hands on a lot of valuables, at the same time. Only the thing got out of hand; he didn’t know it until it was so late he got cut off, up on the eighth — and nearly lost his own life before the boys brought him down.”

“They should have left him up there,” Broodman said grimly. “Did you get him?”

“Somebody did.” Pedley stirred the heap of jewelry with his finger. “He’s dead. It was supposed to look like suicide. He was shot with his own gun. But he’d been slugged before he was lit up.”

“Ah...!” Broodman waited.

“One of my deputies trailed Wayner over to Harris’s rooming house, called me and I went down there. When I went in the room, somebody was hiding there. I didn’t see him; he crowned me with a gun-butt and got away while I was out cold. My deputy trailed your bell-captain back here to the hotel, collared him and found a big roll of bills on him. Nearly a thousand bucks. Wayner’d slugged Harris, taken the money which couldn’t be traced and left the jewelry because it would be risky to pawn it.”

“Check Wayner shot Harris?”

“No. You did that.”

The manager didn’t deny it. He appeared to be too dazed by the accusation to attempt an answer.

Pedley felt of the bump on the top of his skull. “Wayner wasn’t the person who crowned me. He isn’t tall enough to swing a gun down on the crease of my hat. Harris wasn’t, either. But you are. And you sneaked out of the lobby right after I left for the hospital.”

“For coffee,” Broodman admitted. “I had to have some coffee. I was dead on my feet.”

“Harris was, anyway. You doped it out just the way Wayner had. Only your bell-captain wanted the money he guessed Harris had stolen; you wanted to get even with Harris for ruining you. If you hadn’t been afraid the whole business about your entanglement with Mrs. Munson would come out, if Harris had been forced to defend himself in court — you might have had him arrested and tried for arson. But you didn’t want your own dirty linen hung up for everyone to see — so you took his punishment into your own hands...

“You followed Wayner to the boardinghouse, waited in the hall until the bell-captain had slugged Harris and taken over the dough. When he came out, you went in. You were still in there when I arrived. Wayner was down in the hall somewhere — anyhow, he left the rooming house before you did. My man trailed him, didn’t see you!” The Marshal walked around the desk.

“I’m not booking you for murder,” the Marshal said harshly. “I’m taking you in for criminal negligence in connection with the deaths in this fire. You’ll have the better part of the next ten years to wish you’d spent the dough to make those changes the Commissioner ordered. At that,” he gripped the manager’s arm roughly, “it won’t be as long as a lot of other people will have, to regret what happened tonight. Come on...”

Fit to Kill

Popular Detective, March 1949

Don Rixey peeled cellophane from a Choc-a-Bloc Nibble, gnawed the confection moodily. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it one bit.”

Annalou Kenyon leaned dimpled elbows on the lunch counter, her pert face tilted up provocatively. “Whyn’t you try a Baby Ruth, then? Ask me. I know what you like!”

“Yeah,” He admired her taffy-bright hair, her smoky-gray eyes. “You know what I mean, too.” He jabbed an accusing finger at the newspaper lying beside the salt and pepper rack.

She read the headline aloud: “Icy Eyes Strikes Again! Third Gas Station Stickup in Week Spurs Citywide Manhunt.” Annalou pouted prettily. “If it’s me you’re worrying about — don’t!”

“What else?” Don licked chocolate off his thumb. “You! Out here in this dump, all alone, at this time of night!”

“It’s not either a dump. It’s a modern snack bar. And I’m not all alone.”

“Most the time you are.” His amiable square face was unhappy.

“Bill’s here. Or anyway, he’s right near.” She glanced across the drive-in at the row of red-enamel gas pumps.

“Bill’s a nice old gook,” Don said. “Very fatherly. About as much protection as one of those woolly poodles they sell in toy stores. If this gent the papers call Icy Eyes showed up around here—”

“It wouldn’t bother me!” Annalou asserted flatly. “I know better’n to argue with an automatic. I’d just say, ‘Mister, help yourself.’ It’s not my cash register. He can take the works, for all of me. Don’t you fret!”

“No-o-o!” Don scowled. “I’ll never give it a second thought. You. Way out here on the lone prairee, practically, fixin’ to swap wise cracks with a gunman who’s scared three gas-station attendants so bad they can’t even remember what he looked like!”

“If you don’t like my working out here nights,” Annalou drifted down the counter, began to balance lemon-lime bottles on top of a Pepsi-Cola pyramid, “whyn’t you drag me before a parson, then set me up in a snug little apartment in town?”

He reached across the counter, caught her, squealing. “Right this minute! Now! Tonight!”

Annalou disentangled herself, demurely, pulling down her uniform apron over her trimly rounded figure. “Let’s not go over that again! The future Mrs. Rixey does not intend to start housekeeping on any shoestring.”

“I’ve got nearly four hundred stashed away.”

She scoffed. “You haven’t been pricing refrigerators or stoves or dishes lately. With what we could buy for four hundred,” she waved disparagingly at the meager equipment of the Outside Inn, “we might as well live here.”

“After what’s happened around gas stations the last week,” Don growled, “I don’t want you within a block of one. But we don’t need all that stuff they advertise in the magazines, just to get married. Look at gypsies. They get along with very little and everybody claims they’re the happiest people in the world.”

Annalou punched the cash register violently, and directed his attention to the No Sale card which popped up. She came around the counter with tightly compressed lips. “It just so happens, Mister Rixey, that I don’t care to sleep like any gypsy on a mangy blanket with some smelly old straw for a pillow. I want a nice box spring mattress and a thick, fluffy comforter.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “But the way things are going with Regal Radio Repairs, it’s going to take another year before I can hold out enough from the payback on that GI loan to feather our cozy little nest. Meantime, the idea of your bein’ all alone way out here, nights, with that holdup artist runnin’ wild, is enough to drive me to drink.”

She appeared to deliberate. “Given my choice I believe I’d rather spend my nights with you than with any stickup man. So the sooner you roll your half-ton hoop back to the shop and start operating on the insides of a superhet, the sooner I’ll be able to. ’By now, darling. Don’t run through any red lights...”

A few minutes later a short, stocky man shuffled out of the attendant’s shack which was the Outside Inn’s only neighbor. He was moon-faced and nearly bald, and he wore a yellow polo shirt and faded khaki pants.

“Wasn’t that the demon set-wrecker, Annalou?”

“You’re speaking of the man I love, Bill. Yep.”

“Doesn’t he ever buy any gas for that truck of his?”

“Not at gas stations,” Annalou grinned. “Don has a hate on gas stations. They attract too many holdup men.” She pointed to the stickup story.

Bill read it gravely. “Icy Eyes, my foot! That’s the trouble with these creeps. They pull a gun on some guy with bad nerves, get away with a few bucks, and the papers start buildin’ ’em up like they was Jesse James the Second.” He snorted disgustedly, flipped the page. “So pretty soon they think they’ve got to live up to their rep and then they kill somebody.”

“Hey!” Annalou peered over his shoulder. “You any good at noses?”

Bill stared owlishly at her. “I got the normal amount of same. Maybe a little less’n average. What you mean, Annalou?”

“There!” Annalou indicated a half-page advertisement of a furniture store, a contest puzzle picture in which a pair of brooding masculine eyes surmounted an incongruously thin and lugubrious nose placed above an even more ridiculous button of chubby dimpled chin. The advertisement proclaimed:

YOUR FORTUNE IN THE STARS!

Win five hundred dollars worth of luxurious home furnishings. Test your knowledge of motion picture personalities by entering today.

“Five hundred smackers,” breathed Annalou. “What Don and I couldn’t do, if we had that!”

“Puh-lease,” Bill murmured. “Spare me the details!”

“I mean we just have to put ’em together.” She colored rosily. “The features they’ve jumbled up here, I mean. I ought to be pretty good at this. I’m terrible on names, but I hardly ever forget a face.”

Bill considered. “That might be Lou Costello’s chin. The comedian, you know.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “And those are Charles Boyer’s eyes, I’ll bet.” She paused, “But whose nose?”

“Ain’t Durante’s. Not big enough.”

“Humphrey Bogart? No.” She shook her head.

Bill clucked sympathetically. “I wouldn’t know. To me, one nose is as good as another, long’s it stays out of my business.”

She glanced up at the sound of crunching gravel. “Excuse me for mentioning it, then. But you got a customer.”

A maroon sedan rolled smoothly onto the drive-in. It had a doctor’s white cross beside the license plate. Bill hurried over to the ethyl pump.

A tall man in fawn gabardine with snap-brim to match, got out of the sedan, pointed to the windshield, asked Bill a question, strolled languidly toward the attendant’s shack. A tall, slim, leggy girl climbed out, too. She looked up at the sign:

Fill Your Insides At The Outside Inn

“What you want, Eddie?” she called.

“Coffee,” he answered, over his shoulder. “Black.”

Annalou put away the puzzle sheet, slid two cups onto saucers.

The tall girl was willowy and graceful. Like those models at the big stores in town, Annalou thought. The dress she was wearing helped the illusion along. It was something soft and fuzzy in a pink-and-gray mixture, cut way down to there in front. It had that New Look everybody was talking about. On her, Annalou decided, it wasn’t bad.

“Howya, honey-chile.” The newcomer’s voice was throaty velvet. “Hot java on tap?”

“Best in town.” Annalou gazed admiringly at the dress. Must be an exclusive. Pipe that rose-rhinestone embroidery. “Something with it?”

“Uh-uh. Make it two, though.” The girl sat sidewise on her stool, crossed her nylons. “Things kinda slow?”

Annalou set out cream and sugar. “Always quiet this time of—”

A flat report came then. It sounded like a backfire. Annalou glanced quickly at the sedan’s exhaust. The motor wasn’t running. Bill had filled the tank, gone back to the shack.

The tall girl spilled off the stool, scurried toward the car. The driver of the sedan walked swiftly out of the shack. He got about ten paces from the door when Bill stumbled out, all doubled up, holding both hands pressed tight over his abdomen.

“You — skunk!” He coughed. He leaned against the door frame, fell down, got to his hands and knees, crawled a few feet, sagged to the gravel on his face, and lay still.

The tall girl snatched at her companion’s arm. “Eddie!” she screamed. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

He didn’t break his stride, didn’t answer.

“Eddie!” She tugged at his arm. “You’ve killed him!”

He jerked open the car door, slid in. “Coming?” He kicked the starter, the motor roared.

She scrambled in beside him. The sedan leaped forward before she got the door closed.

Frozen with fear, Annalou reached for a pencil on the cash-register ledge. She scribbled a number on the edge of the puzzle.

Then she grabbed a nickel out of the cash drawer, stumbled with pounding heart across the gravel toward Bill...

Lieutenant Les Wiley waited until the flash-bulb boys were through and the starchy internes had lifted Bill’s body onto a stretcher.

“You say this girl called him Eddie, Miss Kenyon?”

Annalou shivered, moved closer to Don Rixey’s protecting shoulder. “That’s right. Twice, she called him Eddie.”

“You’d recognize him, if you saw him?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. 1 didn’t see him close, Lieutenant. He had his hat pulled down over his eyes.”

The phone in the attendant’s shack rang. One of the plainclothesmen answered. “Hello,” he said, and “Yes,” and “Just a sec.” He came to the door.

“For you, Miss Kenyon. Your mother, 1 guess.”

They must have put it on the radio already then, she guessed. Otherwise, how would they have heard, at home? She hadn’t called anybody but Don.

“This is Annalou.” Her hand shook as she picked up the receiver. There was a spatter of dark red on the floor beside the phone shelf. This was where it had happened!

“One minute, honey-chile.” That throaty, velvety voice!

Annalou could only gasp.

“Listen, kid!” It was the man’s voice, now. Those brittle tones were unmistakable, though she’d only heard him speak one word. The murderer! “I’m givin’ you some friendly advice, babe. You talk all you want to, to those Little Boy Blues. But you’ll sleep better if you kind of forget to remember what 1 look like. You didn’t see me very good. Catch wise?”

“Yes,” Annalou breathed, almost paralyzed. “Yes, I catch.”

“That’s a smart kid,” the man at the other end of the line went on, smoothly. “That’s being sensible. I’d hate to have to do — what I had to do there in the office where you are now — again. Understand?”

Annalou nearly fainted. “Yes,” she managed to say. “Oh, yes, I understand.”

“So just be kind of vague, undecided. That’s right. And you won’t hear from me any more. If you play it that way.”

She didn’t hear him hang up. She didn’t hear anything. The plainclothesman picked her up off the floor. Don slopped a wet handkerchief on her forehead. The lieutenant found a flask in his pocket.

When she recovered enough to talk, she told them.

Lieutenant Wiley studied her narrowly: “So now you’re going to find it hard to remember, huh?”

Don snapped: “Why shouldn’t she! What would you do, if your life had been threatened!”

The lieutenant regarded him morosely. “Let the little lady do the talking and me the thinking. We’ll get along. How about it, Miss Kenyon?”

Annalou looked at Don, but she thought about Bill. Good old amiable Bill, crawling across the gravel there, with a hole as big as your fist in his stomach.

“I don’t know if I can describe the man.” She brushed her taffy-bright hair back off her forehead, wearily. “But I might be able to pick his picture out if you have a photo of him in the Rogues’ Gallery.” She bit her lip. “I hardly ever forget a face.”

A few hours later the lieutenant came into the file room with a typed report and an air of resignation.

“A lot of quick thinkin’ — for nothing. That license number you spotted, Miss Kenyon—”

Don exclaimed eagerly: “They picked up the sedan, huh?”

Wiley raised his eyebrows sardonically. “You in again? How’d it be if you pretended you’re just an innocent bystander, hah? Leave me and the little lady go into this kind of private like, hah?”

Don retorted defensively: “I just thought if they got the car—”

“They did. Half an hour ago. Parked. Right here on State Street. It was a stolen heap. We knew that, anyway. The doctor who owns it had reported its loss earlier tonight.” Wiley laid the report on his battered flat-top desk. “There weren’t any prints on the steering wheel or door handles. All wiped off, of course. So we’re back where we started.”

Annalou snapped a fingernail briskly against a glossy black and white print. “Not quite, Lieutenant.”

Don flung an arm around her shoulders, bent to examine the photo. “That him?!”

“Yep.”

Wiley reached for the picture. He had to reach around Don. “Pardon me, Dick Tracy. You positive this is the man, Miss Kenyon?”

“Uh-huh.” Annalou shuddered a little. “If this is the same fellow who stuck up those other stations,” Wiley said, “and we’re pretty sure he is, we’d better get busy. All those other attendants could remember about him was that he had eyes like a couple ice-cubes.”

“Maybe they also had phone calls which might have affected their memories no little,” Annalou suggested.

“Could be. Still and all, you wanna be absolutely certain,” counseled the officer. “Remember you didn’t get a gander at this guy within fifty or seventy-five feet. He had his hat on, then, too.”

“He could have been wearing an Eskimo parka,” Annalou said bitterly. “I’d know that pug nose and cleft chin anywhere.”

Wiley turned the photo over, studied the data on the back. “I hope you’re right about this.”

“Who is he?” Don asked.

Wiley ignored him. “This lug you identify, Miss Kenyon, is Larry, the Gong. There are readers out for him from Cleveland, Pittsburgh and points east.”

“Larry, the gong?” Annalou’s eyes made inquiry.

“They gave him that handle because he is all the time booting that gong around, Miss Kenyon. Y’understand? He is one of those wacky heroin hounds who never know themselves what they’ll do next.”

Don Rixey stuck his chin out aggressively. “I got a pretty good idea what he’ll try to do. He’ll try to fix Annalou’s wagon so it won’t squeak. That’s what he’ll try to do!”

Annalou’s mother was in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes. Annalou sat on the sofa in the living-room, chain smoking and arguing with Don.

“What do you want me to do? Stay shut in here all the rest of my life?”

Don patted her shoulder. “I don’t want you roaming around where this Larry, the Gong, might get a shot at you. Particularly I don’t intend to have you going out to that ’burg joint where you been working. It’d be the first place he’d look for you.”

“But, Don, if I don’t show up, I’ll lose my job,” she wailed. “I can’t afford to lose my job. Don’t forget how hard we’re trying to save up for our marriage.”

“They won’t fire you for being out a few days, snooks.”

“Who says the police’ll round him up in a few days, anyhow!” Annalou wanted to know.

“Every cop in six states is looking for him. They’ve been broadcasting his description every hour on the hour. That’s just why he’ll go gunning for you. He’ll be sure you’re the only person who could have identified him.”

“I don’t care,” Annalou persisted, “I’m not going to be cooped up here like a hermit, for weeks, when all the time this Larry is probably a thousand miles away, in Miami or Los Angeles or some place. He wouldn’t dare stay around this city. He’d be sure to be caught.”

“Lieutenant Wiley thinks he’s still here.” Don was grim. “He says none of the trainmen or bus conductors or airports or bridge tenders have seen anyone answering that description, heading out of town. It’s a cinch he can’t be traveling very far by car, because every gas station within three hundred miles is on the lookout for him. Chances are he’s holed up right here close by somewhere, waiting until the heat is off, before he tries his getaway.”

Annalou ground out a cigarette she’d just lighted. “And you think I’m going to stay penned in all that time until the heat is off! Well, let me tell you something, darling!”

He beat her to it. “No, I don’t expect you to hole up here, indefinitely. I have an idea. Listen.”

She listened. Right up to the time he grabbed her with one hand, his hat with the other — and kissed her good-by...

The sergeant behind the desk squinted dubiously at the clock on the wall behind him.

“Lootenant Wiley goes off duty at four o’clock. ’Tis now half-past three. What might be the nature of your business with him?”

Don could hardly restrain himself from blurting out: “I know where Larry, the Gong, is hiding!” He did say:

“I’ve got some important information about that gas station bandit, I think.”

“You think.” The sergeant pondered. “Would it be important enough to confide to Detective First Grade O’Hare, you think?”

“If he’s on the case. Sure.” Don was getting sore. Didn’t these cops want any help in finding a murderer?

“Upstairs. First right.” The sergeant dismissed him.

Ten minutes later, Detective James O’Hare tilted his straight-backed chair against the wall and pulled his hat down over his eyes as if the light hurt him.

“I got to get this straight, Mr. Rixey. You never saw this Larry yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor saw this ritzy dame who was with him at the time of the murder?”

“No, but—”

O’Hare held up a traffic cop palm. “So you couldn’t identify either of ’em, if you was to see ’em. But anyhow, you don’t claim you have seen either of ’em at this—” he glanced at scribbling on the desk pad in front of him “—this School Street address?”

“I haven’t even been around there to try to,” Don admitted. “If you’d only let me—”

The hand came up again, in the Stop signal. “Nobody at this department store actually remembers this dame, either — so you draw a blank there, too?”

“That’s right. Only—”

“Still, you’d like for the police to stick their necks out by going around and arresting somebody, just on your guesswork?”

“It’s more than guesswork,” Don protested. “She was the only one—”

O’Hare smiled tolerantly. “This Bureau doesn’t pull stuff like that, sonny. We’re sort of old-fashioned, maybe. But we like the least little bit of evidence, before we go bustin’ in people’s homes. A wee smidgin, so to speak, of identification. We like some slight indication that we won’t get bawled out by the Commissioner, raked over the coals by the newspapers and sued for false arrest by the wrong parties.” He brought his chair down on all fours with a bang. “Not that we don’t appreciate your public-spirited interest.”

“Public-spirited, bosh! I’m interested in Annalou!” Don rose angrily. “Then you won’t even investigate this lead?”

“We’ve too much to do to’ go wild-goosin’ off at every crackbrain suggestion from amateur gumshoes, sonny.” Gently O’Hare tapped the address in front of him. “By the same token, we won’t overlook any bets, however goofy they may seem. We’ll put this in the hopper. In the morning, the boys will make a routine investigation quietly.”

“By morning this Larry may have taken a run out powder!” Don raged.

O’Hare smiled patiently. “If he runs, we’ll get him. If he stays — and if, he’s where you say, we’ll still get him. We may not be Mounties. We don’t always get our man, but our battin’ average isn’t so bad. Thanks for comin’ around. We’ll let you know, if we hear anything.”

Thirty minutes later Don parked his Regal Radio Repair truck on School Street, in front of the address he’d given O’Hare.

“In the morning!” He mimicked the detective’s tone. “We’ll look into it, in the morning. Maybe, if we don’t forget about it, and if we don’t change our minds!”

He took his kit, stalked into the building. There was a row of mail boxes. Apartment 5-B had a black metal plate with gilt lettering: Tolman. That was the name they’d given him at the store.

He avoided the elevator, mounted three flights, and put his ear to the door of 5-B. Someone was singing “Doin’ What Comes Natch’rally.”

Don grinned tightly. The singer was Lou Blue of KYKI. He’d tuned too many superhets to that smouldering contralto not to be certain.

There was no other sound, inside 5-B. He heard the hum of the ascending elevator, ducked for the stair well, and ran on up.

He went all the way to the roof, congratulating himself on his foresight in wearing the coveralls with the garnet lettering on the back: Regal For Quick Repairs.

On the roof he found the right fire escape, went down it cautiously to the rear of 5-B. He kept a coil of wire over his shoulder, carried his kit conspicuously and held a pair of pliers, in case anyone should start asking questions. Nobody in any of the apartments he passed noticed him.

The shades in the rear windows of 5-B were drawn tight. He wouldn’t have been positive it was the right apartment, except that Lou Blue was giving out with “Mama, mama, mama, come dance with me.”

He traced the Tolman aerial to the roof, did things with wires, and crept back down the fire escape. The radio was giving a passable imitation of the Battle of the Bulge.

He took his time about climbing to the roof again, smeared a little grease on his chin before he went downstairs and thumbed the button at the 5-B door.

For maybe half a minute, nothing happened. The radio continued to explode intermittently, but at lower volume. Somebody had tuned it down.

Don’s mouth felt dry. That was funny, he thought. How could his mouth be so dry when he was streaming sweat.

Click! The door opened suddenly. He had heard no warning footsteps. Nothing — except bang, and there she was!

She wasn’t wearing the dress Annalou had described in detail so carefully to him. She wasn’t wearing much of anything except a filmy negligee that was about as concealing as cellophane. But her general appearance checked with the rough description Annalou had provided the police.

“Well?” she asked. There it was. The bland velvet voice.

“Radio repairs,” he blurted out with just the right mixture of embarrassment and wide-eyed admiration. “Sump’n wrong with the aerials. Mixup.”

“Do I care?” The willowy girl sized him up, coolly. “I didn’t call you. No complaint here.”

“Floor above.” Don grinned vaguely. His knees felt like melting butter. His voice sounded as if it belonged to somebody else and he was hearing it on a play-back. “Like to check your connections, if you don’t mind.”

“I do.” She started to close the door.

He anticipated her by a fraction of a second, blundering in as if he’d mistaken her refusal for an invitation. She blocked his way, suspiciously.

Out in the hall, the elevator door clanged. Somebody got out.

“Must be some trouble in your place,” Don said loudly, “it puts all the radios in the building on the blink. You don’t want everybody complainin’, do you?”

The footsteps clattering down the hall paused, momentarily.

“Come on in,” she snapped venomously.

He moved in. She closed the door behind him.

Acid dripped from her tongue. “Don’t get the idea you’re going to put the tap on me for any expense that’s involved.”

“It won’t cost you a cent, ma’am.” Don wondered if she could hear the way his heart was pounding. “I’m gettin’ mine from the other people.”

He followed her into a snauzy living-room. Thick, cream-colored chenille underfoot muffled his tread. Low, underslung furniture met his gaze all around. There were wood cuts in bleached-wood frames on the walls. Soiled clothes were piled on a huge divan. Among them was a man’s shirt, and a suitcase, lid up, stood beside the clothes.

Packing to go away, he thought. Not much man’s stuff around, though. Maybe I’m too late! Maybe he’s gone already.

She didn’t seem to be conscious of the litter, but she watched him with eyes bright with suspicion.

“Here’s the radio. It only went sour a few minutes ago.” She stood over him as he went down on hands and knees, got busy with his kit.

He put on a pair of dummy ear-phones, pretended to listen while he traced the ground connection. He followed it into the bedroom. Was that a shutting-door sound as he crawled in?

He scraped insulation off one of the cords that fed the lamp on the head of the four-poster. Beside him was the closet-door.

“That’s only a reading lamp you’re fooling with,” she challenged, her tone displaying steel under the velvet.

“You got ground interference here somewhere, lady. I’m right close to it, now.”

“No kidding,” she snapped. “I think you’d better skip the static gag, brother. I’ve got to go out. And so have you!”

“Anything you say.” His nerves tautened. He reached for the knob of the closet door to help himself to his feet.

“Keep your hands off that door!”

But Don pulled the door open as he stumbled laboriously erect. He got a fast glimpse of the closet. The pink and gray dress wasn’t there. A row of shoes was: women’s shoes, slippers, mules, sandals, all colors. Plus a stub-toed pair of Scotch grains, with ankles in them!

It was risky stuff, he knew, but he nerved himself to take his time about closing the door, clamping his foot against it as if by accident when he bent over his tool kit.

He came up with a hammer, a fist full of six-penny nails.

He wouldn’t have been shocked at the blast of a pistol, the sudden pain of a bullet crashing into his back, yet he jumped as if he’d touched a hot wire when she raked his face with needle-sharp nails.

He punched her. With the hand that held the nails. She went over backward as if he’d hit her with the hammer.

Before she could scramble to her feet he was smashing away at the first nail, driving it into the jamb and through into the frame.

There was a crashing blow from inside the closet. Wood strained, cracked. The top of the door bulged out an inch or so.

He drove another nail home before she came back. With a carving knife.

“Come near me with that, I’ll split your skull with this hammer!” he said through his teeth.

A dull muffled thump came from the closet. A splinter stuck out ominously from the door, leaving a small, round hole. Don stepped to one side, hammered in another big nail.

She moved in on him, catlike, knife held low for an underthrust.

He drove one more spike in near the top of the door before she was close enough to strike.

He lashed out with the hammer. She dodged, slashed at him viciously.

“Come on in, boys!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “We got both of ’em!”

She whirled. He flung himself on her back, wrested the weapon away from her.

Thump, bump, bump bump!

Four more holes, nicely shaped, low in the closet door. Don gave thanks, as he tapped the girl behind the ear with the hammer, that he hadn’t been standing there when those bullets came through the paneling. She sagged limply. It only took a couple of seconds to twist wire around her wrist and ankles. Then he went back to the door.

The man inside had reloaded, was shooting at the lock. Don lay flat on the floor, reached up, drove another nail. Another, another...

Before he went out in the living room to phone, he pushed the girl over against the door. For luck.

When he ran into the living room, the door to the hall was opening, noiselessly, slowly.

There was an eternity for Don to realize he’d been dumb enough to forget that the killer and his girl might have pals.

“Turn around!” A cold command from the hallway. “Stick your thumbs in your ears! Stay that way!”

Don obeyed. What a sap! Caught like this! His mind flashed to Annalou. She’d been right. It had been a matter for the police. And now... now—

He remembered how Bill had looked, there on the gravel.

Something prodded him between the shoulder blades. A finger.

“Holy cow! If it isn’t Young Sluefoot!”

It was O’Hare. Beside him, Wiley. Don closed his eyes, opened them again. It was no trick of his imagination. The officers were really there.

While they were smashing down the closet door, while a strangling coughing indicated that Larry, the Gong, was choking on his own powder fumes, Wiley bawled Don out:

“Just because you get some cute notion about where this dame—” the Lieutenant nodded at the willowy figure sitting up with her back against the end of the bed and her front covered with a blanket, “— hangs out—”

“I tried to tell you.” Don dabbed at claw marks on his cheek with his handkerchief. “Annalou remembered the dress this girl wore. She knew it must be brand new.”

“Murder wears the New Look,” O’Hare said, caustically.

“That’s right,” Don inspected his face in the mirror. “Annalou thought maybe the store that sold it would have a record of the customer, if there weren’t too many like it. It was unusual. Rhinestone embroidery gimmicks. So I went around and asked. There’d only been a couple sold, like the one this lady—” he considered a moment, changed it. “—this hellcat, wore last night. One was to a friend of the Mayor’s. The other was sold to Miss Tolman, of this address. So I came here.”

“Just like that,” Wiley said. “Singlehanded. You realize you might have scared them both away? That we might never have nabbed either of them?”

“Never thought about it.” Don admitted.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” O’Hare said. “If we hadn’t come along when we did, no telling who’d be spending that reward dough.”

Don turned. “Did you say — ‘reward’?”

“Five hundred fish,” Wiley said. “Gas companies offered it, tonight. Don’t you ever read the papers?”

“I will from now on,” Don promised. “Especially those furniture ads.”

He went out to call Annalou.

Gunmetal Finish

Popular Detective, September 1949

Chapter I

Junk Boat

Lieutenant Steve Koski leaned against the bulkhead of the pilothouse, motionless as a statue. In the faint glow from the binnacle bowl he looked like a statue, too. A rugged, weather-bronzed figure, Koski wore a melton jacket that was buttoned close around his neck. A beat-up felt, soggy with moisture, was pulled low over his ice-blue eyes that searched the pale opaqueness of the fog.

He didn’t move even when Sergeant Mulcahey spoke on a subject that touched a sore spot.

“I see by the mornin’ papers,” the sergeant said, putting the wheel down a spoke, “that Commissioner Andrews has finally succeeded in breakin’ up that ring of dock thieves which has been nibblin’ away at pier cargoes to the tune of sixty, seventy thousan’ a month. Commissioner, in a pig’s pazook! We know who rounded up them rats!”

“Sure.” Koski continued to squint into the curtain of mist blanketing the Brooklyn waterfront. “But what’s the use beefing, Irish? The Harbor Division’s always been the stepchild of the Police Department. It always will be.”

“It gripes my innards, though,” Mulcahey said. He swung the Vigilant’s bow a point toward the nun buoy at the head of Governor’s Island. “We stay out, twenty hours a stretch, sloppin’ around in freezin’ rain. We let them cargo snatchers use us for clay pipes in a shootin’ gallery. An’ then, when they’re in front of them floodlights in Headquarters’ lineup, some loud-mouth politician in a soft leather chair tells the taxpayers how he—”

“Clam!” Lieutenant Koski held up a palm for silence.

Against the jumble of harbor sounds — the mournful clanking of the bell at Buttermilk Channel, the deep hoarseness of a tramp steamer feeling her way through the shrouding fog like a blind man, the high, frantic toots of a tug — came the hollow turkey-turkey-turkey of a two-cycle motor, echoing flatly over the calm surface of the water.

Sergeant Mulcahey bent over the binnacle, peering forward, his plump, ruddy features burnished by the glow spilling up from the card.

“It’s a junkie,” he announced. “I can’t see him, though—”

“The sucker’s running without lights.” Koski picked up a lacquered megaphone, stepped back to the cockpit. “Cut her, Irish,” he said to the sergeant.

Mulcahey silenced his hundred and eighty horses. Koski put the mouthpiece of the megaphone to one ear and swept the wide end of the fibre funnel in a slow semicircle. At one spot, on the port quarter, the hollow turkey-turkey which had seemed to come from every point on the compass, sounded sharply louder. The lieutenant pointed.

“Sic ’em, Tige,” he said to Mulcahey. “He bit your father.”

The sergeant cut the motor in fast, angled the nose of the patrol boat around in a rush. He moved the throttle-bar forward. The Vigilant’s bow lifted. Water seethed past the gunnels, boiled astern.

Koski switched on the big searchlight. A probing finger of white poked through a hundred feet of milky murk — and touched something red.

“Right rudder,” Koski cautioned. “It’s a tramp. The junkie’s run in behind her.”

The police boat veered off, heeling over to its cockpit coaming. The rusty red hull of the tramp bulked darkly above them, its running lights vague in the mist. Shouts of alarm came down to the two officers as the Vigilant surged under the steamer’s counter, swung wide to avoid her threshing screw, and plunged like a rocking horse gone mad across the bobbling wake, after the junk boat.

“The junkie’s heading down Buttermilk.” Koski used the megaphone as a sound-tracer again.

Mulcahey spun the spokes. “Tell me now,” he complained, “why wouldn’t we run across this miscreant an hour ago, instead of when we’re headin’ for Pier One to sign off duty? An’ me, with a very tasty dish waitin’ my beck an’ call!”

“Your dame’ll wait.” Koski caught a low gray shadow in the blurred cone of the searchlight. The shadow slid around the tail barge of a long tow, which was headed toward the Narrows, and vanished. “Pour it on, Irish,” he said.

Sergeant Mulcahey fiddled with the controls. The motor’s roar lifted to a high, shrill pitch. The guns in the bulkhead racks began to chatter from the vibration.

“That junkie’s probably got a boatload of ol’ manila, Steve. He’ll claim he bought it. Nobody’ll be able to prove different an’—”

“I’ll be able to prove he’s forfeiting his license by running in a fog without lights,” Steve Koski retorted. “And don’t kid yourself. He’s not scooting away like that with any stolen rope. If that’s what it was, he’d have dumped it overboard long ago and waited for us to come up with him.”

The police boat closed the gap swiftly. The junk boat turned, twisted to evade the searchlight, then wheeled, at last, toward the deep shadows of shore.

“He’s makin’ for the Gowanus!” Mulcahey swore softly. If the junk boat should gain that narrow hulk-lined canal to find him would be like hunting a rat under a barn.

Steve Koski lifted the repeating rifle out of its brackets. The quarry was no more than two hundred yards ahead. Mulcahey kept the long finger of light on the hunched figure crouching beside the junk boat’s motor housing.

A stub-nosed diesel tug, with a beard of rope matting trailing over its bow, came chugging out of the mouth of the canal. The junk boatman headed right at the tug. Koski crawled up on the forward deck.

“Swing out a point, Irish,” he called to Mulcahey. “He’s smack in line with that tug’s wheelhouse.”

The tug began to turn. The cargo lighter the tug was towing swung out and the junk boat slewed. Its bow began to disappear behind the lighter.

Koski fired.

A searchlight came on then above the tug’s wheelhouse. It felt its way across the water to the police boat. When it touched the square green flag whipping at the Vigilant’s signal mast, the light winked out abruptly. The tug sheered off, to get out of the way. Mulcahey called. “Did you hit the junkie?” Koski shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to. I was aiming at his gas tank. Bear down on her, Irish.”

They thundered into the mouth of the evilsmelling canal, their exhaust reverberating from the narrow walls. The junk boat was rounding a wharf topped by a ramshackle galvanized shed.

“Half,” Koski yelled, from his position on the forward hatch.

Mulcahey slowed the motor to 600 r.p.m., sweeping the shore to starboard with the blinding brilliance of the searchlight.

A beam of the iron shed, Sergeant Mulcahey caught the stern of the junk boat full in the glare, fifty feet ahead. He grabbed the clutch lever, went into reverse.

The Vigilant lost way, rumbled to a foaming halt ten feet off the pier head. The junk boat had its nose in the mud beneath the pilings of the pier.

“I can’t get the light down on him, Steve.”

“Use your flash,” Koski ordered. “And watch yourself.”

Mulcahey poked the hand torch over the coaming. From the gloom beneath the pier a gun spat. A stanchion on the police boat rang loudly, lead ricocheting off into the fog.

Koski’s rifle answered, once. There was no return shot.

“I might have hit him that time, Irish. Back around under there so I can get a boat hook on him.”

The Vigilant churned the foul-smelling water. It moved out, then came back as Koski hurried aft. He kept the repeater cradled in his right arm even when he snatched the boat hook from its chocks. He kept low behind the stern transom.

“Another couple feet astern, Irish.”

The stern of the police boat inched in under the wharf. Koski leaned out then, hooked the after thwart of the junk boat with his ten-foot pole.

“Slow ahead, Irish.”

Mulcahey moved her out into the canal. Koski hauled the junk boat out into the glare of the sergeant’s flashlight. The man who lay slumped across the motor housing was dead. His jaw hung slackly open. His eyes stared unblinking into the light.

“Sureshot Steve,” Mulcahey marveled. “You sure got him good.”

Steve Koski went overside, dropped lightly onto the junk boat’s bow thwart. He shook his head. “Somebody else got him first, Sarge.” He pointed to the water sloshing along the floorboard. It was the color of claret. “He never bled that much in half a minute.”

“I see what you mean.” Sergeant Mulcahey studied it. “Yeah. You could be right about that.” The sergeant took the bow line, threw hitches around a cleat on the Vigilant’s stern rail. “But what I’ll be wanting to know, Steve — what did the poor devil have in the boat anyway that was worth dyin’ for?! Never have I seen a junkie with less to—”

“He’s no junkie.” Koski held up the man’s arm. The sleeve of his overcoat glistened silkily in the light. “You ever see a water rat wearin’ a hundred an’ fifty dollar overcoat?”

He fished a hat out of the pink water.

“Or a twenty buck kelly?”

Mulcahey scratched his head. “Well, what d’you know!”

“I think I’ve seen this lug’s face before, somewhere, Irish,” Koski said.

“In the Commissioner’s private portrait gall’ry, no doubt—”

Mulcahey broke off. From the pilothouse came a sepulchral voice.

“Vigilant!... Vigilant!... Come in!... Come in!”

Chapter II

Holdup and Murder

Mulcahey hurried to the squawk box and slapped down the Talk toggle. “Patrol Boat Nine calling Doubleya Enn Pee Dee. Over.”

The hollow tones of the speaker were croaking as he clicked the lever to Listen. “Where are you, Vigilant? Over.”

“Gowanus Canal. Take it.”

“Report immediately to Pier Ten, Fulton Market, on a nineteen, a thirty-two. Acknowledge.”

“Nineteen and thirty-two at Fulton Fish Market,” Mulcahey repeated.

Koski yelled, “Tell ’em we’re scooting, Sarge.”

“We’re on our way, now. Over.”

“Notify on arrival, Vigilant. Keep on the box. Doubleyou Enn Pee Dee to Pee Dee to Pee Bee Nine, four twenty-six peeyem, March twenty-eight, authority Police Telegraph Bureau. That is all.”

The two-way was silent.

Steve Koski was searching the dead man’s clothing when Sergeant Mulcahey got to the cockpit.

“We’re getting our noses rubbed in it, Steve. Holdup an’ murder at Fulton Market.”

“Get her spinning, Sarge. I’ll poke around on this tub for a few minutes. Keep me tied in short.”

The patrol boat made a tight circle, churned suds under the bow of the towed junk boat. Koski squatted on the stern thwart, examining the stuff he’d frisked from the corpse’s pockets: Alligator wallet, swollen with folding money. Three dollars in silver. Keys on ring. Gold pocket knife. Silk handkerchief. Gold pen. Envelope with two airline tickets, New York to Havana via Miami.

“On the midnight plane tonight, eh?” Koski eyed the body dispassionately. “I’m afraid they wouldn’t take you now unless you were boxed, mister. Wonder who was supposed to go on that little trip with you?”

In the disc of the flashlight, the dead man stared glassily at Koski’s shoes. The lieutenant studied the low forehead, the dark hair growing within an inch of the eyebrows. The long, thin nose with the slightly upturned, reddened tip. The small, pursey lips, the gold-capped incisor. The last time that face had looked up at Koski had surely been from a police flyer.

His name was Eddie-something. It began to come back, now...

He snapped his fingers! Eddie — Eddie-the-Switch, that’s who it was! Koski couldn’t remember the criminal’s last name — it didn’t matter, anyway — but the Marine Division’s crack plainclothesman couldn’t forget the reason given on the Wanted Bulletin for Eddie’s being known as the Switch: “So-called because of frequent boasts that he would light somebody up!”

Eddie-the-Switch had killed a payroll messenger down South somewhere — Birmingham, if Koski recalled correctly. After beating that rap, he had been picked up on another manslaughter charge in Kansas City. He’d shot his way out of jail there. Yeah. Quite a customer, this Eddie-the-Switch had been.

But how had a hot rod like that happened to be on this junk boat? He certainly had been a long way from the accommodations on the Nightliner to Miami!

Steve Koski fished the .45 out of the wine-colored water that sloshed from side to side over the junk boat’s propeller shaft as the Vigilant’s wake bounced the eighteen-footer wildly. It was an Army Colt — with a kick Koski was glad he hadn’t felt.

But, Koski realized, the man must have been dying before the rifle bullet drilled that hole beneath his ear. There was a soggy redness, the size of a dinner plate, on the right side of the man’s coat, from the third to the fourth button. Blood from that wound had stained the water. Eddie-the-Switch wouldn’t have bled much after Steve’s .303 hit him.

Koski looked at the gunman’s hands. The man wore no gloves. Yet there were no smudges of oil or grease on palms or fingers.

“I could stand to know who cranked that flywheel for you, Eddie,” Steve Koski muttered.

He combed over the boat itself. In the stern locker, he found a jug half filled with muscatel, a burlap sack with a dozen bronze fittings — nearly new — cleats, swivel-hooks, turnbuckles. Under the bow thwart were a couple of lard cans containing brass grommets and faucets and some new copper wire. On the floorboards lay a dozen crumpled-up balls of sopping newspapers, four soaking-wet men’s socks with oyster shells in them, and more oyster shells between the boat’s ribs.

Oyster shells? In old socks? For what?

Even if somebody had opened up a few dozen oysters on a junk boat, they’d have thrown the shells over, wouldn’t they? Lieutenant Koski puzzled over it.

Mulcahey was using the megaphone to shout back to him over the roar of the exhaust. “Sounds like they got everything but the fire engines out, over there, Steve.” He was indicating the Fulton Market section.

Koski put the Army Colt in Eddie’s hat, went to the bow of the junk boat and hauled in on the tow line. “Coast her, Irish.”

The exhaust quieted. The wake subsided. Steve Koski dropped hat and gun into the cockpit.

“Heave that tarp, Sarge,” he called.

When Koski got it, he tossed the heavy canvas over the dead man, gave Mulcahey his hand and went up over the stern transom into the Vigilant’s cockpit.

With the big motor throttled down, Koski could hear the sirens on the Manhattan shore plainly. There was the rising wail of the patrol coops, the agonized screech of an ambulance, the clanging gong of the truck bringing reserve patrolmen.

“I’ve heard the band from P.S. Fifty-one sound just like that,” Mulcahey muttered, “rend’rin’ A Hot Time in the Ole Town, Tonight. That sounds now like the Commissioner was arrivin’, with all the cameramen lined up with the flash bulbs.”

“We have something for the pix boys, back there,” Koski said, the nod of his head indicating the junk boat. He watched the low roofs of the oyster sheds and fish houses emerge from the thinning fog that wreathed the tall light-spattered towers of the financial district. “We caught a pretty big mackerel, ourselves, Irish,” he went on. “But I don’t think we’ll let the lens-men snap him, the way he is now.”

Mulcahey slowed the Vigilant, searching for a berth among the fleet of purse seiners, oyster dredges, halibut boats and Block Islanders that were crowding against the fish market wharves.

“You find out anything about him, Steve?” the sergeant asked.

“I remember him from a Kansas City flyer,” Koski answered. “His name is Eddie-the-Switch. And a bad boy with a trigger he was. We were lucky somebody else had pretty well taken care of him before we ran him aground.”

The sergeant grunted. “I am not what you can call a careless man with a dollar, except maybe where chicks are concerned, but I will offer a chunk at six, two and even that when it comes out in the papers, the Commissioner himself personally directed the dragnet which cornered the internationally famous desperado.”

“There’s the ambulance,” Koski said. “Over by Shoalwater Seafoods. Run in alongside that oyster dredge, the Mollie B.”

Sergeant Mulcahey maneuvered the black-hulled patrol boat against the battered rubrail of the dredge. Koski sprang to the foredeck.

“Get through to Pier One on the two-way,” he called back to the sergeant. “Ask them to look up the dope on 71J22RCH” He pointed to the crudely-lettered license number painted on the junk boat’s bows.

“Check,” Mulcahey said. “Give the Commissioner my love.”

Koski looped the bow line around the Mollie B’s starboard samson post, crossed the decks between yawning cargo hatches, went through a door on the water side of the pier and into the huge fish shed.

He was in the weigh office of the wholesale house. On the other side of the high wire screen, a group of men clustered around something on the floor of the office. Koski saw patrolmen in uniform, bristling precinct detectives, a couple of ambulance internes, a doctor, four or five high-booted men in white rubber aprons, a scattering of fishboat men in oilskins.

He pushed open a gate in the wire fence, went through. A patrolman blocked his way until Koski held out his cupped hand with the gold shield.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” the patrolman apologized. “Couldn’t see you. Lights kind of blind you in here.”

“Sure. What happens?”

“Guy with a gun stuck up the kid who was lugging the day’s receipts out to the armored truck. Kid put up a battle, got killed. Gunman dropped one of the truck guards, too. They just got him into the ambulance a minute ago.”

“What about the holdup man?”

“He got away in the confusion, Lieutenant. Ran out to the street. They’re after him, out there, now.”

“Yuh?” Koski shoved through the group.

A boy of twenty or so — a nice-looking blonde youngster who looked as if he ought to be in a basketball uniform rather than in the dirty oyster-stained apron he wore — lay on the floor. He had his knees curled up under him and his hands were clasped around his middle so — for an instant — Koski had the illusion that he was only badly hurt.

A divisional detective captain caught sight of Koski. “Hello, Lieutenant. They call you in on this?”

“They hung out the lantern, yeah,” Koski said. “ ‘One if by land, two if by sea.’ And we were on the opposite shore. Took us a few minutes to get over here.”

The divisional detective captain wrinkled his nose at the strong fish smell — something Koski was so used to he never noticed it.

“Little delay doesn’t make any difference,” he told Koski. “Appreciate your help, but we’ve got the guy penned up, down the block.”

“You have?”

“They’re gettin’ ready to go in after him, now, with tear gas. Couple truck drivers saw him run in a clam shed, yuh.”

“Are you sure he’s the one?”

“Yuh, yuh.” The detective captain clapped Koski’s shoulder encouragingly. “We got him, all right. Without any help from the Marine Division. Some other time, Lieutenant. Some other time — and thanks.”

He walked away.

Chapter III

The Girl in the Case

A man seized Koski’s arm. “You an officer?”

Lieutenant Koski looked him over. The man was fiftyish, gray-haired, six feet and over, heavy built, big boned even to his weather-leathered face. The faded-blue fisherman’s eyes searched the lieutenant’s anxiously.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Can’t you do something about getting Bill’s body away from here, before his father sees him again — like this?”

“We have to leave him until the Homicide crew have shot their pictures,” the Harbor Squad detective explained. “Who’s his father?”

“Why, Cale is.” The big man seemed surprised. “Thought you knew. Caleb Telfer, my partner. I’m Win Negus, cap’n the Mollie B. Cale is head of Shoalwater Seafoods. We own the boats and the wholesale house together. He had Bill workin’ here, to learn the oyster business.”

“Was his father here when he got shot?”

“Hell’s bells a-booming — that’s what keeled Cale over! The boy died right at Cale’s feet. It knocked the old man out, colder’n a Newfoundland tunny. Doc’s in there now, tryin’ to bring Cale around.”

“You see the killing, yourself?”

“No.” Negus jerked a thumb gloomily toward the shellfish bins out by the open end of the shed. “I was over by the checker, talkin’ to our lobster buyer, when I heard the shots and the boys yellin’. By the time I’d turned around, it was all over — except for this fella scuttling away, there by the clam barrels.”

Koski cocked an ear at the flurry of police whistles out in the street. Either the reserve men had rounded up their prisoner, or the chase was heading in a different direction.

“What’d this holdup guy look like, Mister Negus?”

The dredger captain scowled thoughtfully. “I’m not one of these here camera-eyes,” he said. “But near’s I rec’lect, he was about twenty-five years old, not as tall as you are by a couple of inches, kind of thin and sallow-complected. He was wearin’ gray pants or maybe dungarees an’ a sweater-cap, I think. He had this bundle under his arm. I didn’t rightly notice what it was because, by that time, I’d seen the guard layin’ on the floor and a couple other guards runnin’ in from the truck. I didn’t see Bill at all, ’till later.”

“They got him!” somebody out in the street yelled. The cops got him!”

Koski grunted skeptically. Win Negus’s description hadn’t sounded to the Marine Division man like that of a stickup specialist. Those boys were usually pretty careful dressers — the sweater was off-key, somehow.

As far as the man the precinct boys seemed to have cornered, he didn’t fit in with Koski’s notion of a criminal clever enough to have planned a coup like this, either. The holdup man had evidently known just when the day’s receipts would be handed over, and had timed his attack shrewdly enough to intercept the money before it got in the hands of the armored truck guards. Was it reasonable to suppose he’d figured all that out so neatly-and then left his getaway to such a slipshod chance as running out in the street, without even an escape car at the curb? There was a false note, somewhere.

“How much was stolen, Mister Negus?” Koski asked.

“Don’t know, exactly. Cale will.” The fishboat man pushed open the door to the inner office.

An ambulance interne was holding an ampule under the nose of a middle-aged, snowy-haired, apple-cheeked man who lay back in an old-fashioned oak chair, his fingers clawing at the arms. His collar had been loosened. His plump, rosy face was shiny with sweat.

“All right to ask a few questions, Doc?” Koski said.

The interne glanced up. “Why... uh—”

Cale Telfer rolled his head loosely toward the newcomers. “What you want to know?” His voice was deep and gruff, but there was a curious quaver in it.

The interne shrugged, closed his kit and went out.

“How much was stolen?” Koski watched the man’s eyes. They flickered swiftly to Negus and away again, as if to question what one partner had said about the other.

Cale lurched up from his chair then, took two unsteady strides to a high bookkeeper’s desk. That slanting shelf must have been polished by generations of Telfer elbows, Koski thought.

“Here. Here are duplicate deposit slips.” Cale Telfer’s trembling fingers passed the paper to Koski.

“Traders and Marine National,” Koski murmured, reading. “For deposit — thirty-six thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and eighty-eight cents.” Koski’s eyes narrowed the least bit. “That’s a big haul.”

“If you doubt my word, sir—” Cale began.

Negus cut in. “This last Friday before Lent is always one of the biggest days of the year. But it won’t hit the firm. We’re covered by insurance, aren’t we, Cale?”

The wholesaler rubbed a hand over his forehead as if he was dazed. “Yes, of course, Win. But what difference does it make, with Bill—”

“I realize it must be a shock.” Koski put the slip in his jacket pocket. “You saw the gunman, Mister Telfer?”

Cale’s round face puckered in an agony of recollection. “Clear’s I see you, sir. And as near.” His forehead continued to wrinkle, his cheek muscles to contract spasmodically as he went on to describe, in terse detail, the man Koski had found in the junk boat. “That’s the man, sir. I’d know him, wherever I saw him, even if it was twenty years from now. And I won’t rest until he’s been punished — if it takes twice that long!”

He collapsed, trembling, into the chair. His face had lost all its color. The rosy cheeks were dull putty.

Negus hurried to him. “But Cale, are you sure? The police are after another—”

Koski warned Negus back with a gesture. “Tell me just what happened, Mister Telfer.”

His lips scarcely moving, Cale answered. “I gave Bill the bag — to take out to the armored guards. When Bill got to the weigh scales — this murderer came up behind him — grabbed the bag and—”

“Behind him?” Win Negus cried. “How the devil could he have gotten behind Bill?”

Koski got between the dredger captain and his partner. “Let him tell it, mister,” he warned Negus.

“He must have got in the same way he left, Win,” Cale said hoarsely. “By the pier door, there at the side—”

“It was locked!” Negus roared. “I locked it myself! I always do, after—”

Koski put an elbow in the dredgerman’s stomach, shoved him back. “Clam. Stay clammed. Understand?” Negus fumed, but kept quiet. The Harbor Squad detective touched Cale’s shoulder. The wholesaler’s eyes were closed.

“Did you tell this to the police when they came?”

Cale opened his eyes wide. “Didn’t tell anyone. Nobody asked me anything — until just now.”

Behind Koski, Negus cursed thickly. “How in the devil could he have answered questions anyway, when he collapsed? He was out like a light until a couple minutes ago!”

“Yeah,” Koski said, continuing to address Cale. He pointed to the door by which he himself had entered the oyster house. “You say the gunman ran this way, out onto the wharf?”

“Yes.” Cale panted convulsively. “He grabbed the money bag. The guard coming to meet Bill saw it — pulled his gun. The murderer shot the guard. Bill grappled with him — and got two bullets right—” the father faltered, forced himself to go on — “right under the heart. Then the murderer spun around, ran back to the door there — and out. That’s all I–I remember. When I saw Bill was — was—”

He sprang up suddenly, lurched at the glass door and stumbled out. Koski turned. Through the partition, he saw a slender, dark-haired girl in a squirrel coat break out of a patrolman’s grip, fling herself on the dead boy’s body.

Negus crowded through the door with Koski. But before they could reach Cale Telfer, he was bending over the wailing girl, trying to wrestle her away from his son’s body.

“Get — away — from — him!” he raged. “If it hadn’t been for you getting your claws in him, you hellcat — this wouldn’t have—”

“Cale!” Negus bellowed, breaking his partner’s grip on the girl. “For God’s sake, man, use a little sense!”

In the scuffle, the cop grabbed the girl, hauled her roughly to her feet.

“I’ll have to run you in, if you don’t obey orders, miss.”

“I can’t help it,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe he’s—”

She turned away, whimpering, covering her mouth with her hands. Even with her face contorted with anguish, there was a sort of wild beauty in her gypsy-like coloring, her enormous dark gypsy eyes.

Cale mumbled what might have been an apology.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was upset. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

Negus helped him back to the office, explaining, beneath his breath, to Koski, “What Cale meant — if Bill’d been on the Mollie B. with me, the way his father wanted him to be, he’d have been ashore now with the rest of the crew. Cale wanted him to learn oysterin’ from the beds up, way we did, thirty years ago. All hand-tongin’ then. No power hoists like nowadays.”

He clattered on. Koski got the impression he was trying to keep the older man from saying anything more that he might regret. But Cale refused to remain silent.

“Bill wouldn’t go on the Mollie B.,” he said bitterly. “Had to work in the Market so’s he’d be close enough to that little tramp to see her every night. I ought to have made him sign on with Win!”

Negus squeezed his partner’s arm gently. It might have been a sympathetic gesture — or a warning. The head of Shoalwater Seafoods looked up sharply. The eyes of the two men locked for a moment. Then Cale turned his head away, shuddering as if from a severe chill.

“Who’s the girl?” Koski asked.

“Patty Rondo,” Negus replied quickly, anxious to take the burden of answering on his own shoulders. “She’s an entertainer over at the Lighthouse. No real harm in her, I suppose. And there wouldn’t have been any in Bill’s foolin’ around with her, except he got marryin’ notions in his head.”

Sergeant Mulcahey stuck his head in the wharf door. “I got that dope, Lootenant.”

“Whatsit, Irish?”

“Number 71J22RCH is licensed in the name of D. J. Felch, Port Richmond. You remember the guy?”

“I’ll say I do, Sarge.” There had been a midnight meeting between Doojey Felch and the crew of the Vigilant — which had resulted in that junkie’s conducting his waterfront activities some thirty miles further upriver for a period of six months, less time off for good behavior. Doojey was just the sort to have been mixed up with Eddie-the-Switch. “Ask Headquarters to send out a three-state for him. Put his photo on the six o’clock T.V. program. Doojey would have been the other one in the junk boat, sure.”

Mulcahey scowled. “You could be right, Lootenant. Still an’ all, Pier One reports they have been notified by this selfsame D. J. Felch that his junk boat was stolen this afternoon around two-thirty from where it was tied to a gas barge in Newtown Creek.”

“Alibi,” Koski said. “And it smells. Doojey was in this just as deep as the rat out in the boat.”

“Boat?” Negus reacted as if he’d been touched with a live wire. “You mean — out in the Mollie B.?”

Koski moved past the sergeant, out onto the pier. “The man who killed your son is in the junk boat there, on the other side of the Vigilant, Mister Telfer.”

“Dead?” Cale whispered. “Is he dead?!”

“Yeah.” Koski stepped onto the dredger, squatting on his haunches. He pointed to the deck just aft a heavy winch. “There’s blood spatter. That armored truck guard must have plugged him. He was bleeding pretty bad when he ducked out this door, and crossed the deck here, to get to the junk boat.”

“Hell’s bells a-booming!” Negus protested loudly, “that junk skiff wasn’t here when the holdup happened.”

“Sure it was,” Koski said. “It was on the far side of your oyster boat, Mister Negus. At low tide, like this, nobody would have seen it from the pier. Probably it was only here a minute anyhow — just long enough for the gunman to hop up on your deck, cross to the pier, and go in and grab the money bags. They’d have timed it to a whisker. Sure.”

Chapter IV

“I’m Your Ears!”

The phone in the office jangled. Cale turned, automatically, to answer it. Steve Koski eyed Win Negus steadily.

“There was some fidoodling with the thirty-six thousand, though,” he said to Negus. “That money didn’t go into the junk boat with the killer. He didn’t have it when we caught up with him.”

The master of the oysterman didn’t understand. Steve Koski made it clear for him.

“The moneybag the killer took to the junk boat,” Koski said, “was filled with socks loaded down with oyster shells and old newspapers — stuff that would weigh about what the day’s receipts would total.”

“He might have ditched the dough on the dredger here,” Mulcahey suggested, “soon’s he got outside the shed. Then he could have repacked the bag with—”

“He wouldn’t have taken time to do that,” Koski interrupted. “Not with all that hell busting loose on the pier.” Keeping his eyes on Negus, who seemed suddenly grim and defiant, Koski went on, “The killer couldn’t have known the armored truck boys would point out somebody else as the escaping murderer. No. But he might have switched bags, here on the Mollie B. He might have left the one loaded with cash, here — and taken the dummy when he jumped down into the junk boat.”

Cale Telfer came back from the phone and stopped at the wharf door. “Detectives want me to make a statement, Win. They’re up front of the shed, now.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“Uh, uh.” Koski stopped the oysterman. “You stay here while the dredger’s being searched, Mister Negus.”

Cale turned away, his shoulders bowed. “I’ll be all right, Win,” he said, his voice dull and listless. “Only be a minute, I guess.” He walked wearily toward the wire partition.

“Plenty places where you could hide a small bag on a big tub like this, Irish,” Koski told Mulcahey. “Mister Negus’ll help you use the fine-tooth comb.” The sergeant wiped mist off his face with the inside of his sleeve. “You’ll not be with us, hah?”

“I’ll be walking down the avenue a bit.” Koski stepped quickly onto the pier.

“O-o-o-oh!” Mulcahey’s eyebrows went up, the corners of his lips came down. “Like that.”

“Yeah.” It was an old tip-off Koski had used with his sergeant before. “And watch it, Irish. Nobody goes on the Mollie B. Nobody off.”

“Not—” Joe Mulcahey sized up Negus, the oysterman gravely — “while breathin’, Lootenant.”

Koski went on through the wire partition. Cale Telfer was fifty feet ahead of him, but the Harbor Squad lieutenant made no effort to close the gap as the old man stalked past the shucking boards and out into South Street.

Cale’s clumsy subterfuge — that the police wanted him to ‘make a statement’ — hadn’t registered for a moment with Koski. When that crusty divisional detective captain got ready to take an affidavit, he didn’t request the person concerned to show up at the precinct house. He went and brought him in.

Cale marched to a sleek maroon sedan parked across from the Municipal Fish Market, got in and tramped on the starter. When he pulled out and turned up Catherine Slip, Koski was pointing the wholesaler’s sedan out to First Grade Detective Herman Goldweiss, patrol car 8, Precinct 2.

“I’m supposed to be posted here until the newspaper men—” the radio car cop began.

“You’re supposed to take orders. Get going. Don’t let him get away from you,” Koski commanded. “Don’t crowd him too close.”

“That’s old Telfer!” Goldweiss protested, pulling the car away from the curb. “Guy whose son got shot!”

“No kiddin’?” Koski seemed mildly surprised.

“What’sa idea tailin’ him? They already got the killer.”

“They have? Did they find the bag of marbles he was supposed to have hijacked?”

“Nah. He must of stashed it somewhere.” The commandeered patrol car slithered around a corner, braked fast as Telfer pulled his sedan in to the curb ahead, beneath a spasmodic neon: The Lighthouse. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Goldweiss said. “The boys’ll get where he hid it out of him, after they’ve talked to him a while in the back room.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Koski left the radio-car officer trying to figure it out, glanced in through the Lighthouse door. Cale was making for a booth halfway down the gloomy tunnel of the dimly-lighted grille. The girl in the booth was Patty Rondo. Beside the row of booths was a long bar with a dozen idlers ranged against it.

Koski went in. There was no time for caution. If it had been the girl who’d phoned Bill’s father to come here, it meant the fireworks might start suddenly.

They’d already begun when Koski slid into the next empty booth. He couldn’t see either of them. The backs of the booths extended nearly up to the low ceiling. But he could hear.

Patty was in a cold rage. “You rotten, double-crossing fink!”

“I’m not denying anything,” Cale answered in a curiously flat, toneless voice.

“He’s dead! You killed him!”

“I wish I could say it wasn’t true.” The old man’s words came slowly, as if he was weighing each one carefully. “But it is.”

“If it wasn’t for your filthy two-timing, we’d be away on our honeymoon now. What’d you do with the money?”

“I put it out of your reach, Patty.” Cale seemed to be explaining something to a dull-witted child. “I never meant you to get your hands on it, you know. Any more than I intended you should get your claws into Bill.”

“Bill’s safe enough from me, at any rate.” She gave a sinister little laugh. “But if you think I’m not going to get that money, you’ve got another—”

“No, Patty. When you told me on the phone I’d better bring you something, or I’d be sorry, I knew what you meant, all right. So I did bring you something.”

Koski took three fast steps on the balls of his feet then. He had his hand on the barrel of Cale’s nickel-plated gun, pressing its muzzle down toward the beer mats on the table, before the old man stared up at him, thunderstruck.

Patty was quicker. She started to slither past the table, out of the booth.

Koski pushed her back, crowded in beside her, taking the gun away from Cale with no trouble.

“Hands on the table. Both of you. That’s right. Keep ’em there. Let’s put a few cards on the table, too, hah?”

Cale seemed too frozen with fear to open his mouth.

Patty sneered at him. “Can’t make a move without yawping copper, can you, murderer! Have to ring the blues in on everything — even your own son’s killing!”

The old man went deathly pale, leaned against the back of the booth, gasping.

“You’ve got him wrong, Miss Rondo.” Koski wondered why the near-gunplay hadn’t caused more commotion among the men at the bar. No one seemed to be watching them with any special interest. “Mister Telfer didn’t call the police in on this. He didn’t know I’d trailed him here. I expect he wouldn’t have liked it anymore’n you do.”

“Me?” She laughed, hysterically. “I’m glad you’re here! You must have heard him admit — what he’s done.”

“Yeah.” Now, out of the corner of his eye, Koski did catch a furtive movement of the loungers at the bar. He crowded against the girl so she wouldn’t be able to hamper his gun hand. “Mister Telfer admitted being in on a bad deal, all right. But it was a deal you cooked up.”

The group at the bar was splitting — three or four sidling and shuffling toward the booth to distract his attention, the others sneaking up behind him.

“You hooked the boy — a kid who never wised up to your kind. You got him to the marry-me stage, and when his father came around to break it up, you offered to give the boy the gate — if you got paid enough.”

The old man stared at him, awed. “I did. Yes. She wanted more than I could pay.”

Koski stood up abruptly, the nickel-plated gun in his left hand, his right hand in the gun pocket of his melton. He swiveled around, facing the three who’d idled up within a few feet of the booth behind him.

He said, “Something, boys?” They found business of pressing interest back at the bar, moved back hastily.

“She told you how you could get the dough for her, I expect, Mister Telfer.” Koski spoke to the old man, but watched the girl. She was staring at someone standing behind the garish jukebox. The lieutenant could only make out a shadowy figure there.

“He’s a liar, if he told you I framed that holdup, copper,” Patty cried scornfully. “It was Cale Telfer’s own idea. He told Eddie when to run the boat in an’ tie up, when the door would be unlocked—”

“That is true.” The old man struggled to his feet, in spite of Koski’s warning gesture with the gun. “But I had no intention—”

“No!” snarled Patty. “You’d no intention of bein’ on the up an’ up with Eddie, after you rigged the holdup with him. You held out the money, tipped off the guards, got Eddie killed—”

“How’d you know he was dead, Miss Rondo?” Koski shoved Cale back into his seat. The old man had blocked the lieutenant’s line of vision so he lost sight of that shadowy figure momentarily.

The girl didn’t answer.

The answer came, close to Koski’s ear. Close enough so he felt the cold bluntness of the automatic’s nose, before he heard the familiar nasal whine of Doojey Felch, saw the thin, wolfish face with the broken yellow teeth.

“I told her, Koski. I seen him die. I seen you kill him over there at Gowanus. It’d serve you right if Patty took that gun away from you right now an’ pushed the button on you. Patty was Eddie’s girl, Koski. They was goin’ on a honeymoon if you hadn’t lucked onto us out there in the Bay. If Patty was to grab your gun now and it was to go off—”

“If that was to happen, Doojie,” the heavy rumbling voice of Joe Mulcahey announced with matter-of-fact authority, “the first thing she’d have to do would be to comb your brains out of her hair! Stick your thumbs in your ears! In your ears, I said! Where I can see ’em! An’ keep ’em there!”

They waited on the sidewalk for the patrol wagon. Doojie Felch and Patty Rondo, handcuffed together, were facing the wall and leaning against it with their hands against the wet brick to keep them from falling. Steve Koski and Joe Mulcahey were watching the fog condense in rivulets, thick as mineral oil, on the windows of the cafe.

“I thought I told you to watch Negus and not let him off the oyster boat, you thick-skulled Hibernian!”

“He’s still there, Steve. I only came over here to show you the note he found in his pocket, whilst we was givin’ the pilot-house the up an’ down. Old Cale Telfer must have stuck it in there, unbeknownst, that time we were all millin’ around looking at those bloodstains on the deck.”

He gave Koski a slip torn from a Shoalwater Seafood’s memorandum pad:

Win—

The money’s in the lower right-hand drawer of my desk. I never meant it to get anywhere but in the firm’s bank account. I thought I was doing what was best for Bill, to go along with the holdup scheme and so get that witch out of the way. But what I did was send Bill to his death. So I can’t see any use to go on living myself. I’ll try to balance the books before I go.

Cale.

“Yeah,” Koski nodded. “This fits. Cale agreed to her scheme for a stickup, but he was too honest to let his partner, or even the insurance people, share a loss like that. So he fixed up that dummy bag, gave it to his son-”

“Not expectin’ any shootin’ to come out of it,” Mulcahey made it more a statement than a question.

“She’d have promised there’d be no violence. But the armored truck guard spoiled that. He shot first and got Eddie. Eddie knew he was in bad shape, and he blasted away like a maniac, wounded the guard, killed the boy. So, instead of putting Patty and her pals in wrong on account of a holdup that wouldn’t have netted them a nickel, old Telfer unintentionally had planned his own son’s funeral.”

The sergeant wiped moisture off the barrel of his Police Positive. “This Negus, now. He’s no dope. I don’t say he had it figured out, all neat like that, Steve. But he knew his partner was mixed up in it some way.”

“He was trying to cover up for him. Yeah. I caught onto that, after a bit.” Koski heard the clanging of the police van down the block. “But how’d you catch on to my being at the Lighthouse?”

“Negus went to Cale’s desk, after he read the note. He found the old man’d taken his gun. He knew the only person he’d be likely to want to kill was this — Patty person. So he told me where I’d find her. I knew I’d find you here.”

“You’re so smart, you bulls!” Doojie snarled. “How’d you know where Telfer went, Koski?”

Mulcahey hummed softly,

Me... an’ my sha-a-dow

Walkin’ down the av-e-noo...

He broke off as the ‘wagon’ clanged to a stop. “You s’pose the Commissioner’d object if we was to appear as shadows, in the background of the pix they’ll be takin’ of these two?”

“Ah, who wants publicity, anyway?!” asked Steve Koski.

“The Commissioner,” sighed Joe Mulcahey.

Shot With Luck

Thrilling Detective, April, 1950

Don Rixey gnawed gloomily at the combination Ham and Lamburger. “Certainly is terrible.” he said. “Certainly is.”

Annalou Kenyon turned from the grill, tossing taffy-bright curls in mock indignation. “If you’re finding fault with my cooking, before we’re even married!”

“Not the san’wich!” He poked impatiently at the nickeled napkin-container on the counter. “Your not bein’ able to get off tonight.”

“Is it my fault—” her dimples deepened, her pert mouth firmed — “if my relief happens to have an uncle who manages to get himself shot in that terrible payroll holdup this morning and is in the hospital practically at death’s door?!”

“I didn’t say it was.” The candid blue eyes in the square, amiable face watched her hungrily as she moved from the malted mixer to the fountain. “I only said it was a tough break you can’t go with me to look at that apartment tonight.”

“I don’t see that it matters so terribly much.” She slit open a couple of buns, deftly. “Even if it wasn’t rented by the time we got out there — which it probably would be — and even supposing we could afford the rent — which we probably couldn’t — what would we put in it, besides us?!”

“That’d be enough for me.” He grinned. “The best things in life are free.”

“Huh!” Annalou wrinkled her nose at him. “That three-room Bride and Groom Special at Mammoth Furniture isn’t, though!”

“I’ve enough to make the down payment.” He reached across the counter to grab her. “And a license.”

Annalou squealed prettily. “Quit! Before I let you carry me across any threshold, there are a few other trifling little items to be considered, Mister Rixey. Such as dishes, silver, linens, blankets, curtains, rugs—”

“I bet I could worry along without a rug, if I had you.”

“Hmph! The future Mrs. Donald Rixey doesn’t intend to start housekeeping on any shoestring. I’d like to see that apartment, too, but what would we use for money?”

“Money isn’t everything.” He finished the burger, sipped his coffee.

“I never noticed it was any handicap.” Annalou served a couple of bobbysoxers down the counter. When she came back: “I wish I knew where we could get our hands on a great big hunk of it, that’s all!”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong business, baby.” Don tapped the newspaper which lay propped against the salt-and-pepper rack. “Maybe I oughta get me another set of tools an’ go in competition with the guy. He got his hands on a great big wad of it, all right!”

“Don’t you ever say a thing like that, Don Rixey! Even kidding!” She squinted at the big, black headlines:

BANDIT SHOOTS PAYMASTER

John M. Whalen of Clark-McGeekin in Critical

Condition at Memorial — Murderer Makes Escape

with $28,000 in Payroll Cash

Don finished the java. “The radio repair biz isn’t what you’d call a gold mine, these days, exactly. Still an’ all, it’s better’n that racket. Trouble with that is, even though he’s got his hands on a lot of moola, he won’t be able to hold onto it. Cost him dough to make his getaway. He’ll have to shell out to somebody to hide him for a while. If they catch him, his lawyers’ll get it all. And, anyhow, he won’t be able to spend it, where he’s going.”

“They’re sure to catch him,” Annalou peeled lettuce leaves off a head of iceberg. “They got a good description of him. Half a dozen people saw him.”

“I just missed seein’ him myself.” Don glanced in the back mirror at a couple who’d taken the two stools at the far end of the counter. “I was over at Clark-McGeekin’s yesty, tuning up their interoffice amplifiers. Might just as easy been this morning!”

Annalou shivered. “Oooh! Makes my skin crawl, just to think about it.” She went over to take the order.

“Strawberry ice-cream,” the girl ordered. She was about twenty — tall, slim, haughty — with a thin, small mouth that was a slash of carmine in a long, pale face. “And none of that marshmallow goo you put on it, to imitate whip cream. Just plain ice-cream, understand?”

Annalou was coldly polite. “Yes, miss.” She turned to the man. He was older than his companion, maybe thirty; well-dressed, good-looking in a short, plump and mustached way.

“Gimme one of these Combination Ham ’n Lamburgers. Plenty a pickle-willie, huh?” His soft brown eyes surveyed Annalou’s trim figure in lazy admiration. “An’ lissen, cutie, — no mustard but a big, thick slice a raw onion, huh?”

“One combo with raw.” Annalou scribbled it on her pad, blandly.

Don laid a quarter beside his cup. “You’re gonna be busy. I’ll be hittin’ the breeze.”

“You going out to that apartment without me?” Annalou slammed the refrigerator door, slapped the cake of meat on the french top with a sizzle of grease.

“Say not. No fun in that. I’ll go back to the shop, rewind a couple armatures — see if I can earn enough to pay for one pillowslip, maybe.”

“Be back at nine?” she asked wistfully.

“On the dot.” He swung around, pushed off the stool, went out to his truck.

As he shut the screen door behind him, he heard the girl with the red wound of a mouth laugh and say “Patsy” to the man beside her.

Don eyed the extra-body-length job parked beside his half-tonner — a sleek, black Cadillac with double aerial whips slanting jauntily over its gleaming top.

You seem to be doin’ all right for yourself, Patsy, Don thought. But you could have twice your dough an’ here’s one gent who doesn’t envy you! Money ain’t everything — not by a darnsight! I wouldn’t swap girls with you for all the rice in China...

He was putting a coat of shellac on a two-gang condenser when the phone made him jump. Who’d be calling him here at the shop? Not his friends. They all knew he spent Satty peeyems with Annalou...

“Regal Radio Repairs; Don Rixey talkin’.”

“Oh, Mister Rixey! I’m in the most awful jam!” A girl’s voice, high-pitched, gushy and affected. “I’ve a whole bevy of guests here and everybody’s been dancing, having a perfectly marvelous time... and then blooie... my stupid ole radio set goes on the blink.”

“Like to help you. But I couldn’t get to it tonight.” Why’d these emergency calls always come just when he was ready to quit? “I’m closing up—”

“But you’ve simply got to help me! I mean you really have to! I’ve all these people here... I’ve tried to call a dozen repair men and you’re the only one who answered. Please, Mister Rixey! I’m sure there’s hardly anything the matter with the ole fool set... probably only a silly little tube or something you can fix in a minute!”

“Where you live?” If she was way across town, he wouldn’t bother with it no matter how she squawked. He’d promised to get back to Annalou at the Outside Inn by nine and it was eight-thirty already.

“Forty-two Chestnut. At Highland. Know that big apartment house at the corner?”

“Sure, Which apartment?” Chestnut was only six blocks over; he could make it there in a hop-skip.

“Three B... name’s Garnet... Mrs. Francine Garnet, How soon can you make it, Mister Rixey?”

“Oh, five minutes or so. What kind of set you got?”

“It’s a Klaravox... one of those console things...”

“Okay. Be right over.”

It might be a five-dollar job at that. The Chestnut Street address was pretty ritzy — anybody who owned one of those big Klaravox boxes ought to be willing to pay more than a two-buck service fee, for overtime work, and a rush call. Annalou could use that five for her hope-chest fund.

He put some extra toggles and trimmers in his kit, checked the chart for the tube numbers and added them — took along his loan-out portable in case there might be something he couldn’t fix offhand.

He parked his truck in front of the apartment. That ‘Ring Regal for Rapid Repairs — Main 4266’ sign on the side of the panel looked a little out of place, jammed in between the snazzy station wagon and that convertible with its canary-yellow leather upholstery — but maybe the free advertising would drum up a little extra business. He could use it...

There was no one in the lobby. No row of mailboxes, as in more modest apartment houses.

The elevator was upstairs. He’d walk up the two flights anyhow, rather than risk some gold-braid flunky snooting him by asking why he hadn’t used the service entrance.

The door to 3B was open a couple of inches. The radio across the hall was tuned up full blast on the night ban game; he couldn’t hear any partying inside the Garnet apartment. He thumbed the buzzer.

“Come in...” Mrs. Garnet’s voice, from somewhere inside.

“Radio man.” He pushed into a small, shadowy lobby with bulbous gilt antique mirrors and spindly-legged gilt chairs.

“Come right in here.” She was evidently calling from the living-room beyond the arched doorway.

He took off his hat, marched in. He got two steps beyond the arch when the roof fell in on him!

An overpowering screeching in his brain, as if some gigantic oscillator was vibrating out of control. A searing flare like a million flash bulbs exploding simultaneously. Then Voom! Blackout!

Instantly, the nerve-torturing screech again. The piercingly painful light once more. It penetrated his closed eyelids — or did it?

He opened his eyes. Dazzling light blinded him with a nauseating glare. The light wouldn’t stay still. Kept zooming up close to him, then receding. He tried to recoil from it, found he couldn’t. He was flat on his back. The light was a chandelier overhead.

Walls swam dizzily into focus. The screeching became a fierce, grinding ache at the back of his head.

“Hey!” He managed a thick-tongued mumble.

No answer.

“HEY!” Cold fear numbed him as memory poked through the haze of pain. “What happened?”

Still no answer. He rolled on his side. He still had his kit. No. It wasn’t the leather handle of the repair kit — it was cold metal. A gun!

He dropped it as if it were a live wire. Stared at it as if it really was alive. A heavy, blue-steel, ugly-nosed automatic!

He pushed him s elf back on his haunches, blinked around. He wasn’t alone, after all!

But the man on the floor behind him wasn’t going to be able to explain what had happened. Three bright scarlet threads flowed from blackened holes in the white triangle of shirt which showed above his vest, down toward his right armpit, out of sight beneath his coat.

Don lurched to his feet.

Maybe the dead man couldn’t talk. But his half-open eyes, showing nothing except the red-veined bloodshot whites... the gaping mouth where slack muscles had let his jaw fall open — they said plenty!

They said “Murder”! And “Frame-up!”

Don bent, whipped out his handkerchief, wiped off the butt of the automatic, dropped it on the carpet again.

He looked around for his kit. There it was, against the wall. He grabbed it, stumbled toward the arched doorway.

Probably the smart thing would be to search the place, see if “Mrs. Garnet” was still there, dead or alive.

But Don didn’t care about being smart. All he wanted was out.

He had his hand on the knob of the hall door, when he remembered his hat. He turned, his eyes searching the lobby, the little corridor leading to the living-room. No hat on the floor anywhere.

He didn’t dare leave that here. He started back.

“That’s it,” a voice behind him commanded harshly. “Don’t turn! Just stick your thumbs in your ears! And stand still! I said — don’t turn around!”

Don froze rigidly, head tipped back, hands tensed at his sides. He held his breath waiting for the shock of the bullet. Sweat trickled down his nose, dropped to his chin.

An ugly, blood-caked face stared at him from the round gilt mirror on the wall directly in front of him. His own face, distorted by reflection in that convex surface! But the blood smear wasn’t any optical illusion; half his face was covered with reddish-brown streaks.

“Give him the pat!” The harsh voice. But it wasn’t addressed to Don.

Thick fingers fumbled at his hips, armpits, belt.

“Clean,” announced another, less aggressive voice close behind him.

In the mirror, Don saw the man’s cold eyes and hard-jawed face.

“Poosh him in,” ordered Harsh Voice.

A gun poked into the small of Don’s back. He stalked stiffly into the living-room.

The hard-jawed man moved the muzzle of his gun up a little, so it prodded Don’s spine between his shoulder-blades.

“Ha. A casket case. Why’d you kill him, bud?”

Don let his breath go out in a long whoosh. “I didn’t. I never saw him before in my life until a few minutes ago. You cops?”

Harsh Voice came around Don to inspect the body. “You think we was brush salesmen?” He was a barrel-chested individual with a face like a prize fighter’s, battered, flattened nose and scarred eyebrows. “Siddown there.” He waggled his revolver at a lowslung chair. “Call in, Eddie.”

Don thought he was going to be sick, soon, as he plumped down into the chair. It wasn’t merely the cobblestones being cracked, up there in the top of his skull, either. It was the realization he was in a very nasty corner indeed.

“Say you never saw this lug before?” The broken-nosed plainclothesman squatted beside the corpse, his gun still aiming carelessly toward Don’s wishbone.

“Not until about five minutes ago. When I came out of it after somebody dropped the boom on me.” Don heard Eddie, out in the hall, asking for Lieutenant Wiley at headquarters. That might be a break. Don and Annalou both knew Wiley; the Lieutenant and his prowl partner sometimes dropped into Outside Inn for a snack, late at night.

Frank stuck out his lower lip. “How you happen to be here, alone with this stiff?”

Don told him.

“Anybody with you when you got this phone call, Rixey?”

“No... I don’t have anyone working for me in the shop.”

Eddie came back. “Lieutenant’ll be over in two shakes, Frank.”

“Sniff around, see if you can get onto that dame who phones in that tip.” Frank dismissed his side-kick. “See anybody on the way over here, Rixey?”

“Nobody I know.”

“Ha. An’ you never did get a peek at this dame you claim phones you this hurry-up call?”

“No.” Don was about to say he’d know her, on account of her voice, if he ran into her again. But then he remembered how affected she’d been on the phone — probably she’d been disguising her voice, anyway.

“Say you didn’t see the party who you figure slugged you?”

“Didn’t see anybody. Until I came out of my fog an’ found him... on the floor beside me.”

“You couldn’t of got that smack on the conk, fightin’ with Slenz, could you?” Frank lifted the muzzle of his pistol speculatively.

“Slenz?” Don was hypnotized by the black, staring eye of the gun. “No. I wasn’t fighting with him. Or with anybody. I tell you 1 never saw him before. Didn’t even know his name.”

Frank rocked back on his heels.

“Don’t recognize him, hah?”

The hair at the back of Don’s neck prickled. He hadn’t really looked at the man’s face until right now. The bullet wounds, the gaping mouth... they’d kept him from noticing the cleft chin; the sharp hawk-beak of a nose — the small, delicate ears.

Don recognized him now, all right — from the descriptions in the papers!

“This is the gun goof who shot that paymaster an’ got away with thirty yards this morning,” Frankie corroborated Don’s guess. “1 don’t suppose you been anywheres near Clark-McGeekin’s fact’ry recently?”

“Not since yest—” Don caught himself. But too late...

Frank was up on his feet. “Keep on pourin’, Rixey. We’ll get all this stuff sooner or later, anyway. Just save yourself a lot of trouble if you spill it now.”

“The office manager called me over yesterday to tune down the amplifiers on the office intercom system,” Don said. “That’s all! 1 don’t know one single thing about the robbery!”

“Lessee.” Frank’s chin dropped to his chest in concentration. He scratched his ear with his free hand. “You case the job. Slenz pulls it. You come here to get your split. He won’t give it to you. You mix it up...”

Don pointed to the Klaravox console against the wall, beyond the dead man. “1 came to fix that radio. For Mrs. Garnet. That’s all. Period. You can’t ring me in on any holdup!”

Frank stepped over the corpse, snapped the ON knob of the big set. “I never hear of a radio man acting as caser for a mob. But they’s a first time for everything.”

The radio began to emit a queer, muffled croaking, as a popular song came over the air.

“I guess a little tunin’ is all it needs,” Frank said.

“No!” Don cried. “That’s—”

The hall door opened abruptly. Frank wheeled around, eyes on the arched doorway.

Don came out of the chair, got to the console. He swung it out from the wall, was peering in the open back of the set before Frank realized it.

The detective’s pistol swung in a sharp arc.

“I tol’ you to siddown. You want to be able to plead, in court tomorrow, you stay set! Hear?”

Don backed over to the low-slung chair, dropped into it. “I—” he began.

“Shuddup,” growled Frank. “Hello, Lieutenant. I think we got this ball a yarn pretty well wound up, already.”

The body’d been removed. The camera crew’d come and gone. Tarpaulin covered the carpet stains. The console had been shoved back against the wall.

Eddie and Frank were combing the building for the mysterious informant who’d phoned headquarters. Only Lieutenant Wiley remained in the living-room with Don and Annalou.

She’d been there long enough for worry to congeal into cold fear. When the patrol car picked her up at Outside Inn, she’d been angry — after waiting an hour for Don to show up.

When they brought her to the apartment she was horrified at the murdered man — at Don’s battered head. Now — watching the skepticism on Wiley’s long, collie-dog face — she was panicky. Plainly, the Lieutenant didn’t believe a word Don was saying:

“This dame is tall, thin, holds herself kind of stuck-up. Maybe twenty years old. Not much color in her face — uses lipstick that makes her look like her mouth’d been cut with a razor. Wearin’ a sort of grayish suit—”

“Powder blue,” Annalou corrected. “Hat to match.”

The Lieutenant ran fingers through silver curls at his temples. “Thought you told Frank you’d never seen her.”

“Didn’t realize I had. Came to me just a minute ago. She was at Annalou’s counter, around seven. When she came in with this boy-friend of hers, I was telling Annalou how I’d been at Clark-McGeekin’s yesterday on a job. Then I said I’d go back to my shop an’ work till nine.”

Annalou nodded. “That’s right, Lieutenant. Because—”

“One at a time.” Wiley was sardonic. “Hard enough to follow him.”

“My truck was parked there,” Don went on, earnestly. With Regal’s phone number on it. All she had to do was come back here to her apartment, ring me up. Why I’m so sure it was her — just when I was leaving the Inn, she says something to this guy with her about a Patsy. She meant me... to be the patsy. Site thought it would be a cinch to frame me.”

Wiley blinked. “A dame says ‘Patsy’ and you decide she’s a killer. You see her out on Route 60 — so you figure she lives here on Chestnut. You never saw her but that once — you don’t know what her name is — she’s gotta be this Mrs. Francine Garnet!”

“I know it sounds wacky,” Don protested, “but—”

“It doesn’t even sound that good!” Wiley turned to nod to Frank, in the doorway.

The plainclothesman held out a briefcase. Battered pigskin with a brass side-lock. Frank held the flap up so Wiley could see the lettering burnt on the under side. PROPERTY CLARK-McGEEKIN CORP. LIBERAL REWARD IF RETURNED TO PAYMASTER’S OFFICE.

“Where’d you find it?” Wiley glanced inside to make sure it was empty.

Frank looked sourly at Don. “In his truck. Under the front seat.”

Annalou cried, “No! Noll”

Don swore beneath his breath.

“There’s a locked compartment, in the back of the truck, Lieutenant,” Frank said. “Maybe they’s something else stashed in that.”

Don took out his keys, tossed the leather case to Wiley.

“If you birds think I’d be dumb enough to hide that briefcase in my own truck—”

Wiley handed the keys to Frank. “Haven’t time to tell you how dumb I think you are, Rixey. Take all night.”

Frank went away.

Annalou jumped up excitedly. “Every single word Don says is absolutely true!” She ran to the Lieutenant, grabbed his arm, put her face down close to his.

Wiley threw a leg over the arm of his chair, shifted his position, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“I bet those two came to Outside Inn in the first place just to see if they could learn anything about Mister Whalen’s condition, from Marie!”

“Who’s Marie?” Wiley asked patiently, still keeping his eyes away from her. From Don, too.

Don reached for the kit which Annalou had rescued from the lobby. He slid noiselessly out of his chair, backed toward the kitchen.

“Marie Whalen. My night relief at Outside Inn. Mister Whalen’s her uncle. So of course when she heard he’d been shot and might die any minute, she telephoned me she wouldn’t come to work tonight...”

Don was in the passageway, catfooting toward the kitchen. Even that far away he could hear Wiley’s:

“You two are tangled up in this worse’n a couple pups in flypaper — hey! Rixey!”

Don slid up the window by the refrigerator, slipped out on the fire escape, raced down.

His heart pounded faster against his ribs than his feet did on the iron rungs. At any second there might be a shattering blast from above — and the tearing shock of a slug!

Maybe, technically, he wasn’t escaping. They hadn’t actually arrested him. But even if he managed to get away now, he’d only be getting himself in deeper. On the other hand, the cops were pushing his head under, every chance they got, anyway. Wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t believe him when he tried to tell them what he knew.

He dropped the last ten feet to the ground. The weight of the kit sent him to his knees. He scrambled up as a shout from above roused the neighborhood:

“Stop! Or I’ll shoot!”

He didn’t stop. But he slowed, when he got to the end of the alley opening onto Elm. No uniform in sight. No prowl cars.

He walked briskly to the next corner, heard wailing sirens approach. He stepped into a dark doorway until the flashing red eye of the patrol coop had passed.

Blocks away he went into a drugstore, used the classified directory.

In the phone booth he cupped his hand around the mouthpiece: “Mike Brewer there?... Oh, Mike, this’s Don Rixey... fine, how you?... oh, I get a little job here’n there, now’n then... say, you could do me a favor, you want to... well, ‘s like this... I was working on a set tonight... Klaravox console... dame named Garnet... over on Chestnut... an’ I saw your sticker on the back of the set... you remember workin’ on that one?.. yeah, Chestnut... No?.. Wouldn’t you have some record at your shop?.. y’ll? Suh-well! Meet you there, ten minutes.”

While he waited in front of the flasher-display at Brewer’s-for-all-things-Electric, Don worried about Annalou. Maybe Wiley had her in jail by now. It wasn’t a pleasant idea.

Mike Brewer’s round face was ghostly under the greenish glow from the emerald cone over his desk.

“Here y’are, keed.” A fat fist extracted a Customer Card. “Yates. Templeton D. Klaravox Console, Model XT ’47.” He chuckled. “One those 14-tube contraptions, guaranteed to bring in such world-wide reception as Paris, Kentucky, London, Ontario an’ Moscow, Idaho. Condenser replacement, rectifier tube.”

“That’s th’ set. Where’d Yates live?” Don asked. If it was the Chestnut Street address, that would only mean Yates had sold the set to the Garnet dame, when she’d moved in. If it was something else, maybe Yates had lent it to his girl-friend to use in a furnished apartment. Those gilt chairs in the Garnet place had looked like the kind of stuff landlords fixed up to rent.

“Hundred eighty-one Crestview.”

“Happen to recall this Yates?” Don described the man who’d been at the Outside Inn.

“That’s the joe. I remember that Man of Distinction mustache. Wouldn’t have trusted him with a burnt match.”

“You’re a life saver, Mike.” Don shook his hand.

“Yeah? Whose life?”

“Mine, maybe. Tell you later. S’long.” He hurried away.

The apartments at 181 Crestview weren’t as toney as the Chestnut Street setup; there were brass letter boxes in the lobby. But no Yates on any of them.

Don found the janitor, a wizened ancient who said:

“Mister Yates? He moved away three, four months ago. Nope, dunno where he went.” The old man noticed Don’s sharp disappointment. “Y’might ask over to the Apex. Think he still keeps his car there.”

“A big black Caddy?”

“Yes sir, that’s Mister Yates’ car. Fine bus, that is. Fine gentleman, too — you ask me.”

“Where’s this garage?” Don asked.

“Two over, one south.”

It was ten minutes to midnight when he reached the neon sign: APEX GARAGE — TWENTY-FOUR HOUR SERVICE. There was a night light in the office, but he didn’t see anybody around.

He went in swinging his kit, as if he was on a job — spotted the shiny double aerial whips right away. The long, sleek Caddy was over in the corner.

He tried the doors. They were locked. He still had hold of the handle beside the driver’s seat when a voice at his elbow said sharply:

“Whatch doon, bud?”

A car washer, muscular in undershirt and rubber boots.

Don swung his kit bag onto the front bumper carelessly:

“Rush job for Mister Yates. Guess I’ll hafta get the keys from the office.”

“Reckon so.” The washer followed along, suspiciously, as Don strode toward the office.

A scrawny, gaunt-faced man, smelling of whisky, came up out of the chair in which he’d been dozing, beneath the ticket rack.

“You got the keys to Yates’ heap?” Don heard the washer’s boots clumping close behind him. “Sent me here to stick a new amplifier or something in th’ radio.”

The gaunt man hesitated, clearing his throat. “I don’t have no keys to Mister Yates’ car. But,” he gestured vaguely toward the door of the men’s room, “I guess if he sent you over here... why...”

The lavatory door opened slowly. The plump man with the mustache smiled at Don. He was wearing a light topcoat. He had his right hand bunched in the pocket. And it was not a nice smile.

“This boy’s tellin’ the truth,” Yates said affably. He moved close to Don, took his arm. “Come on, fella. I’ll show you what has to be done.”

Don stood stock still, wondering how he could get a call through to Wiley on that phone on the ticket desk.

The washer spoke up, behind him. “I thought he was tryin’ to pull a fast one, Mister Yates.”

Yates pulled gently at Don’s arm. “Aw, now. He’d know he couldn’t get away with that, around here.”

They got you, Don told himself bitterly. You walked right into this one! You sure stuck your chin out this time! If you try to tell this crummy car washer what the score is, you wouldn’t last a minute. And that night man — he’d do anything Yates told him to...

He let Yates lead him back to the Caddy.

The thin girl with the scarlet gash of a mouth was standing by the car, with the door open.

Yates laughed softly. “This fella says there’s something needs fixing in our car, Mimi.”

The girl smiled tightly. “Let’s get it fixed right away, then.” She took something out of her handbag as she got into the rear seat.

“The cops know where I am, Mrs. Garnet,” Don said.

“Thing is,” Yates waited until the girl had her stubby automatic ready for use, “do they know where you’re goin’ to be?”

Don got in the front seat. “Why pick on me? Whyn’t you leave me alone?”

The girl waited until Yates had the big car rolling out to the street. “You’re such a perfect Patsy, pal!” she said. “That’s why.”

The Caddy rolled southward at an easy thirty, past the High School, the ball park — past a lot of places that had been a part of Don’s life. Places he wouldn’t be seeing again...

He was wringing wet with cold sweat. He shivered. If he’d only had sense enough to phone Wiley soon as he learned about Yates! But no! He’d been afraid the Lieutenant would have ignored his information. So now he had something to be really afraid about!

He squirmed around in the front seat.

“Ah, ah!” The girl hit him lightly across the ear with the barrel of the automatic. “Sit up straight. While you can.”

“Don’t see why you want to kill me,” he muttered. “Cops think I shot Slenz. If you kill me, they’ll know I didn’t.”

“Who you kidding, bud?” The girl was scornful. “If they think you’re guilty — why’d they let you loose?”

“They didn’t,” Don said. “I just beat it, when they weren’t looking.”

“How deceitful of you!” Yates braked for a red light. “You should have learned from what happened to Slenz — it never pays to deceive. If that crud hadn’t tried to hold out on us, he’d be sunning himself in Havana now, instead of lying on an iced slab.”

So that was it! Slenz had gotten away with that briefcase full of bills, but before he met his partners he’d lifted part of the loot. When the amount stolen had been reported in the papers Yates and the girl had gotten sore, killed him.

That would be why Yates and the girl were still around, instead of getting out of town right after the robbery. They’d been trying to find the rest of the dough.

It gave Don an idea. “Say! Suppose I could tell you where the rest of that money is. Would you let me go?”

“Why should we let you go?” Yates speeded up to beat a light at the intersection near the gas works. “We’ll find of a way to make you tell us anything you know before we’re — done with you.”

The Caddy zoomed across as the traffic light changed from amber to red.

“Take it easy,” the girl warned Yates. “There were a couple of Little Boy Blues there on the corner.”

The twelve o’clock shift, Don thought. The night patrols coming out to relieve the boys on beat. If he’d only had foresight enough to disconnect the tail lights on this bus, before he’d gone to that garage office for the keys. Maybe some of the officers would have noticed a thing like that and halted the car!

The girl touched the back of Don’s neck with the muzzle — his heart skipped a couple of beats.

“Might be an idea to pump this well before we get too far out of town,” she said. “Case he does know something, we wouldn’t have so far to drive back.”

Yates put on more speed. “I’ll cut off on a side road here in a minute. Right now,” he glanced up at the rear-view mirror, “I think we ought to keep moving.”

Don caught a gleam of red, reflected from the windshield. Somebody with a blinker signal, following them! Of course it could be an ambulance. An ambulance wasn’t going to do him any good! And hearses didn’t use red flashers!

Ahead loomed the stop light at the intersection of Route 60. The light was green. But there was a red light there, too. And it wasn’t any Bar and Grille sign! Another patrol car!

“Boxing us in,” the girl called. “Watch it, Yatsey!”

“No room to turn.” Yates spoke through his teeth. “I’ll crash him, if he don’t get out of the way!”

The police car swung across the road, a quarter-mile beyond. A siren screamed behind them, kept screaming — closer and closer.

There was a ditch at the right. The railroad embankment at their left.

Don chose the ditch! He stamped, across Yates’ legs, at the foot brake. The effort threw him to the right, against the car window.

A deafening blast filled the interior of the Caddy. A hot wire touched his left ear. The windshield shattered.

Then they were swerving, skidding, toppling over into the ditch...

The Caddy lay on its side, in a ditchful of glass and twisted metal. Don lay on his back on a stretcher.

The starchy interne felt of the bump on Don’s head:

“He’s all right to go home. Nothing but a slight concussion, Lieutenant.”

“He didn’t get that in the smashup, anyway,” Annalou cried. “He was slugged, earlier, by... by one of them.”

She looked toward the ambulance where patrolmen with revolvers in their fists watched two stretchers being loaded into a long, white car. The things on the stretchers were very quiet.

“Are they dead?” Don asked.

“Not yet,” Wiley said bleakly. “You know you’re shot with luck to be alive, yourself?”

“Yeah.” He felt the caked blood on his left ear-lobe. “I still don’t figure how you picked up the Caddy.”

Wiley pointed. “Three minutes after you do that Brodie down the fire escape, there’s a three-state alarm going out for you on every police band. Describin’ you... an’ that repair kit you were lugging.”

“How it ever got on the front of the Cadillac!” Annalou wondered. “Some policeman saw the car at an intersection... and there was Regal Radio Repairs painted on the side of your kit, staring ’em smack in the face!”

Don sat up, groggily. “Hey, Lieutenant! You don’t think I was... was with ’em? Tryin’ to make a getaway?”

Wiley pulled down the corners of his lips. “Give us credit for knowing a little about our business, Dick Tracy. That holdup was a professional mob job. You rattle around too much up here,” the Lieutenant touched his forehead, “to be hooked up with a smart set of crooks. Anyway, we knew there was something off-beat about that phone tip — you’d never have parked your truck right in front of the apartment if you’d meant to go in and murder a man there.”

Don put an arm around Annalou, weakly. “They shot Slenz because he gypped ’em on the split. I tried to get ’em to let me go, in exchange for tellin’ ’em where the rest of the dough is — but they wouldn’t.”

Wiley screwed up his face in a knot. “Mean you know where Slenz hid it?”

“Well, I don’t know for positive,” Don admitted. “But when I heard the fuzzy tone from that loudspeaker in the Garnet’s set — I’d be ready to bet somebody shoved a wad of something inside that speaker cone and it muffles th’ tone. I’ve had sets where mice built their nests in the speaker horns — and it sounds the same way.”

“Mice!” said the Lieutenant, wryly. “Bills hid in radios!” He shook his head. “And they claim this is the day of scientific crime detection.” He touched his foot to the wrecked Caddy. “They’ll be glad to get the rest of that dough back. But I don’t think there’s any reward offered.”

“We don’t want any reward!” Annalou’s arm tightened around Don. “This is all the reward we want.”

“Yeah! Only—” Don looked at her fondly, “these Clark-McGeekin people make blankets, hon. We’re goin’ to have a use for blankets, pretty quick. Maybe we could make a deal — for wholesale.”

A Nice Night for Murder

Popular Detective, September, 1950

Chapter I

Radio Warning

Crisply the voice came over the loud speaker:

“Attention Vigilant: Tug Helen Maginn, towing barges westbound, reports some small craft adrift and awash five hundred yards north northeast City Island Point, seven-fifty P.M. That is all!”

“That is all,” Lieutenant Steve Koski repeated silently, snapping the toggle on the two-way from Listen to Talk. Just “some small craft” adrift in boiling whitecaps on a night so wind-lashed even the cross-bay ferries were taking a terrific beating!

Maybe some late-season eel-fisher-man overturned in the ugly channel chop. Or perhaps only a reckless kid whose leaky scow got swamped in the tide rip. Nothing really important, the dispatcher’s tone had indicated. No hot headline police stuff, like a Broadway theatre stickup or a Third Avenue bar battle!

Koski was burning up at the casual way the radio room at headquarters handled such relay calls. As if it were only the big crimes — and as far as the Harbor Precinct was concerned — only the big seagoing ships that mattered. The particular small craft referred to in the message might not have looked like much to that tugboat captain, high and dry in his pilot house. But it would have been pretty important to anybody who happened to be on the small craft when it went down. In Koski’s book, any boat was as big as the people on board, and human lives were all the same size.

Of course this might be a false alarm. Harbor Squad patrols were used to shagging after floating fruit crates or waterlogged mattesses somebody’d mistaken for drifting boats. But this was a tough time to be doing it.

It was his own dumb fault he was out here at all, in weather a walrus would avoid if he could, Koski reminded himself. He could have accepted that proffered promotion. He’d now be sitting pretty in a padded desk-chair instead of trying to keep his footing on a desk that buckled like a sunflshing bronc.

But he always had liked saltwater work better than paper work. Besides, the Commissioner’s offer of a captain’s gold badge, instead of a lieutenant’s silver one, hadn’t mentioned what would happen to Sergeant Mulcahey. It would take more than a pay raise to break up the roughest, toughest two-man crew on New York harbor’s six hundred miles of waterfront.

He leaned close to the mike. “Patrol Nine, checking,” he said — and swung the wheel to starboard.

In the dim glow from the binnacle his face had the weather-chiseled quality of a stone gargoyle, accustomed to the worst that wind and water could offer. His close-cropped hair, beneath his uniform cap, might have been cut from the frayed ends of a new hawser. “Better get your nose wet, Sarge.”

The bulking shadow beside him stirred resentfully. “Would you so kindly explain why some people get all the breaks, Steve?” Sergeant Joe Mulcahey tucked a towel inside the collar of his slicker. “Only five minutes and we’d be off duty. Now we got to play Ring-Around-the-Rosy with that rotten channel chop just to salvage a rowboat for some rich poop who is prob’ly sittin’ aboard this palatial yacht right this minute, a highball in one hand an’ a choice chick in the other.”

“You’ve got more beefs than a Chicago packing house.” Koski squinted at the amber beads strung across the slim neck of the distant Point; the riding lights of schooners, yawls and power cruisers at the Neptune Yacht Club. “It costs these upper-bracket boys at least a hundred clams per day to spend their time on the Sound; you get paid for doing the same.”

Mulcahey stepped out into the spray; his round face glistened like a wet tomato in the Vigilant’s running light:

“Call this doin’ the same thing? Gettin’ soaked to the shorts? Imibin’ sea-water instead of bonded likker? Putting in overtime with no extra pay on account some dumb clunk forgets to secure his dinghy?”

“Your crystal ball must have spray shields, if you can see a dinghy adrift at this distance.”

“What I can see is I am going to have to stand up my doll tonight — whilst we go chasin’ after a wild goose.”

“A nice night for geese, Sarge.”

“You ask me, ’tis a nice night for homicide. That I wouldn’t mind so much. Putting in overtime — if we was after a floater, say, or grappling for some stool-pigeon who took a dive with his feet in a concrete block. But this huntin’ after a boat that’s gone adrift — that’s for children.”

Koski switched on the searchlight, pointed the long finger of the light across the churning froth of the channel, let it feel its way along the jagged rocks of the windward shore. “I hope there were no kids in that, Sarge. See her, beyond those pilings?”

The white finger touched a spot of pale blue, bobbing in the lashing surf between barnacled boulders.

“Eyes like a goonie you have, Steve. That’ll be one of them plastic beauties they advertise as non-sinkable.”

“She’s not exactly sunk.” Koski slowed the hundred and eighty horses beneath the Vigilant’s motor-hatch. “Sure stove-in, though.”

Mulcahey ducked a dollop of water sloshing over the coaming. “I take it back about other people getting the breaks. We won’t be held up. at all, at all. My doll will not bawl me out for standing her up, either. We just shortwave our report.”

“Report my stern.” Koski threw the clutch to neutral. “We’re going in after her.”

“ ’Twill make kindling of us, Steve! Thrashing around in those rocks! There’s no more’n two feet of water!”

“It’ll be enough. Lash a grappling iron to a life-ring. Let the wind run it in.” Koski gauged the sweep of the tide, the force of the gale. “I’m curious to know how a dink from the club managed to drift in there. Current ought to have carried it out in the Sound if it broke loose from any of the yachts.” “Maybe ’tis second sight you have an’ not gull-eyes, at all. Always imagin-in’ some fidoodling. The dinghy prob’ly went ashore at high tide.” The sergeant squatted by the transom with a three-pronged hook and life preserver.

“Tug reported her adrift ten minutes ago,” Koski reminded him. “Pay your line out fast.”

He maneuvered the thirty-footer like a jockey coming through by the rail at the head of the stretch. The life-ring hit the water, was driven to leeward as if it was under power.

The ring bumped the bobbing blue hull. The hook took hold. Mulcahey hauled in the dinghy.

Koski helped the sergeant empty the tiny egg-shelled craft, hoist it into the cockpit.

“Sea-Pup!” Mulcahey read the lettering on the stem. “The names some nitwits give boats!”

“Yair. This pup got hurt, Joe.” Koski knelt with his trouble-light.

“Don’t look like those holes come from bein’ smashed on rocks, for a fact.” The sergeant scowled. “More as if they were stove in with a boat hook.” He pointed to inch-wide wounds in the shiny plastic hull.

“What would you say made that?” Koski held the trouble-lamp close to the white nylon rope which ran around the dinghy’s gunwale.

Mulcahey gawked at the blob of crimson smearing the rone where it coiled into a knot just above the lettering: Pup. “For a guess and without no tests from the Broome Street lab boys, I would say that was prob’ly not pooch blood. Indeed it’s not second sight you’ve got, either. ’Tis a super-human sense of smell. To sniff out somethin’ fishy about this rowboat!”

“Right sizeable fish.” Koski tapped one of the oarlocks where red glinted from the bronze plate. “Or else whoever was rowing was hurt bad.”

He peered across the boiling rip toward the opposite shore. “If she was sunk this side, no telling where she came from. But if she got those holes in her bottom across the channel, that’s about where she started her drift.” He pointed.

“No yachts over there,” Mulcahey said. “Nothin’ except Allied Diesel Works. Hulburt’s sand and gravel dock. And — the Beacon Light.”

Koski went forward, got the police boat underway. “Some of the hands off the club yachts spent their off-time in the Beacon, don’t they?”

“Spend their pay, too.” Mulcahey nodded. “Would it be your notion one of the engineers or stewards got a little schwocked, maybe?”

“Haven’t any notion.” Koski sent the Vigilant smashing into the chop with a bone in her teeth and feathers of spray streaming from her pilot house. “All I’ve got is a dink somebody tried to sink. Plus a glob of blood somebody might have figured would wash off if the boat did sink. I don’t know what it adds up to. It doesn’t look like the score of a tiddlywinks game.”

Chapter II

Barroom-Fight

Abruptly the bedlam in the Beacon died to a hush as Koski stalked in, alone.

The noisy group at the far end of the bar became abruptly silent. A belligerent argument between a drunken youth in dungarees and a stringy blonde in a low-cut dress, broke off unfinished. The off-key yowling of an alcoholic quartette, in a booth near the door, trailed away in discord. Even the juke, wailing the final notes of “Drop Dead,” became quiet Everybody eyed the lieutenant’s cap.

Koski’s long slicker said “cop.” The cap said “Harbor Squad.” Ordinary patrolmen caused no stir along the waterfront. Francy’s customers had learned, through hard experience, to respect men of the Harbor Precinct. Men wearing that cap seldom interfered in mere barroom brawls.

Bull-necked, hog-jowled Francy himself broke the spell.

He wiped his hands on a dirty apron, sidled along the bar, mopping up beer slop with a filthy rag.

“Crummy night, Lieutenant.” His voice held no welcome. Uniforms were bad for trade.

“Little breezy, yair.” Koski gave the customers the once-over. They glared back.

He went to the bar. “Know who belongs to a yacht called Sea-Pup?”

He directed the question to Francy, kept his eyes on the back-bar.

The proprietor shook his head. “Any you scuts know a craft called Sea-Pup?”

A rumble of negatives answered him. But in the mirror Koski saw heads down at the end of the bar swivel toward a keg-chested banty with long arms and a close-shaven bullet-head. He glowered pugnaciously at Koski’s back.

“What goes, Francy! You op’ratin’ without a license or somep’n? Just because a John Law crashes the Joint, we all got to hold our breaths?! Set ’em up in the same alley!”

Francy frowned uneasily. “Cornin’ right up, Buzz. Two Jamaick, one sloe, one rye, four lights.”

Koski murmured: “Make mine Scotch and tap.”

Swiftly the proprietor slapped a whisky glass in front of him. “Any special brand, Lieutenant?”

The barrel-bodied character hammered the bar with his fist.

“Look at that muckin’ sign over yer cash register, Francy! Says Thirst Come, Thirst Served, don’t it? Well, I got my order in first and my friends ain’t takin’ no back seat for any fuddlin’ badge!”

“Take it easy,” Francy warned, “and you’ll get it constant, Buzz. I’m servin’ one on th’ house.”

Buzz banged the bar with the flat of his palm. Beer glasses jumped. “Rush them drinks, hear me? I ain’t waitin’ on any clabber-brain copperoo!”

Koski strode down the length of the bar.

The group around moved aside to let the Harbor Precinct man pass, shouldered in behind him as he came close to the cocky man with the shaven skull.

Koski kept his voice casual: “Full of fizz and vinegar tonight, aren’t you, bud?”

Buzz stuck out his jaw; fumbled for an empty beer glass on the bar. “I’m mindin’ my own business and buyin’ a few drinks for my pals, and I don’t want no trouble from any bulldozin’ ftatfoot! Hear?”

“Spendin’ free and easy, aren’t you?” Koski cut in. “Hit the jackpot, somewhere?”

Buzz’s right hand dug into the pocket of his soiled ducks, came up with a thick roll. “My own dough! You any right to tell me how to spend it?”

“Depends on how you got it.” Koski watched the beer glass dangling at the edge of the bar. He spoke mildly to Francy, over the shoulders of Buzz’s companions. “I’ll try some of that pinch bottle.”

Buzz stuck out his lower lip. His eyebrows, rust-colored and unshaven, met scowling above the bridge of a flattened nose. “I don’t earn my jack stickin’ my snoot into other folks’ business, like some mugs aroun’ here!”

Koski grabbed the man’s Melton jacket at the top button. He was in too close to use his gun. He didn’t like to go for his automatic unless it was necessary. It didn’t seem necessary at the moment.

He jerked Buzz toward him, crowding him against the bar. “Where do you work, Buster?”

Buzz was caught with his right hand stuffing the money back in his pants. His left elbow was jammed against the bar. He wrenched around, to free it.

“I’m an engineer. Leggo!”

“What ship?” Koski ignored the angry undercurrent of mutterings behind him.

“No ship. Ain’t workin’ now.” Buzz got his right fist free, swung it.

Koski blocked the blow with his elbow. “Just paid off tonight, hah? Where was your last job? Aboard the Sear Pup?”

Buzz snarled: “I never hear of no yacht with that name. You show me any yacht with that name around the Island, I’ll buy you enough Scotch to swim in!” He levered his left arm loose, smashed the beer glass on the bar.

Francy yelled: “Stow that stuff, Buzz!” He banged the pinchbottle in front of Koski.

Buzz jabbed the jagged glass at Koski’s eyes.

The Harbor Squad man swept the whisky bottle off the bar with his right hand, sent it flying. It caught Buzz in the teeth, threw him off balance for a second. Koski seized the engineer’s left wrist, stooping, pivoting!

The wrist came up over his shoulder. So did Buzz, slashing downward in midair with the deadly glass.

Lancing pain bit into Koski’s forearm as Buzz did a no-hands cartwheel up over the bar into the bottles ranged against the mirror.

Before Buzz fell on his head in a mess of busted glass, Koski was going up and over in a one-hand vault.

He landed heavily on Buzz. The engineer was out cold. He lay with his mouth open, his eyes glazed.

Koski wound his fingers in the other’s collar. “Anybody wants a helping of the same potatoes — I’ll meet him up at the end of the bar.” He dragged Buzz along past Francy who kept hollering:

“Who’ll pay for the damage? Who’ll pay the damage?”

Koski bent, felt in Buzz’s pockets.

“Here.” He peeled two twenties off the fat roll. “Take your breakage out of this. He’ll need the rest for cigarette money, where he’s going.”

When Koski got his prisoner back to the Vigilant, Sergeant Mulcahey was working in the cockpit. Mulcahey called: “Love of cheeses, what you got there, Steve?”

Koski clumped down to the float. “Buzzsaw with a few teeth missing.” He dumped the unconscious engineer off his shoulder to the coaming. “Maybe we can get him to humming again if we work him over a little.”

The sergeant laid Buzz on the engine hatch. “Are you sure it would not be better if a medico did the work? This guy looks in very poor shape.”

“Cut his puss diving into a mirror. Broke a couple of choppers when he bounced off the edge of the sink.”

“Either he is a very dumb dodo or else he does not know your rep at that Pier Six stuff, Steve. Or maybe he has enough booze aboard to make him a trifle reckless?”

“He was flying higher than a B-Thirty-Six when I brought him down, Sarge. Bring that ammonia.”

“ ’Twill be more’n smelling salts you’ll need to patch up that tear in your own slicker — and what’s under it.”

Koski felt of his arm. “Stings a bit. Spilled some hooch on it Be all right. Patch it with tape. Rub that cork on his smeller.”

The sergeant shook the ammonia bottle, touched the rubber to the engineer’s nostrils. Buzz didn’t stir.

“Daub iodine on his cuts, sarge. That ought to do it.” Koski went through Buzz’s pockets.

Sailor’s case-knife, razor-sharp; pack of blood-soggy cigarettes; book of matches from Sloppy Joe’s, Avenida Santiago, Habana; another from Jack Dempsey’s Restaurant, New York. Rubber tobacco pouch; no tobacco but a union card made out to Benjamin F. Cotlett, Norfolk, Va., and a folded picture postcard addressed to Buzz Cotlett, c/o Ketch Sea-Dog, Porto Abrillo, Cuba.

That was all except for a trick magnifying glass that showed an enlargement of a naked girl — and sixty-four cents in coin.

Mulcahey poked the glass applicator at a corner of the engineer’s blood-caked mouth.

Buzz moaned. He cursed thickly, opened his eyes.

“My shoulder! You pulled my shoulder outa joint.”

“You’ll have more than a shoulder to worry about,” Koski said.

“Yah! You caught me off guard with that Commando trick. I should have give it to you right off the bat.” Buzz fumbled at his teeth.

Koski hunkered down beside him. “Never heard of the Sea-Pup, hah?”

“Didn’t say that,” Buzz twisted his head to look at the dinghy lying against the transom. “No yacht of that name, I said.”

“How about the Sea-Dog? With a Sea-Pup tagging along behind?”

“So all right, you got me.” The engineer grimaced, propping himself on one elbow. “So you’re gonna beat the tail off me, if I don’t talk. Okay, I’ll talk. What you want me to say?”

“You worked on the ketch? How long?”

“Six, seven months.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Maury Perris. Do I get to smoke? Or you gonna third me?”

Koski stuck a cigarette in Cotlett’s mouth, lit it. “Sorry if this isn’t your brand.”

Buzz squinted balefully. “What the devil! It’s tobacco.”

“Yair.” The lieutenant rubbed his chin. “This Perris. He the big bustle and leg man?”

“That’s him. Duke of Dames, they call him on Broadway.” Buzz inhaled, coughed, retched.

Mulcahey helped him to the cockpit coaming.

Koski wondered if he was handling this thing right. The wise heads down at Harbor Precinct headquarters would probably have told him the way to handle anything connected with Maury Perris was with gloves on. Koski reflected that it was too bad he’d left his gloves at home.

Perris, the wonder-boy of Neon Alley; the musical comedy maestro who’d rocketed into the public eye with “Undress Parade”; who had his face in more newsreels and on more television sets than the President — always against a backdrop of what his press agent called the “Perris Lovelies.”

Mysterious Maury, the gossip papers dubbed him. Nobody knew where he’d come from, how he got his money. Nobody knew whether he had the millions he claimed or was merely ballyhooing a bluff into a fortune. Young, good-looking, glib, smooth as a silk-stockinged leg — Mysterious Maury.

Koski said to his prisoner, “Must have been a soft touch, working for a boss like that, Cotlett. When did you quit?”

“Tonight.” The face with the flattened nose was shiny with sweat; the voice was sullen instead of truculent. “I didn’t quit, either. He paid me off, with a bonus on account of it’s late in the season to get another job on a pleasure craft.”

“Why’d he fire you?”

Buzz spat out blood. “Well, you see, it’s like this: Mr. Perris wasn’t on the Sea-Dog much. Too busy running his show biz, I guess. Like you say, it was a cincheroo job. We’d be on the club mooring a couple weeks. Then we’d run down to Cuba with some movie tycoons, hit the high spots in Havana, run back up here and play sitting duck another couple weeks.

“Three of us did the work. Jeff Vaugh, he’s the cap; a smart sailorman, Jeff is. Frank Kaalohti, he’s cookee an’ steward, from Honolulu. Frank’s all right, too. And me. All we got to do, most the time, is to be nice to Mrs. Perris. And that ain’t bad!”

Koski nodded to keep the faucet flowing. “Wife stayed on board most of the time, alone?”

Buzz’s fingers hid his mouth. “Well, you see, she wasn’t exactly alone, most of the time. There’s this sidekick of the boss, Mr. Belton. He sort of hung around practically all the while the boss was away. Very cuddly with Mrs. Perris, when he thinks nobody is lookin’ or listenin’.”

Mulcahey grunted: “Does Maury Perris know what goes, behind his back?”

“Well, no. That’s what got Mr. Perris sore tonight, see. Belton is on board with Mrs. Perris; they aren’t expectin’ the Duke until tomorrow night. I’m in the clubhouse ferryin’ out a bucket of icecubes — we run short — and boom! I run smack into the boss, luggin’ his suitcase.

“I guess I looked surprised. Or maybe he’s wise to the setup, because right off lie wants to know who’s on board his ketch. I can’t duck it, because for sure he’s going out there and see for himself. So I tell him.”

Koski stripped off his slicker, got busy with adhesive. The gash in his arm was deep. It probably needed stitching. But it could wait; he had more urgent matters to attend to. “Was Belton’s being aboard news to your boss?”

The engineer’s eyes narrowed: “How would I know? All I know is, Perris got redhot. Said he’d fix Belton’s wagon so it wouldn’t squeak any more. Wanted me to row him right out. I says ‘Whyn’t you wait till the club launch gets back to the float and go out on that, Mr. Perris? You’ll get drenched, in the Sea-Pup, so much spray. Your suitcase’ll get soaked.’

“Well, that tore it, see? He accuses me of bein’ in with ’em — of wanting to get out to the Dog ahead of him and tip ’em off. He hauls out a roll of bills and asks me how much I got comin’. He adds some extra to it and gives me walkin’ papers then and there. Wouldn’t even let me go back to the ketch for my stuff. Said he’d ship it to me.

“Then he rows out to the Sea-Dog by himself. I come up to the avenue, walk down to the Beacon. And that’s all.”

“All,” Koski said, “except why you had enough moola to choke a whale, when you wouldn’t have that much coming to you if you’d drawn no pay since you wore diapers. Why you were so eager to pick a scrap with me when I mentioned the Sea-Pup. Why has the dink got blood all over it? And who tried to sink it by punching holes in it?”

Buzz Cotlett stared. “So! He did kill them, after all? I never thought he really meant it. Honest truth, I didn’t think so. He don’t seem like that kind of a mug at all!”

Koski punched the starter button.

“Let’s go see what kind he is, hah?”

Chapter III

Distracted Wife

In the last two hours the wind had increased. Despite Mulcahey’s careful handling, the Vigilant bucked like a rodeo bronc.

Buzz sprawled in the cockpit, his back against the Sea-Pup, his head held between his hands. Koski studied the listing in Lloyds Register of Yachts:

SEA-DOG, auxiliary diesel ketch, built by Nevins, 1938. L. 55 ft. B. 14 ft. D. 4 ft. 10 in. Owner, Sydna Perris, Hampton Roads, Va. Registered vessel 21 tons, Colon, Rep. Panama, 1948.

Well, it wasn’t unusual for a man to transfer ownership of his yacht to his wife, Koski told himself. But that Panamanian registry; that was a horse of another collar.

Why would a Broadway personality, a member of the exclusive Neptune Club, prefer to fly the flag of the tiny canal republic instead of his own country’s ensign?

Then, why had the Sea-Dog come to New York in September, after that Havana cruise? Most pleasure craft, about this time, were heading south for Florida waters.

“Which mooring’s the ketch on?” asked Mulcahey.

“Last one,” Buzz spoke as if he had a mouthful of hot spaghetti. “End of the line. Out south.”

Koski said: “What’s with this Belton boy?”

The engineer looked up. “A skunkerino. Useta be a professional wrestler. Big-a da muscle. Likes to pose around in swim trunks. I think he wears a chest wig.”

“What’s he work at, nowadays?”

Buzz held out one hand, palm up. “Mrs. Perris, mostly. He eats for free on the Sea-Dog. He wouldn’t spend a nickel to see an earthquake. Frank says he’s a nixy-never for tips.”

The patrol boat swung inside moored yachts, pitching uneasily on their buoys. Only a small sloop and one bridge-decked sport-fisherman showed lights below. Three blue bulbs on the club mast glowed ghostlike a hundred feet to leeward.

The Sea-Dog was dark, except for the pale spark of her riding light.

Mulcahey slanted in toward her starboard quarter. “Give ’em a hail, Steve?”

“No,” Koski ordered. “Run alongside.”

The Vigilant rubbed her black nose against the ketch’s flank.

Koski went up on the foredeck with a hand torch.

“Hold her, Sarge.”

He stepped across to the Sea-Dog’s cockpit. “Anybody aboard?”

No answer. But the companionway was open. Below the deck shone a dim radiance.

Queer way to leave a yacht. Cabin unlocked. All hands ashore.

Koski went down.

A galley. Unwashed dishes. Main cabin. Dirty dishes on the gimbal-swung table. Cigarette smoke. And a queer, sweetly sickening smell that was an offense to the nostrils.

On the carpeted floor, beside one of the built-in bunks, was the torn coat of a girl’s pajamas. Gauzy, pink silk. Collar ripped. Buttons off. And one red, high-heeled slipper.

The glow came from a stateroom, forward on the port side. It hadn’t been visible at the angle from which the Vigilant approached.

Koski moved warily toward it. From behind the door, someone screamed:

“No, no, no, Maury! Don’t! PLEASE, MAURY!!!”

She crouched against the head of a big, double bed. All she had on was the pajama pants to match the torn jacket, but she hugged a pillow tightly in front of her.

Her dark eyes bulged with terror. A sleek mane of chestnut hair fell tousled across her face. Her lips made a scarlet O in her bronze-tanned face.

Koski looked at the disorder of feminine clothes on the chair at the end of the bed. “Expecting your husband, Mrs. Perris?”

She nodded dumbly. Then she whispered. “Who are you?”

“Police. Harbor Patrol. Koski, Lieutenant. Where’s Perris?”

“He — went to the club.” The fear remained etched on her face. “Has anything bad — happened?”

“You tell me.” He heard a dull thump, as if a rowboat bumped the hull.

“Maury’s out of his mind!” She tossed her head to get the hair away from her eyes. “He came aboard while I was asleep. Ham was here. I heard a terrific battle in the cabin. Maury was beating Ham’s brains out with a pistol. I tried to stop my husband. He came at me like a maniac, ripped my pajamas, called me all kinds of vile names, struck me. That’s all I remember — until I came to a minute ago. I thought he was coming back to kill me too.”

The muffled thumping sounded once more. It wasn’t from the hull, Koski decided. “Ham? The wrestler boy?”

“Yes.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “My husband accused me of — two-timing him.”

“No-o-o!” Koski was sardonic. “Where’s your crew?”

“The engineer went ashore. Aren’t the others here?” She closed her eyes, leaned against the bed as if she was about to keel over.

“Get some duds on.” Koski stepped out of the stateroom, listening. The bumping came from the crew’s quarters, up in the bow. “Make it fast.” He let his flash-beam precede him.

The forecastle was a cramped space with low headroom. In one of the pipe-berths lay a trussed-up giant with blood on his forehead and a sock in his mouth. He wore blue corduroys, a blue jersey, sneakers. His ankles were tied to the pipe-frame of the berth with canvas sail-stops. He was thumping his skull against the bulkhead. Koski cut the gag binding, jerked out the sock.

Belton let out a croak: “Did you get the dirty buzzard? Where is he?”

The lieutenant used his knife on the canvas strips around Belton’s wrists. Then he used the strips to wipe blood off the wrestler’s forehead. Belton put up his hands, pushed Koski away.

“Never mind. I’ll be all right.”

Koski pursed his lips. “Think so?”

The big man scowled. “I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come aboard before that bloodthirsty buzzard got back. He nearly killed me. Only reason he didn’t was he wanted to take his time about finishing me off.” He peered up, puzzled. “How’d you hear about it?”

Koski was curt. “Haven’t heard all I want to, yet. For instance, no marks on you. Where’d all the blood come from?”

“I slugged Maury in the snoot. That’s where the blood came from.” Belton got his ankles freed. He slid out of the bunk. He was inches taller than Koski. His shoulders bulked like a bull’s, beneath the blue jersey. “What’s the idea, putting the quiz on me?”

Koski pointed at the bunk. “Funny his nosebleed didn’t get any gore on the bedding.” He made a grab for the neck of Belton’s jersey. “None on your shirt, either.”

Belton struck at the lieutenant’s arm: “What are you strong-arming me for? I’m the injured party!”

Koski jolted him with a short-arm to the chops.

The wrestler wrapped his arms around Koski’s waist, lifted him off the cabin floor. Koski’s toes barely touched the planking. His ribs were being crushed in a paralyzing bear hug. Koski decided it was no time to be dainty. He jabbed stiff fingers at Belton’s nose. Fingertips caught the wrestler’s nostrils, forced his head back.

Belton’s hold relaxed. He stumbled backward, twisted away, put his hands to his face, whimpering.

Koski poked him in the pit of the stomach to straighten him up. “Stop blubbering. If you don’t come through quick with the low-down about what happened on this tub, I’ll make you squeal louder than that. One way or another — you name it.”

He shoved the wrestler aft.

Through the open port in the Sea-Dog’s main cabin came the hollow hoarseness of the Vigilant’s loudspeaker:

“Attention Vigilant! Attention Vigilant! Motorist on City Island Causeway reports body in water near rocks eastern end of causeway, thirty feet from shore. Disregard checkup on small craft and investigate. Nine-eleven p.m. Authority, Bronx Bureau Police Communications. Acknowledge. Over.”

Mulcahey bellowed above the wind. “Hear that, Lieutenant?”

Koski put his face to the porthole. “Tell ’em we’ve already got hold of one end of that line. We’ll follow it up.” That was another of headquarter’s angles that always irked him; the big shields downtown always seemed to pay more attention to dead bodies than live people. Koski looked at it differently; if a man was dead enough to float, he’d wait for you to come and get him. A human in danger might not be able to wait for help.

He wasn’t quite sure how pressing the peril was, here on the ketch. But he could sense its close presence from the frightened glances Sydna Perris shot at Ham Belton.

The wrestler huddled against one end of a main-cabin berth; his face was slack-muscled with fear, but there was still some bluster in his voice.

“You’ve no right to keep me here on board, against my will.”

Koski eyed him bleakly. “I’m not keeping you. I didn’t tie you up. Remember? I cut you loose. You can go ashore any time you like. It’ll be a sweet swim. I’ll have a resuscitator ready to pump air into you when they drag you ashore.”

Sydna Perris cried: “Why don’t you find that — floating man and use it on him! Maybe it’s Maury!”

Belton nodded heavily. “Be just like that neurotic buzzard to put us in a jam by doing the Dutch.”

Koski picked up the cowhide suitcase that stood by the lavatory door. “You two act like you’re rehearsing a duet in double-talk. Here’s a jealous husband catches his wife alone with his best friend. You say he beat you up. You claim he went away but you can’t say why. Your story is he was coming back to cut your gizzards out... but both of you are alive. And Perris hasn’t showed. What makes you so sure he’s dead?”

Sydna retorted angrily: “I’m not so sure! He went ashore in the dinghy. Maybe it tipped over. Maybe he’s still alive. You should hurry and find him before it’s too late to help him — instead of browbeating us!”

“You don’t know why he went ashore. You can’t tell whether he got there or not. Still, you seem pretty sure he’s drifting around up there by the Causeway. You’re a big help.”

Belton growled: “I’ve told you all I know. Maury got excited about my being here alone with Sydna. He went clean off his rocker.”

“Don’t give me that broken record routine again.” Koski shook the suitcase. It was light. He opened it. It was empty, except for another, whiff of that queer, sickeningly sweet odor. “Perris comes to spend a weekend on his yacht. Brings along a suitcase. What happened to the stuff that was in it?”

Belton snorted scornfully. “You going to blame us for everything Maury did? He brought the luggage aboard. I never even noticed the blame thing until just now. How would we know when he unpacked, or what he did with his things?”

Koski said: “Things. Yair.” He opened the lavatory door. Linoleum-covered floorboards around the toilet had been pulled out, exposing piping and the curved planking of the hull.

“Who’s the plumber?” he asked.

Sydna cried irritably: “Captain Vaugh did that. He thought a valve was leaking.”

“Um.”

There was plenty queer about the Sea-Dog, but it wasn’t valves. Panamanian registry. Trip to Havana. Wrong-way Corrigan business about coming north when everybody else was going south. Guy who seemed to have gobs of money, still nobody knew how he got it. To top it, the stove-in dinghy — and a dead man out there in the darkness somewhere.

Koski looked in the galley. Behind the door was a white steward’s jacket. In one pocket, a bank book. Seaman’s Savings Bank. In account with Frank Kaalohti. $204 balance. Regular weekly deposits.

Koski stuck the bank book in his slicker. The couple in the cabin weren’t in a position to see what he was doing.

He went up to the cockpit. “Bring that buzzsaw on board, Sarge.” He stood by the bowline Mulcahey had cleated to the ketch. “There’s a couple more Kilkenny cats down below, Joe. Don’t think there’s much yowl left in ’em. But don’t let either of ’em get behind you.”

The engineer crawled painfully from the police boat’s forward deck to the Sea-Dog.

Mulcahey followed. “You towing us in, Steve?”

“No. Going in, myself. To the club. After the steward and captain. Then I’ll slide over and look for that floater.”

He crossed to the Vigilant, cast off, backed away, swung the black nose toward the three blue lights on the Neptune Club mast.

The northwester was a half gale now; the moored yachts heeled over under bare spars.

Chapter IV

Runaway Ketch

Deftly Koski brought the Vigilant beside the club float, put out lines, went up the gangplank to the graveled walk with its whitewashed stones.

A swingy trumpet hit a high jive note above a soft-stringed guitar background in the club diningroom. The long, low clubhouse was mellow with light. This would be the Saturday night party for club members and guests. Koski thought of a dead man, dancing in the channel chop.

He went around to a screened veranda. Half a dozen shadowy figures sat in the gloom, rocking, talking. The crewman’s porch. He called:

“Captain Vaugh?”

A gruff bass query: “Who wants him?”

“Harbor Police.”

The movement of the rocking chairs ceased. There were low murmurings. One figure got up, pushed open the screen door, came out.

A tall, rawboned hulk of a seafaring man. Sharp beak of a nose. Steel-framed spectacles. Iron gray hair.

The man asked sourly, “Did Perris trim the lovebirds’ feathers?”

Koski started back toward the float. “When’d you see Perris last?”

Captain Jeff Vaugh followed reluctantly. “Hour and a half ago, I’d say. Here at the club.”

“Ordered you off the ketch, with the others?”

“Yep. Not that I’m taking any orders from him — Mrs. Perris owns the boat. But it looked like I’d best be ashore while they had their brawl out. So I didn’t argue with him when he told me to pack and shove off.”

“This before he had his bout with Belton?”

“How’s that?” Vaugh cupped palm to ear. “There wasn’t any bout. That scut Belton wouldn’t have talked back to a kitten. He was scared witless whenever Perris was around.”

“Um. Did the steward come ashore with you?”

“No, sir. Perris rowed me in, tried to make me take a fistful of cash. I wouldn’t touch it, of course.”

“Why not?”

“Couldn’t afford to let him think he could discharge me like that. I signed on as master, regular ship style. Owner is the only one who can pay me off. Besides, I know Perris. Tomorrow he’d likely accuse me of robbing him. They say he’s made a great success in putting on those theatrical shows. But I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw an anchor. No, sir. He’d steal your last piece of change if you were starving; that’s the kind of fella he is.”

“Didn’t happen to see him bring the steward ashore?”

“No, sir. Expect he did, though. Said he was going to. Good Godfrey Mighty!” Vaugh stopped by the gangplank rail, shaded his eyes. “Who’s taking her out, on a night like this?”

Silhouetted against the lights of a tug, the dark outline of the Sea-Dog was moving swiftly out past the Point.

Koski took the float in two strides, hurdled the police boat’s coaming, slapped the starter. “Cast off, Cap.”

Vaugh ran to the cleat. “Take it away.” He swung himself on the stern deck as the horses snorted under the motor hatch.

Koski threw the clutch lever. The Vigilant shook solid water off her bow, lifted her nose, gained speed.

Vaugh shouted over the hrrush of water: “Who’s aboard her?”

Koski told him, curtly. His concern was — who wasn’t on board the sketch. Had one of that bunch managed to shove Mulcahey overside?

He probed the night with the searchlight, holding it on the buoy where the Sea-Dog had been moored. If Joe had gone in the drink, he’d have tried to make that buoy — if he’d been able to swim. But then, if they’d been able to heave him over, it would have been because the sergeant wasn’t in any shape to navigate.

There was no sign of an uplifted arm or any bobbing head in that welter of water.

The ketch had vanished around the Point. Whoever was at the wheel of the Sea-Dog probably intended to run her inshore on the other side of the Island.

Vaugh came into the pilot house. “Myself, I wouldn’t care to handle her in this. Not for all she’s worth! She’s been taking in water so fast the last few days I’ve had to run the pump every couple hours.”

That wouldn’t make any difference, Steve told himself, if they planned to beach her right away.

The police boat plunged wildly as she roared around the Point. The searchlight poked through the spray. There was no vessel of the Sea-Dog’s size in there.

Then she must be heading for Hell Gate, the East River, the Bay — and open ocean! What lunatic thought a leaky auxiliary could run away from a police patrol in narrow waters like that? And why would anyone want to risk it? Was there something about the Sea-Dog that justified taking that kind of crazy gamble?

“Grab the wheel.” He waved to Vaugh. “Keep her a point west of Stepping Stones. We ought to catch her before she gets to Throgs Neck.” He took the Thompson from its rack, checked the load.

He snapped the switch on the two-way:

“Patrol Nine to W-N-P-D. Are you getting me? Over.” He flicked the lever.

A hollow voice from the speaker said:

“We get you, Vigilant. Are you checking on that floater? Take it.”

He told the dispatcher what he was doing. Gave his position. Requested Patrol Six at Randalls to cover Hell Gate if by any mishap Nine failed to overtake the Sea-Dog.

Vaugh peered across the storm-wracked waves. “Don’t see anything looks like a ketch.”

“You’re heading too close to Throgs. Hold her in the channel.” Koski bit off his words. How could a man hold master’s papers and not know how to steer a course! Or could there be a purpose to that sort of blundering?

He went up on the foredeck, manipulated the search beam from atop the pilot house.

The Sea-Dog would be running without lights. That was dangerous at any time, in ship traffic. It was worse, when whitecaps hid a white hull in the dark.

The faraway emerald eye of the Stepping Stones light flickered — once, twice. Twin masts of a ketch, coming between the lighthouse and the police boat, might cause such a flicker.

Koski knelt, indicated the course to Vaugh.

The Sea-Dog was a half mile ahead. Patrol Nine smashed through the tumbling crests at a good twenty knots. The auxiliary couldn’t be making more than five.

Koski clung to the handrail, moved along the waterway to the ventilator. “Come up on her starboard quarter, Cap. Slow her to the ketch’s speed. Hold her there while I find out what makes.”

The Sea-Dog’s masts swung in erratic pendulum sweeps as she buried her bow in the troughs.

The oilskin-wrapped figure crouching by the wheel might have been man, woman — or wrestler. It wasn’t Mulcahey.

The Vigilant drew alongside.

Koski shone the beam in the helmsman’s face. It was Buzz Cotlett. The engineer tried to shield his eyes but the ketch fell off, broadside to the sweep of the waves. Her masts swung down so the spreaders touched water.

Koski pounded on the pilot house roof. “Slow her, Cap! SLOW!!”

The Vigilant turned to follow the Sea-Dog’s bow. The police boat heeled, pitched. Her propeller came out of the water. The motor screeched.

Through the glass, Koski could see Vaugh, face screwed up, fumbling at the throttle. The lieutenant dived for the pilot house.

The patrol boat’s tail went down. She plunged ahead at top speed. Her nose crossed the Sea-Dog’s bow. The motor died.

Koski seized Vaugh’s shoulder, wrenched him around. “Get your flippers off that wheel.”

Vaugh swung his arm up clumsily, as if to steady himself. Koski drove a stiff right at his chin.

There was a violent crash. A splintering of wood. The Vigilant rolled over on her side. Koski was flung off his feet, hit the wheel with jarring force.

At the same instant he felt the paralyzing impact of the length of pipe Vaugh swung up and down — once — twice!

The gloom burst into flaming light that became so over-poweringly bright it was utter darkness.

The shock of cold water made Koski gasp. The gasp was choked before it barely began; he was drawing salt water into his lungs instead of air. He was under water!

He let his muscles go limp. No sense swimming while he couldn’t tell which way was up. The current tugged at him. Something smashed at his skull, stunned him. He opened his mouth, gulped.

A tremendous roaring in his ears. A motor exhaust! He had surfaced.

He’d come up beneath the police boat’s stern, banged his head against a propeller blade.

Vaugh had probably tossed him over-side from the pilot house; he’d drifted the length of the Vigilant’s hull under water!

He caught the patrol boat’s exhaust pipe; held on, though the metal scorched his fingers. The black transom above him, with the white letters: POLICE, New York City, lurched and twisted like a frantic porpoise. It would be tough to climb aboard over the stern even in calm weather. With the old girl rearing and plunging like this, it would be almost impossible.

A few yards off to port the Sea-Dog loomed up against the ghostly green of the Stepping Stone Light. Her Diesel was going cuddle-up, cuddle-up, but her clutch wasn’t in, she wasn’t moving. The ketch wallowed sluggishly in the tumbling waves. She seemed to be lower in the water than she’d been on the mooring.

Koski gauged his chances. He might not be able to muscle himself up over the Vigilant’s stern, with his water-soaked clothes, his knife-slashed arm, that crack on the skull from Vaugh’s piece of pipe. But if he was going to be able to do anything for Joe Mulcahey, he had to get back aboard.

He had one knee on the exhaust pipe, his fingertips touching a stem chock, was summoning all his reserve strength to pull himself up to the gunwale, when a voice only a couple of feet from his ear growled:

“She’ll go down in half an hour; it’ll look as if she simply sank in the storm.”

That was Cap Vaugh talking! He was still on the Vigilant!

Who was the treacherous old rat speaking to? Who had come aboard from the ketch, to join him?

Koski let himself down into the water again, listening. It would be committing suicide to climb into the cockpit with Vaugh waiting for him with that Thompson sub-machine-gun.

But he heard no more voices, nothing except the slam of the patrol boat’s motor hatch. Vaugh was getting set to drive the hundred and eighty horses, leaving the ketch, with anyone who might still be on her, to founder.

Maybe Joe Mulcahey wasn’t on board the Sea-Dog. Maybe the sarge wasn’t even alive now? But that was the only chance Koski could grasp at.

He toed off one boot, pulled loose his sock. He swam around to the Vigilant’s starboard side, dived beneath the hull.

He stayed under until he heard the starter whine, the motor explode into life.

He took two desperate strokes to get clear of the propeller before the clutch gears meshed. He nearly made it, but one of the spinning blades sliced at his right foot.

When he came to the surface, he was in a lather of foam from the police boat’s wake. His foot was numb; he couldn’t be sure how many toes he still had left but he wasn’t stopping to count them now.

The wash of Patrol Nine had swept him another five yards away from the Sea-Dog. The ketch was drifting downwind.

He swam after her, putting everything into the first minute. He could sprint that long. But if he couldn’t catch her in sixty seconds, then he would probably never be able to make it.

He gained, but the effort whipped him. He felt as if his legs were weighted with lead diving shoes.

The minutes became two. He was still ten feet away. The wind drove the ketch faster. The gap between him and that white stem widened slowly.

He had been in a spot like this once before. Washed overboard, offshore in a gale, stunned and unable to swim back to the Vigilant. He would have been a goner that time if Mulcahey hadn’t jumped over and come for him.

The thought of the blundering, fearless, slap-happy, wise-cracking Irishman who’d been in — and out, of so many tight spots with him, kept Koski’s arms threshing long after there was any possibility of his catching up with the Sea-Dog.

He couldn’t have hold how long it was before a comber picked him up, flung him forward like a surf rider. He rode the crest, calling on his last ounce of energy.

He touched the ketch’s tail-pipe as the comber went under her stem, dragging him down. He hung on.

The Vigilant’s port running light was a red pinpoint off toward City Island by the time he’d summoned strength enough to pull himself up to the Sea-Dog’s taffrail and over it.

Water was sloshing ominously below deck. Also something was churning around in the water which half-filled her cockpit, too. A dead man.

Maybe that’s Joe, Koski raged silently. Maybe that’s old sarge!

It was Buzz Cotlett. His skull had been beaten to a pulp.

The lieutenant stumbled below. Lights were on. Water was up to the floorboards. Nobody was in the main cabin.

“Joe!” he called hoarsely. “Irish!”

Bump! From the forecastle. He had heard that bump before.

He slipped and slid on oily floorboards, skidded up forward. There was a different figure in the bunk where he’d found Belton.

A slim, dark, mustached man lay there, bound and gagged as the wrestler had been. A man whose features Koski had seen on movie screens and television sets.

Maury Perris!

Chapter V

Cornered Wildcat

Koski ripped the gag out of the man’s mouth with no unnecessary gentleness. “Where’s the sergeant?”

Perris’ lips were puffy with blisters. “Who? What sergeant? They only let me out a half hour ago.” He groaned. “And then only to bum my mouth with cigarettes.”

“Great bunch you had on board.” Koski cut his bonds. “Where’s the seacock on this craft?”

“Beside the motor. Starboard side.” Perris rolled off the bunk, staggered to his feet.

“Close it,” Koski ordered. “Know how to start your bilge pump?”

“Yes.”

“Get it going.” The lieutenant searched the sail locker, forward. Looked in the toilet, the galley. No sign of Mulcahey.

He went back to the cockpit, pushed the clutch lever. The Sea-Dog shuddered, answered her helm heavily.

He put her stem to the wind; pointed her bowsprit down Sound toward the spot where he had last seen the Vigilant’s running lights.

From the motor-room, Perris called: “Seacock’s closed.”

“Get that pump going.” Koski examined his foot. The screw-blade had sheared off the side and toe of the boot. He felt of his own toes. They were all there. But his hand came away warm and sticky.

He felt weak.

Can’t droop off now, he told himself angrily.

Neither Mrs. Perris nor Ham Belton was aboard. It must have been one of that pair who had escaped on the Vigilant with Vaugh. Which one it was and what had happened to the other one, was of strictly secondary importance until Koski had learned what had happened to Mulcahey.

He lashed the wheel with a rope becket, went below to the galley, found a bottle of Cuban rum, nearly full.

He let half a pint bum his throat, poured the rest over his cut foot. The sting, inside and outside, braced him.

Perris emerged from the motor room under the companionway. “Pump’s running. But it’ll take a week to get her dry.”

“Not if you bail, too,” Koski snapped. “Grab a bucket and squat down there in the bilge. Get a pail to work.”

“I can’t,” Perris whined. “I can hardly stand.”

“You’ll stand. And for a lot, before this is done! Jump!”

“You can’t blame me for any of this.” The producer began to pour water into the galley sink.

“Not for your engineer’s death, I suppose?”

“Buzz?” The swollen mouth hung slackly open. “Buzz killed?”

“Back there in the cockpit. With his dome caved in.” Koski lifted a bunk cushion. There might be just room enough in the locker beneath to cram a body as big as the sergeant’s.

“I didn’t do it.” Perris shivered. “I’d never have hurt Buzz. He was a great little joker. I liked Buzz.”

“How about your steward? Like him, the same way?”

“I hate him. He’s Sydna’s pick, not mine. He does what she tells him, never sees anything she doesn’t want him to. I paid him off quick, when I got out here, but they tied me up and threw me in the lazarette before I could row him—”

Koski didn’t hear the rest of it; he was running aft.

The lazarette. How could he have been dumb enough to forget that a ketch like this would have to store its bottled gas, for cooking and refrigeration, in a cubbyhole beneath the stern deck!

The tiny hatch was right behind the wheel. He had been sitting on it while he lashed the becket in place!

He tore the hatch open, leaned over, stuck his arm down into the darkness. Water sloshing, tiller lines creaking. And rubber! Mulcahey’s slicker!

Koski glanced forward to make sure Perris was still emptying water into the galley sink. It would be too easy for somebody to bop him, once he squeezed into that deep, narrow compartment.

He let himself down, not daring to hope.

Yet why would Mulcahey’s body have been kept on board? More likely the intent had been to hold him as a hostage. That idea might have been abandoned after Vaugh took over the Vigilant.

Joe was breathing. The hair on the back of his head was matted with oil and blood.

It took a while to hoist him up through the hatch, into the cockpit. Koski didn’t want to move him any more than necessary. Maybe the sarge had a fractured skull.

In the galley was an unopened quart of Pieper Heidsick, ’28. Perris stared as Lieutenant Koski knocked the head off the bottle.

“I’d let you try some of your own champagne, but the bubbles might bruise your tender little lips. What were they trying to get you to tell ’em?”

Perris just shook his head.

“Where you’d hidden the stuff you’d brought up from Cuba and meant to take ashore in that suitcase, I expect.”

Perris said nothing.

Koski peered into the toilet-room. “Where is that suitcase? Did they find the stuff and take it with them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Duke of Dames wiped a smear of oil across his nose.

“That’s why they didn’t mind letting you go down with the ketch,” Koski nodded. “They made you sing. You told ’em where you’d hidden it.”

Perris clamped his mouth shut, winced at the pain it caused.

Koski took the champagne, went back, dribbled a little between Mulcahey’s half-open lips.

The sergeant sputtered, made gagging noises, opened one eye. “I’ll break every living bone in your — Steve!”

He tried to sit up. Koski put a palm on his chest, held him down.

“Easy. Drink this moose juice. How you feel?”

“Head aches,” the sergeant grumbled. “Ears ring. I see double. I could spit sewage. But show me that cruddy wrestler and I’ll feel just grand!”

“Maybe can do same, chop-chop.”

Mulcahey took a gulp of the champagne, rolled over, got his knees under him, peered overside.

“Where we at, Steve?”

“Off Greenwich.” Koski pointed to a red light beneath a white one, bobbing back and forth in short, irregular arcs a mile or so ahead. “There’s the Vigilant — and maybe your wrestler and his girl are aboard her with Cap Vaugh.”

Mulcahey tried to focus. “You been chasing a police boat in this old tub of a ketch?”

“Yair.”

“Are you daft? We couldn’t catch the old girl if she was running in reverse, Steve.”

“No. But she’s not running. She’s waiting for us.”

“You do these things with mirrors, perchance?”

“With a sock. And a handkerchief, Sarge. Stuffed into her water intake. Our hundred and eighty horses must have overheated slightly, I’m afraid. Maybe we’ll find cylinders frozen, so the repair boys at Randalls will have to do a little reaming on her. But that won’t be all we’ll find.”

Mulcahey breathed: “Ah, now, Steve. Does your magic wand routine include producing some weapons with which to pacify these dillies? Or do we go after them barehanded?”

Koski said tightly: “We’ll try dosing them with their own medicine, Joseph.” Finally, after a long chase, the Sea-Dog hauled up even with the Vigilant. Koski hailed her:

“Ahoy, police boat.”

Koski repeated the hail as the Sea-Dog slid slowly up to the Vigilant’s starboard quarter. Above the Vigilant’s coaming three heads watched the rubber-coated figure standing by the ketch’s wheel.

Captain Vaugh shouted: “Sheer off!”

The Sea-Dog closed in. Flame spat from the ketch’s rail.

A scream came from the figure at the wheel. The man toppled. Before he hit the deck, Mulcahey sprang from the shadow of the ketch’s forecastle hatch, landed in the patrol boat’s stem. At the same instant, Koski’s pistol spoke sharply — once, twice.

Vaugh’s head lolled over the coaming. The other two turned toward the sergeant. Koski took a flying leap from beside the body of Maury Perris, hit Sydna between the shoulders as she aimed her automatic at Mulcahey.

The sergeant took a full minute to subdue Ham Belton. The last forty seconds were not precisely necessary.

“Creep up on me from behind, would ye?” Mulcahey reverted to the Hibernian when in full cry of battle. “Leave me to drown, would ye?”

Sydna squirmed beneath Koski’s weight. He stamped on her wrist, got the automatic. She clawed at his eyes. He batted her on the ear with the forty-five. She spat in his face.

He called grimly, “Hustle that first aid kit, Sarge.”

Mulcahey’s voice was anxious: “Did that tommy get you, Steve?”

“No. It got Perris. I just want some tape to fix this hellcat’s wrists.”

Mulcahey tripped over Vaugh: “This one here — you’ll not be needing to tie him.”

“Maybe he got the best deal at that, Joe. All over, quick. These two will have a long time to think about what’s coming to them. For the steward’s murder. Cotlett’s and Perris’.”

Mulcahey brought the adhesive.

“Most likely a jury will take pity on the poor little girl who was misled into a life of sordid crime by her unscrupulous husband.”

Sydna snarled something no poor little girl should have uttered.

Koski slapped the first piece of tape across her mouth.

“My guess, Sarge, is that this unwholesome little witch was the core of the whole, rotten apple. The yacht was hers. Idea of making dough with it was probably hers, too. She hired the crew from around her home town. She most likely corrupted that engineer so he’d do anything she wanted. Likewise the steward. Chances are she had the Cuban connections to get the stuff, too.”

“What stuff?”

“Marihuana. What did you think those trips to Cuba were for? The Sea-Dog went down there, loaded up with a hundred pounds or so of raw weed, brought it to New York.”

“There is such h thing as customs inspection, is there not?” The sergeant opened the motor hatch, touched the hot metal.

“Yair. Easy for a yacht to skip it by sailing in from Block Island Sound instead of through the harbor. Illegal, of course, but the whole setup would have earned them pen-sentences, anyway.”

Mulcahey found the suitcase, opened it. “This is the junk they make muggles out of?”

“Muggles. And murderers. And stick-ups. Dozen kind of crimes. Yair. Also you can make a lot of moola out of that weed, if you don’t care how you make it. Sells for around a hundred bucks a pound, raw.”

“They were all In it, Steve? The crew, and all?”

“Doubt it. Vaugh was. Buzz was smoking the stuff, whether he was in on the whole smuggling deal or not. He was loaded to the gills when I ran into him in the Beacon tonight. This dame had to gun Cotlett, after conning him along into taking the ketch off the mooring. She was probably afraid of him while he was on the stuff, thinking he’d talk too much and give the game away. That’s the way she paid off all her crew — with lead.”

Mulcahey puffed out his cheeks, sagely.

“This floater up by the Causeway. You figure that he is Frank Kaalohti?”

“I figure Perris snapped the switch on the steward, soon’s he got on board. Likely Kaalohti was on a muggles-jag, too, and tried to interfere when Perris began to bawl out his wife for double-crossing him. It didn’t look right for him to have gone ashore leaving his bank deposit book. But the amounts he’d been sticking away in savings were too small for him to have been in on the Mary Warner smuggling. So they must have settled on knocking him off after he overheard Mrs. Perris toning down her husband.”

“I thought he half killed his wife,” Mulcahey protested.

“He might have meant to. He came on board with homicide in his heart, I suppose. Maybe he did beat up Belton. But she must have cooled down the late Mr. Perris by telling him she had left incriminating information ashore somewhere, covering their weed-running together. If he did anything to her, the evidence would come out. Then Perris would go to the clink, lose his business, so on.”

Mulcahey felt of the motor again. “This one is getting cooled off, too.”

“We’ll try turning her over in a minute and go after that ketch before she hits the rocks. That’s all there was to it, Joe, except that after she slowed Perris down, she and Belton jumped him. They tied him up and tried to get him to tell her where he’d stached the stuff they’d brought in on the last trip north. He must have kept that secret to himself.”

“Ah, ha! He knew if he told her, that would be curtains for him!”

“Sure. I’d say he stowed it in the lazarette, where they found it when they went to put you in there in place of Perris. But Perris must have known she meant to exit him anyway. Because after she got him where she wanted him, she took off his rings and his wrist-watch and all the stuff that would identify him, put ’em on the dead steward and dumped him overboard.”

“I take it back about the jury. If you go on the stand to tell ’em.”

“Yair. They probably let Kaalohti’s face get chewed up a little by the propeller, so he wouldn’t be recognizable. Then they ran him ashore in the dink, and punched it full of holes. Left it near the joint where Buzz usually went to lap up beer, so he’d get blamed — if it did come to a murder indictment.”

“All that mahuska about Perris tying Belton up and walloping his wife was just window-dressing they fixed up when they saw the Vigilant coming to investigate, huh?”

“Might say so, Irish. A dummy trick, all right. If a dame was really scared she was going to get her throat cut, I figured that she’d have something better than a pillow to defend herself with.”

The loudspeaker began to squawk:

“Attention Vigilant. Attention Vigilant. Small craft reported ashore on eastern side of Little Neck Bay. Investigate. Authority, Manhattan Police Communications. Ten-forty p. m. That is all.”

Mulcahey swore. “Now it’s some scow ashore on a mud flat they want us to chase after. I never will be able to square myself with my doll!”

“What you kicking about?” Wearily Koski pushed the starter button. “It’s a nice night for a boat ride, isn’t it?”

Rough Party

G-Men Detective, Winter, 1951

Stealthy fingers of fog reached out to strangle the lighthouses marking danger spots along the Sound. Even the ghostly loom of Execution Rock became a hazy blur against the gray velvet of the summer mist.

At the wheel of the police boat, Sergeant Mulcahey took one last pelorus reading before the giant beacon was choked off.

“ ’Tis a dog’s life, no less — patrol duty on a night like this, Steve,” he said.

The man leaning against the port coaming struck a match, applied it to the bulldog briar which was clamped, bowdown, between his teeth. The flare of flame, reflecting from the wet rubber of his slicker, mellowed the seamy harshness of his weather-bitten features, giving them the quality of some bronzed warrior statue, glistening with moisture.

“It might not be so bad for a seeing-eye dog, at that, Irish,” Lieutenant Steve Koski said.

“ ’Tis no fit for beast or man.” The sergeant throttled the hundred and eighty horses down to a walk, nosed the Vigilant toward the Sands Point shore. “Th’ proper an’ suitable way to spend a night like this is before a cozy fire, settled down comfortably with a good wench.”

Steve Koski cupped one hand behind his leeward ear. “Next week is your off-time — you can do your home work then — cut your motor!”

Mulcahey switched the engine to silence. Only the hissing bone in the patrol-boat’s teeth and the soft rustle of her wake disturbed the blanketed hush of the quiet waters.

Down sound, the deep mournfulness of a tramp freighter’s whistle was echoed by the querulous hoot of the Port Jeff ferry. A distant tug uttered threats about the Hell Gate channel. Koski pointed, twenty degrees off the port quarter:

“There. Slow and easy, sarge. Somebody splashing...”

“Dropping a mud hook, likely. Playin’ it smart instead of runnin’ blind in pea soup like this.”

Mulcahey pushed the starter button, gave the thirty-two footer a touch of clutch, let her coast, nudged her again gently.

“Light, Irish.”

The white blade of the searchlight sliced through the steaming mist. “Even an old sea dog is not supposed to have the nose of a bloodhound, Steve. Or would it be the ears of a bat you fancy yourself havin’?”

For answer, Koski stepped to the waterway beside the pilot house, grabbed the long boathook.

“Hear it?” he asked.

Mulcahey killed the motor again, stepped to the door of the pilot house.

“He-e-e-elp!” The cry barely audible, not because it was far away, but on account of the thin, faint voice. “He-e-e-elp!”

“Coming!” bellowed Koski.

The Vigilant crept ahead. The white lance of the searchlight probed — left, right, up—

“Hold it!” Koski angled the boathook toward something white and sinuous moving in the wreathing vapor which lay along the surface of the water.

Mulcahey spun the wheel. The police boat swung around.

Koski leaned far out toward the pale, frightened face beneath the dark tangle of hair, held the boathook by its last six inches. The sinuous arm reached up to seize the metal prong.

“Leaping catfish,” breathed the sergeant. “A girl!”

Koski pulled her in, slowly. When she came alongside, he reached down, caught her arm, slid the boathook inboard and got a two-hand grip.

Mulcahey helped him get her over the gunwale — his eyes bulging.

The girl was young, pretty, terrified — and except for a bra and the briefest of panties, quite without clothing.

There was no more color in her face than on the underside of a halibut, except for her right eye around which was a circle of leaden discoloration which matched the shade of her lips.

On her shoulders were other bruises. She shivered, as Koski carried her below. He had the feeling it was not entirely because of immersion. He flung a blanket around her before he put her on the bunk.

“Anybody else out there with you?”

“No.” Noiselessly her lips formed the syllable and she shook her head.

“How’d you get out here in the Sound?”

She found her voice then. A weak, timid voice:

“I... I don’t remember. I... I think I fell overboard. The boys were fooling around—”

Mulcahey, bringing the flask from the first-aid kit, said: “That must of been kind of a rough party you was on!”

Koski held the brandy to her lips. “Get some of this in you. Make you feel better.”

She drank, coughed, rolled over on her side, was sick. She braced herself against falling to the cabin floor with her left hand. On the wrist, stones glittered in the feeble light from the bulkhead.

Koski bent. The tiny hands on the jeweled face of the wristwatch had stopped at 10:17.

“Twenty-five minutes,” Koski said. “You been swimming around all that time?”.

“I... I guess so.” She rolled back onto the bunk, avoiding his eyes. “You’re... you’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Yair. What boat you take this dive off?”

“I never noticed its name.” She tried another pull at the flask. “Just — some fella’s motor boat.”

“Yair?” Koski gave no indication as to whether he believed her. “What’s your name?”

“Alice... Alice Wilson.” If there was any hesitation in her answer, it was imperceptible.

“Who’d you go on this party with, Miss Wilson?” The Lieutenant might have been a sympathetic physician.

“Uh... Charley.” She stared at him. “Charley something. I never did know his last name. I... I just met him in a place and we were dancing and I guess maybe we were drinking and he asked me if I’d like to go on a motorboat cruise—”

Mulcahey raised his eyebrows, stuck out his lower lip and inclined his head forward. “You’re lucky to be alive! You know that!”

“Yes,” she breathed, “I know that.” Fear showed plainly in her dark eyes — she closed them and sank back on the rolled-up dungarees which served as a pillow behind her head.

“You’re going to be all right,” Koski said. “Go to sleep, you want to. We’ll run you in.”

She nodded again, without opening her eyes.

Mulcahey threw in the clutch. “Bayside’ll be quickest, for a doc, huh?”

“I don’t think she needs a doctor.” Koski’s voice was muffled by the roar of the motor. “I don’t know what she needs. Might be a lawyer.”

“Ah, now, Steve!” “She was covering up, Irish.” “That, she needed. But she could of. been leveling. ‘Twouldn’t be the first time some sea-goin’ Lothario gets a party of mice aboard and figures they can’t get off an’ walk home. So—”

“Horse! She didn’t know the guy’s name. Or the boat’s name. She didn’t offer to tell us where she met this Charley. Where they got on the boat. Or who else was in the party. Besides, if it was just that she fell overboard or went on a party swim — she’d be tickled silly to be rescued. She’s not. She’s scared witless, right now.”

The Vigilant rounded Plum Point cautiously, crept into Manhasset Bay through the great, moored fleet of yachts against the outgoing sweep of the tide.

Mulcahey spoke with his eyes fixed on the red channel markers. “They’s pretty near a thousand craft in this harbor, Steve. How you goin’ to find out which one of ’em she come off?”

Koski glanced down at the still figure swaddled in the army blanket. He spoke loudly enough for her to hear:

“We’ll take her to the police station and let her call up her people to come and get her, first.”

The girl opened her eyes wide. She hadn’t been asleep.

“I haven’t got any people. I live alone. In a furnished room. All I want is a taxi and to go home.”

“For a babe who lives alone in a furnished room,” said Koski, “you’re carrying around quite a chunk of ice on your wrist. Why’re you so scared of the police?”

The girl rolled off the bunk, stood up, clutching at the blanket which slid down to her middle. All the fear went out of her eyes — her voice was bitter self-condemnation.

“I’ll tell you why,” she said. “My name isn’t Alice Wilson. I live at home with my mother in — a nice part of Brooklyn. I’ve been a dozen different kinds of a fool and it would just about kill her if she knew where I’d been tonight. If you want to know the truth I’d rather have drowned than have Ma find out.”

“Yair,” Koski said dryly. “Pair of dungarees, there on the bunk. They’ll fit you like Camera’s pants but they’ll keep you from shivering yourself silly. Go in the head and put ’em on.” He saw she didn’t understand. “The john. Up forward.”

She snatched up the roll of coarse blue canvas, ran to the head, unlatched the door, slammed it behind her.

Mulcahey made a quarter circle around a moored schooner, avoided a tiny class sloop which was being paddled, sails down, across the fairway, headed for the municipal pier. Beyond, the lambent green eyes of the police boat on shore cast a grisly biliousness over launches, dinghies, outboards and flat-bottomed scows ranged alongside the pier.

“Myself,” said the sergeant, “I am not one to trust a pretty further than the nearest dark alley. But I would be inclined to slip this kid a fin and send her home to her mah-mah. Do you not feel this way about it?”

“Not to give you a short answer,” Koski said, “no.”

Mulcahey squinted at him. “Is it a hunk of pig iron you have for a heart, now!”

“Use some skull, Irish. She switches the act on us, sure. But it’s still an act.”

The lavatory door opened. The girl came out. She’d rolled the dungarees up to her knees — tied the shoulder straps together to make a kind of halter effect in front.

The loose garment was floppy and ludicrous, but she filled it out where it looked well.

“If you only had a sweater,” she grinned shyly, “I’d be all set.”

“Sure,” Mulcahey jumped, “I’ve a sweatshirt which will fit you no worse than th’ Lieutenant’s dungies—”

Koski said sharply: “Slide us in to the pier, first, Irish.” To the girl: “The matron at the station will have some things you can put on.”

Her face clouded. “You aren’t going to make me go there!”

“Depends.” Koski watched the sergeant deftly kick the big hull around against the pier with right rudder. “On you.”

“How?” She came up to the cockpit, eyes searching his.

“I can’t let you go without being sure there wasn’t somebody with you in a speed boat — or a dink — or maybe one of those bantam sloops.” He waved at old Murfree, on the dock, catching the stern line from Mulcahey. “You’ll have to put it on the line, sister. Or I’ll have to check you in, for investigation.”

She began to cry. Her lips trembled. She leaned wearily against the cabin bulkhead.

“All right,” she said. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything except my name.”

“Who was your joy friend?”

“Charley Haskeline.”

“Who’s he?”

“Works for an advertising agency. Radio City.”

“Where’d he keep his boat?”

“New Rochelle. Some yacht club. Hugenor or something.”

“Ay codfish!” It was old Murfree, leaning over the stringpiece of the wharf, gawping down at the girl. “What’s the matter, miss?”

She looked up, blankly.

So did Koski. “What goes, Murf? You know this chick?”

“Tell him the truth, mister!” The girl cried shrilly, before the old watchman could answer. “Tell him you never saw me before in your life!”

The watchman peered more closely, twisting his head this way and that to see her in different lights. He tugged dubiously at his grizzled mustache.

Behind him, Mulcahey shook impatiently. “Put a name to it, pop. Do you or don’t you know her?”

“I know her,” Murfree nodded soberly. “But I never in my life saw her in a getup like that. And that’s the truth, ay codfish!”

Koski touched the girl’s shoulder. “Well?”

“He’s making a mistake,” she sobbed. “I’ve never been here before. How could he know me?”

The watchman straightened, troubled. He spoke in an undertone to Mulcahey.

“He says,” the sergeant called down, “she is a Mrs. Sundstrom and she lives out on a houseboat called Seabohemia with her husband who is Mister Sundstrom—”

“No kidding,” said Koski.

“And Murf sees her a couple of times every day when she rows in for groceries.”

The girl tensed, sprang. Toward the water.

Koski grabbed, caught her around the waist, dragged her back.

“I thought you’d had enough of that.” He kept his grip on her. “Let’s go out and see how your husband’s getting along, Mrs. Sundstrom.”

Mulcahey dropped to the foredeck.

“This houseboat is about halfway to Plum Point. A big one, painted green and white like an awning — I remember many’s the time thinkin’ what a spot for a vacation. Nobody to call you on the phone or push the door bell or—”

“Cast off, Murf,” Koski called. “Much oblige. Might drop in by-and-by for some more dope.”

The watchman threw down the bow line, neatly coiled. “Ay cod, now you got me worrit. Hope you don’t find nothing wrong out to the houseboat.”

The Vigilant backed away from the pier, went astern in the channel, headed out into the coiling mist — edged in between closely moored bridge-decks and single stickers. Its searchlight picked out the zebra-striped hull of a big houseboat with a railed-in sun deck. Yellow light diffused through the fog from its six side windows.

“Ahoy,” Mulcahey roared. “On board Seabohemia.”

No answer.

He hollered again as the police boat bumped the houseboat’s rub-rail.

Koski said: “Mind the babe,” did a one-hand vault over the rail onto the low foredeck of the floating house.

His feet hit the deck only a split second ahead of the sharp and angry crack of the automatic. He let his knees go, flung himself flat.

From within the lighted cabin came a hoarse, angry bark, almost an echo of the gunfire:

“If you want me, come in and get me, you double-crossing two-timer!”

Koski kept rolling, on the fog-slippery deck, until he was out of the line of fire from the doorway.

Behind him Mulcahey yelled, “Hey! Cut that!”

Bare feet slithered along the greasy-wet planks beside him.

“Sundy!” the girl’s voice was close beside the Lieutenant. “Stop that shooting!”

Koski grabbed her leg, pulled her off balance. She fell on top of him. The gun inside spoke again.

Boots thudded heavily on the rear ‘porch-deck’ of the houseboat — Mulcahey, going aboard from the bow of the Vigilant, with a line.

The girl screeched again — “Sundy — stop it! — you crazy?” She fought to scramble in the doorway.

Koski clipped her on the chin with a short left. Her head snapped back as if her neck was a rubber band. She collapsed limply.

Somewhere at the stern, a door banged open under the drive of Mulcahey’s brogan. The man inside the houseboat cursed thickly. The gun coughed again.

Koski went in, fast.

A bull-necked man with enormous shoulders and a big bald head stood straddle-legged with his back to a table littered with bottles, glasses, broken cups, greenbacks. He wore sailors’ whites and a short-sleeved undershirt which showed the hard, knotty muscles of his hairy arms. His left hand held a short-bladed dirk, his right, a long-barreled revolver with smoke dribbling lazily from its uplifted muzzle.

He chopped the gun down, aiming at the door leading to the rear compartment, through which Mulcahey would have to come.

The door burst open. The sergeant plowed in, six feet of dripping, rubber-clad target.

Koski dived at the table. The gun spat a tongue of flame at the ceiling. Table, gunner and Koski crashed to the deck together in a shower of broken glass.

Mulcahey stepped in, clubbed his gun. The barrel caught the baldheaded man over the ear. He shook his head like a dog coming out of water, twisted, kicked upward from his half-reclining position. His saddle oxford caught the sergeant ten inches below the belt buckle.

Koski clamped an, arm under the bald man’s chin, wrestled his knee into the small of the undershirted back. The revolver described a small, flashing arc, hit Koski’s knee cap. A wave of agonizing pain washed over him. He levered pressure on the windpipe in the crook of his forearm, heard a snap as if the man’s neck had broken.

Sundstrom’s left hand scrabbled around on the floor, came up with the jagged neck of a broken rum bottle — jabbed it over the muscular shoulder, at Koski’s eyes.

Koski lunged sideways, smashed the bald head toward a leg of the overturned table. The bottom of the leg hit the crown of the hairless skull with a solid guk! The broken glass dropped out of Sundstrom’s fist.

Mulcahey clouted him once more across the temple.

“Takin’ one thing with another, Steve,” the sergeant rolled the unconscious man on his stomach, “I would say this mouse is very lucky indeed to get off with no more than a shiner. This is a very tough customer.” He snapped handcuffs on the wrists crossed behind Sundstrom’s back.

“Too tough to be just schwocked.” Koski’s eyes roved from the overturned table to the double berth, the built-in cupboards and wardrobe, the bookshelves stacked with oblong brown-paper parcels, the big floor-model radio and the desk beside it with typewriter and notebook. “What was he trying to hide, I wonder?”

The big Irishman retrieved one of the greenbacks from the table where it had remained, stuck with spilled rum. “Out in the back room there is a big hunk of something covered up with a sheet — and I do not think it is a barber chair.”

“A printing press?”

“Could you think of a better hideout for counterfeiters?”

“There are all kinds of counterfeiters, sarge.” Koski limped to the desk. “Go get that kid. I had to rock her to sleep to keep her from rushing in here and getting a slug.”

Mulcahey stuck Sundstrom’s gun in his raincoat pocket, clomped heavily out to the boat deck.

Koski went to the rear room. It was really two rooms — a small bathroom to starboard — a bigger room, which originally had been the sleeping quarters, to port.

The berths had been left in, used to store cases of paper stock. In the middle of the floor was a cloth-draped something mounted on a solid iron base.

He pulled off the dust cloth. It was a small motordriven press. In the corner, where there had once been a wardrobe, was a four cylinder gas-driven generator.

Koski looked at the form locked on the press bed. He picked up a sheet discarded and flung on the floor.

From the houseboat’s living-room came a moan:

“Sundy! Sundy! They’ve killed you!”

Koski went back. The girl leaned against the radio, weakly. Her eyes were haggard. Mulcahey held her right wrist.

The sergeant gestured impatiently: “He ain’t dead. But he ain’t goin’ to be much use as a husband for a while, Mrs. Sundstrom. They’ll let you see him once a month — on the other side of a screen.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” she whimpered, “you can’t—”

“No?” boomed Mulcahey. “We caught you with your—” he changed it, in midstream, “—with the goods on you.”

“Turn your damper down, Irish,” Koski said. “It’s only a misdemeanor.”

“Counterfeiting?” His partner craned his neck forward.

Koski frowned. “Songs. Not bills, Irish. This wild man was printing boot-legged lyrics. Took down the words off the radio, set ’em up, printed ’em without bothering about getting copyright owners’ permission.” The Lieutenant held out the sheet he’d picked off the floor:

THE FAMOUS 500

Authentic Words of the Most Popular Songs on Stage, Radio and Screen. A Hundred Hit Parades In One — Ten Cents.

“Illegal,” Koski said. “Not very criminal. Not enough to make Mrs. Sundstrom’s husband go berserk. Must have been something else.” He looked at the girl.

“No,” she cried defiantly. “We did print some of those song sheets. But we never sold any ourselves—”

“ ’Sright!” The man on the floor came to, mumbling. He made an effort to roll over. “She didn’t have anything to do with it, Hannah didn’. I killed him, myself.”

Koski turned the handcuffed man on his side. The polished scalp was smeary with blood but across the right temple was a livid welt of darker hue. The head of the Harbor Squad plainclothesmen bent to examine it. Tiny flakes of dark green ink, or paint, had been driven into Sundy’s skin.

“Who’d you knock off?” Koski looked down into the watery blue eyes.

The girl tried to get away from Mulcahey: “Shut your mouth, Sundy! Don’t talk!” She flailed ineffectually at the sergeant’s raincoat with a balled-up fist.

Koski went to the row of hooks fixed in the partition beside the door to the boat deck. A yellow sou’wester hung alongside a girl’s cobalt transparent rain cape — next them, an oyster white raincoat. It was long. It had a belted back. And it was damp.

Koski flung the raincoat over the man on the floor. It reached from his shoulders to his ankles. The belt came halfway between his waist and knees.

“Fits you like those dungarees fit her.” Koski fished in the raincoat’s pockets. They yielded a soggy pack of cigs and a folder of paper matches. The folder was metallic burgundy in color — on it in gilt lettering was Maxie.

“Now, who,” Koski made the inquiry as if he didn’t really expect an answer, “is Maxie?”

The man on the floor grunted unintelligibly.

“Maxie’s a guy who came over from another boat to have a drink,” Hannah said. “He forgot his coat when he went, that’s all. Don’t waste your time looking for Maxie!”

“Going to be hard to find?” Koski roamed around the cabin, poking at parcels on the shelves, dishes on the galley sink, the desk.

Letterhead sheets with song lyrics, — everything from Margie to I’m My Own Grampa. And one letter that read:

Dear Mr. Sundstrom: —

Our last shipment of 30 reams of #12 Cyndax Super, 25x38, exhausts the amount of credit which Mr. Maximilian Cavado arranged for you. Inasmuch as we have been unable to contact Mr. Cavado, we suggest you get in touch with him, in order that further shipments may be made on other than a COD basis.

Trusting you appreciate our position in this matter and with many thanks for your valued business to date, we remain—

Faithfully yours,

Gotham Wholesale Paper Corp.

Per: Edmund Bigstaff

Koski rattled the letter between knotty-knuckled fingers. “Maxie’s the other end of your racket, huh? Puts up the coin, sells the stuff after you two print it?”

The girl broke, “Oh, what’s the use! They’ll find out, anyway.”

“Keep your face out of it!” Sundy mumbled through puffy lips.

“I’ve been trying to and what’s it got us except a mauling!” she said.

Mulcahey growled: “It could get you worse, if it’s more fairy tales you’ll be telling.”

She twisted her mouth, wryly. “I wouldn’t be likely to tell you about it, unless I had to. Max was partners with us, all right. He got us into it, when we were flat and needed a buck. We ran most of the risk, he took most of the profit.”

Sundy groaned, rolled over on his face again.

“This afternoon,” Hannah went on, tautly, “Sundy was stewed — dead to the world. I’d just got out of the bathtub, when Max came. Neither of us had expected him, at all. Certainly I didn’t expect him to — make love to me — but that’s what he did.

“I was afraid to holler and wake Sundy up — I was scared there’d be a fight. But Max thought I was just playing hard-to-get. He was—” her voice trembled, tears rolled down her face “—he had me out in the press-room. I was struggling with him — that’s where I got the black eye — when Sundy heard him and went for him.”

“With what?” Koski asked. “His fists?”

She shook her head. “One of those steel forms he uses on the press.”

“Killed him?” Koski was bland.

She nodded. “It was self-defense! Sundy was protecting me!”

“Threw his body overboard?” Koski didn’t seem impressed. “That the story?”

“It’s the truth!” she cried.

“Makes a nice, sympathetic tear-jerker for the jury,” the marine detective admitted, “as far as it goes. Trouble is, doesn’t go far enough. How’d Max get out here, to your houseboat?”

“Same way he always did. Hired that old wharf rat to row him out.” She lost some of her angry insistence.

“Yair? So then Murf rowed back. But you must have had your own rowboat tied up here. You’d have to have a dinghy, to get to shore when you need to. Where is it?”

She was ready for that one. “I put Max — Max’s body — in it. I rowed him out past the point to dump him in — the dinghy tipped over and filled and sank. I had to swim. Couldn’t make headway against the tide. Kept drifting out into the Sound. Thought I was a gone goose — then you came and fished me out.”

“Ah!” Mulcahey tugged impatiently at her arm. “What happened to your clothes?”

“I couldn’t swim with my slacks on. I kicked them off.”

Koski smiled without humor. “And when we get back here to the houseboat, your husband takes a pot shot at you and calls you a double-crossing two-timer. That’s gratitude for you!”

Hannah sobbed through her teeth — she flung the back of her free hand up against her forehead, her head tilted back, her knees buckled.

Mulcahey caught her before she keeled over. He held her helplessly, incredulity stamped on his brick-red face.

She clung close to him, jabbing the muzzle of Sundy’s gun against the sergeant’s ribs, through the cloth of the pocket. He lifted his arms over his head.

She pulled her hand out of the raincoat pocket, tossed a key on the floor toward Koski. “Unless you want your chum to get a hunk of lead, unlock those handcuffs! Quick!”

Koski could have gone for his automatic. She couldn’t cover them both. But to hit her, he’d have to shoot around Mulcahey’s bulk. She was behind the sergeant, using him as a shield.

He stooped — picked up the key.

“You going to let this whacky babe set you in that chair, Sundstrom?” Koski knelt, unlocked the cuffs. “She’ll wind up giving you the kind of hotfoot you only get once in a lifetime.”

The bald man drew his arms to his sides, flexed them, hoisted himself on his elbows. He got his knees under him, wiped blood off his mouth against the short sleeve of his undershirt. He stood up, swaying slightly.

He eyed Koski with cold malevolence, looked at Mulcahey, flattening his lips against his teeth. He stalked across to the girl, held out a stubby palm.

“Give,” he said.

She hesitated — handed over the revolver.

“Sundy!” she breathed in terror. “Sundy! No!”

He nodded, slowly. “You’re a wonderful kid. Best dame to have around, a man could want. But I’m not goin’ to burn because of you and your double-talk.”

“She murdered Max?” Koski said.

“No!.. No!... Sundy!” the girl whimpered.

Sundstrom waved his gun in an ominous semi-circle taking in all three — Koski, the sergeant, Hannah. He touched the green welt on his right temple.

“Maybe it was self-defense, like she claims,” he said. “She’s not my wife, though I’d have spliced up with her in a minute until I found out she’d been Maxie’s girl before she was mine. Maxie introduced us. I should have been wise long ago but I was a dummy an’ never suspected a thing until today.”

His blood-caked face added to the icy menace of the pale, watery eyes.

“Maxie comes to get delivery of a hundred thou of them crummy song sheets. But he says he can only payoff at eight fifty a thou instead of the twelve bucks he agrees on. I know he’s gettin’ rid of ’em to his distributors at sixty-five, so he stands to clear more than five gee, even if he gives us what he agreed to.

“I won’t go for a deal like that. I tell him if he don’t wanna come through, maybe I’ll peddle th’ papers myself. He ain’t got no more right to ’em than I have. They’re all pirated. Hannah an’ I do all the work — she takes down the words off the radio an’ I set ’em up an’ hardly make pressman’s scale runnin’ ’em off.

“He gets sore an’ swears he’ll turn us in to the authorities if we don’t give him th’ bundles — an’ pretty soon I take a poke at him an’ the kid runs to him, bawlin’ an’ starts to fuss over him. She called him ‘Maxie, hon’ an’ ‘Max-darlin’ ’ until I catch wise she really goes for him an’ has been criss-crossin’ me all the time. But he’s mad clear through an’ when she gets in his way, he socks her in the puss an’ knocks her off th’ boat-deck where I’ve chased him.”

“What time was this?” Koski moved casually toward the boat-deck, as if to inspect the scene of the fracas.

“Maybe nine-thirty,” Sundstrom answered. “Max always come at night, so he could load the bundles from the rowboat to his car on the pier, without having too many people ask questions. Anyhow, we go to it — him with a knife an’ me with a splicing fid.”

“All this time,” Mulcahey remarked skeptically, “th’ babe is in the water?”

“I never see her from the time she takes the nose dive off th’ deck. I got other things to attend to,” Sundstrom growled. “Such as Max jumpin’ in our dink an’ slashin’ the line. I get down on my knees an’ grab the gunnel. He picks up an oar and whales me over the head an’ that’s the count for me.

“When I come to, I’m lyin’ half off the deck, with the top of my dome in the water. Th’ dink’s gone an’ Max is gone an’ she’s gone.” He waggled the gun at the girl, frozen with horror against the bookshelves. “But I know she’s with him because I hear him call out — ‘Hannah’ an’ then in a little while — ‘No! — No! Don’t!’ Then I don’t hear no more.

“I’m feelin’ sorry for myself. I lose my girl, my job an’ my partner all at once. I don’t care what happens. So I belt the bottle some — an’ I guess I doze off — because by-and-by I hear somebody yellin’ an’ I figure it’s Max comin’ back, so I up on my pins and start blasting. Only it’s not Max — it’s you cops. So I guess they’s not much doubt who done him in.”

“Don’t say that, Sundy! It’s a lie!” She ran toward him.

Koski stuck out a foot, tripped her. She tumbled with outflung arms toward the muzzle of Sundstrom’s gun.

He swung the revolver aside, to keep it away from her.

Koski stepped in, as the girl plunged against Sundstrom. “Hold the pose — look at the little birdie and don’t move!”

The girl and the bald man swivelled their heads around toward his .45.

“That’s it,” Koski said. “Now, Irish, if you’ll just snap the shutter — we’ll have the happy pair recorded for future generations.”

Mulcahey linked them with the cuffs.

The riding lights of the anchored fleet swayed like spectral metronomes in the wake of the Vigilant as she moved in to the municipal pier.

The sickly green of the police lights shed its sallow tinge over the black hull of the patrol boat. The amber fuzz that was the pier lights burned down feebly through the fog.

“You haven’t any right to arrest either of us,” Hannah snarled. “You can’t even prove Max is dead — without you find his body.”

“That’s right,” Koski said. “If we find your dink tied up here at the float and his car gone, I might have to turn you loose—”

Mulcahey nosed the Vigilant against the pier. The small-boat float was directly ahead and to port. Around it were tied a score of varnished skiffs, canvas wherries, plastic prams, flat-bottomed rowboats.

“See your dinghy there anywhere?” Koski moved up close behind the couple.

“No,” Sundy growled. “She’s not there.”

“He might have rowed in to one of the yacht club floats,” the girl cried. “There’s no proof—”

“Murf... hey, Murf—” Koski called.

The old watchman looped the patrol boat’s stern line over an iron bollard, ran nimbly to the stringpiece, peered down.

“Ay, cod, now! Trouble, eh?” he said.

Koski clambered to the foredeck. “You rowed a guy out to the Seabohemia earlier tonight, Murf.”

“I did so. ‘Twas not the first time, either. A fine gentleman and very generous—”

“Were you supposed to go out and fetch him ashore?” Koski hoisted himself to the pier.

“I was not. He tells me his friends aboard the houseboat, Mister Sundstrom and his wife now, they’d be bringing him back.” Murfree frowned. “But I’ve seen hair nor hide of him since. That’s his car a-standin’ there.” He jabbed a thumb at a new station wagon shiny with chrome and varnish. “He always parks it here so’s I can keep an eye on it.”

Koski took his arm. “We’ve reason to suspect dirty work at the crossroads, Murf.”

“The gentleman, himself?”

“Looks as if.”

“He told me he would be bringing some bundles ashore by-and-by — he’d be needin’ me to help carry them up to his car.” The watchman spat tobacco juice into the water. “Which one of them? Or was it the both, now?”

“They’ve both been telling stories fishier than Friday at Fulton Market.” Koski lowered his voice. “Which one of them did you see when you dropped your passenger off at the houseboat?” He drew the old man out of earshot of the couple, down the cleated ramp to the float.

“Neither,” Murf spat again. “I remember the radio was on — but nobody came out on the boat-deck when the gentleman climbed aboard.”

In a dark brown flat-bottomed boat, a pair of freshly painted oars glinted black under the green light. In daylight, those oars would be bright green.

“That the tub you rowed him out in, Murf?”

“Ay, cod, it is. The poor soul—”

“New oars, huh?”

“Old ones. Fresh painted.” The watchman turned to look at the couple standing by the coaming of the police boat. “Never would I have thought it of them, now.”

Koski looked at the short, frayed rope dangling inside the stern of the rowboat. “That’s what you used, eh, Murf?”

“How’s that?” Murf bent, squinted in the boat. “What?”

“Stone,” Koski said. “Used to have a boulder tied on the end of your bow rope, didn’t you? To use as an anchor?”

“Ay, cod! I did! Where is it now?”

Koski gripped his arm more tightly. “Right about where you got those oars, I’d say.”

The watchman recoiled. “Them are my oars, ay cod! an’ I can swear to it!”

“Be a help if you would, Murf. Because if you look real careful, you’ll see a little paint rubbed off the shaft of that one — that left one. It was where the oar clouted Sundstrom. Some of the paint is still on his bald—”

The old man stamped his heel on Koski’s foot. He spat in his face. He butted him in the chin.

Mulcahey came running.

“The old coot gone crazy, skipper?”

“If you said he went off his nut earlier this evening, Irish, when he decided it was foolish to pass up the money in Max’s wallet,” Koski drew a fat wad of bills from Murf’s pants pocket, “if you said he was crazy enough to think all he had to do was bang Max over the head with an oar and tie his anchor-rock to the body and dump it overside — if you said that, I doubt if anybody’d dispute you. Not Murf, anyway.”

Murf disputed it profanely...

The Vigilant moved slowly out past the point. The lights on the Seabohemia were brighter than anything in the fleet.

“Aren’t you afraid,” asked Mulcahey, “there’ll be another murder — leaving them two out there together on the houseboat, now?”

Koski grinned wearily. “They’ll patch it up, Irish. They’ll weld it with a license, all according to Hoyle. You’ll see. It’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Sundstrom testifying, when Murf goes on trial.”

“Each of ’em thought the other killed Max?”

“Yair. But the girl was lying all the way. And Sundstrom was telling the truth. The mixture made it kind of tough to figure what did happen.”

“Murf heard the fighting, in at the pier?”

“Sure. So he rowed out in his flat-bottom to see what was going on. What was going on was Max, paddling around in the dark and the mist, trying to find Hannah, calling her name.”

“But he was the one who’d knocked her into the water, Steve.”

“Oh, when Max and Baldy started slugging, she barged in and caught a stray punch. It knocked her overboard. After Max batted Sundstrom senseless with the oar handle, he went looking for her. Murf heard him...”

“Never in a thousand would I have believed that old dodo would do a thing like that.”

“Doubt if he meant to do it, Irish. But when he got out there and saw how easy it would be — anyone who suspected foul play would blame Sundstrom because of the noisy quarrel on the houseboat — why, Murf just up and banged Max with his oar.”

“Ah. That’s when Sundstrom heard Max yell out — ‘No, no’ and so forth!”

“Yair. Murf probably broke one of his oars over Max’s skull — he wouldn’t have swapped the green ones in Sundstrom’s dinghy for his own, otherwise.”

“But where,” the sergeant wanted to know, “is that dinghy!”

“One man’s guess, Irish. I’d say Murf knocked a hole in it and sank it, after he’d tied the anchor rock to Max and sunk him.”

The lights of the harbor became a faint haze, astern. Mulcahey regarded his partner and superior with something approaching awe.

“You figure all this before we get back to the pier, Steve?”

“Shucks, no. But if Sundstrom was telling the truth, Max left the houseboat in the dinghy alive. He’d make for the pier and his car. If he didn’t get there, who stopped him? Only other person beside the man he’d left unconscious on the Seabohemia and the girl he thought was floundering around in the water — was the watchman who thought he was so ‘generous’.”

“It still leaves the dame, skipper. How did she get ‘way out there in the Sound?” “That’s the only thing she leveled on, sarge. When she came to, after that sock in the eye, she couldn’t see anything. The tide was going out fast. Only thing she could do was swim with it and yell for help. She didn’t know where she was. She kicked off her slacks and sweater—”

“And when we haul her aboard, what a line of hodelyo she hands us. For why?”

“To keep us from taking her back to the houseboat, discovering the song-piracy setup.”

“But when she does get there? More yatadada!”

“To throw suspicion on Sundstrom, yair. Like you said, Irish.”

“Huh?”

“You told her there must have been a rough party on board. There was. And the female of the species was the roughest of the lot!”

The Kiss-and-Kill Murders

Popular Detective, May, 1953

Chapter I

The car’s headlights probed beyond the curve of the highway to the massed darkness of close-ranked hemlocks. From the safety fence guarding the curve where it crossed the brook a shadowy grotesqueness rose, flapping and floundering into the path of the Cadillac. The man at the wheel braked, cursed.

The girl beside him made a frightened movement to shield her face from the expected impact, but the great bird rose clumsily in time to escape more than a touch by the car.

“For God’s sake,” she murmured, “what was that?”

“Turkey buzzard.” The driver swung back to his proper lane. “Carrion buzzard.”

“Ugh!” She shuddered. In the dim, reflected glow from the instrument board her delicate features seemed suddenly pinched with terror. “It looked like a fugitive from a bad dream. Do they have many of those things down here on the Eastern Shore?”

“They’re common as chickens.” He allowed himself a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Matter of fact, they live on chickens. Dead ones the broiler farms throw out. That’s all they eat — dead things.”

“Brrr. They give me the heebies. This whole country does. Sooner we get out of here, the better it’ll suit me.” She pushed in the cigarette lighter. “How much further is it, to this God-forsaken place?”

“Few miles.” He swung off the through route onto a dirt road. “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to stay long.”

“I don’t see why we had to come down here at all.”

“So you won’t make any dumb mistakes if somebody starts to ask questions about your Maryland estate, the way you did when that salesgirl jumped you about the farm up in Connecticut.”

The girl shifted her position uneasily. “How could I have guessed she had been born right there in Whilton?”

“You couldn’t. But you could have kept your head instead of getting panicky and telling her you’d been living there only a short time when your family was supposed to have owned the place since the Civil War.” He slowed the car at massive brick gateposts, turned in between them to a winding lane guarded by high hedges of box.

“Only thing that saved us was that the salesgirl was dumb, too. She thought you were a phony but she wasn’t bright enough to follow through on her suspicion and notify one of the store detectives.”

“You’re always blaming me.” she retorted bitterly. “Whatever goes wrong is always my fault.”

He brought the car to a stop before the low brick porch of a white-pillared Colonial mansion.

“No. It was my error. I don’t intend to make the same mistake a second time. That’s why I brought you down here to look over the ground.”

She opened the car door on her side. In the wedge of brightness from the headlights red eyes glared from the shrubbery at the side of the porch. “Oh! Look!”

“Rabbit,” he said. “Thick as fleas this time of year.”

“I don’t want to stay here! I’ll bet there are a million snakes—”

He came around the hood of the car, swinging something that glinted a metallic blue-black. “There aren’t any. But this’ll take care of anything that shows up.” He took her arm.

“No!” she cried. “I’m scared! I don’t want to go any further!” She bit hard on the knuckle of her left index finger. “Please don’t make me go where it’s dark! I can see enough from here!”

He pushed her toward the porch. “Suppose you run up against someone who asks you if you’ve had the lovely old staircase fixed up? Don’t be silly. Come on inside. Here, take the flashlight.”

“There’ll be rats!”

“Probably. They won’t hurt you.”

He used a huge, brass key. The white-paneled front door swung open to disclose a hallway full of shrouded chairs, a hooded grandfather’s clock, cloth-covered paintings.

She hung back. “No, please, darling! You wouldn’t make me go in there if you cared the least bit for me!”

He slid an arm around her waist. “Stop worrying, baby. I’m right here with you.”

She stepped inside the musty-smelling hallway. The beam of her flashlight traveled around the hall, poked into a living room where a white and frightened face stared back at her from an enormous pier-glass — her own face.

The sound of the door closing behind her made her whirl, gasping.

“The wind.” He smiled with his mouth; his eyes regarded her with somber calculation.

She found herself unable to do more than whisper, “There isn’t any wind.”

“Go on. Upstairs.” The gun-barrel pointed.

“No!” she managed, stiff-lipped. “I’m not going up there. I–I’m not going to stay in this house one more minute. I—”

“Yes.” The smile remained fixed, unreal.

“You’re staying.”

She retreated from him, backing into the living room. “That’s why you brought me here!”

He followed her, unhurried.

She screamed. “No, no! Don’t! For God’s sake! Wait!”

The gun roared, and she moaned. The flashlight wavered, fell to the floor, went out.

He waited until he heard her fall, until the labored panting ceased. Then he flicked on his cigarette lighter, found the flashlight.

It was an effort to lift the body, sling it over his shoulder. The difficulty of carrying it up the winding staircase to the second floor, up the straight, steep steps to the third floor, finally up the short, vertical ladder to the trap-door in the roof, left him with hammering heart and throbbing temples.

Once out on the square, railing-enclosed roof from which some pioneer builder of the mansion had once watched for sails inbound toward his creek, the man lit a cigar before stripping the clothing from the dead girl. He removed her rings, her wrist-watch.

Then he used the butt of the gun to disfigure the face, to smash the dental work in her mouth.

“Okay,” he muttered after a long time. “Okay, you rats.” He looked out across the wide lawn toward the locust trees and the fringing hemlocks. “Come and get it.”

Chapter II

The Chief of Store Protection scowled down on the umbrella-carrying throngs of New York and the turtling taxis of Fifth Avenue, inching along between red lights and around the high-backed green beetles of the busses. Rain slashed across the avenue in gusty swirls, driving against the third-floor windows of his office in “Nimbletts, The Great Store,” puddling the pavements and sloshing small torrents into the gutters. The March morning suited his mood, which was unpleasantly glum.

The harassed frustration of vehicles and pedestrians down on the cram-jammed avenue was duplicated by the confused futility of his own mental processes. He transferred his brooding glance from the scene below to the curt memorandum on his desk blotter. The signature at the bottom was the same friendly scrawl that had terminated all the brief instructions from the general manager’s office. But the tone was brusque and bleak.

Don:

The Board will meet at three tomorrow to take up the Deshla matter. I have notified them that you will have a report to make on it at that time. You will appreciate the urgency of the situation. We would not like to face the necessity of taking the investigation out of your hands.

Bob

That was plain and to the point. “Taking the investigation out of your hands” meant “Get to the bottom of the business within twenty-four hours or get a new job.”

The trouble with that was that any other job, at least in the line of store protection, would be a comedown. Just as a demoted four-star general would find it hard to get command of an army, Don Marko would find it tough to try for a position at one of the city’s lesser stores, after four years as head of the detective staff at Nimbletts.

Yet he understood the G.M.’s dilemma. The Deshla business had shaken the confidence of the front office, had put the whole top brass of the big store on edge.

When some crew of slickers could walk in and make off with seventeen thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise, apparently without anyone knowing just what had happened to the stuff, then the petty thefts of shoplifters seemed insignificant. To make it worse, until the tangle could be unraveled, the same trick might be pulled over again — for an even larger amount — and the store protection sleuths wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

He ran his fingers distractedly through his thick goose-feather-white hair. As of now, three days after the theft had accidentally come to light, all he could honestly report was that somebody must be lying like a trooper, because the thing simply couldn’t have happened the way everybody insisted it had. What the Board of Directors would say to any such unsatisfactory report was obvious.

He’d done what he could to plug any possible holes in the store’s defenses. But since he couldn’t figure out just how the trick had been pulled, he was shooting absolutely blind.

There were a couple of Board members who always had been skeptical of him because they thought he was too young to handle Nimbletts’ thirty floor detectives. Only his prematurely white hair, his close-cropped mustache and ascetic cast of features had convinced them that he looked old enough. Well, another twenty-four hours of this sort of pressure would age him, all right.

His phone rang.

“Mr. Marko? Miss Ennis, Draperies. Miss Bayard asked me to tell you she’s bringing someone up to see you.”

“Thank you, Miss Ennis.”

That was store talk for “She’s pinched a shoplifter and is on her way to your office with her prisoner.” In his present puzzled frame of mind, he’d be inclined toward leniency to any of the light-fingered brotherhood or sisterhood who’d tried to get away with a five-dollar pen off the leather goods counter or a lighter from the giftwares section.

The red glass button on his intercom set glowed. He touched the switch. “Yes?”

“Miss Bayard, Mr. Marko.”

“Come on in.”

Mary Bayard was a gaunt, drab, horsy-faced woman with mild gray eyes which peered out from behind gold-rimmed spectacles with an expression of surprised bewilderment. In fact, she was seldom surprised at anything and never bewildered.

The girl who preceded her into the office was in striking contrast to the plainclothes woman. She was in her early twenties and remarkably pretty in a thin, pinched fashion. A dainty face; it might have been puritanical except for the petulant fullness of her lips.

Her coat was the finest Shetland; the suit beneath it expensive hand-loomed homespun. If she had bought those shoes at Nimbletts, she’d paid around thirty-seven-fifty for them. She wore no jewelry, but her figure was enough to obtain for her the attention which some females try to attract by the display of precious stones.

Mary Bayard held out a flat bronze disc. “She claims her name is Betterson, Mr. Marko. Mrs. Clark F. Betterson. She ordered nearly twelve hundred dollars worth of upholstery fabrics, Brocaded damasks, cut velours, fancy materials. Wanted the section manager to have them shipped to the Betterson place in Old Westbury. Gave the salesgirl this token.”

The girl cried indignantly, “You have no right to treat me like a criminal! I haven’t taken one single thing out of your old store. You can’t say I’ve stolen anything!”

Don thought there was an undertone of desperation in the soft voice. “Sit down, young lady. If there’s been any mistake on Nimbletts’ part, you can be sure we’ll straighten it out to your satisfaction.” He looked at the token. It was a genuine Nimbletts charge coin, beyond doubt. “Are you Mrs. Betterson?”

The girl hesitated, biting her upper lip. “No.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I found that coin in the lobby of a hotel and thought it would be fun to see how it felt to pretend I was rich, for once in my life.”

Don tossed the charge token up and caught it on his palm. “Kind of expensive fun for us, wasn’t it? Shipping all that merchandise out to somebody who didn’t want it? So we’d have to bring it all back to the store?”

“I wasn’t going through with it,” she said sullenly. “I’d have told the clerk it was just a joke before I left. Only, this — person—” she gestured irritably toward Miss Bayard — “raised a rumpus before I had a chance to explain.”

Don had heard that one so many times he didn’t even trouble to smile at her lack of ingenuity. “What is your name?”

“I won’t tell you.” The chin went up again. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“If you don’t tell me” — Don shrugged — “you’ll have to tell the judge in court.”

“You can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.”

“Sure. It’s a misdemeanor to try to obtain goods by using another person’s name. Your case, it’s a felony, because of the value of the stuff you tried to get away with.”

“I didn’t, I tell you! It was just a gag.” She didn’t act as if she expected him to believe it.

“Well, you can try to sell that to the judge, too.” Don took a card out of his side drawer. “But I might point out that if you’re anxious to avoid getting your real name in the newspapers, it might be easier to talk to me. Once they book you at the police station, I can’t help you at all.”

She flung out her hands in appeal. “If I do tell you — who I am — will you let me go?”

“I’ll have to know a little more than your name.”

Don began to fill in the descriptive blanks on the card. “White — Female — Blonde — Blue—”

“What, besides my name?”

“We can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harriet coming in the store and ordering a thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise charged to somebody else.” He scribbled “5'5”... and “125” on the card. “You claim you found Mrs. Betterson’s token. But you didn’t find her Old Westbury address on the coin.”

“Oh” — she fluttered the fingers of one hand — “I knew where she lived, I’ve seen her out there at the polo matches—” She stopped as if fearful of having said more than she intended.

“How did you know the Bettersons were home?”

She stared at him, the color draining from her face. “I never thought about it, one way or the other. I meant it just for a practical joke. I don’t see what difference it makes.”

Don leaned over to speak to the intercom. “Phone the Clark Betterson estate out in Old Westbury, Long Island. I want to talk to Mrs. Betterson, if she’s home.”

“Yes, Mr. Marko.”

Don tapped the identification card on the desk. “How’d you happen to hit on the drapery department for your practical joke? Why not have the fun of ordering clothes, the way most girls would have if it was all in the spirit of good, clean fun?”

The girl said, “I just like pretty fabrics, that’s all.”

Mary Bayard said quietly, “You put the section manager to a great deal of trouble, getting out special patterns and matching colors with those slips in your handbag.”

The girl said nothing. Don reached for the handbag.

She snatched it to her breast, held it with her forearms crossed over it protectively. “If you try to touch one single thing, I’ll—”

The intercom said, “The traffic supervisor at Central in Old Westbury says the Betterson phone has been disconnected for the last four weeks, Mr. Marko. Says they can’t say for certain, but they understand the place is closed up and that the Bettersons are vacationing on the French Riviera.”

Don said, “Thanks a lot.” He studied the girl for a moment. “Not such a big joke, now.”

She licked her lips. “I didn’t know.”

He said, “You’ll have to make up your mind. Do you want to talk to us or to the police?”

She frowned. “If you’d let me talk to you, alone.” She glanced sideward at Miss Bayard. “There are some things I–I simply couldn’t tell to any woman.”

Mary Bayard’s mouth twisted in a dry smile.

Don said, “All right, Mary. You want to wait outside a few minutes?”

Miss Bayard opened the door. “Yes, Mr. Marko.” But her expression said she had a pretty good idea what the girl wanted to say without benefit of female audience.

Chapter III

Glancing over her shoulder quickly as the door closed behind Mary Bayard, the girl came close to the desk, pointing at the intercom box. “If you’re going to keep that thing turned on so somebody can listen to everything I say—”

Don cut the switch. “It’s off. Try it yourself.”

“I wouldn’t know whether you’re foxing me or not, so I’ll have to trust you.”

“Guess you will.” He waited.

She perched on the corner of the desk, careless of the exposure of a nyloned knee. “I can’t tell you why it’s so important for me to keep my identity secret, except that if my — my family found out I’d been arrested, I might as well kill myself.”

“Married?” Don recognized her perfume as one of the more expensive French imports carried by Nimbletts.

“No.” She squirmed so her skirt pulled up to show a bit of ivory thigh. “If you’ll just take my word it was all meant as a bit of silly ribbing. I’ll do anything you want me to.” She leaned over, put out a hand to touch his caressingly. “Anything,” she repeated. “I’ll give you my address and you can come up to my apartment tonight, so we can talk it over.”

He smiled. “That’s a most entertaining idea — but I’m afraid this has gone a bit beyond my personal inclinations. Anyhow, how could I be sure you aren’t just kidding me along, to get out of trouble?”

She made a pretense of pulling her skirt down a little. “You could come home with me right now if you want to.”

“You make it sound interesting.” He reached for her handbag. “If you’re willing to go that far, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell me your name.”

She had misunderstood his movement, apparently thinking he had intended to put his hand on her knee. As soon as his fingers closed on the handle of the bag, she seized it with both hands and slid off the desk to her feet.

“I’m Sally Collins,” she said swiftly. “I live at Sixty-eight East Seventy-ninth. Apartment Five. Regent 2-0917. Please don’t tear my bag!”

He kept his grip on the alligator-leather contraption, stood up and stepped around the desk toward her.

“Look,” he said, “We might be able to arrive at some deal to keep you out of court. But in order to do that we’ll have to know all about you. To protect ourselves against any repetition of this charge coin use.”

“I swear by everything I hold dear I’ll never do it again!”

She wrestled for the bag, brushing close against him. Her month was provocatively near, her lime-green eyes wide with anticipation.

He pried her fingers loose from the handle. “Let’s have a look at those color swatches you were matching those fabrics with.”

He opened the bag. She lunged, slapped at the bag, knocked its contents to the floor.

Don held out a hand to keep her off, bent down to retrieve the scattered conglomeration — comb, compact, billfold, keys, coin purse, checkbook.

She raced to the door, yanked it open, rushed through the outer office.

He straightened up in time to see Mary Bayard seize the fleeing girl as she reached the door to the corridor. It wouldn’t be the first time Mary had blocked an escape in just that fashion. She had proved herself so often, in that connection, that cute little Cora Session, Don’s secretary at her desk out there, didn’t feel it necessary to leave her typewriter to help.

The girl wrenched open the corridor door, struggling wildly as the muscular Miss Bayard tussled with her. They lurched through the doorway to the corridor. The girl screamed.

Don saw Mary Bayard fling up her hands, reel sideways against the door frame and crumple to the floor beyond his line of vision.

Cora cried sharply, “Mr. Marko — quick!”

He ran through the outer office as the corridor door slammed. He shoved at it, but something outside was preventing it from opening. It took a good shoulder heave to push the obstruction back.

Mary Bayard was sprawled unconscious on the floor of the corridor. It had been her dead weight that had held the door. The girl had vanished.

Fifteen feet further along, where the corridor made an L turn by the stair-well one of Nimbletts’s middle-aged executives knelt; huddled against the wall. He held both hands to his mouth. Blood gushed from his nose, ribboning down over his hands, his chin, his shirt front. He goggled in fright at Don Marko, took one hand away from his mouth long enough to mumble, “He went downstairs!”

Don reached the stair door, tugged it open, leaned over to peer down. There was no one in sight, but the girl could have kept close to the wall going down. Yet there was no sound of clip-clopping Cuban heels.

He ran back to Mary Bayard. Cora was squatting beside the plainclothes woman. “She’s breathing, Mr. Marko.”

Don stooped, saw the lump on the back of Mary Bayard’s head just above the tightly coiled bun of dark hair. “Knocked out! Call the hospital. Tell one of our nurses to hop down here fast. Don’t move Miss Bayard till the nurse gets here.”

The middle-aged man stumbled to his feet. “Did he kill her?” he muttered through a bloodstained handkerchief.

“Knocked her out, Ralph.”

Don had known the mousy little man since he’d first come to Nimbletts. Ralph Eddrop, assistant credit manager, hadn’t aged or changed a particle in all the intervening years. He was short, inclined to be pudgy, pale, and colorless of speech and manner as well as of complexion. He’d always been the punctual and painstaking, shy and shrinking timid-soul type, but Nimbletts thought a great deal of Ralph’s judgement as to charge accounts and delinquent balances.

Ralph took the handkerchief away from his mouth and examined it with horrified astonishment. “He tried his best to knock me out, too. But I thought it was only a newspaper he had in his hand, so when I saw him attack Miss Bayard, I tried to grab him. He hit me with a perfectly terrific blow right in the mouth.” The credit man felt of his teeth. “It felt like a mule kick.”

Don saw a rolled newspaper lying against the wall halfway to the turn of the corridor. “Why’d you say ‘he’? It was a girl, wasn’t it?” The newspaper had been rolled around a footlong piece of heavy iron pipe.

Ralph’s forehead crinkled into a puzzled scowl. “There was a girl, but I thought that man was about to strike her, too, Don. She ran right past me before I tried to grab the big brute.”

“What’d he look like?”

Ralph snuffled blood back into his nose. “Like a butcher. Big fellow, face like ground hamburger. Six feet, heavy-shouldered. Had on one of those Army trench coats. Couldn’t see what he was wearing. But I could spot him out of a thousand. Had little rolls of fat under his eyes — like pouches that’d bloated out. Did he get away from you?”

Don said, “I never saw him, Ralph. The girl got away from me.”

“What the devil was he doing up here on the executive floor? How’d he get up here?”

“Might have come up to see what we were going to do about the girl.”

Ralph groaned, touching his swollen upper lip. “Was just coming back from the washroom and heard a girl scream. When I poked my head around the corner there I saw this big lunk flailing away at Miss Bayard. He had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face, and for a minute I thought possibly he was one of your men having trouble helping Miss Bayard with a shoplifter. So I didn’t holler for help. Then he spun around and came right for me like a crazy man. Good Lord, I hope he didn’t hurt Miss Bayard seriously.”

A starchy-uniformed nurse hurried along the corridor.

Don was on the telephone to his main entrance guard when Cora touched his arm.

“The nurse says it looks like a fractured skull and might be critical. She wants to get Mary to a hospital right away.”

Don’s eyes clouded. “You go in the ambulance with her, Cora. I’II ring Doc Towbin at the clinic and see to it everything’s ready soon’s she gets there.”

He thought a lot of Mary Bayard. If things went wrong up there on the operating table at the clinic, he would be partly to blame. Because he’d thought he might talk that blond into making a confession, and hadn’t considered the possibility she might have an accomplice here with her.

He’d had his fingers on something important and had let it get away from him!

Perhaps not entirely away, though. He picked up the rest of the stuff that had tumbled out of the girl’s bag, arranged it on his blotter.

The last thing he recovered from beneath his desk, where it had fluttered, was a newspaper clipping with large black type flaunting the name Deshla.

Chapter IV

Dated the ninth of March, twelve days past, the clipping read:

CORPSE FOUND ON ROOF OF BURNED MANOR

Famous Deshla House Razed By Fire

After Lightning Strikes Body of Mystery Woman Discovered

by Volunteer Fireman on Watch Roof

Georgetown, Md. AP : Volunteer firemen from the Sassafras River V.F.D discovered a body in the blackened wreckage of the old Deshla mansion, destroyed by fire following a severe electrical storm here today. Coroner Joseph G. Ashford stated that the remains were those of a young woman, but could give no estimate of the time of death since buzzards or rodents had stripped the bones of flesh. The skeleton was not noticed by members of the Volunteer Fire Brigade until the square portion of the roof collapsed and fell through the burned-out floors to the ground. Police have so far been unable to find anyone who could identify the woman or suggest how she had obtained entrance to the historic old homestead which had been unoccupied by the Deshla family for several months.

Don lifted his blotter, took from beneath it the furniture section’s report on the Deshla mess. He knew it pretty well by heart, but he wanted to verify the dates.

On the fifth of March a young woman representing herself to be Mrs. Cephas Deshla of Georgetown, Maryland, ordered and had charged to the Deshla account furniture and floor coverings to the amount of $17,822.94. She had presented a credit token stamped with Mrs. Deshla’s name and had submitted a list of items prepared for her by the firm of Yates & Gordon. Interior Decorators of Chestertown, Maryland. The furniture section had been unable to locate any such concern.

He juggled the Betterson credit coin on his palm gloomily. The girl in the Deshla fraud couldn’t have been the blonde who had just escaped. The furniture buyer had described the other woman as being tall, statuesque, patrician in appearance and manner. But the points of similarity in the gyp scheme were too noticeable to leave any doubt that Mary Bayard had managed to nip another tricky theft in the bud — and might pay for it with her life.

Don Marko examined the Betterson credit coin with a magnifying glass. It bore every mark of being genuine, including the small speck of darker metal on the reverse side, put there to confound possible counterfeiters. Every Nimbletts section manager and assistant had been trained to watch for that apparent defect on the coin. If some clever duplicator was at work turning out imitations of the Nimbletts charge coin he had been well posted by someone on the store’s staff.

The things that had dropped out of the blonde’s handbag were such as might be found in the possession of any girl of the upper brackets. The compact was studded with a scroll pattern in chip diamonds. The key case was engraved “S.C.” Maybe her name really was Sally Collins.

The phone book, however, listed no S. Collins at the East Seventy-ninth Street address. He dialed the Regent number, got a “What numbah are you calling, puhlease?” in answer. A query to Information brought the reply that no Sally or Sarah Collins was listed in the Manhattan, Bronx, Queens or Richmond directories, or in any of the exchanges in those boroughs.

He thumbed through the stubs of the girl’s pocket checkbook. It bore the imprint of the Traders Exchange Bank and most of the scribbled entries on the stubs were for small sums:

$27.50 — to Dabney’s, shoes

$31.00 — Martha Lewis, lingerie

$14.65 — Chez Moisson, n’tgown

Only one entry was for more than fifty dollars — $200 — C. He thought about that for a while, got up, pulled on his topcoat.

He called up Maxie, his pickpocket specialist covering the escalator at the second floor.

“Sit in for me here, couple hours, Maxie. Get Chet to double for your spot. I’m going out. Just keep things nice and quiet.”

The main building of the Traders Exchange Bank was ten blocks north, but there were branches all over town. It might be a tough job to run down one blonde by means of a few stubs on a relatively small account. Yet it seemed the best chance. The G.M. had been vehement about not calling in the police on any of this credit coin fraud, lest word get around and other confidence operators be tempted to use the same method.

One of the vice-presidents at the bank had been sympathetic but not too helpful. He had showed the stubs to his paying tellers and given them Don’s description of the good-looking blonde, but no one seemed to recognize the writing or the description. All Don got was a list of the thirty-one branches.

He called the clinic, got Cora, and asked about Mary Bayard.

“She’s just come out of the operating room, Mr. Marko,” Cora told him. “They think she’ll pull through but it was a mighty close thing. They said if it hadn’t been for her hair-bun deflecting the blow, she’d have been dead by now.”

“He tried to kill her, all right. Stay with her, Cora. Maxie’s on the desk. You might call him every hour or so. He’ll be like a cat on a hot stove if he gets any tough ones to handle, standing in for me.”

“What are you up to?”

“That blonde told me to come to her house, she’d give me everything. I’m going to try and keep the date.”

“Watch out you don’t land on a hospital cot instead of a studio couch, Mr. Marko. I’m scared of that she-cat and the wild man who tried to murder Mary.”

He soothed her. “I’m just gumshoeing around. If there’s any strong-arming to do, I’ll holler cop, don’t worry.”

“I will too, worry.”

“Okay. Worry about Mary.” He hung up, reached for the telephone directory.

Dabney’s was on Broadway at Sixtieth. Chez Moisson was on Columbus at Seventy-first. It seemed reasonable that “S.C.” would do her shopping in the neighborhood where she banked.

The nearest branch of the Traders Exchange was at Seventy-fourth and Broadway. He used his Nimbletts identification card, mentioned the vice-president at the main bank. An assistant cashier was impressed.

“If you’d ask the teller in your A to M window to come here a minute,” Don suggested, “it might save some time.”

The paying teller was summoned.

Don described the girl, produced the checkbook stubs. “I’d guess her initials were S.C., though that may be a mile off the mark. Anyhow, you’d remember her if she’s been in here much. She looks like important people, real upper crust.”

The teller looked like a dried-up winter apple with a bad taste in his mouth. Nevertheless he knew his stuff.

“I hesitate to say definitely,” he murmured. “but I’m inclined to think this is Miss Collinson’s writing.”

“Bingo.” Don said. “She told us it was Collins. Sally Collins.”

“Miss Collinson’s name, I believe, is Suzanne.” the teller replied diffidently. “And as you put it, she does look like important people.”

“Where’s she live?”

“I’ll get her ledger card for you, sir.” The card read:

Collinson, Suzanne,

619 West 74th St.,

Lorraine 8-6217.

Don said, “Thanks a million.”

He rang the store, got Maxie. “I’m on the track of that conniving blonde who tried to put over a fast one on the drapery section,” he said, and gave Maxie the address. “Just in case I run into something like Mary did.”

Maxie said, “Watch ya step, Chief. Hell is busting loose in a great big way.”

“Something new has been added?”

“Floor Coverings comes up with a charge of 7,800 bucks for Orientals, shipped to some guy over in Red Bank — he ain’t even been in the country for six months.”

“Same setup? Credit coin? Snappy dame?”

“Yep. A redhead that would make General Sherman get down off his horse, Floor Coverings claims. The G.M. has been bellowing his brains out for you, too.”

“Tell him I’m not at Toots Shor’s lapping up liquor, will you? I’ll check back, soon’s I have something.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for ya, Chief.”

The house on West Seventy-fourth was a former residence that had been converted into four apartments. The name “S. Collinson” was on the card beneath the bell for Apartment Three.

He rang the bell. No answer.

The third key in her keytainer opened the front door. He climbed stairs into musty gloom, listened at the door of Apartment 3. Again, silence.

The first key opened the door. The little foyer was dark: the shades in the apartment were drawn. An odor of onions came up the stair-well. The sound of driving rain against the windows was depressing.

He went in, groping for the light switch. He touched it, clicked it on. There was no responsive blaze of lights.

From a shadowy doorway at his left a cheerful voice said, “That’s a dud switch. The one that works is up higher. Yeah, put your hands up higher. That’s right. Just keep ’em up there, that’s the ticket.”

Don’s eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to make out the glinting twin-barrels of a shotgun, the muzzle a yard from his belt buckle. The steadiness with which it was held and pointed decided him to do what the man who held it said.

Chapter V

Crossly, Don said, “What’s the sense getting nasty about it? I was invited to come here, you know.”

The man chuckled. “Just the trouble. I never did like to get two-timed. Face the wall there. Keep the claws up. Look at the ceiling. That’s the ticket.”

The thick muzzle prodded Don in the small of the back. It felt like the corner of a coffin poking him.

“Guess you’ve got Suzanne wrong,” Don said. “She and I had a little business to talk over, that’s all.”

The man sniggered. “Yeah, yeah. I know the kind of business you’d have with her. Not that I blame you. March along into the next room there. I’ll give you a little light so you won’t break your neck. Bulbs glowed suddenly behind butter-yellow sconces on the walls of a long studio. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you until she gets here. Keep the chin high, bud.”

The rug beneath Don’s shoes felt like inch-thick moss. What he could see of the room was magnificently furnished. At the far end of the room a high Norman fireplace of stone with a wide slate mantel gave the impression of an altar before which were arranged twin semicircular sofas done in white leather. A coffee table of black and white marble carved to represent an artist’s palette stood between the sofas and the delicate black tracery of wrought-iron fire dogs.

Tables and heavy iron chairs of the Norman persuasion were mixed in with a few modern pieces — a low sofa, bookcases. The walls were decorated with dozens of water colors, charcoal sketches, a few oils in bleached wood frames. Some of the charcoals were nudes. Don thought one of them was an excellent, if somewhat obscene likeness of the blonde.

“Over there,” the man growled. “On that couch. Beside the bookcase there. That’s it. Lie down on it. On your belly. Turn your head toward the wall. That’s the ticket. Just stay that way. Don’t try to look around. Then maybe you won’t get hurt.”

Don gauged his chances of making a break. They didn’t seem so good with that muzzle at his spine.

He wondered, is it possible this guy doesn’t know why I’m here? Could be I simply crashed in on a jealous boy friend who thinks she’d planned to give him the crisscross. Well, she had done that, in a way. But if this is jealous business, I’d better get the snafu cleared up fast — before that shotgun begins to smoke.

Aloud he said, “You don’t think I’d be fathead enough to come up here without notifying my office, do you?”

“Ho!” The man laughed derisively. “Now you’re going to come up with that oldie about being an F.B.I. or a T-man. Go on, build it up. It’ll be strictly for laughs, but I don’t mind. We got to do something until Sue gets here.”

“Wallet in my hip pocket,” Don answered sourly. “Look in there. Cards’ll tell you who I am.”

“Don’t give a damn who you are. You sneak into my apartment. You claim you had an invitation from my girl. You’re going to stay here until she shows up. Until I find out what kind of kadoodling she had in mind when she asked you here.”

“Your girl got nabbed in an attempt to get away with twelve hundred dollars worth of merchandise from the store I work for. Then she staged a getaway.” Don found it hard to talk with his head twisted at right angles to his body. “There’ll be descriptions of her on every police teletype from here to Philadelphia by now. If the cops get her before I have a chance to talk to her, she’ll really have her tail in a crack with the door slamming. If I can talk to her, I might make a deal with her. The police won’t.”

“Hell, in that case” — the man chuckled — “I might turn her in myself, if there’s any reward. I wouldn’t want sentiment to stand in the way of making an easy dollar.”

Don heard the key in the lock.

The man heard it, too, but he waited until the hall door had opened before he called, “Come on in, honey. Got a li’l surprise for you.

Heels clicked hastily across the foyer, then their sound was smothered by the thick carpeting.

“For heaven’s sake, Clem! Who’s that? What you doing with that shotgun!” It was the blonde’s voice. She sounded rattled.

The man answered pleasantly enough, “Getting ready to give an exhibition of fancy pigeon-nicking, Sue. One’ll get you ten if you think it’ll be the first time a pigeon’s had all its feathers stripped off without being blown to ribbons.”

“What kind of double-talk is that!” Suzanne sounded frightened. “You know who that fellow on the couch is?”

Don said, “I told him. He doesn’t buy it. He thinks I came up here to pile in bed with you.” He made a movement to turn his head.

“Don’t try it,” Clem warned him agreeably. “I’d have to scrape your brains off that period wallpaper. Let’s put it this way. You’re here, mister. And she’s here. Neither of you figured on my being here. That’s about the size of it. Now, far be it from me to play the spoil-sport. You’re going to go right ahead as if I weren’t here at all.”

Suzanne caught her breath sharply. “Clem! What’s the matter with you? This man Marko knows all about the Betterson order. He might find out about the others, too, and—

“Less talk,” Clem cut her off curtly. “More action. Get those feathers off, my pigeon.”

“Wha-a-at?” She was clearly stunned with terror.

“Take your clothes off, my beautiful.” Clem was less affable. “Get ready to give the fella what you promised him.”

Her voice shook. “You must be off your rocker!”

“Undress. Strip. Now.” All the banter was gone from Clem’s tone. The words had a whip’s lash. “Don’t stall. Don’t argue. Take your clothes off! Or I’ll shoot ’em off!”

“Clem!” she pleaded. “Clem, I don’t even know the man! I told you—”

“I’ll count to ten.” The whip-crack words were harsher. “If you don’t have your skirt off by then...”

She moaned, and Don heard her coat drop to the floor, heard the zipper on her skirt come open. He found his face wet with sudden sweat. The guy must be nuts!

The hooks unsnapped on her blouse. Would it be his turn next, Don wondered, to satisfy this lunatic’s peculiar jealousy? Or was it something more sinister than jealousy?

Don heard the snap of the elastic. A prickly sensation crawled around the back of his neck.

“Okay, Sue.” Clem said. “Now get over there. Lie down. Beside him.”

“No! I will not!” The fear had gone from her voice. In its place was a dull hopelessness.

Don slid his right palm against, the wall, bracing himself to shove the couch away from the wall and get leverage enough to roll out of the way of the shotgun blast if it came.

“Listen, you.” he said angrily, “I don’t know how far you think you can carry this gag, but I’ll tell you! Not a damn bit further as far as I’m—”

He gave a mighty heave. The couch slid away from the wall only six inches or so but he got enough purchase to roll and hit the floor on hands and knees as the gun roared. He had a smoke-blurred glimpse of the girl’s nakedness, a snapshot glimpse of a tall, slim figure swinging up the shiny barrels. A face masked with a red triangle of bandanna. Slitted eye-holes, short-cropped, carroty hair.

He dived for the man’s knees, one hand flung out and up to seize the shotgun. His ears rang thunderously, exploded. A tremendous concussion knocked him sideways. The red mask and the ivory-and-blonde nakedness dissolved beneath blinding waves of unbearable brilliance.

Chapter VI

He was living through one of the nerve-shattering nightmares of his flight training days — coming in to the field too low on his solo, trying to zoom her up too quickly, going into one of those sickening spins, whirling helplessly, faster and faster, tautening his muscles for the crash that would mash him into a shapeless pulp.

He thrust forward on the stick in one last spasm of effort to pull out of the spin. The controls were rigid, immovable. He forced himself to open his eyes. The “stick” was the double-barreled shotgun. He lay face down, with long blonde hair beneath his mouth.

The fireplace revolved dizzily. The sketches and paintings tilted away from him nauseatingly, swung back over him like the side of a wallowing ship. The noise of the prop wash continued — deafening, paralyzing in its intensity.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up to hands and knees. The naked girl lay face down on the oyster-white carpet beside him, one knee drawn up beneath her, both hands under her stomach. The only visible sign of a wound was the glistening red ribbon circling her right forearm where her body rested against it.

Her forehead touched the thick carpeting so her neck seemed to be arched up. There was a twitching at her throat.

She was alive! She was trying to say something!

Don thought it would be futile to try to hear anything other than the thunderous roaring within his own head, but he put his ear down close to her mouth.

“What?” He was startled at the far-away sound of his own voice. “Say it again!”

“Benny.” The voice was surprisingly strong.

“Yes? What about him?”

Sue’s shoulders quivered. “Tell Benny — pay off — Clem for this.” The shoulders sagged.

Don stumbled to his feet, steadying himself against the bookcase. He could focus his eyes only by squinting. It was some seconds before he was even able to spot the telephone, yards away on a small table in the foyer.

He couldn’t have seen the numbers on the dial clearly enough to ring a particular number, but he felt for the last hole on the disc, twirled it.

“Police emergency!” he said when the operator answered.

“Who is this calling?”

“Collinson.” He made a mighty effort of concentration. “Lorraine 8-6217. Hurry it up, will you?”

When the bored voice of the desk sergeant announced, “Headquarters,” Don rattled off:

“Can you get an ambulance over to 619 West Seventy-fourth in a rush? Been an accident.”

“What’s the trouble, there, mister?”

“Been shot — bleeding to death. Hurry, or it’ll be too late!”

Don slammed down the receiver in numbed disbelief. Looking down at the phone, he’d noticed his bare legs. His pants had been taken off! He looked at his arms. All he wore was his shorts and socks!

That murdering maniac in the bandanna mask had stripped Don of his raincoat, coat, vest, trousers, shirt, undershirt and shoes.

Other things beside the objects in the studio began to come into focus now. The killer had planned the whole setup neatly, getting the girl to undress, shooting her, knocking Don for a loop and then peeling him to his underwear so the police would find them as if there had been what the French called “a crime of passion!”

Wouldn’t that make a nice, stinking trap! Don had told Cora this poor kid on the carpet had invited him up to her place, and he’d told her he was going up to accept the invitation. Of course it had been kidding on his part, and Cora had known it, but it would sound lousy if a prosecutor should force her to repeat it on the witness stand.

Then there would be plenty of nasty talk about the odd way this Suzanne had managed to escape from his office. It wouldn’t be too hard to get a jury to believe he’d let her get away on purpose.

He pulled his pants on, shoved his feet into his shoes. His fingers wouldn’t coordinate enough to tie the laces.

He reeled unsteadily into the kitchen-dinette. On top of the ice box were two liquor bottles, one of Fundador, the other a Rhine wine. He grabbed the brandy, pulled the cork with his teeth, gulped half a tumblerful straight from the bottle. It stung and choked him, but it cleared his brain a little.

He took the brandy back to the living room. The girl’s neck was no longer arched. Her mouth was pressed flat against the carpet. Beside the arm with the glistening circlet a creeping crimson stained the oyster-white of the carpet from her shoulder to her slender waist.

She was gone; there wouldn’t be anything more he could do to help her here. If he didn’t get out of here in a few minutes, he’d probably get himself in an ugly jam, too. That sadist wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of staging what would have appeared to be a lovers’ quarrel without notifying the authorities himself. There’d be a squad car around before the ambulance got here, in all probability.

He shouldered into his raincoat, slapped on his wet hat, gathered coat, vest, shirt and tie into a bundle. He wiped the barrel of the shotgun with his undershirt. The bending over made him retchingly ill. He might need another slug of that brandy, he decided, and stuffed the bottle in his pocket.

He looked down at Suzanne. “I’ll try to pass on your message to Benny, kid. If I can find him.”

He used the undershirt on the knob of the hall door, inside and out, and tucked the bundle of clothes under his coat as he went down the stairs, half expecting one of the tenants on the other floors to fling open a door and confront him.

It was still raining when he reached the street. It would be difficult to get a taxi in a storm like this. A horn blasted insistently eastward. Its volume rose higher as it neared.

He crossed the street, walked toward the river, so his back would be toward the arriving police. But he made himself turn as the patrol car whined to a stop a hundred yards behind him. Cops would think it queer if a passerby should pay no attention to a racing police car.

That would be one of the precinct patrol cars, the one Clem had arranged for, no doubt. Don hesitated long enough to watch the two officers run up the steps. Then he lowered his head against the driving rain and plodded slowly on to the corner.

Wouldn’t he have presented a picture of fleeing guilt if those uniformed boys had decided to pick him up! Bare to the waist, carrying his shirt and coat, a bottle of looted liquor in his pocket! And a swollen left ear that felt like an eggplant and probably looked like one!

Taxis streamed past on Seventy-second, but they were all full. He thought of taking a bus, then decided the subway would be safer. At the “Telegrill” near Broadway he turned in, headed past the lineup at the long bar to the stag’s room.

He went into one of the toilet booths, hung up his raincoat, put on his undershirt, shirt, tie, vest and coat. Then he took a slug from the Fundador bottle.

A small painted label caught his eye as he lowered the uptilted bottle from his mouth. He examined it:

Sammy’s Package Store

Everything From A Cork To A Cask

At Lower Prices

On 9W, Congers, New York

He knew Congers. It was the sort of small town where a liquor dealer would know his regular customers. Of course there was the big probability the bottle had been bought while somebody’s car was en route up or down the Hudson. It was also likely enough the brandy had been bought by Suzanne herself. But there was still the outside chance Clem had bought it and that Sammy, or one of his employees, might know who Clem Was.

Don went to the washbowl, looked at his puffed-up ear in the mirror. He didn’t give the ear a second thought when he saw the scratches on his right cheek.

The sort of scratches that might have been made by a girl’s fingernails! Even the fingernails of a dying girl — if somebody else had clawed them against Don’s face.

Chapter VII

On the subway down to Christopher Street, Don stood on the platform of the rear car of the local pretending to read a damp newspaper so no one would be likely to notice those scratches on his face. If Clem had done what Don thought he had, the lab technicians down at Broome Street would presently be suggesting to the Homicide specialists that they put out a bulletin to be on the lookout for a man displaying marks of feminine fury.

Quite likely someone in the houses along Seventy-fourth Street who had been looking out a window when the patrol car had rolled up, would by now have given the police his description, anyway. For that matter, Clem might have telephoned his description to the cops when sending in the alarm which had brought the radio car.

The doorman at his apartment house was busy blowing his whistle for a taxi. He didn’t notice as Don stalked into the building. The elevator man was descending from one of the upper floors. Don didn’t wait for the car. He met no one on the stairs or in the corridor of his floor.

He shucked his clothes, stood under a hot shower for five full minutes while his ear throbbed and hammered like an abscess. Then he let the cold water stun him. When he looked in his mirror the scratches seemed more lividly prominent than before, but the swollen ear had been reduced a little.

He had one more shot at the Fundador before he sat down in his bathrobe to call the office.

It was Cora who answered. “Oh, Lord, Mr. Marko! When’re you coming back?

The most awful thing—”

“Mary?”

“No. She’s still on the critical list, but they think she’ll be all right. It’s Mr. Harrison!”

“Maxie told me.”

“They’ve found another phony delivery, Mr. Marko. To the Stuyvesant Binns! For nine thousand!”

“Oh, great! What was it — furniture?”

“And curtains and mirrors and light fixtures. Mr. Harrison is throwing a Grade A fit. He’s been calling for you every fifteen minutes!”

“Switch me over to him, Cora.” After what he’d been through, the G.M.’s bellowings wouldn’t bother Don too much.

Bob Harrison wasn’t in a bellowing mood. He was in a cold, quiet rage. “Where are you, Don?”

“Downtown.” He was purposely vague.

“I want you here in my office as fast as you can get here.”

“No can do. Boss I’m riding a hot lead on the Deshla thing.”

“Deshla!” the G.M. snorted. “It’s a half-dozen swindles by now and God knows how many more to come! Do you realize this thing is getting up toward the fifty thousand mark! We’ve got to put a stop to it, if it means shaking up the entire protection staff, understand?”

“Perfectly. But it might mean going even higher.”

Harrison fumed. “What do you mean by that?”

“These things had to be inside jobs, partly. From what I’m onto right now, I’d say there’s quite a crew involved and one or more of ’em will turn out to be Nimbletts employees.”

“Then get back here, damn it, and—”

“Can’t, Bob. There’s more than our loss to take into consideration.”

“Yes, yes. I know all about Miss Bayard and Ralph Eddrop. Unfortunate.”

“Murder’s generally very inconvenient, Boss.”

“Murder?”

“Couple of dead girls, so far. Both members of the con crowd, near’s I can make out. Might be more if I don’t stick with this.”

“What have you found out?”

“Bit here. Piece there. Seem’s as if some interior decorator has been getting inside dope on some of our heavy-dough customers who’re gone away for winter vacations, got stuff shipped to their country places, then transferred it elsewhere. Leaving no trace except a bunch of unpaid bills.”

“Who do you suspect here in the store?”

“Haven’t got to that yet. But you might have someone with discretion in the credit department check over all the charges billed out by the furniture and drapery departments for the past sixty days and make a list of the ones that haven’t been paid to date.”

“Eddrop be all right? He’s absolutely trustworthy.”

“Sure. He’ll have his heart in it, too, after that crack in the mouth.”

Harrison was subdued. “When’ll you be in, Don?”

“No telling. But I’ll have something when I get there.”

“I hope to heaven. These murders — they’ll bring in the police?”

“Sure. I’ll try to keep Nimbletts from being involved too much, Bob.”

He phoned his garage, ordered his car. By the time the doorman called up to say it was at the curb, Don was dressed.

Once over the George Washington Bridge, streaking northward on Route 9W, he began to mull over the question of Benny. The guy was evidently someone Suzanne had depended on — likely the big lunk Eddrop had described as having slugged him and Mary Bayard. But if that was the case, the chances were that Benny was on Nimbletts’s payroll. Only someone who knew the store well, the location of the store protection office and the stairs close by it, could have staged that assault and getaway. It would have been difficult enough for anyone to get in the executive corridor, with that watchful receptionist at the entrance.

The rain lessened, but the clouds were still low and threatening by three o’clock when he parked in front of the General Greene Hotel just off the main highway at the Congers crossroad. A hundred yards to the west, on the intersecting blacktop, he saw a green neon:

SAMMy’s

WINES, LIQUORS, BEER

He went in the hotel, consulted the thin phone book. There were only a few pages devoted to Congers, so it took no more than five minutes to run down the list. But he found no one whose first name was Clement.

A dime connected him with Sammy’s Package Store. He spoke loudly, as if he’d been doing all right with a bottle.

“Hey, Sammy, sen’ up couple bottles that Spanish brandy, will ya?”

“Yes, sir. Right away. Who’s this?”

“Oh, ha-ha. I’m callin’ f’r Clem. Y’know. Clem.”

“Oh. Okay. Two Fundador, right away.”

“Attakeed.”

He was behind the wheel of his car when a motorcycle with a sidecar whooshed out of the hidden driveway beyond Sammy’s, heading west on the intersection.

The motorcyclist drove like a bat, was out of sight around a curve before Don could get his car up to speed. But he picked the motorcyclist up on the straightaway, a quarter-mile beyond.

A winking red eye and a clanging gong warned of an approaching train at the crossing two hundred yards ahead. The motorcycle bounced across the track boards at seventy. Don had to slam on his brakes as the express thundered into the crossing.

The tires of the sidecar left clear marks on the wet blacktop. If the delivery vehicle didn’t swing off onto some concrete road, Don ought to be able to follow those marks even if he didn’t catch up to the fellow.

It was like trailing a hippopotamus across Central Park. The tracks continued for another half-mile, swung off at a right angle on a wide gravel road beside which was a reflector-marker; “Ayerell.” The tracks went in but didn’t come back.

Don drove on for another mile, turned, took his time returning to the marker. If “Ayerell” was Clem, there was the likelihood the murderer would be on his guard now that he knew someone had sent him a phony order of brandy. There was a certain poetic justice in using that method to trace a man who specialized in having stuff shipped to someone who hadn’t purchased it, Don thought grimly.

There were new marks on the gravel and on the wet tar showing where the sidecar had gone back to Sammy’s.

Don drove down the graveled way.

White-railed fences began to hem in the roadway. This must be quite an estate, Don thought. Big lawns clotted with groves of elm and oak. A huge Quonset hut back there across the plowed field. Evidently Mr. Ayerell was a gentleman farmer of sorts.

Around a bend the white fences came together at a pair of concrete gate posts with a Kentucky lift gate barring the way. At one side a large white square bore neat black scroll lettering:

Jerome Clement Ayerell

Antiques — Interiors — Designing

Don stopped the car, reached out, pulled the hanging cord. The wooden gate swung open. He drove through. The gate closed behind him slowly.

A head was a huge rambling white Colonial farmhouse flanked by sheds, garages, tool houses. No smoke rose from any of the four chimneys, nor were there any tire marks on the driveway except those Don recognized as the motorcyclist’s.

He pulled up in front of a long, low glassed-in porch, honked twice, waited.

No one came out. As far as he could tell, there was no movement at any of the curtained windows.

He unlocked the glove compartment, took out his .38, checked the load, thumbed off the safety.

If there were to be any fireworks this time, he would do the touching off himself.

He walked cautiously around behind the closed garage to the rear of the house. The only thing that caught his eye was a small piece of torn yellow cardboard in the mud of the walk from the tool-shed to the kitchen. He picked it up, knowing what he would find printed on it before he turned it over:

IMBLETTS

The Great Store

It was the kind of shipping tag used on crated furniture and cumbersome carpets.

Chapter VIII

The driveway that circled the farmhouse to the garage continued on past the tool shed toward the Quonset hut. It was a deeply rutted driveway, as if heavy trucks had cut their signatures in the gravel.

Don went back to his car, drove the quarter-mile to the hangarlike structure. It didn’t seem reasonable that thirty or forty thousand dollars worth of furniture and floor coverings would be stored in the farmhouse; and the garage certainly wasn’t big enough to hold any great part of that amount. But the Quonset could take all the furniture on Nimbletts’s eighth floor and everything in the big Brooklyn warehouse as well.

The double-doors to the metal hut were locked, as he’d expected. The windows were tightly shuttered.

He backed his car a hundred yards, came forward again straight for the doors, bracing himself for the impact. An instant before he crashed the bumper against the building, he cut the ignition.

The doors burst open, the car rolling right into the hut before he braked it to a stop.

If there was anyone around the place, he thought — some caretaker or servant — that crash ought to bring him a-running. He got out, inspected the damage to his car. A mashed left fender, a cracked headlight, the bumper slightly askew.

The end of the high-arched shed into which he’d come like a projectile was fitted up as a paint shop. Electric sprayers and spray shields, an overhead trolley for suspending articles to be sprayed from beneath. Racks of brushes. Enough paint, oil finishes, waxes and varnishes to equip a hardware store. The floor boarding was spattered with cream and buff, white and apple green, blues and chocolates.

Beyond were piled crates of furniture, long burlapped bundles of carpets. Wooden mirror-cases were stacked against cardboard cartons of lighting fixtures and drapery hardware. There were no tags on any of the stuff. The black paint with which the consignee’s name had been marked on the casings had been sanded or planed off. But he recognized some of the items of the Deshla shipment. There was no doubt this was where Clem had cached the loot from Nimbletts.

The next step would be simple. Call Bob Harrison and put it up to him. From here in it would be a job for the local sheriff or the state troopers. The stuff couldn’t be claimed or taken away from here without a warrant.

Tires made a sucking sound on the mud of the fenced-in lane. He ran to the door. A maroon convertible was coming in toward the house. There was a girl at the wheel; she seemed to be alone. Only the accident of Don’s car being inside the Quonset hut kept her from noticing that there was an uninvited guest on the Ayerell farm.

He waited until she’d driven up by the porch, then went out, swinging the big double-doors shut, hiding his car completely. Either she would be ringing the doorbell and, finding no one at home, would go away, or else she would be letting herself into the house with a key Clem had given her. Maybe she was Mrs. Jerome Clement Ayerell.

He walked without haste back toward the garage. For a considerable part of the distance to the farmhouse he would be shielded from anyone looking out the rear windows. Even if she did see him, she’d assume he was someone who lived nearby — unless she’d noticed the marks of his tires.

Her car didn’t come into view again. She couldn’t have waited all this time; she must be inside the house.

Cautiously he walked around the garage to the porch, keeping on the grass as much as he could to prevent his shoes from making a squashing in the muddy gravel. There was no one in the car. The front door was closed.

He moved quietly to the porch, opened the front door as noiselessly as he could manage. She was talking to someone. After listening a moment it became apparent to him she was speaking over the phone.

“—I got two on the Clipper out of Miami for Rio, but there wasn’t anything open for Miami until day after tomorrow... Well, I didn’t ask about a charter job, Clem. I didn’t think you’d want to go to that expense.”

Don edged in silently. He could see part way into a large Colonial living room with white woodwork, bright chintz-covered rocking chairs, rag rugs, a rose-brick fireplace.

“—well, all right, darling. But aren’t you coming up here at all?.. Yes, I’ll do the best I can about packing, but—”

Don closed the door behind him. It made a tiny click as it shut.

“Clem, listen! There’s someone here in the house! I just heard the front door — Oh!”

Don leaned negligently against the lintel of the living room door. “Go right on. Don’t mind me.”

She let the receiver clatter back on the handset, started to get up out of the antique ladder-back chair.

“What do you want?”

Her voice was low and husky like that of a blues singer. The voice matched her sultry beauty. She was a redhead with a short snub nose and a wide, full-lipped sensuous mouth. She wore a tight-fitting black sweater and a gray suede leather skirt. Her long-lashed eyes were so heavily shadowed with mascara that she gave an impression of voluptuous dissipation.

“You Mrs. Ayerell?” He made no effort to hide the gun.

“Yes.” She took the trouble to adjust her small, fur-trimmed cloche hat and pull the sweater down tightly enough to outline the full breasts. “Who are you?”

“I’m a life-saver, far as you’re concerned.” He guessed this would be the redhead Maxie had mentioned as having executed the Red Bank swindle for seventy-eight hundred bucks worth of Oriental rugs. “The gentleman you were just talking to has a habit of knocking off his female accomplices. Chances are you’d be next on his list if I don’t save you.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“He just killed a blonde he’d been keeping down on Seventy-fourth Street in New York. Cops’re after him. That’s why he wants to scram to South America.”

“I don’t believe it!” She was shocked and he didn’t think it was pretense.

“I was there when he shot her and tried to frame me for it. He murdered another babe down in Maryland a few weeks ago. Wouldn’t surprise me to find a few more dead dames in Bluebeard’s closet before we’re through. Idea is, he needs sexy-looking dolls to put over his con games, but he wouldn’t trust any of you not to give him away in a pinch. So after he uses a babe for a little while, he pushes the button on her. I wouldn’t know whether you’re really his lawful wedded partner or not, but I’ll give long odds you haven’t been twoing around with him very long. Right?”

“Th-three m-months,” she stammered. “You’re a detective. You’re just making this up to frighten me so I’ll tell you about him!”

“I know enough about him to put him in that famous antique chair across the river. I’ll give you an idea what I know about him. Sit right there. Don’t get up. Better fold your hands in your lap like a good little girl.”

He lifted the receiver, asked for Long Distance, and got through to Nimbletts in Manhattan. “Mr. Harrison. This is Marko.”

“Gee, he’s been calling you often enough, Mr. Marko! Here he is.”

“Bob? Don.”

“How you making out?”

“I’ve found some of that Deshla stuff and a good deal of the other merchandise that we were gypped out of — maybe most of it.”

“Where is it?”

“At Congers, up the Hudson on Route Nine-W. Farm belonging to a Fancy Dan interior decorator named Clem Ayerell. Stuff is stored in a big Quonset. Better get some state troopers out here to stand guard over it until we can get the warrants for seizure.”

“I hate to bring the authorities into this, Don! But I suppose it’s the only way. Why can’t you handle it, if you’re up there?”

“I have another problem on my hands, Bob.”

“That murder business?!”

“Indirectly. I wouldn’t worry about too many other people getting the idea this was a sure-fire swindle method. Way it was worked with Nimbletts rates it as being fatal to two out of three.”

“You damn well better get back here before something happens to make you Number Three, fellow.”

“I’m on my way, Boss.”

The redhead frowned as he set the receiver back on the base. “Thank you.” she said.

“For what?”

“Not mentioning me.” She smiled twistedly. “You see, I lied to you. I’m not married to Clem. I’m Evaline Hurley. My family have been customers of Nimbletts for two generations, at least. I know they’ll be glad to pay nearly anything to keep my name out of this.” She ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. “And so would I — if you know what I mean.”

“You’re the second girl today who’s offered to illustrate a bedtime story for me,” Don said solemnly. “One of these times I’m going to quit being a Galahad and go for it. But not this time.”

Chapter IX

In her convertible, Don sat beside Evaline Hurley as she tooled the fast car out to the house gate and pulled the swing rope to open it.

“When you don’t call him back,” he told her, “he’ll know you’re with someone who’s on the side of the law. He may suspect I was the party who made you hang up on him, but it won’t make any difference because he won’t trust you now, anyhow. If he gets close to you, you’re a gone goose.”

“But where can I be safe?” she wailed. “You don’t know how daring and resourceful Clem is. He has nerve enough to try anything, no matter how risky.”

“I’ll take you to a place where he can’t get at you.”

“Oh! You’re underestimating him. Everybody does, at first, on account of that pleasant manner of his. I did, God knows. But if you think arresting me and putting me in jail would keep him from getting at me, if he wanted to, you’re terribly mistaken.”

“That isn’t what you’re afraid of, if they book you into the Tombs.”

“Of course it is! What else!”

He put his left hand on her right knee, pulled her skirt up to show pink flesh and raspberry embroidery on the edge of gauzy nylon. “That.” He touched the inside of her thigh about six inches above her knee. A dotting of tiny purple-blue scars freckled the skin.

Her nostrils flared with quick resentment. “He must have told you! The dirty rat!”

“That you are an addict? No, he didn’t. Strictly a guess. Partly on account of your eyes. Partly because the kid he shot down on Seventy-fourth had been buying cocaine. Struck me maybe that might be how this louse kept a hold on his women, by getting them addicted to H or C and threatening to turn them in if they didn’t play ball.”

She slowed the car to stare at him in awe.

“That’s what he did with me. You do seem to know an awful lot about him.”

“Learned quite a bit on short acquaintance,” Don answered drily. “But you see what might happen if I turned you over to the precinct boys. Pretty soon you’d be needing a lift and then you’d agree to go out on bail when some shyster lawyer of his put up the dough. Once you were out, he’d snap the switch on you and I’d have a dead witness instead of a live one.” He pulled her skirt down.

She drove in silence for a while. “If I have to go into court and testify to his — his relations with me, I’d as soon be dead, anyway.”

“Maybe we can get around that. If you’re cooperative.”

Some of the come-on came back to her face. “I’ll be the most cooperative little kitten you ever knew,” she said fervently.

“I’m going to take you to my apartment.”

“Um!” She shot him a provocative sideward glance. “But if he knows you, he’ll find me.”

“He won’t be able to get at you. I’ll have a plainclothes lad down in the lobby on the lookout for him.”

“I’m scared as hell,” she admitted. “But if you want the truth, I always have been scared of him, since I first met him.”

“Where was that?”

“Coming back from Buenos Aires on one of those vacation cruises. He was so clever and such a good dancer and — and so horribly exciting when he made love to me.”

That was probably how he’d met the others, too, Don thought. Daughters of well-to-do families, shipped off to South America for six weeks to get them out of their parents’ hair or to break up undesirable affairs. Crazy for romance and ready to try anything once. After they’d tried it with Clem, he’d have them roped.

It wouldn’t have been too hard to convince them they wouldn’t be running into real trouble even if they got picked up in the store, trying to pass themselves off as society girls accustomed to ordering large quantities of expensive furniture. Probably Clem had coached all of them to do what Suzanne had done when she’d been cornered by a floor-watcher who’d happened to know the woman the Collinson girl had claimed to be, they would pretend it was just a joke.

“Keep on down the expressway to Fourteenth,” he directed her, when they were over the bridge. It’s on Christopher.”

“How long do you expect me to stay with you?”

He was evasive. “Can’t tell. Worrying about your ‘lift’?”

“I have a little.” She touched the handbag at her side. “But by tomorrow—”

“There’s a doc who’s a pal of mine. If you feel like breaking the habit — I’m not preaching, you understand — but he could help you get off it.”

She drew a deep breath. “If it doesn’t mean going to one of those hideous institutions, that’s the thing I want to do most in the world!”

“All right. We’ll see about it.” He told her where to park.

Upstairs in the apartment he said; “See, Evaline, I’m taking you strictly on faith. You can scram out of here as soon’s I’m gone.”

“Are you going right away?” She was disappointed.

“Yes. You can beat it, five minutes after I leave, if you want to. But then we’d get you sooner or later, and your family would be dragged into it. Even if Clem didn’t put the dot on you first.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.” She came up close to him. “I want you to know how grateful I am for not — making things worse for me.”

She kissed him. She held her lips on his until he disengaged her arms gently.

“Okay. If you’re really grateful—” he pointed to the desk in the bookcase corner — “sit down and write out everything you can remember about that Red Bank business. From the beginning. What Ayerell told you to do, what you did, who you saw at our store, every last damn particular. Especially about the big red-headed guy.”

“I don’t know any big red-headed guy. You couldn’t call Clem big.”

“No. Tough. But not big. Know a man named Benny?”

Evaline shook her head. “No. I never heard of him. Maybe he’s the one in the store. I’m sure Clem had someone in Nimbletts tipping him off which accounts to charge to.”

“Sure. He’d have to. He wasn’t trying his tricks on any other store.” He patted her arm. “Keep the door locked. Even if you hear somebody holler ‘Fire.’ I’ll use my key when I come in.”

When he got back to his office Cora gaped at him. “For goodness sake, Mr. Marko! What did that girl do to you?”

He looked at the slip on his desk. It had the red “Urgent” sticker on it. “I found things a little rough up there,” he murmured.

His secretary took out her handkerchief, dabbed at his chin. “She might have been discreet enough to wipe off her lipstick!”

Don said absently, “Oh, that was another girl.”

Cora sniffed, “And it’s all I can do to get you to treat me to coffee once in a while. What have they got that I lack?”

He grinned. “Elastic morals, honey. What’s this from Eddrop’s office?”

“That snippety little assistant of his you know, the one with the horsetail hair-do and the prissy little mouth?”

“Meoww.”

“Uh-huh. I could be catty about Miss Wrenn. Anyhow, she says Mr. Eddrop’s left the office and she can’t get him at his hotel and she wants to speak to you about him just the instant you get in.”

“Hah!” He glanced at his watch. “Put in a little overtime tonight, will you? I might need you.” He hung up his raincoat.

“I’ll be pretty mild company, I’m afraid, after the B girls you seem to have been waltzing around with. She went back to her typewriter.

He found Miss Wrenn in Ralph Eddrop’s private cubicle where he was accustomed to interview customers who wanted to open charge accounts. She was a small, slim, bony girl who used an oddly orangeish shade of rouge. Her lipstick was an off-tone, too. Her eyes were large and limpid. She gazed at Don almost piteously.

“I don’t know what to do, Mr. Marko.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well—” she hesitated “I feel like a nasty little ingrate, after Mr. Eddrop’s been so kind to me and everything. But the way I look at it, I owe something to the organization, as well as to Mr. Eddrop.”

Don said, “You think he’s been up to no good?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Marko. That’s the trouble. I may get him in wrong by talking when he hasn’t done a single thing he shouldn’t have.”

“Better let me be the judge of that.”

“Well, I do hope I’m wrong. But there’s been something queer going on about those credit tokens, the little coins with Nimbletts and the customer’s name and charge number stamped on them.”

“What’s queer?”

“The bill from the stamping company that makes them up for us — Gothametal Die and Stamping — came in last week and he took it out of the file, Mr. Eddrop did. After a couple of days a new bill came in and it wasn’t for the same amount. It billed us for only 121 new coins instead of 127 like the first one. Mr. Eddrop okayed that and passed it for payment, but he never did mention the first bill. And I remembered checking the coins when they came — they send them by registered mail, you see — and I’m positive there were 127 charge tokens, but on the list he gave me to make out for new customers, there were only 121.” Miss Wrenn was almost tearful. “I wouldn’t have thought another thing about it, of course, if it hadn’t been for this mess in the furniture department. And I hate so to say anything that might get Mr. Eddrop in trouble.”

Don said, “He’s had his share already today, that’s a fact. Could you come back after supper tonight for a couple of hours? I might want to go over this again.”

Miss Wrenn smiled primly. “I’d love to help you, Mr. Marko.”

“Say eight o’clock, then.”

Chapter X

Slowly Cora hung up the phone. “They say she’s ‘satisfactory,’ Mr. Marko, though how a fractured skull can be satisfactory, I can’t see. But she won’t be able to see anyone for twenty-four hours at least.”

Don looked up from the employee cards he was studying. “By then, whatever she might have to tell me wouldn’t be much help. What’d headquarters say when you phoned in that description of Clem?”

“There’ll be an officer around here in a few minutes. You’re to wait for him.”

Don stuck the stack of cards in his pocket. “That’s what he thinks. I’m on my way.”

Cora was exasperated. “What’ll I tell the policeman?”

“To be sure to add to his bulletin that Clem is gun-goofy. He’d rather shoot somebody than furnish a new home. Stick with it. I’ll buzz you here in a little while. I hope.”

He went down the private elevator, out the employees’ exit, stopping briefly to ask the door guard a question. Then he taxied to the Calabria, an ancient hostelry on East Twenty-eighth.

The desk clerk was an amiable Mahatma Ghandi in a salt-and-pepper double-breasted suit and a bright azure bow tie.

“Mr. Eddrop? No sir, haven’t seen him around since he left this morning, sir. But I’ll try his room for you.” He plugged in on the antiquated switchboard, worked the jack without result.

Don opened his wallet to show his Nimbletts “Chief of Store Protection” card. “Anyone call here to see him while he was out, happen to remember?”

“No, sir.” The clerk’s eyes crinkled. “Mr. Eddrop has practically no visitors, you might say. But he often has phone calls and goes out to visit his — ah — friends. Is there anything wrong, sir?”

“Afraid there may be. Would these friends of his be feminine?”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to encourage gossip, sir. But since you’re from his place of business, and if he’s in any kind of trouble, I’m sure you wouldn’t pass along any ah — scandal—”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Feel sure of it, sir. I’ve been in this business long enough to be able to size a man up pretty well. You look reliable to me.”

“Thanks. He has a gal pal, then?”

“I believe you might draw that conclusion, sir. He’s quite often what we call a sleep-out, sir. Doesn’t use his bed at all. The maid always reports those things. Couple of times a week he never comes to the hotel at night at all.”

Don smiled. “Old boy’s single. No law says he can’t go stepping. Would she be in town, or out in Westchester or Long Island?”

The clerk tapped his prominent teeth with a yellow pencil. “I don’t wish to send you off on a wild goose chase, sir. But he frequently calls a Regent number.”

“Happen to have any record of it?”

Mahatma touched an index finger to his bony forehead. “In here, only. Regent 1-6643, to the best of my recollection.”

“You do all right for a young fellow. Would it be possible for you to take me up to his room? I don’t want to notify the police and go through the routine of getting a search warrant — if Eddrop turns up all right.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. I couldn’t leave the desk all alone. But since you have a legitimate interest in Mr. Eddrop’s well-being, I could let you take the pass key for a few minutes. I don’t think there’ll be any harm in that.”

“Good deal,” Don agreed. “Keep the hotel’s name out of the papers if there should be any disagreeable publicity. What’s his room?”

“Three-nine.” The clerk jingled a key ring. “You won’t disturb any of his things? I wouldn’t like him to feel that we were permitting any liberties with his possessions.”

“He’ll never know I’ve been up there.” Don took the keys.

The credit man’s room was as neat as a newly opened box of cigars. The things on the bureau and in it were arranged with military precision. Hairbrush, comb, clothes-brush, link-box, photograph of an elderly woman whose round, sad face resembled Eddrop’s markedly. Shirts, sox, underclothing, all stacked in clean piles. Suits on hangers, shoes on trees. Even the ties on the rack fixed to the closet door had all the reds and browns on one side, the greens and blues on the other.

There were books on the table. Function of Credit in Commercial Management, Theory of Time Payment Liabilities, Department Store Policies, more of similar nature. Ralph Eddrop kept his hotel quarters neat, whatever he did outside.

The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was equally tidy. Soap in wrappers, shaving cream, toothbrush, bottles and bottles of patent remedies. Hair restorer. Deodorant. Toilet water. Laxatives. Tonics. Vitamins. And on the second shelf a small gilt cylinder tucked behind a box of headache tablets. Don took it out, removed the gold cap, dabbed some of the stuff on the back of his left hand.

“I wonder what Cora would think of that,” he muttered, dropping the recapped cylinder in his pocket.

Downstairs again, he returned the keys to the desk clerk with thanks. “Nothing up there to help much. But I’ll let you know what we find out. You can tell Mr. Eddrop I was here, if he comes in.”

“I trust you turn up nothing of an unfortunate nature, sir.”

“So do I.”

Don walked to Madison, to a drug store. In the phone booth he called his office.

Cora spoke loudly. “Mr. Marko’s office. No sir, he’s not here.”

“Ho! You have an official eavesdropper, hah?”

“Yes sir, I’ll tell him,” The secretary was jittery.

“Does he have a warrant for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Keep him amused, honey. Can you remember a message for Maxie?”

“Oh, yes. sir.”

“Ask him to check with Joe Kelly down at the telephone company. I want to know the address of the subscriber listed as Regent 1—6643. Got that?”

“Right.”

“Have Maxie ring me up at — wait a minute. I’m at Bryant 5-8017.”

“Thank you. sir. I’ll tell him, soon’s he comes in.”

He bought an evening paper, read the story under the headline:

NUDE GIRL KILLED

MURDERER HUNTED

IN BRUTAL BUTCHERY

The facts were a little garbled. The user of the shotgun was reported as having been an elderly man — that could have come from Clem’s notifying the cops about Don’s white hair. The shooting was alleged to have taken place after a violent lovers’ quarrel — that was strictly newspaper mahaha. Any nude female corpse would have to be the aftermath of a crime of passion. But there was no suggestion of any third party having been present and apparently none of the neighbors had come up with a description of Clem as the man who must often have visited Suzanne in the apartment.

The next editions, he reflected, would blazon Clem’s name and description across the front pages. Also, he thought uncomfortably, they might have one or two more demises to record, if Don himself didn’t work at top speed.

The phone in the booth jangled. It was Maxie.

“I got that subscriber, Boss.” The pickpocket specialist was agitated.

“Who?”

“You coulda knocked me over with a whiff of Chanel Five. That phone’s in the name of Ralph Eddrop.”

“At what address?”

“Two twenty-five Jane. In the Village. Know where it is?”

“About three blocks from my place on Christopher, Maxie. Thanks.”

“Y’need any help, Boss?”

“Just hold the fort, Maxie. The cavalry’s in my office, already.”

“You don’t know the half of it. The G.M. is popping his top.”

“Go in and hold his hand. I’ll buzz you back.”

He cabbed to Jane Street. Two twenty-five was a new four-story walkup apartment house.

Ralph Eddrop’s name was on the 2-A bell. But the door in the little lobby was open on the latch. Marko went up without ringing.

There was another bell beside the door on the second floor landing. He thumbed it.

After a while a tense male voice, Eddrop’s voice, inquired, “Yes?”

“Janitor.” Don disguised his voice as well as he could. “We got to get in there. They’s a gas leak.”

The door opened. Eddrop gawked at him.

Over the credit man’s shoulder Don could see into the living room, where a pair of girl’s shoes stood beside a footstool.

Eddrop stammered, “You — you can’t — come in — here!”

Don put a hand on the credit man’s chest. “I am in, Ralph.” He walked in, shoving Eddrop before him.

A door slammed. The bathroom door.

Don said, “Tell Miss Wrenn to come on out, Ralph. I can’t very well bust down the door while she’s in the john.”

Chapter XI

Eddrop began to protest, “There’s no one here!” Then he saw the shoes, stopped.

Don tried the bathroom door. She’d locked it. He called, “Never mind whether you’re dressed or not, Miss Wrenn. Come on out.”

Eddrop put trembling fingers to his still swollen lips: “Really, Don! This seems so unnecessarily high-handed!”

The store protection chief regarded him with disgust. “What’d you call what she did in the corridor outside my office this morning? Half killed Mary Bayard! Slugged you in the mouth when you tried to prevent her from beating Mary’s brains out while she lay there on the floor! And you didn’t even have the guts to put the finger on her, after that! Don’t talk to me about being high-handed after the way you’ve let her hook you into cheating the store all these months. Get over there on that phone. Call my office. Ask for Cora. Tell her where I am. Say that anyone who wants to see me will find me here! Jump!”

The man obeyed meekly.

Don held the gun at his hip, kept the muzzle on the bathroom door.

Eddrop gave Nimbletts’s number to the operator.

The bathroom door flew open. The Wrenn girl, in nothing much beneath a Japanese-embroidered kimona, crouched by the washbowl. A snub-nosed, nickeled automatic was clenched in her right fist.

Don looked at her steadily. “You want to trade? This one of mine’ll make a hole you could put a crowbar through.”

She lowered the nickel-plated weapon.

Don said, “Throw it out here on the rug.”

She did. He picked it up.

Eddrop was talking to Cora. “—that’s what he said — anyone who wants him can find him here. Yes.”

Don gestured at the girl with his gun. “That’s so your blood-thirsty playmate will find a reception committee if he calls here this evening — which I guess was what you had in mind when you told Ralph to meet you here at your cuddle-up, hah?”

She cursed him out in colorful language.

He laughed unhumorously. “You’ll completely disillusion Ralph, if you haven’t done it already. How long since you seduced the poor old dodo?”

She snarled, “That’s a good one! He got me into this with his nice, quiet, gentlemanly bushwah! He engineered the whole thing. I’ve been sick of him for weeks but I didn’t know how to break off with him and not lose my job.”

Eddrop, from across the room, said dully, “I don’t suppose I cut a very good figure as a sugar-daddy, Benny, but I don’t think you ought to lie about me and mislead Mr. Marko. I didn’t put you up to anything, you know, except this apartment.”

Don said, “Benny. That’s what the watchman said some of the girls called you. On our cards you’re listed as Ruth A. Wrenn. What is that — your middle name?”

She told him to go to hell.

Eddrop continued mildly, “You might as well tell Mr. Marko. They’re bound to find out, just as I knew sooner or later they’d find out about those duplicate coins you made me order.” He looked at Don. “Her middle name is Abenita. Benny for short.”

Don raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Well! I have a message for you, Benny. From a friend of yours.”

Benny told him that she wasn’t interested in any messages.

“From Suzanne Collinson,” he said. “She gave the message to me just before she died.” He hadn’t expected her to show any surprise at the news of the blondes death, and she didn’t. “She said to tell you that Clem had shot her and I was to let you know and you’d square things up with him.”

Benny cried frantically, “It’s a lousy, rotten lie! Clem wouldn’t have hurt Sue for anything. You killed her yourself. And he’ll get you for it, too!” She flung out an arm accusingIy.

Don squinted at her, puzzled. She wasn’t making that defense for his benefit, or Eddrop’s, either. Behind her, in the mirror of the medicine cabinet he saw a growing panel of light. The hall door, opening.

He dived for the corner of the room behind the chair where Benny had taken off her shoes. Shots thundered in the small living room. Glass shattered. Metal whined.

On his knees he pivoted, peeking over the arm of the chair. Clem Ayerell sauntered jauntily in from the hall, a .45 automatic held in front of him like a torch, with smoke trailing from the uptilted muzzle instead of flame. There was no red bandanna covering his face this time, and Don saw why the mask had been so necessary. A black patch covered the man’s left eye. It was fastened around his head with a black cord. Even with the disfiguring patch, the fellow was remarkably good-looking. His big even teeth showed in a grin of delight.

He fired again at Don. The bullet hit the arm of the chair. Dust spurted in Marko’s eyes, blinded him. He shot aimlessly, cursing, heard Clem’s laugh in answer.

He rolled behind the chair, blinking desperately to get back partial vision.

Benny screamed, “Clem! Look out! Ralph!”

Clem’s voice came calmly. “Wait’ll I fix the man. I’ll attend to the mouse later.”

Don could see a little, through stinging tears. He lifted his gun, raised his head. Anything was better than getting blasted without putting up a fight.

But he didn’t shoot. Eddrop stood between him and Clem. Kept moving to stay between them as Clem circled, trying to get a clear aim at Don.

“You can finish me, Ayerell,” the credit man was saying grimly. “I’m ready for it. You’ve corrupted me, and Benny has debauched me until I’m done for, anyway. I want to go. I couldn’t face them at the store any more.”

Clem put the automatic to Eddrop’s stomach, pulled the trigger.

Don saw Ralph double over like a jackknife, then straighten slowly and take a few tottering steps toward his attacker. He flung his arms out, grabbed Clem as the gunman poked the muzzle at his chest and fired again.

Eddrop’s body jerked like a toy on a string, but he clung to Ayerell’s arms until his grip slid to the man’s waist, his legs.

Benny screeched, “Clem! Clem! Get out! The cops are on their way!”

Clem aimed painstakingly at the top of Eddrop’s head. Don shot with his hand braced against the side of the chair. Clem’s smile vanished. He closed his mouth, opened it again. Don shot once more.

Clem and Eddrop crumpled to the floor like brawlers in a street fight.

Benny ran shrieking to the hall.

A bulky figure in blue grabbed her at the door, calling,

“All right, you in there! Heave ya guns out here! Before we have to come in and blow ya t’ pieces.”

Don got up shakily. “Officer, come in and get ’em yourself. They’re both dead ducks.”

Chapter XII

Now the apartment was crowded with humans and full of the smell of death. Ambulances had taken along the bodies of the two men. The patrol wagon had swallowed a wildcat Abenita. Don Marko lounged on the chair that had saved his life or nearly cost him his life, he couldn’t make up his mind which.

Cora was there and Bob Harrison and Maxie, in addition to four men from Homicide and a lucky reporter for the City News Syndicate.

Don was sourly waving aside congratulations. “Don’t make any damn hero out of me. If I’d used my head, Eddrop wouldn’t be dead, and they might have caught Ayerell alive. First time I heard about Benny I should have figured the name referred to a girl, because even then it was pretty clear butcher-boy Clem got dames to do all his dirty work.”

Cora stood up for Don. “Her name wasn’t Benita or Abenita on our records. I’d never heard her called that.”

“The girls in the credit department must have, though,” he said. “I should have checked on them, soon as it began to look as if the credit coins were phony.”

The general manager chewed on an expensive cigar. “They weren’t phony. That was the worst of it, Don.”

“Oh, no,” Don said. They were the McCoy. Benny looked over the accounts, followed the society columns, and found out which of our big customers were due to be away on winter vacations. Then she made Eddrop order duplicate coins for a few of those accounts, as we do when they’re lost, anyway. When the tokens came in, she’d give them to Clem. She’d pass them on to the particular feminine stooge he’d selected to do the job. He couldn’t use any of them more than once, naturally, or they’d have been spotted by someone of the sales force in the furniture or floor coverings. or draperies departments. But probably he kidded the babes along, told them they’d try it on another store later. Then as soon as the job was over, he’d knock them off, the way he did the dame down there at the Deshla place in Maryland.”

Maxie asked, “Why’d he stick to furniture, with what looked like an easy graft like that?”

Don was astonished to see how his fingers trembled when he lit a cigarette. “He was a decorator. Got jobs for doing over big country places from the swanky set. Soon’s he’d get an order from some of that hot-buttered bonbon, I suppose he sent one of the babes into our store and ordered exactly what he needed to fill his contract. Only, instead of having it charged to Mrs. Ritzbitz, he used the Deshla coin and name. When the stuff got down there in our truck, he’d be there to get it unloaded and ship it back in his own truck to the job he was doing or else to his Quonset hut out in Congers, to wait for the time it’d be needed.”

“Mary busted that up,” Cora said.

“And got busted to hell herself, for doing it.” Don blamed himself. “I should’ve been on the lookout for an inside worker right then.”

The general manager defended him. “I don’t know why you should have. We haven’t had a Nimbletts employee go bad on us for years. In anything as big as this, I mean. I hate most mightily to have it come out that our assistant credit manager was a crook.”

“Maybe it won’t have to come out,” Don suggested. “Eddrop kind of paid his bill, there at the last. If that Benny hellcat doesn’t insist on dragging his name into her trial — which won’t be necessary if she pleads guilty to conspiracy for grand larceny — I’d say we could talk to the D.A. about making Eddrop simply a victim of a crazy butcher.”

Cora said, “He was such a nice little man.”

Don agreed. “Not a bad guy until this Benny got a job in his department and suckered him into making love to her. After that, she could get him to do anything she wanted him to, because he’d have been afraid of scandal at the store. But he evened it up pretty well. The way he walked into that gun would have broken your heart.”

The G.M. nodded. “One of the few instances where the pig stabbed the butcher. Let’s do what we can to keep his name clean, Don.”

Cora asked, “Did Clem come here after you, Mr. Marko? Or after Mr. Eddrop?”

“Oh, after Ralph. Benny knew the game was up when she heard about Suzanne’s murder. So she decided to make Ralph the fall guy. She gave me a long rigmarole about Ralph’s finagling with the credit coins, then arranged to run right up here and meet him, hold him here until Clem came. She’d given Clem a key to this apartment. I’d say she knew Clem was going to kill the poor guy. What she probably didn’t know was that he’d have shot her, too. He hated leaving loose ends around that might trip him up.”

Maxie moved to avoid one of the Homicide photographers. “You ain’t said how you come to find this cuddle-up, Boss.”

“Clerk at Ralph’s hotel remembered the phone number he used to call three-four times a week. And up in his room I found a lipstick of that Congo orange Miss Wrenn used all the time. I couldn’t imagine a bird like Ralph carrying around anything like that unless she’d happened to drop it in his pocket some time when they’d been out together.”

Cora touched his arm. “Aren’t they going to let you go home pretty quick? You look shot to pieces.”

He smiled. “You ought to see the other guy, honey. No, they’ll have me making depositions until midnight. But I wish you’d call Doc Towbin for me.”

“You want him to come, here?” his secretary was solicitous.

“Oh, no. I’d like to have him run down to my apartment and take a peek at a gal pal of mine who needs a little help.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “Oh, you’re impossible!”

“Incorrigible is the word.” He smiled. “Go phone him, like a good girl.”

Content

Stewart Sterling
Collection of Stories

Killers Carnival

Chapter I No Blunt Instrument

Chapter II Murder Weapon

Chapter III Something to Show You

Chapter IV Crimson Snow

Kindly Omit Flowers

Chapter One A Gruesome Exhibit

Chapter Two Herald of Happiness

Chapter Three Murder in Room J

Chapter Four

Chapter Five Primrose Path

Chapter Six Cupid Turns Killer

A Breath of Suspicion

Alibi Baby

Never Come Mourning

Fit to Kill

Gunmetal Finish

Chapter I Junk Boat

Chapter II Holdup and Murder

Chapter III The Girl in the Case

Chapter IV “I’m Your Ears!”

Shot With Luck

A Nice Night for Murder

Chapter I Radio Warning

Chapter II Barroom-Fight

Chapter III Distracted Wife

Chapter IV Runaway Ketch

Chapter V Cornered Wildcat

Rough Party

The Kiss-and-Kill Murders

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII