Ellery Queen

The Copper Frame

Cast of Characters

LT. TED SAXON — He unsuspectingly rang in the New Year with a bell whose tongue never stopped, but his resolution solved his father’s murder

CHIEF ANDY SAXON — His public image, which revealed a will of iron, concealed a heart of gold torn by a lead slug

SAM LENNOX — A veteran cop whose vision and integrity are engulfed in an alcoholic haze

LT. VIC BURNS — He played “Hail to the Chief!” while the bullets rained, but his was more mortal than otherwise

EMILY VANE — The T.L.C. this nurse administers to her bereaved fiáncé, Ted, is not prescribed by a doctor

LT. ART MARKS — Acting Chief, he finds the role too demanding for his talents and the stage set for tragedy

BEN FOLEY — Outgoing mayor, he learns that the political picture looks different when it is framed

ADAM BENNOCK — The lame-duck mayor whose goose is cooked by master chef Saxon

EDWARD COOMBS — This harness-racing accountant wants to turn Iroquois into a racing stable for the Syndicate

SERGEANT HARRY MORRISON — A hustler’s hustler; he finds out that steering and playing the ponies are furlongs apart

GRACE EMMENT — The gangster’s moll who got her mink coat just the way the minks do, but then was skinned alive for it

JENNY WATTE — This meter-maid’s New Year didn’t start with a bang, but she thought that Chief Saxon’s did

ARNOLD KETTLE — A plump D.A. who stands so erect that he seems to lean slightly backward, but then falls flat on his face trying to uphold Justice

ALTON ZEK — A junkie stool pigeon who plays both sides against his own end

ANN LOWRY — A sexpuss who becomes a cat’s-paw

SANDRA NORMAN — A call girl who gets her wires crossed when she tries to make a connection

FARMER BENTON AND SPIDER WERTZ — They prove that gangsters by any other nicknames would smell the same

Chapter 1

Lieutenant Ted Saxon was surprised when a radio call came into headquarters from Car One. Car One was the police chief’s car, and it was taking his father and two other police officers to a county law-enforcement officers’ meeting at Rigby. By 8 P.M., when they call came in, it should have been nearly there, beyond the twenty-mile range of its broadcast band.

Nevertheless, the message was quite clear. The voice from the speaker said, “Car One to Control. Can you read me, Control?”

Lifting the microphone from its bracket on the radio panel, Saxon said, “Control to Car One. I read you fine. What’s up?”

The voice said, “This is Sam Lennox. That you, Ted?”

“Yes.”

“We’re on Route Sixty, five miles out of Rigby. The chief and Lieutenant Burns have both been shot by a suspect we stopped. I’m rushing them to Rigby Memorial Hospital. Description of suspects’s car: new Chevrolet two-door sedan, gray with blue top, New York License IUL-053. No description of suspect because it’s dark and he started firing before the chief and Burns got close to him, then took off. Last seen thirty seconds ago heading south on Route Sixty toward Rigby. I fired after the car and believe I hit it a couple of times, but I didn’t give chase because I can’t leave the wounded men.”

Ted Saxon had been too busy jotting down the pertinent data to think of anything else while Lennox was speaking. But now it registered on him that his father and one of his closest friends had been shot.

He said huskily, “I’ll get it right out, Sam. How bad are they hit?”

The patrolman’s voice came over the radio with an edge of bitterness. “Vic’s only nicked, but your dad’s hit bad. I’ll phone you from the hospital. Car One to Control, over and out.”

“Control to Car One, roger,” Saxon said mechanically.

He phoned the Rigby police first, to have a road block set up. Then he contacted the sheriff’s office and the state police by radio. As the Iroquois radio communication system was linked to both, he was able to relay the information to them simultaneously.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

Ted Saxon was a younger image of his father, with the same wide shoulders and hipless frame, the same wide-mouthed face sprinkled with freckles and the same sandy red hair. The only difference was that usually there was a smile on the younger man’s face, whereas Chief Andy Saxon seldom indulged in any expression at all.

Peering outside, the lieutenant saw that the night was pitch black and the air was filled with tiny flakes of falling snow. By the thermometer bracketed just outside the door and angled so that it could be read from indoors, he saw that it was twenty above zero.

Christmas weather, he thought. In ten more days it would be Christmas. A box of cigars for his dad was already wrapped and hidden at the back of his closet. He wondered if the old man would ever get to smoke them.

Sam Lennox phoned at eight-thirty. “I’m calling from Rigby Memorial, Ted,” the patrolman said heavily. “I’m sorry, but your dad was D.O.A.”

For a few moments Saxon couldn’t speak. It was too hard to adjust to the thought of his indestructible father being dead. At sixty-two Chief Andy Saxon still had been sturdy as an oak and twice as tough. For thirty years he had run the Iroquois Police Department with an iron hand, fair and impartial, but as demanding of perfection as a Marine drill sergeant.

Eventually Saxon managed to ask, “How’s Vic?”

“Just a bullet singe on the right biceps. They patched him up with a Band-Aid. We’re starting back now. I’ll give you the details when we get there.”

Saxon hung up and sat staring into space. He had been closer to his father than most Iroquoisans were aware from their reserved relationship in public. Though Andy Saxon’s public image was that of a remote, unapproachable man, his son knew the hidden side of his character that made him capable of both warmth and compassion. Vaguely, Ted could recall a house always filled with laughter before his mother died, when he was ten. And though the laughter stopped the night his father stonily returned to the house half an hour before the visiting period at the hospital ended, the house remained, if not as gay, at least one of warmth and security.

A single parent, striving to fill the roles of both father and mother, often develops a closer relationship with a child than two parents possibly could, and this had been the case between Andy and his boy Ted.

Sam Lennox and Vic Burns got back from Rigby at nine-thirty. They came in stamping the snow from their galoshes and brushing flakes from their overcoats, both making a to-do of it in an obvious effort to out-wait each other in approaching the desk.

Finally Lennox conceded defeat and moved his thin, lanky frame forward. His eyes briefly touched Saxon’s before shifting to gaze past his left shoulder.

“Sorry, Ted,” he murmured. “Twenty, twenty-five years ago it would never have happened, but I guess I’m getting old.”

Despite his grief, Saxon felt a twinge of sympathy for the veteran patrolman. After twenty-eight years on the force, Sam Lennox was not, by a country mile, quite the police officer he had once been. The gradually increasing redness of the veins in his cheeks and nose suggested the reason. Long ago a younger man with Sam Lennox’s drinking habits would have been bounced from the force by Andy Saxon. But disciplinarian that he was, even the hard-bitten chief couldn’t bring himself to rob a veteran of so many years of his pension. For the past two years Lennox had been relegated to the relative sinecure of the chief’s driver.

Saxon said, “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Sam. The old man was still fast as a whip, so if he was caught flat-footed, it must have happened too suddenly for anyone to save him.”

“It did,” Vic Burns said, coming over to the desk. “The chief and I had just stepped from the car when the guy started banging away. The chief was down and I had a numb arm before I could reach for my gun.”

Lieutenant Vic Burns was a stocky, open-faced man of about Saxon’s age: thirty. A former member of the Buffalo Police Department, he and Ted had met at the F.B.I. school in Washington three years before, where they had taken an instant liking to each other. It was Ted Saxon who had talked him into transferring to the Iroquois force.

“Just how’d it happen?” Saxon asked.

“It must have been a setup,” Burns said. “The guy must have been some old con with a grudge against the chief. It was in the paper that your father planned to attend the county law-enforcement officers’ meeting, so anyone could have known he’d be on Route Sixty about that time. Sam says he followed us clear from the out-skirts of Iroquois.”

Saxon glanced at Lennox, who said, “I could see his lights in the rear-view mirror. I didn’t think anything of it until afterward, because the way the roads and the weather were, nobody was passing anybody else.”

“That’s why we stopped him,” Burns said. “All of a sudden he cut around us, nearly putting us in the ditch, and gunned off at about sixty. With road conditions what they were and visibility cut by falling snow, that was about thirty too fast for safety. The chief told Sam to give him the siren. I guess that’s what the guy wanted, because he pulled right over. When Sam parked behind him and the chief and I got out, the shooting started. Then he took off again.”

Sam Lennox said, “I tumbled out and emptied my gun at his taillights. I think I hit him a couple of times, but it didn’t slow him down.”

“Neither of you got any glimpse of the man’s face?”

“My headlights were on the back of his car,” Lennox said. “But he had on a hat with the brim turned down. It all happened too fast. He just leaned out the driver’s window and started shooting, then took off. All I know is it was a man.”

“Sure he was alone?”

“Unless someone was crouched on the floor,” Burns said. “There was only one head showing.”

At that moment a radio call came from the state police. The wanted car had been found, abandoned on a side road off Route Sixty only a mile from the murder scene, with three bullet holes in its trunk. The dispatcher added that a report had been received from the Buffalo police that the car had been stolen in Buffalo earlier that day.

When the state-police dispatcher signed off, Saxon said heavily, “I guess it was a setup, all right. He must have had a getaway car planted in that side road.”

“Or an accomplice waiting for him in one,” Burns suggested.

Belatedly Saxon remembered that Vic Burns had been wounded, too. Glancing at him, he saw a singed area on the upper right sleeve of his overcoat. There was a tiny hole in the center of the area and another a couple of inches behind it where the bullet had come out. The exit hole was ringed with dried blood.

In a tone of apology Saxon said, “I haven’t even asked how you are, Vic.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Burns said. “It’s only a nick about an eighth of an inch deep.”

“How do you know it wasn’t you the gunman was after?” Saxon asked. “You got shot, too.”

Burns said, “We thought of that. But the item in the paper didn’t mention me. I decided to go at the last minute.”

Sam Lennox said diffidently, “Want me to take over the rest of your trick, Ted? You probably don’t feel much like sitting here all alone.”

Saxon shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d hang around anyway to hear what reports come in. I’ll be all right. What about Dad’s body?”

Burns said, “We phoned the coroner. He’s having the autopsy performed at Rigby Memorial instead of shipping the body back here. You’ll have to contact whatever funeral director you want to pick it up when the coroner’s through with it.”

“Okay. I’ll call Alstrom in the morning,” Saxon said. “Thanks for stopping in, fellows.”

Chapter 2

After Burns and Lennox left, police headquarters became oppressively silent. At 11 P.M. a radio call came from the state-police barracks reporting that the killer’s car had been towed in and dusted for prints. There had been none because the interior of the car had been wiped clean.

At eleven-fifteen Saxon was standing with his arms resting on the counter, simply waiting for time to pass, when Emily Vane came in, her cheeks bright from the cold and her face smiling. In his preoccupation over the death of his father, Saxon had forgotten that she was coming by. When Emily worked the three-to-eleven trick at the Iroquois General Hospital on the same nights he worked the desk from four to midnight, she always stopped by to while away the last forty-five minutes of his duty with him, after which he drove her home.

Kicking the snow from her boots, Emily slipped off her coat. Under it was her white nurse’s uniform. She untied her headscarf and hung both on a wall hook near the door. She was a slim, attractive girl of twenty-five with dark, wavy hair worn to her shoulders, big pale-blue eyes, and a milky Irish complexion.

“Coffee ready?” she asked brightly, moving toward the counter. Then she saw his expression and her smile faded. “What’s the matter?”

“Dad was killed tonight,” he said quietly.

Her eyes widened and her face lost color. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Ted.”

“One of the hazards of police work,” he said bitterly. “He was shot on his way to the county law-enforcement officers’ meeting at Rigby. We don’t yet know by whom, but it may have been some ex-con with a grudge.”

He told her what he knew of the affair. When he finished, she reached across the counter to lay her hand on his. “I know how much he meant to you, Ted. I was pretty fond of him myself. I wish there were something I could do.”

“You can make the coffee I forgot to make.”

They had finished their coffee and Emily had washed the cups by the time Saxon’s relief came on. Then there was the delay of repeating what had happened to Jack Dow, the relief desk man, and listening to his words of sympathy. It was twelve-fifteen before they got away from headquarters.

They made little conversation as Ted drove Emily home. He was conscious of her silent tenderness as she sat snuggled up against him. The three-room apartment Emily shared with Julie Fox, another nurse, was at the northeast edge of town. Julie was already in bed asleep when they got there. Sitting on the sofa in the tiny front room, they conversed in whispers so as not to disturb her.

Lying in the crook of his arm with her head on his shoulder, Emily said, “We’ll have to postpone our plans, of course, but I don’t want you to have to worry about it. I’ll take care of contacting everyone.”

They had planned to be married December twenty-first; the reception hall was already reserved and the invitations had gone out. Emily’s parents had made reservations to fly from Seattle on the nineteenth, only four days away.

Saxon said, “Dad wouldn’t want us to delay our wedding on account of him. He was pushing me to set the date six months ago. I think he was afraid I’d let you escape.”

“I know, Ted. I’m proud of the way he approved of me. But we just can’t go ahead now. The whole town would be shocked. We’ll have to leave plans indefinite until some time after the first of the year.”

“I suppose,” he said gloomily. “But the old man wouldn’t agree with you. He’d tell the town to go soak its collective head.”

Raising her lips, she kissed the edge of his chin. “Maybe, but he wouldn’t want the townspeople thinking badly of you, either. You’d better go home now. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

At the door she didn’t press against him and tighten her arms about his neck as she usually did when they said good-night. She merely cupped his face in her hands and stood on tiptoe to give him a gentle kiss on the lips. It struck him that Emily was remarkably gifted in adjusting her moods to his. She knew instinctively that at this moment he neither needed nor wanted any demonstration of the passion of which she was extremely capable.

The next morning Saxon awoke to an oppressive sense of loneliness. Without the presence of his father at breakfast, the big old house was entirely too quiet and empty. He had a sudden urge to get out of it. After breakfast, instead of merely phoning the Alstrom Funeral Parlor, he drove over there to make arrangements. Afterward, about 10 A.M., he stopped by police headquarters to see if there had been any developments. There had not been.

Lieutenant Art Marks, big, cumbersome, and plodding, was on the desk. At forty-five Marks wasn’t the oldest man on the force by several, but he was second highest in seniority, his twenty-four years of service being exceeded only by Sam Lennox’s twenty-eight. He had been a lieutenant, the highest grade on the Iroquois force aside from chief, for nearly fifteen years.

After expressing his sympathy, Marks said, “The mayor’s looking for you, Ted. He phoned your home, but there was no answer.”

“I’ll run upstairs to see him,” Saxon said. “Know what he wants?”

“Probably just to say he’s sorry about your dad.”

The police station was on the ground floor of the city hall, with its outside entrance facing the alley. A second door, used only in the daytime when the city hall was open, led into an inner corridor. Saxon took the corridor to the front stairs and started to climb.

It took him fifteen minutes to reach the top because the big, open stairway was the main artery of traffic in the city hall and people were always moving up and down it. He was stopped a dozen times by city-hall employees, councilmen, and citizens with business in the building, all of whom wanted to express their condolences.

Eventually he managed to work his way to the second floor and the mayor’s office.

Benjamin Foley, after twenty-four years as mayor of Iroquois, was now in the unenviable position of being a lame-duck mayor. In the previous November elections he had finally met political defeat at the hands of a younger man, and the new mayor was scheduled to take office January second.

A plump, affable man of sixty-five, Foley had shown no bitterness at being turned out to pasture after nearly a quarter of a century in harness, but Saxon suspected he was deeply hurt. The loss of income meant nothing to him, Saxon knew, since the position of mayor was only a parttime job paying fifteen hundred dollars a year, and Foley was a shrewd lawyer with a thriving practice. But Ben Foley sincerely loved his small city, and he had been under the impression that it returned the love. It had been a blow to his pride to have a whopping 70 per cent of the electorate turn against him after his many years of service.

When Saxon entered the always-open door of the mayor’s office, Ben Foley glanced up from the letter he was reading, then got to his feet and stretched his right hand across the desk.

“I was utterly shocked to hear about your dad, Ted. The town’s going to miss him.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Saxon said, dropping into a chair. “Dad always regarded you as his closest friend.”

Foley lit a pipe. When he had it going, he said, “The chief and I were a team, Ted. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say the two of us are responsible for Iroquois’s being the clean town it is today.”

“I’ve heard Dad say the same thing,” Saxon agreed.

Foley reflectively puffed on his pipe. “You’d be surprised at the pressures public officials such as your dad and I are subject to, Ted. Particularly in a tourist town like ours. There are always some businessmen eager to attract more tourists by letting things open up a bit. You know what I mean. They want the police to wink at a little illegal gambling, or maybe a red-light district.”

“Some businessmen?” Saxon said dryly. “I’d say the majority in this town. Isn’t that what won Adam Bennock the election?”

The mayor grinned a little sourly. “Harness racing isn’t illegal, Ted. Maybe if Adam can live up to his campaign promise and get the new track put here, it will make the town grow.”

“Then why’d you fight him on the issue?”

“Because I don’t think a growing town is necessarily a better town. Take a look at what we already have. No one’s starving here. Most of our businesses are small, but they all seem solvent enough for the merchants to buy new cars every year and belong to the country club. We have fine schools, an excellent hospital, and the best beaches between Buffalo and Erie. There’s nothing even approaching a slum district. I think it’s a pretty nice place to live as it is. But maybe I’m an old fogey.”

“No,” Saxon disagreed. “I’m not too hot about a harness track here, either. It’s bound to bring in a different tourist element from the one we’re used to.”

“It’s not just the track that worries me,” the mayor said, puffing on his pipe and finding that it had gone out. He felt for another match, struck it on the underside of his desk, and got the pipe going again. “There are always racketeers looking for a ripe town to pluck. Particularly a tourist town, where there’s a ready-made clientele for gambling and vice. Your dad and I always managed to keep that breed of vulture out of Iroquois, but now he’s gone, and I’m leaving office too. Frankly, I’m worried about the town’s future.”

“Because you think the new race track might be an opening wedge for racketeers?”

“Uh-huh. You know who’s behind that promotion?”

“Sure,” Saxon said. “The Upstate Harness Racing Association.”

“That’s just a corporation name.”

“Well, I saw the names of the directors in the paper, but I don’t recall any of them. None were familiar.”

“Of course not,” Foley said. “They’re all out-of-towners. They’re just names, too. The money behind them was put up by Larry Cutter.”

Saxon’s eyes widened. “The racketeer who was run out of Saratoga Springs last year for running a wide-open casino?”

“Uh-huh. Know where he is now?”

“Sure. We get the Buffalo intelligence reports on the movements of known racketeers. He’s living in Buffalo, but he’s not operating there and he’s not about to. The Buffalo cops are just waiting for him to make a wrong move so they can pounce.”

“He won’t make any wrong moves within the city limits of Buffalo,” Foley said. “If you were a racketeer with a lot of expensive gambling equipment in storage and a cadre of idle hoods on your payroll, what would you do?”

Saxon said slowly, “I guess I’d look for a friendly town where the officials would let me resume operations for a cut of the take.”

“Exactly. And what could be a nicer place than Iroquois? Only twenty-five miles from Buffalo, yet in another county. Cutter would have all greater Buffalo to draw on for casino patrons, and still would be out of the jurisdiction of both the Buffalo police and the Erie County sheriff’s office.” The mayor frowned down at his pipe, which had gone out again. He decided to give it up and set it in a ash tray.

Saxon said, “If you knew this, Ben, why didn’t you mention it during the campaign?”

“Because I found it out only yesterday. Your dad told me.”

“Dad knew?” Saxon said in surprise.

“Uh-huh. He was tipped off by the Buffalo intelligence squad yesterday morning. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”

“We didn’t see much of each other yesterday,” Saxon said. “I came on duty at four and he left at five. The desk was pretty busy for a while, so we didn’t have a chance to talk.”

The mayor leaned on his arms on the desk and stared into Saxon’s face. “There’s a reason other than offering sympathy that I sent for you, Ted. If Larry Cutter is planning to move into Iroquois, he has to get two people on his side first: the mayor and the chief of police. I don’t know much about Adam Bennock. Maybe he’s as honest as Abe Lincoln. But just in case, I’d like to make sure we still have a chief of police as incorruptible as Andy Saxon.”

Saxon raised his eyebrows. “If you’re thinking of me, I appreciate the compliment, but the city council appoints the chief of police.”

“Permanent appointment, sure. But according to the city charter, the mayor is empowered to appoint an acting chief in the event of the permanent chief’s disability or death.”

“What good will that do?” Saxon asked. “Bennock swept in a majority of council seats with him. After the first of the year, they’ll appoint whoever he wants.”

“You don’t understand politics, and you also underestimate your popularity,” Foley said. “You’re not just Andy Saxon’s son. The whole town knows you’re the best cop on the force. And certainly the best fitted for chief. Who else has a degree in criminology?”

“Nobody. But Art Marks has fourteen years’ seniority over me as a lieutenant and seventeen over me in total time on the force.”

The mayor made a dismissing gesture. “Art Marks would probably be Bennock’s choice, if Bennock does make a deal with Larry Cutter, because Art is unimaginative enough to do as he’s told. But everyone in town knows Art hasn’t the capability to be chief. He might possibly be accepted if I appointed him now, but the town would explode if the new council kicked you out as acting chief once you’re actually serving in the job and replaced you with Art.” He looked thoughtfully off into space before adding, “In a way I sort of hope they do.”

Saxon gave him a quizzical look.

“That’s just the politician in me,” Foley said with a grin. “They won’t, because it would be political suicide. They’ll give you the permanent appointment whether they want to or not, because city councilmen who flout the public will get voted out of office.”

Rising to his feet, the mayor said, “Stand and raise your right hand, Lieutenant. I’m about to swear you in as acting chief of police for the City of Iroquois.”

Chapter 3

Saxon called a general meeting of the police department at 4 P.M. to announce his appointment as acting chief. The announcement was greeted not merely with approval, but with an obvious measure of relief, which led the new chief to suspect that the men had been discussing possible successors to his father with some concern. It was rather gratifying to know that they had been afraid he might not get the appointment. He had been aware that he was well liked in the department, but he hadn’t suspected the force was so solidly behind him.

If Lieutenant Art Marks felt any disappointment at being passed over, he didn’t show it. His congratulations were just as hearty as anyone else’s.

As the meeting broke up, Sam Lennox came over and said, “Can I see you a minute, Chief?”

“Sure,” Saxon said, leading the way out of the squad room and into the office that had been his father’s.

Inside he discovered that he couldn’t yet bring himself to sit in the chief’s big chair. Closing the door, he sat in one of the guest chairs and waved Lennox to another.

“What’s on your mind, Sam?”

The older man nervously shifted his feet. “I was just wondering what I’m supposed to do around here, now that your dad’s gone.”

Saxon regarded him curiously. “What do you mean? You’re still a member of the force.”

“Well, you know how it was with your dad. I was supposed to be his driver, but most of the day I just sat around in the squad room. Even when he went somewhere, he really didn’t need me. He could have driven himself for all he used the car. You know why he assigned me as his driver?”

“I suppose he figured you’d earned a soft job after all your years of service.”

Lennox’s red-veined face moved back and forth in a negative. “He wanted his eye on me all the time I was on duty. He knew that some time, somewhere, I’d slip and take a drink otherwise. And after one I never stop. He would have had to board me if he caught me drunk on duty, because he played by the book. But he didn’t want to have to. He wanted me to make it to my pension. That’s the kind of guy he was.”

“I see,” Saxon said. “And now you’re afraid I’ll stick you on a beat, and you’ll get drunk and be boarded.”

“Are you going to stick me on a beat?”

When you inherit a job, you sometimes inherit with it responsibilities that you hadn’t counted on, Saxon realized. If it had been important to his father to see that Sam Lennox reached retirement age without his record being tarnished during the last few years of his service, he supposed that out of duty to his father he was obligated to nurse the old alcoholic the rest of the way.

“For the time being suppose you just continue as the chief’s driver,” Saxon said. “You show up as usual at nine in the morning.”

“Thanks, Chief!”

When the man had gone out, Saxon sat musing for a time on the burdens of his new job. There was an implied responsibility for the welfare of his men both on and off duty which involved a measure of paternalism not very appealing to him. He hoped Sam Lennox would be the only member of the force with a problem requiring special handling.

After a time he roused himself and went out to the waiting room to use the desk phone, having a strange reluctance to use the one on the desk that had been his father’s. He phoned the Alstrom Funeral Parlor and asked if the funeral director had as yet heard from the coroner.

He had. The body was to be released the next day. They set the funeral for 2 P.M. Friday, and Alstrom said everything would be ready for friends to call at the funeral home by Wednesday evening.

By then it was 5 P.M. and Saxon hadn’t yet found time even to phone Emily. She had gone on duty at three; he called her at the hospital to tell her of the funeral plans and to announce his appointment as acting chief.

Emily received the news with a mixture of pride in him and sadness. “You certainly deserve it, honey,” she said. “But I hate to think of what made the promotion possible.”

As Mayor Ben Foley had prophesied, Saxon’s appointment met with general public approval. The announcement had appeared in Tuesday’s Iroquois Evening Bulletin, and by the next morning everyone in town knew it. A steady stream of city-hall employees, plus many people from the street, stuck their heads in his door Wednesday morning to offer congratulations. Those whom he hadn’t seen the day before combined their congratulations with sympathy for his father’s death. It may have helped that the Evening Bulletin had run, in conjunction with the news item, an editorial heartily endorsing the choice.

In order to get some work done, Saxon finally left instructions with the desk man that he was to be disturbed only on official business, and closed his office door.

As Saxon was putting on his galoshes to go across the street for lunch, his office door opened and Emily peeped in.

“Hi,” she said. “I had to come downtown to mail a stack of wedding-postponement cards, so I thought I’d try to cadge a free lunch.”

“I may as well get used to it,” he said.

As they walked down the front steps of the city hall together, a tall, spare man in his early forties who was passing by paused to wait for them. It wasn’t snowing at the moment; there was no wind, and the temperature had risen to a crisp thirty-five; but he was bundled to the ears and his thin nose was pink with cold.

Saxon said politely, “How are you, Mr. Bennock?”

Adam Bennock said in a thin, reedy voice, “Sorry to hear about your father, Saxon. Is the funeral date set yet?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Saxon said. “Friday at two. It’ll be in the paper tonight. Do you know Emily Vane?”

The mayor-elect gave Emily an austere nod and tugged briefly at his hat brim. “We’ve met. How are you, Miss Vane?”

“Fine, Mr. Bennock.”

Bennock said, “I see by last night’s paper that you’re our new acting police chief, Saxon. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Usually it’s customary for a lame-duck executive to consult his successor before making new appointments, but Mayor Foley didn’t deign to render me that courtesy. He left me to read it in the newspaper. However, no harm’s done. I quite likely would have made the same choice.”

“Thanks again,” Saxon said dryly.

“We’ll have to get together right after the first of the year to discuss the general status of the force.”

“All right.”

“You’ll need one new man to replace the vacancy left by your father’s death. Have you given that any thought?”

“There are a couple on the waiting list,” Saxon said. “Mayor Foley’s taking them up with the council tomorrow.”

Adam Bennock frowned. “The mayor seems bent on leaving as little as possible for me to do. Does he also plan to fill the lieutenancy vacancy before his term expires?”

“There won’t be any until a permanent chief is appointed,” Saxon said.

“Hmm. It’s gratifying to know I may have some say in that matter at least.”

Touching his hat brim to Emily again, he abruptly walked on.

“He’s a cold fish,” Emily said. “See what comes of staying a bachelor? You’d be like that in another dozen years if I hadn’t come along.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t have been snagged by some blonde if you hadn’t?”

She made a face at him. “I hear he doesn’t smoke or drink either. What’s he do for amusement?”

“He skates,” Saxon said. Adam Bennock’s business was the operation of a roller rink at one of the civic beaches, and he had once been a champion skater.

“Well, anyway, I don’t like him.”

“You’re in the minority,” Saxon told her. “He got seventy per cent of the popular vote. Let’s get over to Hardy’s Restaurant before they run out of food.”

Chapter 4

Once the ordeal of the funeral was over, Saxon threw himself into his work. There were no drastic changes he cared to make in the procedures his father had set up, but he did make one minor change.

He found a safe yet more useful role for Sam Lennox than sitting around the squad room waiting for the rare occasions when he was needed as a driver. Since he was around headquarters all the time the chief was there — which was most of the time, inasmuch as a police chief’s work was chiefly administrative — Saxon put him on permanent daytime desk duty, thus releasing one more man for necessary outside duty. Lennox still remained under his watchful eye most of the time, and in addition was performing a useful function.

Meantime neither the sheriff’s office nor the state police had discovered any new leads in Andy Saxon’s murder. It was beginning to show all the dreary signs of an unsolved homicide.

It had for many years been Andy Saxon’s custom to allow members of the force assigned to duty over Christmas and New Year’s to shift duty with other members who were willing to trade. The new acting chief saw no reason to suspend this tradition. Accordingly, he called a general staff meeting for 4 P.M. on Saturday.

The Christmas Eve and Christmas Day schedules were settled first. A number of swaps were made, matters finally being settled to the satisfaction of everyone concerned. New Year’s Eve wasn’t as easy to resolve, however, for everyone liked that night off.

It was customary on New Year’s Eve to move each shift forward one hour so that the relief change-over wouldn’t come just at midnight. Instead of running from 4 P.M. until midnight, the second trick started at 5 P.M. and ran until 1 A.M. This allowed those assigned to the swing trick an extra hour to see in the new year instead of having their celebrations interrupted at the climax of the evening.

The second trick consisted of two radio-car teams, a single foot patrolman in the downtown area, and a desk man. One of the radio-car men got George Chaney to swap duty with him for the usual ten-dollar fee. The other three and the beat cop preferred to save their money. So everyone was satisfied but Art Marks, who was assigned to desk duty that night. Marks wanted off because he and his wife were invited to a house party New Year’s Eve. When no one volunteered to swap with him, he raised the bid to fifteen dollars.

There were still no takers.

The expression of disappointment on the middle-aged lieutenant’s face was too much for Saxon. He said, “I’ll sit in for you, Art.”

Everyone in the squad room looked at him in astonishment, for the chief of police wasn’t expected to pull desk duty at any time, let alone on New Year’s Eve.

“I don’t have a thing on,” Saxon said. “Emily has to go on duty at eleven P.M., so we’d have to leave anywhere we went by ten, and local parties don’t get started until that time. We hadn’t planned any celebration in any event, so soon after my dad’s funeral.”

Art Marks said uncertainly, “Well, if you don’t mind, Chief, I’d sure appreciate it.” He started to reach for his wallet.

“Skip the fee,” Saxon said. “I’ll get even by making you do me a favor sometime.”

When the meeting broke up, Vic Burns followed Saxon into the chief’s office. Closing the door behind him, he stood scratching his right biceps.

“Got an itch?” Saxon asked.

The stocky lieutenant dropped his hand to his side. “That damned bullet burn. It’s scabbed over and itches all the time. That was a pretty nice thing you did, Chief. Smart, too.”

“Why smart?”

“You must know Art expected the chief’s appointment. He hasn’t said anything, but you can tell it rankled. Now you’ve got him solidly on your side.”

“I think he was on my side anyway, Vic. I haven’t noticed any sign of resentment.”

“Oh, he’s being a good trouper. But if you’ll notice, he hasn’t smiled since the day you broke the news of your appointment.”

“You’re imagining things,” Saxon said. “He never did smile much.”

“Maybe,” Burns said doubtfully. “Still, I’ve had a feeling all week that Art was brooding over the injustice of being bypassed. I think what you’re doing for him may shake him out of it.” He turned toward the door. “Just thought I’d tip you off. Morale’s important.”

“Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

When Burns had gone out, Saxon sat musing for a time. Had the lieutenant been trying to warn him that Art Marks’s attitude was something deserving serious attention — that perhaps there was danger of the veteran lieutenant’s attempting deliberately to undercut his authority in some way? Knowing the stolid Marks as well as he did, Saxon considered it hardly likely that he would be capable of anything that devious. Nevertheless, the incident left him vaguely disturbed.

During Christmas week Emily was still working the three-to-eleven trick at the hospital, her change-over to the swing trick not coming until Monday, December 29. On Christmas Eve Saxon picked her up when she got off at eleven o’clock, and they had their tree together at her apartment at midnight.

Since Julie Fox had received a few days off to spend Christmas with her parents in Rochester, they were all alone. Saxon brought up the question of their marriage.

“We ought to wait at least until six weeks after the funeral,” Emily said. “That’s considered proper.”

“Who makes these rules?” Saxon inquired. “Old dried-up spinsters who grab at any excuse to delay weddings?”

Emily smiled at him. “Six weeks isn’t forever, Ted. How about the first week in February?”

“The original date we picked was the first day of winter,” he said. “We ought to pick another special day. It makes anniversaries easier to remember. Let’s make it February second.”

“Groundhog Day?” she said. “We will not!”

They finally settled on Saturday, February 7.

On Tuesday, December 30, Saxon entered police headquarters at his usual hour of 9 A.M. to find Vic Burns working the desk. The daytime shift consisted of three beat cops and a single one-man car, and Bums was supposed to be working the car.

“What are you doing here?” Saxon asked. “Where’s Lennox?”

“He’s sick,” Burns said a little uneasily. “I pulled one of the beat cops and stuck him in the car so I could take over the desk.”

“Sick with what?”

“I don’t know. Just sick.”

“Did he call in?”

Burns looked embarrassed. “I guess Hanson phoned his house when Sam didn’t show up to relieve him. His wife said he was sick.”

“He’s drunk again, huh?”

Burns made a helpless gesture. “Aw, give him a break, Chief. Your dad’s death shook him up pretty bad.”

“It shook up the whole force,” Saxon said grimly. “But nobody else stays out drunk. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

Going back out to his car, he drove southeast to the small frame house where Sam Lennox lived. Lennox had two sons and a daughter, but they were grown and married, and he and his wife now lived in the house alone.

Nora Lennox was a thin, sad-faced woman of about her husband’s age. When she opened the door and saw Saxon, she began to cry. It was a silent, hopeless sort of crying.

“Cut it out, Nora,” Saxon said gruffly. “I’m not here to eat anybody. May I come in?”

Silently she stepped aside to let him enter. Carefully wiping his feet, he moved into a small entry hall, took off his galoshes, and laid his hat on a little table against the wall.

“Where is he?”

“In the kitchen,” she said in a barely audible voice.

Saxon moved on into a tiny front room, through it into a central hall, and into the kitchen. Sam Lennox sat at the table in his police uniform, except for the jacket, an empty quart bottle and another just opened before him. He badly needed a shave. He made an attempt to rise when he saw Saxon but couldn’t quite make it and sank back into his chair again. He was as drunk as Saxon had ever seen anyone.

“’Lo, Chief,” he muttered.

There was no point in attempting to talk to Lennox. Saxon turned to face Nora, who had paused in the doorway. Tears were no longer running down her face, but her expression was one of hopelessness.

“How’d he manage this so early in the day?”

Nora Lennox worked her hands together. “He got up at four in the morning. Said he couldn’t sleep. He hasn’t been sleeping at all well since your father died. I thought he was just getting a glass of warm milk, like he does sometimes, so I went back to sleep. I didn’t know he had any whisky. I know there wasn’t any in the house, so it must have been hidden in the garage. When the alarm went off at seven, he wasn’t in bed. I came out and found him like this. He’d dressed himself, as you can see, but I couldn’t let him go to work. It’s grief over your father, Ted. You’ve got to consider that.”

“How do you mean, consider it?”

“It’s been months since it happened. I know your father warned him if it happened once more he’d have to board him off the force. But please give him one more chance. If he loses a third of his pension, what would we do? We’re going to be barely able to live on a full pension.”

“I’m not going to have him boarded,” Saxon said gruffly. “At least not this time. But he’s a police officer with definite duties, and it louses up the whole schedule when he pulls things like this. I may as well tell you bluntly that I won’t put up with it again.”

“It won’t happen again,” she said eagerly. “I promise. Next time I’ll get up with him.”

Lennox said in a maudlin voice, “Didn’t do no good after all. Might’s well let Vic tell the chief last time.”

Saxon glanced over his shoulder. “You might as well have let Vic tell the chief what, Sam?”

“When he caught me drunk. What’sa difference ole Andy boards me or you? Mighta known I’d get caught again.”

Apparently Vic Burns had caught Lennox drunk at some time in the past and had covered for him by not reporting it to the chief, Saxon thought. Suddenly he remembered an incident a few weeks back when both he and his father had been in city court all morning. When they came downstairs at noon, Lennox was gone and Vic Burns, working the desk, had said he’d had him driven home because he was ill. Lennox, free from Andy Saxon’s watchful eye all morning, had probably sneaked out several times to hoist a few in taverns. And Burns, realizing he was drunk on duty, had sent him home.

Saxon could hardly bring himself to blame Vic Burns for the cover-up. Everyone knew that Lennox had been warned that he was through if he ever again drank on duty. Saxon realized that he was now doing exactly what Burns had done on that occasion: letting the old alcoholic get away with it again.

Wearily he said, “See if you can get him sober by tomorrow morning, Nora. I’ll expect him to be on duty at eight A.M.”

Chapter 5

On New Year’s Eve, Saxon took Emily out for a single cocktail at 4 P.M., then dropped her at home and reported for desk duty at five.

It had long been the custom in Iroquois for the police to be tolerant of drunks on New Year’s Eve. Local drunken drivers were allowed to park their cars and were driven home by police, provided no accident or flagrant violation of the law had occurred. Out-of-town speedsters were usually merely warned and sent on or, if too drunk to drive, were escorted to jail to sleep it off, then were released without charge. Consequently, New Year’s Eve was usually a quiet night at police headquarters.

Until nine o’clock there wasn’t a single phone call, and the only radio message was from one of the squad cars reporting that it would be out of service for fifteen minutes for a coffee break.

At 9 P.M. Patrolmen George Chaney and Mark Ross came into headquarters hustling between them a lean, knobby-jointed man in his mid-forties. The man had a narrow, ascetic face, a humorless, thin-lipped mouth, and wore steel-rimmed glasses that began to cloud over the moment he came indoors. His overcoat and hat were obviously expensive.

Getting up from his chair, Ted Saxon approached the counter and gave Chaney an inquiring look.

“Forty-five miles an hour on downtown Main Street,” Chaney said laconically. He tossed a driver’s license and a car-registration form on the counter.

According to the operator’s license, the man’s name was Edward Coombs and he lived on Delaware Avenue in Buffalo. The birth date made him forty-six.

Saxon raised his eyes from the driver’s license to give Chaney a puzzled look. Coombs showed no indication of being under the influence of alcohol, and it wasn’t customary to pull in sober speeders on New Year’s Eve.

“We stopped him twice,” Chaney explained. “About an hour ago he was speeding south on Main. We warned him and let him go. We just stopped him again going north, and he decided to give us a hard time. He wanted to know why we hick cops weren’t off catching criminals instead of bugging law-abiding citizens.”

Saxon looked at the motorist. “Well, Mr. Coombs?”

Coombs unbuttoned his overcoat, probed in his hip pocket, and drew out a handkerchief. Removing his glasses, he briskly massaged the lenses and put them back on. Immediately they started to cloud again, though not as badly.

“It’s a clear, moonlit night out, Sergeant,” he started to say.

“Not sergeant,” Mark Ross interrupted. “You’re speaking to the chief of police.”

“Oh?” Coombs said with a supercilious show of interest, which Saxon and both police officers found irritating. “You always work this late, Chief?”

“Just get on with your alibi,” Saxon said.

“All right,” Coombs said agreeably. “As I started to say, it’s a clear, moonlit night out, and besides, the main street of your one-horse town is brightly lighted. Apparently it hasn’t snowed here recently, because the road was clear and dry. Furthermore, there wasn’t another car on the street. I feel the speed at which I was traveling was entirely safe under the circumstances.”

The man’s tone was deliberately provocative, as was his reference to Iroquois as a one-horse town. Nevertheless, because it was New Year’s Eve and there was a tradition of tolerance for New Year’s Eve celebrants to uphold, Saxon attempted to be patient.

“The arresting officer says you were traveling at forty-five.”

“Possibly,” the man admitted. “I wasn’t watching the speedometer.”

“The speed limit on downtown Main happens to be twenty-five.”

“Yeah? You run a speed trap, huh? How much cut do you get from every fine, Chief?”

After gazing at him coldly for a moment, Saxon opened the traffic charge book and entered as much of the pertinent data as was available from the driver’s license and registration form.

Then he said, “Occupation?”

“Accountant,” Coombs said.

“Place of employment?”

“The Upstate Harness Racing Association, Incorporated.”

“Oh,” Saxon said. “The outfit that wants to build a race track here.”

“Yeah. Then it won’t be a one-horse town any more. You’ll have a stableful.”

Saxon silently finished filling out the charge, tore off the original and pushed it, the driver’s license, and car-registration form across the counter to Coombs.

“You will appear in City Court on the second floor of this building on Monday, January fifth, at ten A.M., Mr. Coombs. Bond is twenty-five dollars.”

“I’m not carrying that much money,” Coombs said.

Saxon indicated the phone sitting on the counter. “You may use that to call your family in Buffalo. You’ll have to reverse the charges.”

“I don’t have a family. I’m a bachelor.”

“Then I suggest you use it to call either a lawyer or a bondsman.”

“I don’t believe I’ll bother,” Coombs said with arrogant cheeriness. “Now what are you going to do?”

Saxon finally lost patience. “Throw you in the can, mister. Empty your pockets here on the counter.”

“Sure,” Coombs said with a shrug. He started to draw items from his pockets and lay them in a neat pile.

Aside from a wallet, he was carrying a key ring, penknife, handkerchief, glasses case, package of cigarettes, lighter, and forty cents in change.

“Take the money out of your wallet,” Saxon ordered.

Coombs drew out two one-dollar bills.

Saxon wrote out a receipt listing two dollars and forty cents in cash, one key ring containing six keys, one penknife and one cigarette lighter, and one wallet containing personal papers. Tearing off the top copy, he handed it to Coombs, sealed the enumerated items in a manila envelope, and stapled the second copy to the envelope.

“You may keep the handkerchief, glasses case, and cigarettes,” he said.

“How about my lighter?”

Ordinarily a mere traffic violator would have been allowed to keep all the items, but the man’s attitude had irritated Saxon to the point where he was according him the treatment usual for felony prisoners.

“You can call me when you want a light,” Saxon said. “Give your topcoat, scarf, and hat to one of the officers.”

Obediently the man removed the items and handed them to Mark Ross, who carried them into the squad room to put them in one of the lockers.

“Shake him down,” Saxon said to Chaney.

Chaney ran his hands down the man’s sides from beneath his armpits to his ankles, patted his hips, and rose from his stooped position. “He’s clean, Chief.”

“Take off your belt,” Saxon said to Coombs.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Think I might hang myself?”

“If I thought it probable, I’d let you keep it,” Saxon said dourly. “Get it off.”

Slipping it off, Coombs laid the belt on the counter. Coiling it, Saxon laid it on top of the manila envelope on the shelf beneath the counter.

Saxon lifted the cell key ring from its hook beneath the counter and tossed it to Chaney. “Stick him in cell number one.”

When the prisoner was lodged in the first of the three cells, Chaney and Ross prepared to go back out on cruise. At the door Chaney looked back and said, “Think he’s nuts, Chief?”

“He certainly has a defective personality,” Saxon said. “He did everything possible to get himself jailed.”

“Guess we obliged him,” Chaney said with a grin.

He and Ross went out.

It was quiet again for another hour. Twice Coombs called for cigarette lights and Saxon went back to the cell block to hold lighted matches between the bars. Otherwise, nothing at all happened.

At 10 P.M. the street door opened and a slimly built woman of about thirty preceded a man inside. The woman wore a full-length mink coat and a white headscarf that completely hid her hair but exposed a round, full-lipped, rather attractive face. She was wearing handcuffs.

The man was about forty, well over six feet tall, and with a burly frame. He had a heavy-featured, rather glowering face and his expression suggested that he was in some pain.

Saxon rose and rested his arms on the counter as they approached. The man held out his open wallet to display a Buffalo police badge that read: Sergeant of Detectives.

“I’m Harry Morrison of Buffalo’s Homicide and Arson,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

“Ted Saxon, acting chief of police,” Saxon said, extending his hand across the counter.

Morrison looked surprised. Clasping the hand, he said, “Glad to know you, Chief. How come you work New Year’s Eve? Shorthanded?”

“Just a favor for one of the men who wanted to go to a party. I didn’t have anything planned.” He looked at the woman with curiosity and she gazed back at him sullenly.

“This is Grace Emmet,” Sergeant Morrison said. “I’m bringing her back to Buffalo from Erie. Maybe you read about her.”

Saxon had. Grace Emmet had been the purported mistress of Buffalo industrialist Michael Factor, who a month previously had been found shot to death in the apartment he had been maintaining for the woman. Grace Emmet had disappeared. Neighbors’ testimony of overhearing a violent lover’s quarrel preceding the shooting, plus the fact that someone, presumably the woman herself, had carefully removed from the apartment all photographs of Grace Emmet, resulted in a warrant for her arrest on a homicide charge issued by the district attorney of Erie County.

The case had received considerable sensational coverage as a “love nest” murder, one of its most played-up factors being the woman’s cleverness in destroying all photographs of herself before fleeing. A composite drawing based on descriptions by acquaintances had been widely circulated, but Saxon saw that it was only a mediocre likeness of the woman. She possessed the same round face and full lips that he had seen pictured, but aside from that, he wouldn’t have recognized her from the drawing.

“She was in Erie all this time?” Saxon asked.

“Yeah,” Morrison said disgustedly. “How do you like that? We’ve had reports of her being seen everywhere from Denver to Miami, and all the time she was less than a hundred miles from Buffalo. The Erie police picked her up last night and she kindly waived extradition. Wonder if you’ll do me a favor, Chief?”

“Sure,” Saxon said.

“I’ve been developing a pain in my side ever since we left Erie, and it’s getting worse by the minute. I think maybe I have a hot appendix. I’m afraid to risk the last twenty-five miles. Can you stick my prisoner in a cell until I can get looked at by a doctor?”

“Of course. The woman we use as a matron happens to be at a party, but I know where she is. I’ll phone her to come over.”

“Why pull her away from a party?” the sergeant said. “At least until I’m sure I won’t be able to drive on. The prisoner won’t have to be searched, because she was searched by a matron in Erie, and I have everything she’s not allowed to carry in an envelope in my car. If I can find a doctor, I should know within an hour if it’s safe to drive on. If it isn’t, phone your matron then.”

Rules required that a matron be present at the jail any time there was a female prisoner. As this occurred too seldom to justify a full-time matron, the town’s only meter-maid, Jenny Waite, pinch-hit as matron when necessary. As a condition of her employment she had to keep headquarters informed of where she could be reached in emergency. But as the sergeant suggested, it would be a shame to interrupt Jenny’s New Year’s Eve celebration if the female prisoner was going to be there no more than an hour.

“I guess we can skip regulations this time,” Saxon agreed. He said to the woman; “I’ll hang your coat in one of the lockers.”

“Can’t I keep it?” she asked huskily. “I’m still cold from the ride. This dumb cop hasn’t got a heater.”

“Let her keep it,” Morrison said. “Which way do we go?”

Saxon took the cell key ring from his pocket and led the way back to the cell block. The three cells were in a row, the last one having a solid steel wall between it and the center one so that it couldn’t be seen into from the others. This was the “women’s section.”

As they passed the first cell, Edward Coombs said, “Company, huh? Maybe we can have a New Year’s Eve party.”

No one answered him.

Chapter 6

At the door of cell number three Sergeant Morrison removed the woman’s handcuffs. The barred door was standing open. The prisoner walked into the cell without being ordered and glanced around disdainfully. The place was immaculately clean, but not very homey, containing nothing but a washbowl with a polished steel mirror over it, a screened commode, and a drop-down bunk.

Seeing her expression, Morrison said, “Better get used to it, lady. You’re going to be living in one like it for a long time.”

She turned to glare at him, then whipped off her headscarf and tossed it on the bunk. Without the scarf she looked more like the composite drawing that had been published, for the short, bleached blonde hair which curled around her face in a poodle cut had been one of the distinctive features of the drawing.

Saxon locked the cell door. “You want anything, just holler,” he said.

“Who could want any more than this bridal suite has to offer?” she asked contemptuously.

Saxon turned away without answering. Morrison trailed him back to the waiting room.

Moving behind the counter, Saxon lifted the radio microphone and said, “Control to Car Two. Come in, Car Two.”

From the speaker George Chaney’s voice said, “Car Two to Control. Go ahead.”

“Come on in, George,” Saxon said. “I want you to run a patient over to the hospital.”

As he hung up the mike, Morrison said, “I could have driven that far, Chief.”

“They aren’t doing anything,” Saxon said. “New Year’s Eve is our quietest night of the year.”

Picking up the phone, he dialed the hospital and asked for the chief duty nurse. After a few moments’ wait a feminine voice said, “Mrs. Forshay speaking.”

“Hi, Edna,” he said. “This is Ted Saxon. I have a Buffalo police officer at headquarters who thinks he may have a hot appendix. Who’s on standby duty?”

“Dr. Harmon.”

“Better give him a ring and have him meet the patient in the emergency room. I’m sending him over in a squad car. The name’s Sergeant Harry Morrison.”

“Will do,” Edna Forshay said cheerily. “Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, Edna.”

Five minutes later the squad car reported in and took Morrison away. Three minutes after that, George Chaney’s voice came over the radio to announce their arrival at the hospital and report the car out of service until further notice.

At eleven-thirty Sergeant Morrison phoned from the hospital. “False alarm, Chief,” he said. “The doc diagnosed it as indigestion. He was a little sore about being pulled away from his merrymaking.”

“Well, I’m glad it was nothing more serious. You’ll be going on tonight, then?”

“Uh-huh. But do you mind if I goof off for another half hour? The nurses on this ward are having a quiet little New Year’s Eve party. No drinks, just coffee and cake. They’ve asked me and your two boys to help them bring in the new year.”

“Sure,” Saxon said. “Let me speak to either Chaney or Ross.”

It was Chaney who came to the phone. Saxon said, “What extension are you going to be near, in case of emergency?”

“One eleven, Chief.”

“Okay,” Saxon said, marking it down. “Happy New Year.”

“Same to you,” Chaney said.

If one eleven had been the extension of Emily’s ward, he would have asked to speak to her, because by now she was on duty; but it wasn’t. He contemplated phoning to wish her a Happy New Year, then decided against it. If she wasn’t tied up with a patient at midnight, she would probably phone him.

At midnight the fire whistle emitted the prolonged blast with which it annually signaled the start of a new year. A dozen church bells began to toll an accompaniment to it. Saxon went to the door and opened it a crack to listen for the horns and noisemakers of any celebrants who happened to be on the street.

There weren’t any, because it was now snowing heavily. When he had come on duty, the streets and sidewalks had been dry, although a foot-deep residue of old snow lay on the ground. But now there was an inch-deep blanket of white on the street.

He closed the door and went back to the cell block, suddenly impelled to have at least some kind of human contact at the moment all the rest of the town was celebrating.

Pausing before the first cell, he said, “Happy New Year, Coombs.”

The man gazed at him for a moment before saying sardonically, “Happy New Year to you, Chief.”

Walking on to the last cell, he found the blonde seated on her bunk. She had removed her fur coat and it lay folded alongside of her. She was wearing a green dress of expensive cut, but of not very good fit, for it hung too loosely on her.

She must have lost weight since she fled Buffalo a month ago, he thought. He wondered if it had been deliberate, in an attempt at disguise, or if worry over being hunted had sloughed off the poundage.

“Happy New Year, Miss Emmet,” he said.

She glared at him. “Are you kidding?”

Saxon returned to the desk and reseated himself. Emily must have been too busy to call, he thought, for the phone didn’t ring.

At five after twelve George Chaney’s voice came from the radio speaker. “Car Two to Control. We are back in service. Will drop Sergeant Morrison off at headquarters before resuming patrol.”

“Control to Car Two,” Saxon said into the mike, “Roger.”

Five minutes later Edward Coombs called, “Hey, Chief!”

Walking back to the cell block, Saxon said, “Yeah?”

“You better check that woman prisoner. Some awfully funny sounds are coming from there.”

Saxon continued on to the last cell. What he saw made him hurriedly draw the key ring from his pocket and unlock the door. The blonde stood on the dropdown bunk. One end of her headscarf was knotted about an overhead water pipe; the other end she was winding about her throat.

As he turned the key in the lock, she quickly unknotted the scarf and dropped it on the bunk. By the time he got into the cell, she had jumped down to the floor.

Saxon paused in astonishment when she took hold of the front of her dress and deliberately ripped it to the waist, also bursting the center strap of her brassiere to bare small but well-formed breasts. Her skirt came up to her waist and she savagely tore at the unglamorous plain white cotton panties she was wearing. The elastic burst and the material split, allowing them to slither down to her knees. She completed their destruction by ripping them right in two and letting the segments fall to the floor.

Then she hurled herself at Saxon, scratching, kicking, biting, and screaming. Fingernails burned one cheek. He made a grab for the clawing hand, missed, and felt her teeth sink into his palm. The toe of a pointed shoe dug into his shin.

Spreading his arms, he managed to pin hers to her sides by enveloping her in a bear hug. Her pointed toes began to beat a tattoo on his shins and she attempted to get an ear in her teeth. He pulled her over to the bunk, threw her down and held her there by the simple expedient of falling on top of her with the full weight of his two hundred pounds.

Quite suddenly she relaxed.

“You going to cut it out?” he growled.

“All right,” she said in an entirely calm voice. “Get up. You’re hurting me.”

Cautiously he released her arms and started to rise to his feet. At once her legs shot out to encircle his waist and her arms locked about his neck. She gave an abrupt jerk that pulled him off balance and made him fall heavily atop her again.

A voice from the cell door said, “What the hell’s going on here?”

Then the woman was pushing against his chest, fighting him away and screaming again. Saxon fell from the bunk to his knees, climbed to his feet, and staggered backward across the room, to back into someone in the doorway. He turned to find Sergeant Morrison glaring at him in outrage.

“She’s gone crazy,” Saxon said. “She tried to hang herself, and when I came in to stop her, she was all over me like a swarm of hornets.”

“Looked to me more like you were all over her,” Morrison said in his rumbling voice.

The woman still lay sprawled on the bunk, her skirt bunched around her waist to disclose her bare thighs, her naked breasts heaving. In a flat, unemotional voice she said, “He raped me.”

After staring at her for a moment, Saxon walked over and picked up the headscarf. Morrison was still standing squarely in the doorway when Saxon turned back toward the door, a belligerent expression on his face. But as Saxon bore down on him, the expression on the acting chief’s face turned Morrison’s expression uncertain. At the last instant he stepped aside.

Relocking the cell door, Saxon stalked to the waiting room, trailed by the silent Morrison. Tossing the headscarf on the counter, Saxon entered the washroom, leaving the door open, and stared into the mirror over the washbowl. Two raw scratches ran down his left cheek. Rubbing water on them, he patted his cheek dry with his handkerchief, then ran water over his bitten hand and dried that too.

Sergeant Morrison watched silently from the washroom doorway. When Saxon turned toward the door, again he stepped aside to let him pass. Saxon walked behind the counter. Morrison walked over, leaned his elbows on the counter, and regarded the acting chief steadily.

“You can stop looking at me so accusingly,” Saxon said irritably. “I don’t know why she pulled that. Maybe she’s just got a grudge against all cops.”

“Pulled what?” Morrison asked quietly.

“Faked my raping her.”

“I saw it,” Morrison said in the same quiet tone.

Saxon said hotly, “You saw the tail end of a deliberate act. She lured me into her cell by pretending she meant to hang herself. Then she ripped her own clothes and jumped me.” He came back out from behind the counter. “Come with me and I’ll prove it.”

He led the way back to the cell block and stopped before the first cell. “You couldn’t see into the last cell,” he said to Coombs. “But you could certainly hear everything going on. Tell Sergeant Morrison what happened.”

“Sure,” Coombs said. “You raped the woman.”

Chapter 7

Saxon glared through the bars at the man, “Quit horsing around, Coombs. This is no joke. Tell the truth.”

“I’m telling it,” Coombs said calmly. He looked at the sergeant. “The chief here kept going back to the last cell and asking the woman if she wanted a little company. I didn’t like the way he asked it, and neither did she, because she kept telling him to get lost. Finally I heard him unlock the cell and go in. I heard her say, ‘Leave me alone! Stop it! Are you crazy! You’re hurting me!’ Not all at once. There were little gasps and cries and suppressed screams, like he was holding his hand over her mouth, in between. A couple of times there was the sound of tearing cloth. It was clear to me he was raping her, but locked in here, I couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Saxon stared at Coombs with his mouth open. After a long time he said, “Why, you lying punk! You’d go that far to get even for a lousy traffic ticket?”

“You told me to let the sergeant know what happened,” Coombs said reasonably. “So I told him.”

Saxon strode back to the last cell and looked in. The woman still lay sprawled in the same position. She looked at him with such hate that, in spite of himself, he couldn’t suppress a twinge of guilt, immediately followed by a rush of anger at both her and himself for allowing her histrionics to begin to get to him.

Returning to the first cell, he said, “Now that you’ve had your little joke, Coombs, tell the truth.”

“How many times do I have to say it?” Coombs inquired. “You raped her.”

Saxon looked at Morrison. “Do you believe this guy?” he demanded.

“Uh-huh.”

“I told you the way it really happened. Your prisoner deliberately framed me. And Coombs is backing up her story because he’s sore about being jailed.”

Morrison slowly shook his head. “You’re not getting through to me, Chief.”

Saxon felt his face redden. “So what do you plan to do about it?”

“I can hardly place a police chief under arrest in his own headquarters,” Morrison said tonelessly. “But I’ll be damned if you get away with raping a prisoner of mine left in your custody. I want a doctor to examine this woman before she leaves here. And I want your district attorney brought down here to decide what to do about you.”

Saxon stalked past him back to the desk, lifted the phone, and dialed the number Jenny Waite had left in case of emergency. It was the private home of a friend of the meter-maid’s, and he had no trouble getting her called to the phone.

“Sorry to break up your party, Jenny,” Saxon said. “But I need you at headquarters right away.”

“Oh, no!” she said. “Tonight of all nights.” Then her tone became resigned. “Okay, Chief. Soon as I can get home and change into uniform.”

“Skip the uniform,” Saxon said. “I want you here fast.”

“If it’s that important, I’m on my way,” Jenny said.

Breaking the connection, Saxon dialed the hospital. When the switchboard operator answered, he said, “Is Dr. Harmon still in the hospital?”

“No, sir,” the operator said. “He left about eleven-thirty.”

“This is Chief Saxon. What emergency number do you have listed for him?”

“He’s at the Elks party, Chief.”

Hanging up, he dialed the Elks Club and had Dr. Bruce Harmon paged. When the doctor came to the phone, Saxon said, “This is the chief, Bruce. I need you over at headquarters. Better bring along whatever equipment you need to determine if a woman has been forcibly raped.”

“Oh, oh,” Harmon said. “Anyone I know?”

“I doubt it. How long will you be?”

“Expect me in twenty minutes.”

“Fine. The D.A. happen to be at the Elks party?”

“Nope. He always makes the country club on New Year’s Eve.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Saxon said.

He hung up and dialed again. When a voice behind a background of noise and music said, “Country Club bar,” Saxon asked, “Arnold Kettle there?”

“He was in the bar a minute ago. Hold on.”

About three minutes passed before a deep voice said, “Hello.”

“This is Ted Saxon, Arn. Hate to interrupt your party, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come down to headquarters.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“A female prisoner is claiming forced rape.”

“Oh. Can’t it wait till morning?”

“You must not have heard me clearly,” Saxon said. “I said a female prisoner.”

“Huh? You mean while in custody?”

“That’s right. In a cell.”

“Who did it?”

“Nobody. It’s a frame.”

“Well, who’s she accusing?”

“Me,” Saxon said.

“My God!” Arnold Kettle said. “I’ll be right down.”

Saxon hung up the phone and looked at Sergeant Morrison. “Everything is arranged,” he said coldly. “Satisfied?”

“Don’t get yourself sore at me,” Morrison said. “I didn’t rape the woman. You did.”

Saxon’s face darkened and he started around the counter. The sergeant held up one hand. “Now don’t get excited, Chief. I don’t want any trouble.”

Saxon paused with his fists clenched. Though Morrison was a big man himself, he regarded the width of the younger man’s shoulders dubiously. “I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated.

Saxon pointed at the bench along the wall. “Then sit down over there and keep your mouth shut.”

Obediently the sergeant went over to the bench and sat down.

Jenny Waite was the first one to arrive. She came in with a snow-sprinkled headscarf over her head, hung it on one of the hooks near the door, and hung an evening cloak next to it. Beneath the coat she wore a flowered evening gown. She was a slightly built woman in her late thirties with a thin, pixie-like face and an amusing manner of cocking her head to one side whenever she asked a question. She was a widow with four children and had been vaguely “engaged” to a local widower named Joe Penny for the past five years.

“Joe dropped me off and went back to the party,” she announced, seating herself on the bench to remove fur-topped boots. “What’s up?” She glanced curiously at Sergeant Morrison, seated only a few feet away on the bench.

“Female prisoner,” Saxon said briefly. He didn’t bother to introduce her to the sergeant.

Jumping up, Jenny set her boots against the wall beneath her cloak and approached the counter. “Keys?”

“She doesn’t require searching, and I don’t want you in the cell alone with her, because she’s a little nuts. You can go take a look, then wait out here until the doctor arrives.”

“Oh, she’s sick?” Jenny asked, starting toward the cell block.

Saxon didn’t reply.

As Jenny disappeared, the phone rang. It was Emily, calling from the hospital.

“Sorry I couldn’t phone at midnight,” she said. “But a patient picked that time to pull loose an intravenous transfusion needle. Things have quieted down now. Just called to say Happy New Year.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Same to you.”

“Things quiet there, too?”

“Not very. I’d better phone you back later, honey.”

“Oh. Well, make it before five A.M., because we start taking temperatures again then.”

“All right,” he said, and hung up.

Jenny came back into the room and asked, “What’s the matter with her? Why’s she lying there all exposed like that?”

So the woman still hadn’t changed position, Saxon thought. She must be simulating being in a state of shock.

“Guess she’s preserving evidence,” he said dryly. “She’s pretending she was raped.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. Saxon felt savage amusement when her gaze touched the silent man seated on the bench and her expression indicated she had jumped to the conclusion that he was the accused rapist. Apparently deciding that it wouldn’t be tactful to ask any questions in front of the suspect, she seated herself on the farthest end of the bench from Morrison.

Dr. Bruce Harmon arrived at a quarter of one. He was a lean, bouncy man about Saxon’s age, who gave the impression of always being in a hurry and usually moved at a gait approaching a trot. Setting his bag on the bench, he quickly hung up his coat and hat, but retained his galoshes.

Briskly rubbing his hands together, he said, “Getting colder out. Hello, Jenny. Where’s the patient?” Then he glanced at Morrison with recognition and said, “Hello there. How you feeling?”

“Better,” Morrison said.

Saxon laid the cell keys on the counter and said, “Show him, Jenny.”

Moving over to the counter, Jenny picked up the keys. “This way, doctor.” She led the way toward the cell block.

They had hardly disappeared when District Attorney Arnold Kettle came in stamping.

Arnold Kettle was a plump, red-faced man of fifty-five with iron-gray hair and such an erect stance that his protruding stomach gave the impression that he was leaning slightly backward. He didn’t remove either his hat or his overcoat.

After glancing at Sergeant Morrison, Kettle came over to the counter. “Now what’s this all about, Ted?”

“Doc Harmon and Jenny Waite are back with the alleged victim,” Saxon said. “You’ll have to wait until Bruce is finished before you can talk to her. The woman is Grace Emmet.”

The district attorney’s eyebrows shot upward. “The Buffalo murderess?”

“Uh-huh. Sergeant Morrison over there on the bench was bringing her back from Erie and dropped her off here for an hour in order to see a doctor. This was about eleven o’clock. He thought he had a hot appendix. Turned out he didn’t, but while he was gone, the Emmet woman faked a suicide attempt in order to get me into her cell. Soon as I entered, she ripped her clothing, scratched me up a bit, and started yelling rape. Morrison walked in while we were wrestling and jumped to the conclusion that she was telling the truth.”

“I know what I saw,” Morrison said in his rumbling voice. “I assume you’re the district attorney. The chief here isn’t introducing me to anyone because he’s sore at me.”

The D.A. walked over and held out his hand. “Arnold Kettle.”

Rising, Morrison shook hands. “Glad to know you, Mr. Kettle. Chief Saxon neglected to mention that there’s another witness to the rape. There’s a guy in one of the cells. He couldn’t see into the woman’s cell, but he heard everything that took place. And he verifies the woman’s story.”

Kettle turned to frown at Saxon.

“Oh, it’s a very thorough frame,” Saxon said. “The prisoner he’s talking about is sore at me for jailing him on a traffic charge. He’s corroborating the woman’s story just to get even.”

“You’ve got a persecution complex,” Morrison said.

“Why the hell would either prisoner want to frame you?”

Saxon leaned his elbows on the counter. “You think you saw the rape actually taking place, don’t you, Morrison?”

“I know I did.”

“Okay, think about what you saw. The Emmet woman’s clothing was convincingly disarranged, but it takes two to tango. Was mine even slightly disarranged?”

“You were on your knees with your back to me for several seconds after she pushed you off the bunk. You had plenty of time to button up.”

“For God’s sake,” Saxon said disgustedly. “I’m beginning to think you’re in on this frame.” Then his eyes narrowed. “You know, that’s a thought, Arn. Maybe he is.”

Arnold Kettle gave him a strange look. “Are you suggesting a conspiracy between the sergeant and his, prisoner?”

“Yeah,” Saxon said slowly. “I don’t know why it didn’t register sooner. He comes in here with a faked appendix attack and leaves the woman in my custody. He even talks me out of calling in a matron, because that would spoil the frame. I see just how they worked it now.”

“Boy, are you reaching out in left field,” Morrison said in a tone of disgust. He smiled the slightest smile.

Chapter 8

“I had Chaney and Ross run him over to the hospital,” Saxon said, speaking to the district attorney and ignoring Morrison. “When they brought him back, they just dropped him off and continued on patrol, they didn’t come in with him. Before coming in, Morrison must have walked back to the woman’s cell window and rapped on the glass to signal her it was time to go into her act. That way they could time it perfectly for him to walk in at the crucial moment.”

Morrison laughed aloud. “This guy isn’t just a rapist. He must be on marijuana.”

“Well, explain your faked appendix attack,” Saxon said hotly.

“What’s to explain? I got worried over a pain that turned out to be just indigestion. I can demonstrate how silly your story is, though. You’re charging that this whole thing was a conspiracy between me and my prisoner, huh?”

“I am.”

“Okay, let’s kick that around. I was assigned to this case when Factor’s body was discovered a month ago, but Grace Emmet had already skipped town when I got it. I never in my life laid eyes on her until I picked her up at the Erie police station at nine this evening. You can check that time with the Erie police. By the time they checked her out and we got going, it was nine-thirty. Are you suggesting that in the hour and a half it took us to drive here, I talked a total stranger into framing you for rape?”

After thinking this over, even Saxon had to admit it seemed unlikely. Arnold Kettle’s expression indicated he considered it impossible.

Morrison said, “Furthermore, I never before laid eyes on you. Why the hell would I want to frame a total stranger, using another total stranger as an accomplice?”

Arnold Kettle cleared his throat. “It does seem that an awful lot of coincidence would have to be involved, Ted. A plot such as you suggest would require considerable advance planning. Assuming just for the sake of argument that there was such a plot, how would Sergeant Morrison know you’d be on duty tonight? Or do you think that for some psychopathic reason he and his prisoner decided to frame just anybody they found on duty?”

“The whole town has known for ten days that I’d be on duty tonight,” Saxon said doggedly. “A police chief voluntarily taking New Year’s Eve is the sort of story that travels. And you must know how fast news travels in Iroquois.”

“I guess that guy in the cell was in on the conspiracy too, huh?” Morrison said sardonically. “I never laid eyes on him before, either.”

Saxon studied him from narrowed eyes. “Now that you mention it, he probably was planted here in order to be on hand as a witness. He did his damnedest to get himself jailed.” He turned to Kettle. “The boys brought him in about ten o’clock. Twice they’d stopped him for speeding, but the first time they let him go with a warning. He’d probably been racing back and forth all over town hoping to be stopped. The only reason he’s in jail is because he deliberately made himself obnoxious. He wanted to be jailed.”

“Why would all these people go to so much trouble?” the D.A. asked reasonably.

Saxon made a hopeless gesture. “You’ve got me, Arn. But they all have to be in on it. It’s too pat.”

“That’s true,” Kettle agreed. “Almost too pat to be believable. I’d like to talk to this witness.”

But questioning of Edward Coombs was postponed because Dr. Harmon and Jenny Waite came from the cell block at that moment. Jenny handed Saxon the keys as the doctor set his bag on the bench and started to put on his coat.

“Hello, Arn,” Harmon said to the district attorney. “How was the country-club dance?”

“Too loud to stand, sober. And you had to put me on a non-alcoholic diet. What’s the story on the woman?”

The doctor shrugged. “You can’t just look at a woman and tell whether or not she’s been raped. Unless it was so violent there’s physical damage — which there isn’t in this case. Aside from the damage to her clothing, there isn’t anything either to prove or to disprove her charge. Her pulse and respiration are normal. Of course, by now she’s had time to quiet down. An hour ago she may have been registering a pulse of two hundred for all I know.”

“Then you can’t say one way or the other?” the district attorney asked.

“Not tonight. Ask me tomorrow when I get the lab report. I’ve prepared a microscopic slide which should tell the story.”

Saxon said, “Bruce, when you examined Sergeant Morrison at the hospital earlier, what did you find?”

“Nothing. He just seemed to be experiencing a touch of mild indigestion.”

“Could he have been faking?”

The doctor glanced curiously from Saxon to the sergeant and back again. “I have no reason to suspect he was,” he said cautiously.

“But could he have been? It’s important.”

“If you mean was it possible, of course it was. My diagnosis was based on the patient’s description of symptoms, because there weren’t any physical symptoms to base it on. When a patient claims pain, I assume there is pain.” Glancing at the sergeant, he said humorously, “The only way to tell definitely is to ask the patient. Were you faking?”

“If you’d felt my pain, you’d know I wasn’t,” Morrison rumbled.

“I guess that settles that,” Harmon said, picking up his bag. “I’ll phone you the lab-test results some time tomorrow morning, Arn. I assume you’ll be home instead of at your office.”

“If I’m not, try me here. My office will be closed for the legal holiday.”

As the doctor went out at his usual rapid walk, a whole group of police officers trooped in together. In addition to the five members of the second trick, now going off duty, there was the reduced staff of three who would now go on for the swing trick, plus patrolman Verne Dowling, Saxon’s desk relief. Glancing at the wall clock, Saxon saw it was just one o’clock.

Naturally, all the officers were curious about the presence of Jenny and the D.A., but Saxon brusquely interrupted their questioning, told the old crew to log out, and the relief to get out on patrol. All of them seemed a little surprised at his brusqueness, but they hurried to comply with his orders. Within five minutes all but Dowling had departed again.

Verne Dowling didn’t ask any questions either. Though he had no idea of what was going on, he recognized that his usually amiable acting chief was in a towering rage and discreetly made himself inconspicuous. Storing his overcoat and hat in his squad-room locker, he quietly moved behind the desk and seated himself.

Saxon said coldly, “I’ll take you back to talk to the prisoners now, Arn. You can stand by while we question the woman, Jenny. But we won’t need you, Morrison.”

Morrison agreeably reseated himself on the bench. Saxon led the others back to the cell block.

There was no change in either prisoner’s story. When they returned from the cell block. Kettle looked thoughtful, Jenny looked upset, and Saxon was furious. It increased his anger when he saw by the disbelieving expression on Verne Dowling’s face that Sergeant Morrison had informed the desk man of what was going on.

Morrison stood up and said, “If you’re through with my prisoner, Mr. Kettle, is it all right if I take her on to Buffalo? I’m sure the Erie County D.A. won’t object to her being returned as a witness whenever you’re ready for her.”

“I suppose it’s all right, Sergeant. She isn’t charged with anything here, and it may be weeks or months before we need her as a witness. You’d better scare up something for her to wear, though. There isn’t much left of her clothing.”

Morrison said, “I’ll bring in her suitcase and let her change.”

Saxon asked bitterly, “Am I under arrest, Arn?”

“I don’t think you’ll run anywhere,” the district attorney said equably. “We’ll hold off any legal action for the time being. Suppose you meet me here tomorrow morning. Say about eleven?”

“All right,” Saxon said stiffly. “Jenny, you stick around until Sergeant Morrison gets his prisoner out of here. We don’t want anyone else accused of rape.”

Stalking into the squad room, he got his coat, hat, and galoshes from his locker, put them on, and strode out again. As he headed for the door, he threw curt goodnights to Kettle, Jenny, and Dowling. He didn’t even look at Sergeant Morrison.

There were now several inches of snow on the street, and snow was falling so heavily that visibility was cut to a matter of yards. Saxon drove the three blocks to Iroquois General Hospital at ten miles an hour.

There was no one in the hospital lobby at that time of night. As he passed the desk, the switchboard operator called, “Hi, Chief,” and he gave her a distant nod. He took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to Ward 3-B. He found Emily seated alone in the nurses’ alcove marking charts.

She looked up with a surprised smile, then simultaneously saw the twin scratches on his cheek and his expression of controlled rage. The smile changed to a look of concern.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“We may have to postpone our marriage again. I’ll probably be in jail.”

She paled. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I’m accused of raping a female prisoner in her cell.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “You? That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

“You’re prejudiced,” he said bitterly. “The D.A. thinks I’m guilty. Jenny Waite thinks it. By tomorrow everyone in town will think it.”

“Maybe you’d better sit down and tell me about it,” she said. “I’ll get us a couple of cups of coffee.”

Rising, she dropped dimes in a coffee vendor in the corner beyond the desk and filled two paper cups. Setting them on the desk, she reseated herself. Saxon took the extra chair and dropped his hat on the floor next to it.

“Where are the other nurses?” he asked.

“Louise is checking the tents and intravenouses. Beth is sitting with a terminal case. We won’t be disturbed for a while.”

He took a sip of his coffee. Then he started at the beginning and described the events of the evening. When he finished, her eyes were blazing with anger even greater than his.

“The beasts!” she said indignantly. “Of course all three of them were in on it.” Suddenly leaning forward, she cupped his chin in her hands and kissed him fiercely on the mouth. “Poor darling. Why do you imagine they did such a thing?”

He hadn’t really expected that Emily would even for a moment have any doubts of his innocence. Nevertheless, her immediate and unquestioning acceptance that it couldn’t have been anything but a deliberate frame sent a warm feeling through him. For the first time in two hours he smiled.

“You know you’re quite a doll?” he said.

She colored. “Sometimes you make me feel like one. But why have they done this to you?”

Ted shook his head. “I can’t even begin to conceive of a reason. When I think about it, it doesn’t seem possible that it could be a frame. And I know it was. You can hardly blame Arn Kettle for thinking I’m guilty.”

“I can,” she said loyally. “He ought to know you couldn’t be guilty simply because you’re you.”

“Your prejudice is showing again,” he said with a grin. “I even boggle myself at believing it was a deliberate conspiracy when I think about it too hard. Maybe Grace Emmet planned it alone for some neurotic reason; maybe Coombs wasn’t deliberately planted there and only went along with her story to get even with me for jailing him; maybe Sergeant Morrison actually thinks he saw a raping. How could it have been planned so elaborately if Morrison never saw that Emmet woman before he picked her up in Erie?”

“Perhaps he promised her leniency if she co-operated,” Emily suggested doubtfully.

“Then you have to assume that Coombs got himself jailed on the off-chance that Morrison could talk her into co-operating during the hour-and-a-half drive from Erie. He couldn’t even have gotten in contact with Morrison to find out if he was going through with the plan.”

“Perhaps Morrison lied about never seeing her before,” Emily said. “Perhaps she was an ex-mistress or something, and he knew she would do as he wished.”

“That would be an even more unlikely coincidence.” Draining his coffee cup, he picked up his hat and climbed to his feet. “I’m not going to think about it any more tonight. Good night, doll.”

“Do you have to leave so soon?”

“You’ll get fired, entertaining a boy friend on duty. I’d better get out of here before the chief nurse comes along.”

Leaning down, he kissed her lightly, turned, and walked toward the elevator.

Chapter 9

On New Year’s Day, Saxon came into headquarters half an hour ahead of his appointment with the district attorney. It was Sam Lennox’s day off and Vic Burns was on the desk.

Burns said with obvious self-consciousness, “Morning, Chief.”

“You’ve heard about it, huh?”

“I guess everybody has by now,” Burns admitted. “What the devil happened? She lure you on, then scream rape when the sergeant walked in and caught you in the act?”

Ted gazed at him coldly.

“I’m just trying to figure why,” Burns said defensively. “Don’t look so sore. I thought we were friends.”

“So did I. It didn’t occur to me that my friends would find me guilty without trial.”

The stocky Lieutenant looked a little bewildered. “I thought I was putting the best possible construction on it. The way I heard it, there were two witnesses aside from the woman, so something must have happened. Only, knowing you, I figured it must have been just seduction and she decided to yell rape after the fait accompli. I figured it was New Year’s Eve; maybe you brought a little bottle on duty to have a quiet celebration; and when she gave you an invitation, you fell for it.”

Instead of anger, Saxon felt only a vast weariness. If Vic Burns believed him guilty, no one was going to accept his explanation. Continuing to protest his innocence was like trying to fight a roomful of feathers. He decided to save his efforts for the district attorney.

Without making any reply, he went on to the squad room and hung up his wraps. When he came out again, he turned through the door leading to the cell block and glanced into the cells. All were empty.

Back in the waiting room, he said, “When was Coombs released?”

“Early this morning before I came on. About six. I guess he phoned some friend in Buffalo and the guy drove down to post the bond.”

“Who was it?”

Burns checked the receipt book. “Somebody named John Simmons.”

Walking over to the counter, Saxon took a tiny notebook from his pocket and copied down the name and address listed.

“I may as well get everybody while I’m at it,” he said. “I assume the D.A. had Dowling take down the addresses of the witnesses before releasing them last night. Know where they are?”

“Sure. Right here in the basket.”

Burns lifted a sheet of paper from the wire basket on the desk behind the counter and handed it to Saxon. On it were listed the names of Harry Morrison, Edward Coombs, and Grace Emmet, with home addresses behind them. The woman’s was given as Erie County Jail.

Saxon copied all of them in his notebook. Then he went into his office and closed the door.

A sheet of paper beneath the glass top of his desk listed the telephone numbers of all police agencies within a hundred-mile radius. Locating the number of the Erie, Pennsylvania city police, he dialed it direct. When the police switchboard operator answered, he asked to speak to someone familiar with the Grace Emmet case.

After some delay, he was switched to a Detective Everett Cass.

“This is Acting Chief Saxon of the Iroquois, New York police,” he told the Erie detective. “Last night you turned Grace Emmet over to a Buffalo detective named Sergeant Harry Morrison.”

“Yeah. I was the one who picked her up.”

“Were you present when the transfer was made?”

“Sure. Had to be. I work days, but I had to come down to brief the Buffalo officer.”

“I see. What time was the transfer made?”

“Morrison showed up about nine P.M. He took off with the prisoner about nine-thirty.”

Saxon asked, “Did you get any impression that Morrison knew the prisoner personally?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Cass said, “That’s a kind of funny question. What’s this all about, anyway, Chief?”

“The sergeant and his prisoner stopped off here en route to Buffalo and there was a little trouble. It’s too long a story to go into over the phone. I’d just like to know if you think he was acquainted with the prisoner before he picked her up.”

“Neither of them gave any indication of it,” Detective Cass said slowly. “What kind of trouble? She escape?”

“No. Far as I know, she’s now safely jailed in Buffalo. It was just a wild idea I had. Thanks for the information.”

He hung up and sat musing for a few moments. So much for that idea. All he had accomplished was to verify Morrison’s story and tighten the web about himself.

There was a knock on the door. When he called an invitation to enter, the door opened and District Attorney Arnold Kettle pushed his large stomach into the room. Unbuttoning his overcoat but not removing it, he seated himself with his hat in his lap and looked at Saxon with an expression of sadness.

“You look as if you had more bad news,” Saxon said.

“Afraid so. Doc Harmon phoned just as I was leaving home. The lab test was positive.”

Saxon gazed at him with his mouth open. “It couldn’t be! They made a mistake.”

Kettle slowly shook his head. “Bruce says not. You can’t argue with a microscope, Ted.”

“But it’s absolutely impossible! I never touched the woman.”

The district attorney cocked one eyebrow. “Are you accusing Doc Harmon of being in on the conspiracy too?”

Saxon let his wide shoulders slump in defeat. After a long silence he said tonelessly, “So am I under arrest, Mr. District Attorney?”

A look of irritation formed on Kettle’s face. “I don’t know what you’re sore about, Ted. If you weren’t the chief of police and a lifelong friend of mine, you would have been in jail last night. You ought to appreciate the way you’ve been handled.”

He was being unfair, Saxon realized. There was no point in taking his resentment out on Kettle, who obviously had no liking for this distasteful job and was performing his duty solely because he had no choice. The man had leaned over backward to make it as easy as possible for Saxon.

“Sorry, Arn,” he said wearily. “Hereafter I’ll try to aim my temper at the people who set me up. I have another bit of evidence for you to make the case against me even tighter. I just phoned Erie. Morrison told the truth about the time he left there with Grace Emmet. And a detective who witnessed the transfer says he noticed nothing to indicate they had ever seen each other before.”

The district attorney regarded him strangely. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, good or bad, I want the whole truth to come out. I’m not interested in eventual acquittal for lack of evidence.”

For a few moments the district attorney gazed down at the hat in his lap. Without looking up, he said tentatively, “Before I came in here, I stopped to talk to Vic Burns. He has a kind of interesting theory.”

“I heard it,” Saxon said shortly. “No, thanks.”

Kettle raised his eyes to look at him. “Forced rape is a felony, Ted. Actually, adultery is a crime too in this state, punishable with up to a year in prison, but I never heard of the law being enforced. If you could establish that it was her idea and she only yelled rape because Morrison caught you together, the worst that would probably happen would be a charge of misuse of your office.”

“You mean I could resign from the force,” Saxon said. “No, thanks. I have no intention of pleading guilty to a lesser offense when I’m not guilty of any. Can’t you get it through your head that I didn’t do anything?”

The district attorney sighed. “Okay, Ted. You don’t leave me much choice but to ask the grand jury for an indictment for first-degree rape.”

“Then I’m under arrest?”

Kettle moved his head back and forth wearily. “I’m going to stick my neck out. If you run, I’ll have to resign as D.A., but I’m sure you won’t. We’ll hold off formal charges until tomorrow morning, so you’ll be free to arrange bail. You be here at headquarters at nine A.M. to be booked. Then we’ll immediately go upstairs to City Court for a preliminary hearing. I’m sure the judge will fix bail at the lowest amount he can under the law, because we’re all as upset about having to do this to you as you are about having it done. Until a jury finds you guilty, if ever, I see no reason why you’ll have to spend a single day in jail.”

In view of the fact that everyone seemed convinced of his guilt, he could hardly expect friendlier treatment than that, Saxon thought. He had always been a little impatient with the general belief that the equality of all persons under the law was a myth, but now he was confronted with evidence that it was. There was little doubt in his mind that if he had been Joe Nobody, factory worker, he would already be behind bars and would languish there until trial.

He was a little ashamed of himself for accepting this special treatment, but it would have required a degree of nobility rare in the history of human relations to insist on being jailed simply because others in the same position would have been. Particularly since he knew himself to be innocent.

“Thanks, Arn,” he said. “I do appreciate the way you’re handling this.”

Saxon wasn’t supposed to be on duty that day. He had come down solely to keep his appointment with Arnold Kettle. When the district attorney left, Saxon walked into the squad room and put on his coat and hat.

As he started past the desk, Vic Burns said, “Chief.”

“Yeah?” Saxon asked, pausing.

“The D.A. says we have to book you tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re going to need bail,” Burns said diffidently. “I only have a couple of thousand salted away, but you’re welcome to it.”

Saxon’s resentment at Burns’s earlier suggestion as to what might have really happened in Grace Emmet’s cell had left him a little cool toward the man. But now his coolness evaporated.

“Thanks, Vic,” he said. “But I’m sure I can arrange professional bond.”

He drove to the big lake-front home of outgoing Mayor Ben Foley.

Saxon found Foley and his wife in their bathrobes. They had just finished a late breakfast. Alice Foley excused herself to go upstairs and dress, leaving Saxon alone with her husband in the big front room.

The outgoing mayor looked at him keenly. “Something’s wrong, Ted. What is it?”

“You haven’t heard?” Saxon asked with raised brows.

“Heard what? We haven’t been out of the house.”

Saxon told the whole story.

When he finished, Foley regarded him shrewdly. “Have you told Emily?”

“Of course,” Saxon said. “I drove over to the hospital last night as soon as I got away from headquarters. She was on night duty.”

“How’d she take it?”

“She was madder than I was. Not at me. At the people who rigged this.”

Foley gave a satisfied nod. “Then I guess you’re as innocent as you claim.”

Saxon frowned at him. “Of course I am.”

“If you were guilty, you wouldn’t have gone near Emily. You would have wanted to hide your face from her. Do you have any idea of the motive behind this frame?”

Saxon shook his head. “Not the slightest.”

“Hmm. You want me to handle the legal end of this?”

“That’s why I’m here. You’re a lawyer, and I certainly need one.”

“Okay. You say Arn Kettle’s going to push for the lowest possible bail?”

“He implied that.”

“Then you forget everything until tomorrow morning,” Foley said. “I’ll arrange professional bond. I’ll meet you at headquarters at nine A.M.”

Chapter 10

Saxon didn’t feel like a lonely lunch at home, but neither did he care to patronize a local restaurant where he would run into people he knew. It had stopped snowing during the night and plows had already cleared the main roads, so he drove thirty miles to a roadhouse on the outskirts of Rigby and lunched there. Afterward he watched television in the road-house bar.

Because Emily had worked until 7 A.M. and usually slept until 3 P.M. when she was on the third shift, Saxon didn’t disturb her until the late afternoon. It was almost four when he arrived at her apartment. He had timed it correctly, for she told him she had just finished showering and dressing.

“Where’s Julie?” he asked as he removed his hat and coat.

“She’s on three to eleven this week. As a matter of fact, I’m her relief. What did Arn Kettle have to say?”

Sinking into the center of the sofa, he stretched out his long legs and glumly regarded his toes. “I’m to be booked and have a preliminary hearing tomorrow morning. Meantime he’s trusting me not to run.”

“Will they put you in jail, Ted?”

“Not unless I’m convicted. And the trial may not come up for months. There seems to be a general reluctance to jail the chief of police. I’ve retained Ben Foley as my lawyer.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” she said. “He’s not only good; he’s nice.”

“I chose him primarily for the first reason,” Saxon said dryly. “Incidentally, he believes in my innocence.”

“I told you he was nice.”

“It isn’t just blind faith. He reasoned it out. He thinks if I were guilty, I wouldn’t have run to you for sympathy the minute I got away from headquarters. He says I wouldn’t have been able to face you.”

After contemplating this, she said, “I suppose he has a point, but I wouldn’t have believed you did it even if you had avoided me. I’d figure you were just embarrassed by the charge, not by guilt.”

“Boy, are you prejudiced,” he said with a grin. “We’ll try to get you on the jury. Have you had anything to eat?”

“Toast and coffee when I got up at three. I’m not hungry, but I’ll fix you something.”

“I had lunch,” he said. “I was going to offer to take you out for some. It isn’t snowing and the sun’s shining. Or was.”

“Maybe later on,” she said. “Would you like a beer?”

“That sounds good.”

As she moved into the kitchen, he walked over to turn on the TV set. Channel 4 was broadcasting the Rose Bowl game, which, because of the three-hour time difference, was just about to start. A marching band filled the screen. Then the station cut in on the preliminary features of the game to give its regular five-minute summary of the four-o’clock news.

At that moment Emily brought in two bottles of beer.

The newscaster turned to local news. The first item was:

A one-car accident at Halfway Creek on Route Twenty just southwest of Buffalo claimed the life of one person and caused minor injuries to another early this morning. Instantly killed when the car driven by Sergeant Harry Morrison of the Buffalo Police Force skidded on snow and went over a twenty-foot bank was alleged murderess Grace Emmet, who was being transported in handcuffs from Erie, Pennsylvania to Buffalo by the police officer. Thrown from the car as it went over the bank, Sergeant Morrison suffered superficial bruises. He was treated for minor injuries at Meyer Memorial Hospital and released. The accident occurred at about 1:45 A.M.

The dead woman, wanted for the month-old murder of Buffalo industrialist Michael Factor, had been picked up by Erie police on December 30 and had waived extradition to New York. Sergeant Morrison was bringing her back to face the murder charge.

Saxon lost all interest in the football game. As the newscaster went on to another local item, he set his beer bottle on the floor, rose, and switched off the set. Crossing to the phone, he dialed Ben Foley’s home number.

Alice answered. Saxon asked for her husband.

When the lawyer came on, Saxon said, “Did you happen to hear the newscast just now?”

“I heard it on the two P.M. news,” Foley said. “I imagine it’s been on all day, but who turns on TV New Year’s morning? I tried to phone you, but there was no answer.”

“I haven’t been home,” Saxon said. “How’s this affect matters?”

“With the alleged victim dead, I’d say it pretty well kills the charge against you. We’ll see in the morning, though. Kettle may insist on pushing it on the basis of the two living witnesses’ testimony.”

“I see We still meet at nine A.M., then?”

“That’s right. But I don’t think I’ll bother with a bondsman. If things get to that point, we can always phone Jimmy Good and tell him to hustle over.”

“Okay,” Saxon said. “See you in the morning.”

When he hung up, Emily asked, “What did he say?”

“He thinks this will kill the charge. I’m sorry it happened, though.”

“Why?” Emily asked in surprise. “The woman was a murderess and she did this terrible thing to you. I can’t feel any sympathy for her.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her. But now she can never retract her charge. I wanted a public admission from her that she lied.”

“Oh,” Emily said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Now how will we ever prove it?”

Walking over to the sofa, Saxon drew her to her feet and put his arms about her. “The important thing is your believing in me, doll. It doesn’t really matter what the rest of the world thinks.”

“It does to me,” she said. “I won’t have people thinking badly of you. They’d better not say anything to me if they know what’s good for them.”

He kissed the end of her nose. “What’ll you do, tigress? Bite them?”

“I’ll at least kick their shins,” she said. She put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Ted, what will we do if we can never disprove this thing? It’ll hang over your head for the rest of your life.”

“We’ll disprove it,” he said. But he didn’t feel nearly the amount of confidence he put into his tone.

Promptly at nine the next morning Saxon arrived at police headquarters. Ben Foley was already there and Arnold Kettle came along a few moments later. They gathered in Saxon’s office to confer.

Foley opened matters by saying, “I don’t suppose you’ll try to push this with the complainant dead, will you, Arn?”

The district attorney raised his eyebrows. “I can’t see that the victim’s death changes things much. The fact remains that a crime was committed.”

“Is alleged to have been committed,” Foley corrected. “How are you going to prove it? Did you take a formal statement from the Emmet woman?”

“Well, no. But she told her story in front of a reliable witness. Jenny Waite was present when I questioned her.”

“Hearsay,” Foley said. “Try to get it in the record. You know the law better than that.”

Arnold Kettle frowned. “We still have the eyewitness testimony of Morrison and Coombs. Plus the lab test.”

“What Morrison saw doesn’t differ from what my client says happened. It’s only his interpretation of what was happening that differs. Ted admits struggling with the woman on the bunk and being pushed off onto the floor by her. He and your witness part company only on the reason for the struggle. Your witness says it was rape; my client says he was trying to subdue an hysterically violent woman. It’s one’s word against the other. I’ll warn you in advance that I’ll block any expression of opinion by Morrison when he’s on the stand. I’ll confine him to describing exactly what he saw — which doesn’t differ from what Ted admits happened.”

“There’s still Coombs,” Kettle growled. “He heard the woman protesting Ted’s advances.”

“Claims to have heard,” Foley corrected. “Personally I think he’s a liar. But aside from that, he isn’t an eyewitness, because he couldn’t see into the cell. I can tear him apart on the stand.”

“Think you can beat the lab test?” Kettle challenged.

“That doesn’t prove rape. It only establishes a physical relationship with some man, which may well have been voluntary.”

“There wasn’t any man but Ted around,” the district attorney growled.

“No? Well, for your information, I talked to Doc Harmon on the phone yesterday afternoon. The test would have shown positive if she had been with a man at any time within the previous twenty-four hours. How do you know what happened in her cell in Erie?”

“Oh, come off it, Ben,” Kettle scoffed. “You’d get laughed out of court.”

“I don’t think so. It’s enough to establish the reasonable doubt that is one of the fundamentals of our legal system. I’ll concede that you could probably get an indictment on what evidence you have. But try to get a conviction for rape where the victim’s testimony is barred and your only eyewitness’s testimony agrees with what the defendant admits, and for which the defendant has a reasonable explanation. You would be the one to get laughed out of court, Arn.”

The district attorney glanced at Saxon, who had been quietly listening. “I’m not anxious to press this thing,” he said grumpily. “Hell, Ted’s been a friend of mine for years. But the public raises a bigger fuss when charges are dropped against a public official than they do when we let off some nonentity. They always think there’s some kind of cover-up. Next election I’d be voted out of office.”

“You’d be more likely to be voted out if you prosecute the case and lose it.”

“There’s that factor, too,” the district attorney agreed unhappily. “I can’t really afford to jump either way.”

“Suppose we get another opinion?” Foley suggested. “Let’s go upstairs and talk to the city judge. He may tell you you don’t even have enough for a preliminary hearing.”

Kettle seemed relieved by the suggestion. Rising to his feet, he said, “Okay. You stick here, Ted. We’ll be back.”

They were gone about twenty minutes. Then Ben Foley re-entered the office alone.

Sinking into a chair, he said, “I guess that’s that, Ted. Arn has agreed to drop charges.”

Saxon emitted a sigh of relief. “That’s one hurdle over.”

“What do you mean, one? The case is closed.”

Saxon shook his head. “Dismissal of charges for lack of evidence isn’t acquittal. In the public mind I’ll be a rapist until I prove what really happened that night. Maybe Arn considers it a closed case, but I haven’t even started my investigation.”

Foley pursed his lips. “I’ve been thinking about the public reaction. The first session of the new Common Council is this afternoon. I have to be present to turn over the reins formally to our new mayor. Maybe you ought to look in, too.”

“Why?”

“Because one of the orders of business will be to consider a permanent appointment as chief of police. And in view of what’s happened, I doubt that it’s going to be you unless you appear to protect your interests and present an awfully strong case.”

Chapter 11

Despite Ben Foley’s suggestion, Saxon did not attend the council meeting. There were a couple of reasons for his decision. One was that since he had already argued his innocence of rape before the proper authority, he had no intention of publicly repeating the performance and, in effect, pleading for his job. Another more practical reason was that he was sure his presence would do no good. Undoubtedly it would inhibit open criticism of him, since he knew all the councilmen personally, but it probably would also prevent any action at all. He suspected that the council would simply table the matter until it could be discussed without his embarrassing presence.

An indication of what was to come was that he wasn’t disturbed in his office all day. Ordinarily there would have been a dozen phone calls, and members of the force would have been in and out constantly to make verbal reports, discuss the handling of cases, or ask questions on procedures. Usually there were also a few influential citizens who felt they were above dealing with a mere desk man and came directly to the chief to ask favors or to register complaints. But today there wasn’t a single phone call for him, no visitors appeared, and apparently members of the force were resolving their problems without his advice; not even a patrolman entered his office. After Ben Foley left, his only conversation was over the phone with Emily when he called to give her the news that the rape charge had been dropped.

He spent the day getting his records in order so that the new chief, whoever he was, could take over with a minimum of difficulty. He didn’t even leave his office for lunch; instead, he phoned Hardy’s Restaurant across the street and had a sandwich and coffee delivered.

Apparently it had been a long council meeting, for it was just breaking up when Saxon left at five. If he had left by the front entrance, he would have run into the entire council as it filed down the front stairs, but he always parked his car in the police parking area next to the alley entrance to headquarters. Consequently, none of the councilmen was embarrassed by having to speak to him. He was in his car when he rounded the front corner of the city hall and saw them exiting from the building.

Ben Foley forced the confrontation on the new mayor, however. He and Adam Bennock had just reached the bottom of the city-hall steps when Saxon’s car came around the corner. Spotting it, Foley signaled Saxon over to the curb.

Leaning across to crank down the car window on the curb side, Saxon looked out inquiringly. The former mayor took the new mayor’s elbow and propelled him over to the car.

“Good thing we caught you,” Foley said. “His Honor has something to tell you.”

“Hello, Saxon,” Bennock said with a peculiar inflection of reluctance in his high, reedy voice. Then he glanced at Foley. “I see no point in making an official announcement in the middle of the street, Mr. Foley.”

“You just plan to write him a letter?” Foley asked, retaining his grip on the elbow. “He has a right to be informed face to face.”

Saxon said, “I think I know what you have to say anyway, Mr. Bennock. You may as well get it over with.”

Bennock cleared his throat and his face took on color, though that might have been due solely to the cold, to which he was inordinately sensitive. There was a muffler wrapped around his neck to the chin. completely hiding his Adam’s apple, but Saxon got the odd impression that the throat-clearing caused the knobby organ to bob up and down beneath the muffler.

“Very well, then,” the new mayor said. “The Common Council has voted to suspend you from duty pending a thorough investigation of this charge against you.”

“I expected it,” Saxon said with no indication of surprise or resentment. “The new chief will find all my records in order and a memorandum of all pending matters requiring his attention lying on my desk. I won’t even have to come in to brief him. By the way, who is he?”

“Lieutenant Arthur Marks has been appointed acting chief pending the outcome of the investigation.”

So they hadn’t yet gone all the way and made it a permanent appointment, Saxon thought. They were at least intending to go through the motions of a formal inquiry.

“Art’s a good cop,” Saxon said, refraining from adding that Marks would make a lousy chief. He had hoped the council would be smart enough to appoint Vic Burns, but he might have known it was a forlorn hope. Burns wasn’t a native of Iroquois and Marks was.

Foley released the new mayor’s elbow and the man moved on with a jerky nod of good-by. Foley opened the car door, stepped in, and cranked up the open window.

“I couldn’t help that,” he said. “I suspected the coward was merely going to inform you by letter and I wanted him to have to tell you personally.”

“Why’d you get into the car?” Saxon asked curiously.

“Alice took mine this afternoon. I need a ride home.”

“Nothing like inviting yourself.” Saxon managed a grin.

“You should be grateful that I’m willing to ride with you,” Foley told him. “I’m probably the only person in town aside from Emily who’s willing to be seen with you today.”

His expression became serious. “Actually I wanted to talk to you, Ted. I had a kind of wild thought while I was in council meeting.”

“It was in good company.”

“Remember the conversation we had the day I appointed you acting chief?”

“Uh-huh. You mean about wanting to leave an effective chief in office?”

“‘Incorruptible’ is the word I used, I think. We also discussed a possible attempt by Larry Cutter to move in and take over the town. I mentioned that in order to accomplish that, he’d have to control both the mayor and the police chief. I suggested that if Adam Bennock was co-operating with Cutter, his probable choice for chief would be Art Marks. And, lo, the day Bennock takes office Art Marks becomes acting chief.”

Saxon gave him a sharp sidewise glance. “You think Larry Cutter may have been behind my frame?”

“I’ve projected my thought even farther than that. Your father’s death had all the earmarks of a professional kill.”

Saxon’s eyes narrowed and his mind began to work so furiously that he nearly missed the turn toward Foley’s home. At the last minute he braked and skidded around the corner on the hard-packed snow. He didn’t say anything until he reached the big house and swung into the driveway. He leaned back in the seat.

“My frame was part of a deliberate campaign to get the right man in office, you think? First they killed Dad, but you can’t go on bumping one police chief after another until you finally get the one you want appointed. It would be so obvious, it would probably bring on a state investigation. So they had to use an entirely different method to get rid of me.”

“That’s the theory I’ve been developing. Doesn’t it make sense?”

“It fits all down the line,” Saxon said slowly. “It even explains how they got Coombs to co-operate. I doubt very much that an investigation of Coombs’s background would turn up anything disreputable about him, because they wouldn’t use a witness who couldn’t stand investigation. I’ll bet no one could link him to Larry Cutter. But you know what he does for a living?”

Foley shook his head. “You never mentioned it.”

“He’s an accountant for the Upstate Harness Racing Association.

A gleam appeared in the plump ex-mayor’s eyes. “And Larry Cutter’s money is behind that,” he said softly.

“Now that we know where to look, maybe we can beat them after all,” Saxon said, beginning to feel a surge of excitement. “At least we now have an idea who the enemy is. Up to now I couldn’t even begin to imagine why I was framed.”

“Don’t get too enthusiastic,” Foley cautioned. “With the rape charge dropped, you’ll have a devil of a time reopening that investigation. You can’t put Morrison or Coombs on the stand, because there’s no court action pending. How do you plan to start?”

“By heading for Buffalo in the morning,” Saxon said. “I have some contacts there who should be able to brief me on Larry Cutter’s organization.”

“I don’t think I can help you there, because I’m a little too old for undercover work. But any other way I can help, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“I won’t,” Saxon assured him.

Climbing out of the car, Foley stood for a moment with the door open. “One thing, Ted. You’re not police chief any more. While you’re under suspension, you’re not even a cop.”

“So?”

“You don’t have the protection of your police force behind you. And I don’t think these people would hesitate for an instant to kill you if you get too close.”

“I’ll try to keep them from learning it until I’m right in their laps,” Saxon said dryly.

Backing out of the driveway, he headed for Emily’s to tell her the news.

Emily had news for him, too, but she was sidetracked from immediately announcing it by his story of the day’s events. She was indignant over his suspension from the force, elated when he told her of Ben Foley’s theory, which finally gave them something definite to get their teeth into; then she became fearful for Saxon’s safety when he told her of his plan to go to Buffalo the next day and attempt to uncover evidence that he had been framed. Only after she had run the scale of these emotions and they had discussed every phase of the day’s happenings did she get around to making her announcement.

Going into the kitchen, she returned with a copy of the Iroquois Evening Bulletin.

“Look at this,” she said. “There isn’t a word in it about the rape charge.”

There wasn’t, he discovered on leafing through the paper. This was the first issue in which the news could have been reported, as there had been no paper on New Year’s Day, but the Bulletin hadn’t mentioned it.

Since by now everyone in town had heard of the alleged rape, it could hardly be because the editor was unaware of the story. Saxon could only conclude that he was following the discreet self-censorship policy of so many small town papers, which maintain dead silence concerning scandals involving prominent local citizens.

On his way home from Emily’s, Saxon stopped to pick up a Buffalo paper. The story was mentioned here, but only on an inner page, and it was cautiously worded. There had been a similarly cautious item in the Buffalo morning paper that day.

With both Buffalo newspapers having local correspondents in Iroquois, they could hardly have avoided hearing of the rape charge, even though no news release had been issued. Both papers must have checked with some official source, most likely with the Iroquois County district attorney’s office. And the printed stories indicated that the response had been “No comment.”

The story that a chief of police was accused of raping a female prisoner was too newsworthy an item to be passed up altogether, but without official confirmation it had to be handled carefully. In both papers it was merely reported that acting Police Chief Theodore Saxon of Iroquois was “under investigation” for an alleged mistreatment of a prisoner. Not only was the prisoner unmentioned by name; the sex wasn’t even disclosed.

Saxon wondered if he were going to make it all the was through the scandal with no more adverse publicity than that.

He found out the next day that he wasn’t.

Chapter 12

The Saturday, January 3 issue of Buffalo’s morning paper reported Saxon’s suspension on its front page. The new mayor was quoted extensively to explain the suspension. In part the item read:

Reform Mayor Adam Bennock told the correspondent for this paper that acting Chief Saxon’s suspension was the result of an accusation of rape made by a female prisoner placed in Saxon’s custody on New Year’s Eve. The woman was Buffalo’s murderess Grace Emmet, since killed in an automobile accident, who was left at the Iroquois city jail for a short time on New Year’s Eve while the police officer escorting her back to Buffalo from Erie, Pennsylvania, was receiving medical treatment for a minor complaint.

Mayor Bennock said that no criminal charges were brought against Saxon because the complainant died in the automobile accident less than two hours after the alleged attack, and the Iroquois County district attorney’s office felt her death left insufficient evidence to obtain a conviction. However, the Iroquois Common Council is conducting an independent inquiry to determine Saxon’s fitness to remain in office. Pending the result of the inquiry, Lieutenant Arthur Marks has been appointed acting chief.

Saxon felt grim amusement at Adam Bennock’s characterization of himself as a “reform” mayor. The adjective would probably give Ben Foley apoplexy.

Since by the time he arrived in Buffalo early Saturday morning the whole city knew of his suspension, he decided it would be a waste of time to try to get to any information from police headquarters. The past relationship of the Iroquois police and the Buffalo police had always been excellent, and Saxon was personally acquainted with the chief and most of the division heads. But he knew that most cops hold rapists in the same contempt they hold blackmailers, and he could hardly expect a very favorable reception at Buffalo police headquarters if he started inquiring about a woman he was supposed to have raped.

Instead his first stop was the city morgue.

He was a day too late to view the remains of Grace Emmet. A fat, rather unpleasantly affable morgue attendant told him the body had been released to a relative from New York City the evening before.

“Helter and Fork Funeral Home picked her up,” the man said. “You could still probably find her there, ’cause they have to embalm her before shipping her back to New York. Shouldn’t think you’d want to see her if you were a friend, though.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t recognize her. It’ll be a closed-casket funeral. She hadda be cut out of the car with a torch. When the car went over the bank, it nosed straight down twenty feet. Folded up like an accordion. If it wasn’t for her clothes and that mink coat she was wearing, we wouldn’t even of been able to tell she was human when they brought her in. She didn’t have no face left. And she had short hair just like a man, you know.”

“It wasn’t that short,” Saxon said with a frown.

“You should see some of the men we get,” the fat attendant said, grinning lewdly. “Sure it was short. What they call a poodle cut. Bleached blonde. But we get bleached blond men too. Somebody’s always bumping off a swish. She was so banged up, they hadda identify her by fingerprints.”

“Oh? Where’d they get the fingerprint record to compare her with? She’d never been in custody here, had she?”

“Hadda send to Erie, where she was picked up. It was Grace Emmet all right. That cop with her was sure lucky he was throwed clear.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Saxon said. “Well, thanks a lot, anyway.”

He decided not to visit the Helter and Fork Funeral Home. Primarily Saxon had gone to the morgue to make sure the body was really that of Grace Emmet. It had occurred to him that possibly her inducement to go along with the frame had been a promise to let her escape, and that Morrison had rigged the accident with some other body in the car to substitute for his prisoner. But if she had been identified through fingerprints, that killed that theory.

It had been a rather farfetched idea anyway, he decided.

From the morgue he drove to a drugstore and checked the phone book for the address of an Anthony Spijak. The man was listed as living on North Street just off Delaware — which was a section of big, expensive homes. Five minutes later he parked in front of a large brick house, followed a winding, freshly shoveled walk to its wide porch, and rang the doorbell.

A dark, good-looking woman of Saxon’s age answered the door. She looked at him in surprise. “Why, Ted Saxon!” she exclaimed. “We were just talking about you!” Then her face slowly colored with embarrassment.

“You saw the morning paper, huh?” he said dryly. “Tony home, Marie?”

“Sure. He never leaves until about eleven. Come on in.”

Pausing to kick off his overshoes and leave them on the porch, he stepped into a small entry hall off a wide front room which, he could see, was expensively furnished in modern American. Marie Spijak took his coat and hat and hung them in a guest closet, then led the way into the front room.

“Tony!” she called.

A tall, darkly handsome man with black curly hair appeared from the rear of the house. Shirt sleeves rolled to his biceps exposed muscular forearms covered with fine, curling black hair. He too was about Saxon’s age.

The man grinned broadly when he saw Saxon. Advancing with hand outstretched, he said, “How are you, Ted, old buddy? I ain’t seen you since your old man ran me out of Iroquois.”

Clasping the hand, Saxon said with an answering grin, “You have to admit you deserved it, Tony.”

“I guess trying to run a wide-open handbook in a place like Iroquois was asking for it,” Spijak admitted. “Incidentally, I was sorry to read about your dad. He was a great guy, even if he did roust me out of my home town.”

“He certainly lasted in the job a lot longer than I did.”

“We’ve just been reading about that. Sit down; Ted. Like a drink?”

Saxon shook his head. “Too early for me.”

“I have beer for breakfast. Keeps me in shape.” Seating himself in a chair opposite Saxon’s, Tony Spijak said to his wife, “How about a beer for me, hon?”

Marie disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Glancing around at the expensive furnishings, Saxon said, “You seem to be doing pretty well, Tony. The bookie business must pay well. I assume you’re still in it, aren’t you?”

Spijak cocked an eyebrow. “You asking as a cop or as an old buddy?”

“I’m not a cop any more. You read the paper. I wouldn’t have any jurisdiction here, anyway.”

Spijak grinned. “You sure made the front page. What the hell got into you, anyway? Were you drunk?”

“It was a frame,” Saxon said.

Marie returned with a glass and an opened can of beer in time to hear the last remark. Handing them to her husband, she said, “I told you there was some mistake, Tony. I knew Ted wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Spijak poured beer into the glass and set the can on the floor. “Marie used to have a crush on you in high school,” he said amiably. “I don’t think she ever quite got over it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marie said, blushing.

“Remember the time your old man caught us skipping school?”

“I can still feel in it the seat of my pants,” Saxon said with a rueful smile.

“He was a great old guy. If he was alive now, he’d probably give it to you across the seat of the pants again for this deal. How do you mean, it was a frame?”

“You know Larry Cutter?”

Spijak paused with his beer glass suspended halfway to his lips. “I know who he is,” he said cautiously.

“He’s looking for a place to land, and I think he’s picked Iroquois. He couldn’t swing it with Dad in as chief, so I think he had him killed. He couldn’t swing it with me in as chief, either. Now they have a good, honest, dumb cop in office who wouldn’t know what was happening if Cutter opened a casino at Fourth and Main.”

Tony Spijak took a sip of his beer. “Yeah, I saw by the paper they appointed Art Marks. He was walking a beat when we were kids.”

Ted said, “You’re still in the bookie business, aren’t you, Tony?”

“Oh, I’ve got a couple of spots around. I’m not gonna tell you where, because the Buffalo cops are getting almost as tough as your old man used to be.”

“I don’t care where they are, so long as they aren’t in Iroquois. All I’m interested in is that you’re still on the inside of things. You must know the scoop on Larry Cutter.”

“I keep my ear pretty close to the grapevine,” Spijak admitted. “You have to in this business. What you want to know?”

“First, have you heard any rumors of Cutter planning to move in on Iroquois?”

“Not with any illegal operations. Everybody on the inside knows he’s behind this harness-racing business, but that’s on the up-and-up. It would make sense, though. He’s a got a pretty big organization sitting idle, and he can’t open up here. The Buffalo cops are just waiting for him to make a move, and he knows it.”

“Ever hear of a man named Edward Coombs?”

After taking another thoughtful sip of his beer, the bookmaker shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s an accountant for the Upstate Harness Racing Association.” Taking his small notebook from his pocket, Saxon read off the man’s home address.

Spijak shook his head again. “Still never heard of him.”

“I doubted that you would have. He was in jail in Iroquois the same night Grace Emmet was. He was one of the witnesses to the supposed rape, and Cutter wouldn’t have picked a witness with any underworld connections.” He glanced at the notebook again. “How about a John Simmons?”

Spijak gave him a peculiar look. “Hardnose Simmons?”

“I wouldn’t know of any nickname he had.” From the notebook Saxon read aloud the man’s home address.

“That’s Hardnose,” Spijak said. “What about him?”

“He was the man who posted Edward Coombs’s bail.”

The bookie grunted. “I guess you were framed by Larry Cutter, then. Simmons is one of Cutter’s guns.”

Saxon felt a surge of elation. Here was the first actual evidence to support Ben Foley’s theory. Larry Cutter had made one stupid mistake in his carefully worked out plan to get Saxon out of office. He had wisely chosen a witness whose connection to him couldn’t be traced, then had allowed one of his gunmen to post the man’s bail.

He said, “One more question. Do you know a Sergeant Harry Morrison of Homicide and Arson?”

“That creep?”

“You do know him, huh? Is he tied in with Cutter?”

Tony Spijak looked surprised. “Cutter doesn’t have any cops on his payroll that I know of. Buffalo’s got a pretty clean force. Except for a few two-bit chiselers like Morrison who shoot angles on their own. Every police force has a few bad apples.”

“What’s Morrison’s angle?”

“One that’ll get him kicked off the force if they ever catch up with him. He’s running protection for a call girl.”

“Oh?” Saxon said.

“The rumor is that he steers customers to her, then takes away most of what she knocks down. He’s a real nice guy.”

“You know this girl’s name?” Saxon asked.

“Ann something-or-other. I don’t know her personally. I could steer you to somebody who does, if it’s important.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Draining his beer glass and setting it on the floor next to the can, Spijak rose and crossed the room to a small writing desk. He wrote on a scratch pad, tore off the sheet and carried it over to Saxon. The paper read: Alton Zek, Fenimore Hotel, Room 203.

“The guy’s a junkie,” Spijak said. “Also a stoolie who plays both sides. But he knows everything that goes on in the vice and narcotics rackets. I don’t want you to tell him I sent you, because he’ll probably run tell Morrison you were nosing around the minute you leave, and I don’t want a guy like Harry Morrison down on me.”

“How will I get him to talk, then?” Saxon asked.

“Show him a twenty-dollar bill. He won’t give a hoot in hell who you are. He’d sell out his mother for a twenty.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

Chapter 13

The Fenimore Hotel was on lower Main Street in the area where Main abruptly turns from a district of sleek modern stores, theaters, and cocktail lounges to one of dives and flophouses. It was a ramshackle frame building of three stories that advertised rooms at a dollar and up.

There was an elderly man with a dirty shirt behind a desk in the lobby. He eyed Saxon warily. It was the sort of place where a seedily dressed stranger would automatically be stopped for questioning about his business to make sure one of the tenants wasn’t allowing a friend to bunk in without paying rent. But Saxon’s dress passed him, because it was also the sort of place periodically visited by the police. Saxon’s clothing was hardly expensive, but it was of a good, solid quality worn by only one type of visitor to the Fenimore. The desk man probably assumed he was a local cop.

There was no elevator. Saxon climbed rickety stairs to the second floor and found room 203.

When he knocked on the door, a hoarse voice from inside said, “Yeah?”

Saxon tried the knob, found the door unlocked and pushed it open. There was an unmade iron bed with dirty sheets, a battered dresser with a washbasin and pitcher on it, a single straight-back chair before a small table, and a soiled and sagging overstuffed chair near the window facing the door. A thin, shriveled man of indeterminate age sat in the overstuffed chair. He wore stained denim pants and a wrinkled O.D. army shirt. He looked up at Saxon’s height dully, one cheek twitching.

Closing the door behind him, Saxon said, “Are you Alton Zek?”

“Yeah. But if you’re a cop, I ain’t done nothing.” He dropped his eyes, which were beginning to water with the strain of gazing upward.

“You look as if you need a pop,” Saxon said. Taking out his wallet, he removed a twenty-dollar bill, replaced the wallet, and let the bill dangle from his thumb and forefinger.

Alton Zek licked his lips, his eyes on the bill. His cheek gave another twitch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

“Sure you do,” Saxon said. “You’ve got a monkey riding you so hard you’re shaking apart.”

Zek said cautiously, “If you’re from Narcotics, you’re wasting your time. I don’t even know what horse means.”

“I’m not from Narcotics and I’m not after your pusher. I’m after a different kind of information.”

“Yeah? What?”

“You know a Sergeant Harry Morrison?”

The man’s watery eyes remained fixed on the dangling bill. “I know of him.”

“He has a call girl working for him whose first name is Ann. I want her full name and where to find her.”

Alton Zek’s gaze climbed to Saxon’s face. “You guys finally got wind of that, huh? The damn fool, risking his job over a hustler. You from Internal Affairs?”

“I’m not any kind of cop,” Saxon said. “I just want the information.”

“Why? Who are you?”

“Do you really care?” Saxon asked. “You can make twenty bucks by answering the question. If you’re not interested, I’ll go ask somewhere else.”

Thrusting the money into his overcoat pocket, he turned and reached for the doorknob.

“Hold it,” Zek said quickly. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell you.”

Looking over his shoulder without taking his hand from the knob, Saxon said, “Then tell it fast. I’m in a hurry.”

Zek licked his lips again and his cheek was twitching. “All you want is the broad’s name and address? You’ll give me the twenty for that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not gonna drag me before no investigating board to tell what I know about Morrison steering business to a hustler?”

“I told you I’m not a cop. All I want is her name and address. Then you get the twenty, I walk out, and you never see me again.”

“All right,” the man said. “Let’s have the twenty.”

“Let’s have the name and address first.”

“You can trust me,” Zek said aggrievedly.

“I’d rather have you trust me.”

“Okay,” the informer said with resignation. “Her name’s Ann Lowry. She lives in an apartment on Bailey just off Main. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s in the first block west of Main. You can check apartment directories.”

“In case she isn’t listed, what’s she look like?”

“She’s a good-looking doll with a nice built on her. About five feet four and a hunnert and fifteen pounds, I’d say. Long red hair down to her shoulders and rolled under, kind of.”

“You mean in a page boy?”

“Yeah, that’s what they call it. You couldn’t miss her. Her hair’s real red and it’s natural.”

Walking over to the chair, Saxon took the twenty from his pocket and dropped it into the man’s lap. Zek seized it and thrust it into a side pocket of his denim pants.

“Like to earn another?” Saxon asked.

The informer looked up. “How?”

“You know of any other rackets Morrison is in?”

Zek frowned. “Like what, for instance?”

“Does he have any kind of tie-in with Larry Cutter?”

“Cutter?” Zek said in surprise. “He ain’t operating in Buffalo. He’s just living here.”

“That isn’t what I asked. Do you know if Sergeant Harry Morrison has any kind of an arrangement with him?”

Zek shook his head. “Not that I ever heard.”

“Then I guess you don’t earn the second twenty,” Saxon said, starting for the door.

“Wait a minute!”

Turning with his hand again on the knob, Saxon said, “Yeah?”

“I could inquire around. If Morrison’s got some kind of deal going with Cutter, somebody’ll know about it. Why don’t you drop back tomorrow about this time and bring some more money?”

There was a pay phone in the hallway near the stairs, and a tattered phone book hung from a string next to it. Saxon leafed through the book until he came to the Lowrys and ran his finger down the column. There were a lot of them, but none with the first name of Ann and none with addresses on Bailey.

He wasn’t surprised, for call girls usually have unlisted numbers that they pass out only to clients.

He went on down the stairs. In the lobby the gaze of the elderly man with the dirty shirt followed him to the door, but again the man said nothing.

Outside he climbed into his car and headed north up Main toward Bailey.

There was a filling station, then a string of small private homes on one side of Bailey in the block west of Main. On the other side were three multiple-dwelling apartment houses. In the lobby of the first he studied the name cards beneath a bank of mailboxes. No Ann Lowry was listed.

In the second apartment building’s lobby a card beneath one of the mail slots read Apartment 6-B and, below that, Sandra Norman — Ann Lowry.

There was a self-service elevator, but Saxon took the stairs to the second floor. Six-B was at the end of a hall. A dark-eyed brunette of about twenty-five answered the door. She was a pretty little thing only about five feet tall, with a prominent bosom she must have been proud of, for she wore a white sweater far too tight for her, which stressed its size by molding itself to the curve of her breasts like an extra coat of skin. She exposed small, even white teeth in a smile of inquiry.

Saxon took off his hat. “You must be Sandra Norman,” he said.

“Yes. Who sent you?”

The question momentarily puzzled him until he realized that the apartment mate of a call girl would undoubtedly be a call girl also. Apparently the brunette took him for a customer.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” he said. “I just happened to see your name on the card downstairs. Is Ann home?”

The smile remained on her face, but the look of interest in her eyes died. “Sorry, but she’s out shopping. I expect her back about two.”

Saxon checked his watch. It was only eleven-twenty.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come back.”

“Is there any message?” she asked.

“No. I just wanted to talk to her.”

She looked him up and down calculatingly. “It’s a long time until two. I might let you wait inside if you told me who sent you.”

The girl wasn’t above cutting in on her apartment mate’s trade, he thought with amusement. On impulse he said, “Harry Morrison.”

“Oh, Harry’s introduction is fine around here,” she said. “Have you been to see Ann before?”

He shook his head. “Never met her.”

“Then how do you know you won’t like me as well? Want to come in?”

He was tempted to accept the invitation to see if perhaps Sandra Norman knew anything of Morrison’s relationship with Larry Cutter, but he realized that the moment she discovered he wasn’t a client, she would become suspicious and it might spoil his later chance of getting in to see Ann Lowry.

“Maybe another time,” he said politely. “I don’t think Harry would like it if I didn’t wait for Ann.”

She grinned at him without resentment. “He warned you not to let me sidetrack you in case Ann wasn’t here, eh? That’s because he doesn’t get any cut from me. Okay, Red. I’ll tell Ann to stick around until two in case she gets back before then. You can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“It’s all right,” he said in the same polite tone. “I was flattered, really.”

Turning, he walked back down the hall toward the stairs. He heard the door close behind him.

Chapter 14

It was a cold day, probably about fifteen above, but it was clear and windless, and what snow hadn’t been shoveled from sidewalks was hard-packed enough so that walking wasn’t difficult. Saxon decided to leave his car in front of the apartment house and walk to a. restaurant he knew of only a block down Main Street.

He had lunch, then dawdled at the restaurant bar until one forty-five, carefully limiting himself to two glasses of draft beer. It was five of two when he got back to the apartment house and rang the bell of 6-B.

When the door opened, there was no one in view. Whoever had pulled it open was standing behind it out of sight. Saxon stepped in only far enough to peer around its edge.

A hand thrust the door closed with a gentle bang. Saxon found himself staring into the bore of a forty-five automatic.

The man holding the gun was tall and lanky, with a rubelike face and protruding front teeth. He was dressed with what was probably intended to be quietly expensive taste, but his dark, conservative suit failed to get across the tailor’s intention. It must have been meant to lend an executive air to the wearer, but the man possessed such a bony, gangling frame that it succeeded only in making him look like a backwoodsman dressed up for church.

“Just lean your hands against the wall,” the man ordered in an adenoidal voice. “You know. Like for a shakedown.” He gestured with the gun toward the wall on the opposite side of the door.

After contemplating the gun for a moment, Saxon faced the indicated wall and placed his hands against it at shoulder height.

“Okay, Hardnose,” the man called.

Glancing over his shoulder, Saxon saw a heavy-set, gray-haired man in his mid-forties come from a hall that he assumed led to the kitchen. He had a wide, rather pleasant face with a strong Roman nose a trifle too big for it, to which he evidently owed his nickname. He also was dressed in a dark, conservative suit, but in his case the tailor had achieved his purpose. He looked like a successful business executive.

The new arrival also had a gun in his hand, but the moment he saw that his partner had everything under control, he slid it out of sight beneath his arm. Coming up behind Saxon, he ran his hands expertly over his body from beneath his armpits to his waist, patted his hips, then both legs.

Stepping back he said, “He’s clean.”

“You can turn around now,” the rubelike man said. Dropping his hands to his sides, Saxon turned to face the two men. The forty-five automatic remained trained on him.

“Hardnose,” Saxon said. “Would that be Hardnose John Simmons?”

“My fame has spread, Farmer,” the gray-haired man said with mock delight. “The general public is starting to recognize me.”

The man called Farmer said, “You can reach in your pocket for your wallet, mister. Hand it to my buddy. Just keep your movements slow and easy.”

Unbuttoning his overcoat, Saxon felt for his hip pocket and drew out his wallet. He held it out at arm’s length. Hardnose Simmons reached out the full length of his arm also to take it, staying as far from Saxon as possible.

“Yeah, it’s him all right,” he said. “Just like Harry figured from the description.”

The remark explained to Saxon how the men had happened to be here waiting for him. Tony Spijak had warned him that Alton Zek played both sides. Probably Saxon had no more than left the hotel room when the little informer ran to Sergeant Harry Morrison to sell the information that someone was inquiring about him.

He felt irked with himself for being such easy prey, because he had actually considered the possibility of Zek informing on him. It just hadn’t occurred to him that Morrison would get the news so soon. With the shape the little addict had been in, Saxon had assumed he would think of nothing during the next few hours except converting his twenty-dollar bill into heroin and shooting it into his veins.

Simmons tossed back the wallet.

“You can put it away again,” Simmons said. “How come you’re not carry a gun?”

“I’m not a cop any more. You should know, Hard-nose. You had a minor part in framing me out of office.”

“Me?” the man said with raised brows.

“Didn’t you post bond for Edward Coombs’s traffic offense?”

“Oh, that. Just following orders. I didn’t even know what it was all about. You can take off your hat and coat, Saxon. We’ll be here awhile.”

Saxon took off his hat, glanced at the man with the gun for permission, and unhurriedly crossed the room to lay it on the sofa. Shedding his coat, he dropped it alongside the hat, then stooped to remove his overshoes.

The man with the gun said, “You can sit right there on the sofa.”

Saxon seated himself “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“We don’t know,” Simmons said pleasantly. “We’re just following orders.”

The man didn’t seem to know much about his work, Saxon thought.

He asked, “From Harry Morrison or Larry Cutter?”

“My, my,” the man called Farmer said. “He knows lots of names. He’s been doing some nosing.”

Saxon decided that the remark had been a mistake. There was now no question in his mind that Sergeant Harry Morrison was allied with Larry Cutter, for at least one of these men, and probably both, were hired guns of Cutter’s. That was the information he had come here to get from Ann Lowry, and now he had it, though by a different means from the way he had anticipated. Having accomplished his mission, there was no point in divulging how much he knew, for he suspected that if his captors decided he knew too much, he would never walk out of the place alive.

“I really don’t know much,” he said. “For instance, I don’t know if Farmer is your first or last name.”

“Neither,” the man said with a buck-toothed grin. “It’s just a nickname. Farmer Benton.”

Saxon said thoughtfully, “Neither of you seems very eager to conceal your identities. Don’t you think I’ll put in a complaint about being held up?”

“You ain’t been held up,” Farmer Benton said. “You still got your money, ain’t you? You come walking in a strange apartment without invitation, so I put the gun on you until you explain yourself. The cops ain’t going to get very excited about that.”

“Let’s call them and see,” Saxon suggested.

“Don’t get cute,” Simmons advised. “Just sit there and relax.” Then his tone became more pleasant. “We may have a long wait. Like a drink while we’re waiting?”

“No, thanks,” Saxon said with equal pleasantness. “I just had a couple of beers, and I like to keep a clear head when I’m around people who are handling guns. What are we waiting for?”

“A phone call. Until it comes, we don’t know no more about this than you do, so it won’t do any good to ask questions.”

“A phone call from whom?”

“You’re still asking questions,” Farmer Benton complained.

“Sorry. I’ll just ask one more and then shut up. Where are the girls?”

“Ann and Sandra?” Simmons asked. “They took off. They kind of loaned us the place.”

Conversation lapsed. Farmer Benton took a chair across the room from the sofa, but facing it, and sat with his gun in his lap. Hardnose John Simmons disappeared into the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned with a clinking glass of whisky.

“The girls stock a pretty good brand of bourbon,” he said to his partner. “Want a drink?”

“No. And you better lay off, too. You know how the boss feels about drinking during working hours.”

“One little highball isn’t drinking,” Simmons said.

When Farmer Benton didn’t answer, there was another conversational lapse. Simmons carefully circled behind Benton’s chair, so as not to cross between Benton’s gun and Saxon, seated himself in a chair a good distance from the sofa, and sipped his drink. Benton gazed unwinkingly at Saxon. Saxon simply sat.

After a time Saxon checked his watch and saw it was 3 P.M. An hour had passed since he had entered the apartment.

Then the phone rang.

The phone stood on an end table near Saxon. But when he rose to answer, Simmons went into the kitchen. When the ringing abruptly stopped, Saxon realized the man had picked up a kitchen extension.

Several minutes passed before Simmons reappeared and resumed his seat. His glass was freshly filled and its color was darker than the first time. Farmer Benton frowned at the glass.

“One little highball isn’t drinking,” he mimicked in his adenoidal voice.

“Neither is two, if you know how to handle your liquor,” Simmons said. “That was the boss.”

“Yeah? What’s the scoop?”

“He’s sending over Spider Wertz with instructions. But not until dark.”

“Oh, fine,” Benton said. “We gotta keep this guy under a gun all afternoon?”

“Well, we could tie him up.”

Farmer Benton considered, then shrugged. “Aw, the hell with it. Long as we got to sit here anyway, I’ll keep him covered. What’s the matter with these girls that they got no TV?”

“The guys who come to see them ain’t interested in TV,” Simmons said. He snickered.

Benton threw a suspicious glance at Simmons’s glass, which was again nearly empty.

Another hour dragged by. Twice Simmons went to the kitchen and returned with a replenished glass, and both times Farmer Benton objected to his drinking.

The first time he said, “You trying to get drunk? Every one of those gets darker.”

“You ever seen me drunk?” Simmons demanded.

“I’ve seen you blotto. You didn’t think so, because you never know when you’re drunk. You’re always talking about being able to handle your liquor, but you get so you can hardly talk.”

“That’s a barefaced lie!” Simmons said. “I never showed my drinks in my life.”

The second time Benton said crossly, “Go ahead and get stupid. You’ll be a lot of help if Spider brings word we have a job to do.”

Simmons merely gave him a benign smile.

It was a quarter after five and Simmons had made two more trips to the kitchen when the doorbell finally rang. Setting down his glass, Simmons circled behind his partner’s chair to answer it, and Saxon noted that he was walking with exaggerated straightness. When he opened the door, Saxon caught a bare glimpse of a lean, mustached man before Simmons stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him. Saxon was disappointed. He had hoped to hear the instructions brought by the mysterious Spider Wertz.

Some five minutes passed before the door reopened to let Hardnose Simmons back in. Behind him, Saxon saw that the hall was now empty. Simmons again circled behind his partner’s chair with studied care of movement and reseated himself. Benton gave him a questioning look.

Simmons lifted his glass from the floor and drained it.

Saxon felt the hair at the base of his neck prickle.

“When do we get started?” Benton asked.

“Soon as it’s good and dark. It’s already getting there. Spider’s waiting out front. He said to come out about a quarter of six.”

Chapter 15

At a quarter of six Simmons picked up his empty glass and rose to his feet.

“You can put on your things,” he said to Saxon, enunciating his words with great care. He moved toward the central hall in an unwavering line, but a little too rapidly, just brushing one side of the doorway as he passed.

Saxon reached for his overshoes and put them on while still seated. When he got up from the sofa, Farmer Benton lifted the gun from his lap and covered him as he shrugged into his coat.

Simmons returned overcoated, hatted, and wearing a pair of rubbers. He was carrying a second coat, hat, and pair of galoshes. Dropping the galoshes on the floor, he tossed the coat and hat onto the chair where he had been seated. Then he produced his gun and held it on Saxon while his partner put his away and got dressed for outdoors.

When Farmer Benton was ready, Simmons took off his hat and dropped it over his gun hand. Again carefully enunciating, he said to Saxon, “I will be right behind you on the way out. If we meet anyone, it will look like I’m carrying my hat, and I would hate to blow a hole in it. Get the idea?”

“Yeah,” Saxon growled. “You mean if I try anything, you’ll shoot me in the back.”

“You understand perfectly,” Simmons said with a smile. “You can run interference, Farmer. Go ahead.”

Benton frowned at him. “You’re pretty gassed, Hard-nose. Better let me trail.”

“Just get going,” Simmons snapped at him.

Benton gave his partner an irritated look, but he didn’t argue. Striding over to the door, he opened it and peered into the hall.

“All clear,” he announced in a sullen voice.

He stepped out into the hall and Simmons gestured Saxon toward the door, falling into line a step behind him. Simmons paused at the door long enough to click off the light switch next to it and set the spring lock before stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind him. Farmer Benton had already reached the stairway and had stopped there, and Saxon was halfway to him.

“Hold it!” Simmons ordered.

Saxon halted. The man up ahead peered down the stairwell, then signaled them to come on.

By the time Saxon reached the stair landing, with Simmons right behind him, Benton was at the bottom of the stairs. After glancing both ways along the lower hall, Benton again gave the all-clear signal. Then he moved on to the front door.

No one except Benton was in sight when Saxon stepped into the outdoor cold with Simmons still only a step behind. At this time of year sunset came at about four-thirty, so it was quite dark by now. A light snow dimmed the light cast by a nearly full moon. The temperature seemed to have fallen since 2 P.M. Saxon judged it at about zero.

Farmer Benton waited on the front sidewalk for them to join him. When they reached him, Simmons glanced up and down the street. Aside from Saxon’s Plymouth, parked directly in front of the building, there were only two cars parked on the block. One was across the street, the other on this side about a quarter of a block back. The windshield wipers of the second were working, indicating someone was in it, though it had no lights on.

It seemed that for whatever reason Spider Wertz had been waiting, it wasn’t to furnish them transportation, for after one glance that way, Simmons looked at the Plymouth.

“This your car?” he asked Saxon.

It seemed useless to deny it, for of the only other two cars in sight, one was their friend’s and the other, across the street, must have been the one Benton and Simmons had arrived in. Saxon merely nodded.

“Get in from this side and slide over under the wheel.”

Taking his keys from his pocket, Saxon unlocked the car door, opened it, and worked his way across the seat to the driver’s side. Simmons slid in next to him, lifted the hat concealing his gun, and put it on his head. Without taking his eyes from Saxon, he reached behind the seat with his left hand to unlock the rear door.

Climbing in back, Farmer Benton settled himself in the seat before asking, “What’s with Spider back there?”

“He saw us come out,” Simmons said. “He’ll trail.”

“Trail where?” the man in the back seat asked fretfully. “It’d be nice if you’d let me know what the hell the plans are.”

“You’ll find out when we get there,” Simmons said. “All right, Saxon. Head straight east until you hit Route Twenty.”

Saxon glanced sideways at the gun. Simmons sat with his back against the door, the gun butt steadied on his thigh and the muzzle pointed unwaveringly at Saxon’s midriff. If it happened to go off, he would die rather messily, Saxon realized. He decided not to make any sudden moves that might inspire it to go off, at least until he discovered how lethal the plans for him were. Starting the engine, he switched on his wipers and his lights and pulled away from the curb. After a moment he leaned forward to turn the heater and defroster both to high. In the rear-view mirror he saw the other car’s lights go on. The car pulled out to follow.

Despite the cold, by the time they were within a block of Route Twenty, the car’s heater had made the interior of the car quite comfortable. Simmons unbuttoned his overcoat.

“Which way on Twenty?” Saxon asked.

“Southwest. You’re going home.”

This time Simmons’s enunciation was not so precise. There was a definite slur in his voice. Saxon wondered if the car heater was having an effect.

Turning right on Twenty, Saxon said, “Why are you accompanying me home? I know the way.”

“Wanna make sure you get there. Car following will bring us back.”

If it hadn’t been for the trailing car, the lights of which he could see only a few yards behind in the rear-view mirror, Saxon would have been sure this was a death ride. But if the men intended to shoot him and dump his body somewhere, there was no point in the second car. They could drive his back to Buffalo after committing the murder and simply abandon it somewhere. Saxon could imagine no purpose for the trailing car other than transportation back to Buffalo for Simmons and Benton. Which was reassuring, even though it was also puzzling.

It wasn’t until they crossed the Route Seventy-five turn-off to Hamburg that he began to get an inkling of what Simmons had in mind.

The man said, “’Bout five miles on there’s a bridge across a ravine. Pull over on the shoulder this side of it.”

Saxon knew the ravine he referred to, which was only about four miles out of Iroquois. Steep-sided, it was about thirty feet deep. The road was straight there, so there were no guard rails at the approach to the bridge. And except for the ravine, the ground was flat. A car fitted with snow tires, such as Saxon’s, with an unconscious man behind the wheel and the throttle wedged to the floor, could be aimed to go off the road just before the bridge, and would have no trouble plowing its way across the few yards of snow-covered ground before it nosed over the thirty-foot drop.

The reason for the trailing car ceased to puzzle Saxon. It was necessary for his captors’ transportation back to Buffalo, because his wouldn’t be in condition to drive. They planned to leave the Plymouth, with him in it, crushed out of shape at the bottom of the ravine.

Saxon’s mind began to race. Once he pulled over on the shoulder and stopped, he knew it would be all over. Probably the man in the back seat would knock him unconscious the moment he set the hand brake. His only hope of escape was to attempt to catch his would-be murderers off balance while the car was still in motion.

With a gun leveled directly at him, this would have been equally hopeless, except for the fact that Hardnose John Simmons was feeling his liquor. Each time the man spoke, his tongue got a little thicker. By all physical laws, the man’s rate of reaction in emergency should slow in direct proportion to his increasing difficulty with speech.

The snowfall, which had been light when they started, had steadily thickened. Also, here in relatively open country where there were no buildings to block the wind, gusts periodically tugged at the car in attempts to wrest it off the road. Because of the Thru-way, which paralleled it, Route Twenty was never heavily traveled along here, and tonight it was virtually deserted. They had met but one car going in the opposite direction since they had left Buffalo.

To suit driving conditions, Saxon had adjusted his speed from the legal limit of fifty to only about thirty, which gave him extra time to plan a course of action.

He had made up his mind before they were within a mile of the bridge. Having made it up, he concentrated on driving until the near end of the bridge’s stone railing hove into sight through the screen of falling snow.

“Pull over here,” Simmons ordered thickly.

Saxon took his foot from the accelerator. As the car started to slow, his right hand suddenly left the wheel and slashed sideways, palm down. The hard edge of his gloved hand caught John Simmons squarely above the bridge of the nose.

Saxon’s stomach convulsed against the expected blow of a bullet. Instead, there was a thump as Simmons’s gun hit the floor. The man slumped forward to crack his head against the windshield.

Saxon pushed the throttle to the floor and aimed the car at a point just to the right of the stone bridge railing.

Behind him in the rear seat he imagined that Farmer Benton was frantically clawing beneath his arm for his gun, but he didn’t have time to worry about that danger. By the time his front wheel hit the narrow, two-foot-high ridge of piled-up snow at the edge of the shoulder, the car was traveling at fifty miles an hour. It plowed right through, although the impact considerably slowed it, then surged forward again as the snow tires bit into the shallower snow covering the ground beyond the ridge.

It was only about fifteen yards from where the Plymouth left the road to the edge of the ravine. Saxon’s left hand hit the door handle and his shoulder simultaneously bucked open the door. He left the car in a headlong dive just before it ran over the lip of the ravine.

As he slid along on his face in a foot of soft snow, he heard the agonized shriek of bending and tearing metal from the bottom of the ravine. Inconsequentially he wondered if he had remembered to pay his insurance.

When he climbed shakily to his feet, the car that had been trailing them was parked on the shoulder with its headlights murkily illuminating the scene through the heavily falling snow. And ten yards away, between Saxon and the car, Farmer Benton was scrambling erect. Saxon hadn’t even been conscious of the man’s jumping from the rear of the Plymouth.

Benton spotted Saxon at the same moment. Jerking off his right glove, he shot his hand inside the front of his overcoat. The headlights of the parked car glinted on the barrel of the forty-five automatic as it came out.

Saxon took three running steps and slid down the steep bank of the ravine on the seat of his pants. Snow made it a frictionless ride. He sailed down as smoothly as if riding a child’s playground slide, landing on his feet at the bottom.

Chapter 16

The Plymouth had hit nose down and rolled over on its back. Both doors on the left side had been torn off and the other two had popped open. The headlights had been smashed, but both taillights still burned and the dome light, which was controlled automatically by the doors, was burning. These threw enough light to show that the snow was littered with shattered glass and bits of metal.

Saxon didn’t pause for a careful study of the scene, but he did give it one quick glance. Inside the front of the car he could see the huddled figure of Hardnose John Simmons.

He moved past the car through the foot-deep snow at a lumbering trot, heading away from the road. Despite the falling snow, there was enough moonlight to see where he was going.

Unfortunately there was also enough for him to be seen, too. He was perhaps ten yards beyond the wrecked car when a shot sounded from the top of the bank and a bullet swished past his ear. An instant later he rounded a curve in the ravine which hid him from the sniper.

Apparently there had been no water in the ravine at winter’s onset, for beneath the snow there wasn’t the smoothness of ice. The ground was rocky and uneven, making progress difficult. Twice as he hurried along, he stumbled over snags concealed by the snow and nearly fell.

Travel along the top of the bank would be easier, he realized. With this thought, Saxon started to look for a way up the opposite side. He spotted it almost instantly. Just ahead a section of the left side of the bank had fallen away some time in the past, leaving a gash which angled upward far less steeply than the original bank. It was an old landslide, for the bare branches of bushes which had grown there since thrust up through the snow.

Using the bushes as handholds. Saxon laboriously started to work his way up the bank. Halfway to the top he heard the blast of Benton’s forty-five and a geyser of snow leaped up three feet to one side.

He didn’t even pause to glance over his shoulder at the opposite bank. There was nowhere to go but up, and no way to make himself less a target. All he could do was continue to climb and pray.

Fortunately the opposite bank was about seventy-five feet away, about the limit of accurate range for the cumbersome forty-five automatic under ideal conditions. In the dark, with falling snow further obstructing vision and erratic gusts of wind trying to shove the gunman off balance, firing conditions were far from ideal for Benton.

Pulling himself upward from one frozen bush to the next, it seemed to Saxon that it would take him hours to reach the top of the bank. Another shot boomed and he heard the bullet plunk into the snow a foot to his right. When seconds elapsed before the next shot, he realized the gunman was taking careful aim and squeezing the trigger with target-range slowness. This time the bullet plucked at the skirt of his overcoat.

A sudden, minute-long howl of wind swept down the ravine and raised a blinding fog of snow from the ground to mix with the falling flakes already in the air; that reduced visibility to zero. Under cover of the swirling mass, Saxon managed to climb the rest of the way to the top and swing himself behind the thick bole of an elm.

He had hardly settled to one knee, panting from the exertion of his climb, when the wind died as suddenly as it had started. Cautiously he peered around the tree trunk at the opposite bank.

Dimly he could make out the silhouette of Farmer Benton standing there. As he watched, a figure joined him. The man Simmons had mentioned as Spider Wertz had joined the hunt.

Saxon lost the advantage the pursued has over the pursuer at night: the advantage of darkness. Wertz had brought a light from his car. It wasn’t an ordinary flashlight. It had a square lens probably four to five inches across and a wide, powerful beam.

The beam probed the bank below Saxon, slowly working its way to the top. When it touched the elm behind which he was hiding, he drew his head out of sight.

The beam lowered again and he took another peep. It was directed downward to illuminate the side of the opposite bank. As he watched, Farmer Benton stepped over the edge of the bank and slid downward on the snow in the same manner that Saxon had previously. Landing on his feet, he plodded across the ravine and started to climb the bank on Saxon’s side.

Saxon crawled ten feet back from the bank, rose to his feet and doubled back toward the highway as rapidly as he could. This wasn’t very fast, for the best gait he could muster through the steadily deepening snow was a plodding, high-stepping trot.

The taillights and dome light of the Plymouth were still burning when he passed it. He came out on the road on the opposite side of the bridge and started across it toward Spider Wertz’s parked car, his hope being that Wertz had left his key in the ignition. Only the parking lights of the car were now burning.

Halfway across he realized he had fallen into a trap. His hunters had anticipated his doubling back, and Benton’s descent into the ravine must have been designed to flush him this way. The car’s highway lights suddenly switched on, pinning him in their glare.

Turning, he ran back the other way, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. The only reason he could think of for Spider Wertz’s not firing was fear that Farmer Benton might have reached the other end of the bridge by now and might be hit by one of the bullets.

He was nearly to the end of the bridge when the figure of Benton loomed through the curtain of falling snow. The man was plodding along the edge of the ravine toward the road, not more than twenty feet away. Spotting Saxon, he raised his gun.

Making a left wheel, Saxon raced for the opposite side of the road. Four rapid shots rolled out, so closely spaced that they sounded like one long-drawn-out explosion. Saxon’s hat lifted from his head and tumbled to the ground before him. Ignoring it, he hurdled the low bank of snow piled up at the edge of the road by snowplows and kept running.

There were no more shots. Altogether he had counted eight from Benton’s gun, which would account for one full clip plus one extra in the chamber. Saxon hoped that the bitter cold had numbed the man’s hands enough to make reloading difficult.

He continued to flounder across country until he reached the protection of a clump of trees, then stopped to listen. A wind abruptly rose again, filling the air with eddies of fine snow and cutting vision to a matter of feet. He could hear nothing but the roar of the wind and the panting of his own breath.

When the gust died and he could see through the falling snow again clear to the dim outline of the bridge, he could make out the figure of Farmer Benton moving across it toward the lights of the car. Apparently the man had given up trying to locate him in this blinding near-blizzard.

As he watched, Benton reached the car and crossed in front of the headlights to the side away from the road. The highway lights blinked off and the parking lights came on again. Then the square-lensed hand lamp switched on and moved toward the point where the Plymouth had gone over the bank. Belatedly, Farmer Benton and Spider Wertz were going to check on the man who had ridden Saxon’s car into the ravine.

Saxon grew conscious of a growing numbness in his ears. Pulling his scarf from around his neck, he shook the snow from his hair, draped the scarf across the top of his head, and tied it beneath his chin.

Then, sticking as much as possible to the protection of trees, he started to walk toward Iroquois, staying back from the road a good fifty feet. The area along here clear to the edge of town was open country, with numerous wooded sections. A good portion of it was state-owned and was reserved for an eventual state park. Nearer town, one side of the road was owned by the Iroquois Country Club, the other by the local conservation club. There wasn’t a single private home along the whole four-mile stretch.

The going was difficult because of the foot-deep snow, but he couldn’t risk taking the road. If Benton and Wertz came along and spotted him, the chase would start all over again. Back from the road he would have time to run for the protection of some tree if headlights appeared or, if in an open area, simply to fall flat and wait until the lights passed.

Once headlights did appear from the northeast and he froze to immobility behind a tree. They went past slowly — which meant nothing, considering driving conditions. It might have been his hunters or it might not have been.

Fifteen minutes later lights swept by at a higher speed from the opposite direction. This time he was in the open and had to drop flat. He didn’t care to chance the first car’s having been Wertz’s and these lights being from the same car returning.

Periodically the wind rose and surrounded him with a cloud of fine snow, sometimes blowing with such intensity that he struggled to the nearest tree and set himself to leeward of it until the gust died again. The bitter cold seeped through his overcoat and gloves, numbing his body and hands more with each yard of progress. The exercise of having to lift his feet high because of the depth of the snow at least kept his body from freezing. And ever so often he beat his gloved hands together to retain circulation in them. He plodded on at the rate of about two miles an hour.

He heard the city-hall clock strike nine at the same moment that he glimpsed the lights of the country club on the opposite side of the road, which indicated the very edge of town. He could have found sanctuary there, but Emily’s apartment was only a quarter of a mile beyond the club, and by the time he had crossed the highway and followed the long, winding drive to the club building, he would have traveled nearly as far as to her place. He decided to go on. He moved onto the road now, for from here on there were houses, the shadows of which he could dart into if headlights appeared.

At nine-fifteen he rang the bell of Emily’s apartment.

When she opened the door and saw him standing there laden with snow, his face red with cold and the scarf ridiculously tied beneath his chin as if he were some outsize peasant woman from the old country, she couldn’t help bursting out laughing.

“I’m glad I tickle your funny bone,” he growled. “You’ll roll on the floor when you hear how close I came to being dead.”

Her laughter died. “What happened, Ted?”

Inside he walked past her to the kitchen and hung his overcoat and scarf over the edge of the door so that the residue of melting snow could drip on the floor. He came back into the front room rubbing his hands and shivering.

“You need a hot drink,” Emily said with concern. “You look half frozen to death.”

“About seven-eighths, I think. Got any rum?”

“No, but I can make you a coffee royal.”

“I’ll settle for that. Julie at work?”

“Yes,” Emily said. “She’s still on three to eleven. But what happened?”

He walked through the bedroom to the bathroom and ran the washbowl full of lukewarm water. Pulling his sleeves up as far as they would go without removing the jacket of his suit, he plunged both hands into the water. After a few minutes he let some out and ran in more hot. He kept gradually increasing the hot until his hands and wrists were thoroughly thawed and his hands began to redden from the heat. Then he pulled the plug and dried his hands.

When he got back to the front room, Emily said, “I’m making instant because it’s faster. That all right?”

“Sure,” he said. “The faster the better.”

“Ted Saxon, will you tell me what’s wrong!”

Chapter 17

While he was allowing the warmth of the coffee royal to seep through his body, Saxon told Emily the whole story.

“This proves your innocence,” she said excitedly. “They’ll have to apologize and reinstate you.”

“Providing I can prove it,” Saxon said dryly. “I doubt that Benton and Wertz are going to admit taking me for a ride. They’re probably busy establishing alibis right now. And I haven’t any witnesses. It’ll be my word against theirs.”

“There’s the man left in the car. Do you think he was killed?”

“I’m sure of it. Nobody could survive a crash like that.”

“Then won’t that support your story? If they establish that he was one of Larry Cutter’s men, it will prove you were telling the truth.”

Saxon set down his coffee cup. “Of course it will. I’m not thinking very clearly. I guess my brain isn’t thawed yet.”

Rising, he went over to the phone and dialed. “Police headquarters,” Vic Burns’s voice said in his ear. “Lieutenant Burns.”

“This is Ted, Vic,” Saxon said. “I want to report an accident.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“It’s my car.” Saxon reeled off the make and license number. “You know that bridge over a ravine about four miles out of town toward Buffalo on Route Twenty?”

“Uh-huh. The one that marks the county line?”

“That’s it. The car’s at the bottom of the ravine just west of the bridge. Probably with a dead man in it. His name’s John Simmons.”

“Jeepers! When’d this happen?”

Saxon glanced at his watch and saw it was nine-forty. He had been at Emily’s just twenty-five minutes. “Almost three hours ago. Some time just before seven. I wasn’t watching the time.”

“Three hours! Why’d you wait so long to call in?”

“I had to walk to town,” Saxon said. “There’s more to the story, but I won’t bother you with it over the phone. It’s out of your jurisdiction anyway, because it happened out of town.”

“Okay, Ted. I’ll pass it along to the state cops for investigation. You all right?”

“A little cold, but I’m thawing out. I wasn’t hurt in the accident.”

“Good.” Vic Burns’s voice turned thoughtful. “That name John Simmons rings a bell.”

“It should,” Saxon said. “He’s the guy who posted bond for Edward Coombs.”

“That’s it! I knew I’d heard it somewhere. What was he doing with you?”

“It’s a long story,” Saxon said. “Better get on the radio to the state police. I’ll see you later.”

Hanging up, he immediately dialed another number. When a male voice said, “Hello,” Saxon said, “Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben Foley said. “That you, Ted?”

“I stirred things up a bit in Buffalo today,” Saxon said. “Too much, I guess. I managed to get myself taken for a ride. I think the D.A. would be interested in my story, and I’d like you to sit in.”

“A ride? What happened?”

“It’ll keep until we get together. Can you get away long enough to see Arn Kettle?”

“Tonight?”

“Sure. He’s a servant of the public, supposedly available twenty-four hours a day. Want to call him and see if it’s okay for us to come over?”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“Because I’d only have to phone you back. I don’t have a car, so you’ll have to pick me up. I’m over at Emily’s. You can make arrangements, then swing by here to get me.”

“Boy, the services lawyers have to perform for their clients,” Ben Foley said. “Okay. If he’s not available, I’ll call you back. Otherwise I’ll honk out in front of Emily’s place. That’s the Hawthorne Apartments, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Miller 2-1041.”

“Got it,” Foley said. “Want to give me a hint as to what this is all about?”

“I’d only have to repeat it to Arn Kettle. Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”

At 10 P.M. a horn sounded outside.

“That’s Ben,” Saxon said, going to get his coat and scarf from the kitchen. “If it was a little later, we could drop you off at work.”

“He’d love that,” Emily said, laughing. But she was not laughing when she kissed him.

It was still snowing and blowing when Saxon got outside. As he climbed in Ben Foley’s car, the former mayor said, “How come no hat in this weather? Think you’re still a college kid?”

“I got it shot off,” Saxon said. “You’ll hear all about it when we get to Arn’s. Have any trouble?”

“No. He’s a night owl, too. And he’s as curious to hear what you have to say as I am.”

District Attorney Arnold Kettle lived in one of the big lake-front homes southwest of the country club, a few blocks almost due west of Emily’s apartment. It was only a five-minute drive.

Kettle himself answered the door, a bright-purple smoking jacket encasing his large stomach.

“Joanne’s at a hen party,” he said. “And the kids are in bed. Come on in.”

He took their wraps and hung them on a clothestree in the entry hall, then led them into a broad, old-fashioned front room where a log was blazing in a huge fireplace.

“Drink?” he asked.

“I could stand a little anti-freeze,” Foley said. “My ancient bones can’t take this kind of weather any more. Scotch on the rocks, if you’ve got it.”

Saxon said he’d have a bourbon and soda. Kettle disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three drinks on a tray. After passing them around, he settled in a chair between the other two men with a highball in his hand.

“Now what’s this all about?” he asked Saxon.

Saxon started at the beginning and told the whole story of the day’s events, withholding only the name of Tony Spijak as the one who had steered him to Alton Zek. By the time he finished, the glasses were empty. Kettle went to the kitchen to make more drinks.

When he had returned and was settled in his chair again, he said, “This is a pretty incredible story, but I’m inclined to believe it, Ted. It makes more sense than you being a rapist.”

“We’ve been telling you all along he didn’t rape that woman,” Ben Foley said. “Seems to me there’s enough evidence here to have Larry Cutter and his gunmen pulled in and shake confessions out of them.”

“First thing, let’s check with the state-police barracks,” the D.A. suggested. He glanced at his watch. “Ten forty-five. It’s over an hour since you reported the accident. They ought to have something on it by now.”

He went to the phone. “This is District Attorney Arnold Kettle, Sergeant. Do you have any report yet on that accident at the bridge on Twenty a few miles out of town?”

Some time passed as Kettle merely listened. Then he said, “Yes, that is odd, but I think I know the explanation. He’s here now, being questioned by me, so there’s no point in his coming out there to repeat the story. You’d only turn his statement back to me anyway, if you think some criminal action is indicated. I’ll have him get in touch with you tomorrow.”

There was another period of silence, then: “I suggest you have the lab classify the blood type for future reference. I’ll ring you again in the morning, Sergeant.”

Hanging up, he returned to his chair. “The state cops are all up in the air,” he said. “They wanted you down there for questioning right now, but I stalled them off. They say they were told there would be a body in the car.”

“Wasn’t there?” Saxon asked.

The D.A. shook his head. “Your playmates are certainly cute. There was blood splashed all over the front seat, but no body. There goes your best evidence that Larry Cutter was behind the kidnaping.”

Foley said, “Not if the body’s recovered and it’s established by blood type that Simmons died in the car.”

Saxon looked at him ruefully. “You don’t know how professional hoods operate, Ben. By now a hole’s probably been cut in Lake Erie’s ice half a mile from shore and the body wrapped in tire chains and dumped through it. By morning the hole will be frozen over again. And when Farmer Benton and Spider Wertz are picked up, they’ll have a dozen witnesses to insist that they were somewhere miles from the scene of the accident. It’ll be my word against theirs plus all their alibi witnesses’ words.”

“You mean we can’t do anything about an attempted murder?” the plump lawyer demanded.

“Oh, sure,” Saxon said. “We can have the Buffalo police arrest Larry Cutter and his two stooges, set a preliminary hearing, and have charges dismissed for lack of evidence. That about sums it up, Arn?”

“I’m afraid so,” the district attorney admitted. “However, I’m willing to try, Ted. I’m completely convinced now that you were framed.”

“Let’s just drop it,” Saxon said. “Why tilt at windmills? It may worry Cutter more if no one even comes around to question him than if we try to throw the book at him. He’s used to beating legal raps. At least we now know where to look for evidence. I’ll start digging again tomorrow.”

“You’re going to Buffalo again?” Foley asked with a frown.

“Sure. But tomorrow I’ll carry a gun. Am I still legally entitled to, Arn?”

The district attorney pursed his lips. “Technically you’re still a member of the force. You’ve been suspended, not fired. It might be an arguable point, but I doubt that any jury would convict you under the Sullivan law. I’m not going to suggest that you go up against this band of armed hoods with your bare hands.”

Grinning, Saxon rose to his feet. “I’m afraid I’d ignore the suggestion if you did. I guess we’ve accomplished all we can tonight. Let’s go home, Ben.”

Chapter 18

Sunday morning Saxon didn’t go to church. His first act after breakfast, while still in robe and pajamas, was to phone the state police barracks.

Arnold Kettle had already phoned the barracks and talked to the lieutenant in charge, he learned. As a result Saxon wouldn’t have to come down to make a formal statement. In a few days he would receive an accident report form in the mail from the state Bureau of Motor Vehicles, and would be required to fill it out and return it. If there was to be any criminal investigation in connection with the accident, he would hear from the district attorney.

Saxon asked what had been the disposition of his car and was told it had been hauled from the ravine and into Iroquois by a wrecker owned by the Fellinger Repair Garage. He would have to phone the garage to learn the towing charge. When he phoned the garage, he learned he owed twenty-five dollars. The man he talked to suggested that the wreck would bring about that amount from a junk yard, and offered to call it even.

“Better leave it there until the insurance adjuster can examine it,” Saxon said. “I’ll talk to you again after he’s seen it.”

When he hung up, he looked for and located his auto insurance policy. It was a seventy-five-dollar-deductible policy and he had paid the premium. He made a mental note to phone his insurance agent first thing Monday morning.

Then he phoned Bell’s Service Station, where he bought gas, and caught owner Dick Bell on duty. The place was not merely a gas station, but also a repair garage that handled used cars.

“This is Ted Saxon, Dick,” he said into the phone. “I wrecked my car last night.”

“Yeah, I heard about it,” Bell said. “But the way I heard it, you’re not gonna want it repaired.”

“No. I’m not calling about that. Do you have anything I can use for a few days until I find out if the insurance company is going to buy me a new one?”

“Sure, Ted. How far away you going to be traveling?”

“Well, I want something that will get me to Buffalo and back.”

“Oh. Then I’d better not send you the clunker I had in mind. I thought maybe you wanted something for just around town. I have a five-year-old Dodge here in pretty good shape. I’ll have Lenny leave it in front of your house.”

“Fine,” Saxon said. “Want me to drive him back?”

“Any kid working for me who couldn’t walk two blocks I’d fire,” Bell said. “The keys will be over the visor. It’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Hanging up, Saxon went upstairs to shower, shave, and dress. Before putting on his jacket, he snapped the holster of his thirty-eight Detective Special to his belt just over his right hip. When he took his overcoat from his closet, he noticed a torn spot on the bottom hem. Examining it, he realized that it was a bullet hole and remembered the bullet plucking at the skirt of the coat as he climbed up the ravine bank. Saxon, a one-hat man, didn’t have a replacement for the one he had lost. His father had owned several, though, and their head sizes had been the same. He selected one from the closet in what had been Andy Saxon’s room.

A black Dodge sedan was parked at the curb when he left the house. The storm had spent itself during the night and it was a clear, still day. The tireless snowplows had cleared the streets before dawn and traffic had melted what little snow the plows had left. The temperature hovered just below freezing.

Saxon took the Thruway to Buffalo, on the theory that it was more likely to have been plowed free of snow than the less-used Routes Twenty and Five. It had been. He made the twenty-five miles in twenty-five minutes, arriving about eleven o’clock.

He got off at the Bailey Avenue exit and drove straight to the apartment house where Ann Lowry and Sandra Norman lived. In the lobby he threw a casual glance at the card beneath the mail slot for apartment 6-B, then did a double take.

The card read: Mrs. Helen Fremont.

Going back outside, Saxon glanced both ways at the apartment houses on either side. He had entered the central of the three buildings on the block, all right.

Back inside, he climbed the stairs and rang the bell of 6-B. A plump blonde woman of about forty-five answered the door.

Saxon took off his hat. “I’m looking for Ann and Sandra.”

Carefully she looked him up and down, her expression becoming thoughtful when she noted his red hair. “Who?” she asked with rehearsed puzzlement.

“They live here,” he explained.

“Not here,” she said. “You must have the wrong apartment.”

“Well, they did live here,” he amended. “Did you just move in here today?”

“I’ve lived here for three months, mister. All by myself. I never heard of no Nan and Sandy.”

If her stagey manner hadn’t already given it away, Saxon would have realized by the woman’s pretense of misunderstanding the names that she was a plant. He didn’t bother to argue with her. Replacing his hat, he turned and walked away without even saying good-by.

Downstairs the first apartment off the lobby, numbered 1-A, had a sign on its door reading MANAGEMENT. Saxon’s ring brought a buxom, hard-featured woman in her mid-fifties to the door.

Removing his hat, he said, “You the manager here, ma’am?”

She nodded. “But there’s no vacancies, mister.”

“I’m not looking for an apartment. I’m looking for the former tenants of 6-B.”

A film seemed to settle over the woman’s eyes. “Former tenants? The same woman’s lived there six months.”

The woman herself had claimed only three, but Saxon didn’t offer any correction. He decided on another approach. “Larry Cutter sent me,” he said.

Her gaze touched his red hair. “Never heard of him,” she said stolidly.

His damned red hair and freckles, he thought. They made him to easy to describe.

It was obvious that Larry Cutter had moved fast to make Saxon’s story of the kidnaping seem implausible, in case he reported it to the police. The two girls had been whisked out of sight and a different tenant installed in their place. The manager had been bribed to substantiate the new tenant’s story of having occupied the apartment for some time. If the police came around to investigate apartment 6-B on Saxon’s complaint, they would come away convinced he had nightmares. In case Saxon himself showed up, the new tenant and the manager had been briefed on his appearance so that they wouldn’t fall into a trap.

He could, of course, ring the bells of other apartments on the second floor and probably find tenants who recalled seeing the girls. But he doubted that a pair of call girls would have mingled much with their neighbors, so it was unlikely any would know where they had gone. He decided it would be a waste of time.

The same elderly man, wearing the same dirty shirt, was behind the desk of the Fenimore Hotel. Again he said nothing to Saxon when he walked by.

Upstairs there was no reply to his knock on the door of room 203. Trying the knob, Saxon found the door unlocked. He opened it and walked in.

No one was in the hotel room. Nevertheless, Saxon checked. A curtained alcove served as a closet. Jerking the curtain aside, he stared at two bare coat hangers hooked over the clothing rod. He let the curtain drop in place and turned to the battered dresser. Every drawer was empty. There was no sign of human occupancy anywhere in the room.

Downstairs the elderly man eyed him warily as he approached the desk.

“What happened to the tenant in two, oh, three?” Saxon inquired.

“Mr. Zek? He moved out.”

“When and where to?”

“Last night. He didn’t leave no forwarding address.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“No,” the desk clerk said. “Some friend came to help him move.”

“You know the friend’s name?”

The elderly man shook his head. “Tall, kind of skinny fellow with a mustache.”

That would be Spider Wertz, Saxon thought. Larry Cutter had lost no time in removing all witnesses who could possibly corroborate anything at all Saxon told the police. He had done as good a job covering up the blunders of his men as he had in framing Saxon.

Stalking across the lobby to the single phone booth, Saxon flipped open the book to the C section. No Lawrence Cutter was listed.

Of course not, he thought furiously. Big-shot hoods, like call girls, had unlisted phones.

He looked up Tony Spijak’s number, dropped coins, and dialed. The bookmaker himself answered the phone.

“This is Ted Saxon, Tony,” he growled.

“How are you, boy? How’d you make out yesterday?”

“Lousy,” Saxon said coldly. “Do you know Larry Cutter’s address?”

After a moment of silence, Spijak said cautiously, “Yeah, I know it. Why?”

“Because I want it.”

“I don’t like the sound of your voice, old buddy,” the bookmaker said. “You sound sore. You going to do something foolish?”

“Listen, Tony,” Saxon said. “Are you going to give me the address or not?”

“I guess so,” Spijak said reluctantly. “But I hope I don’t read about your mutilated body being found in a car trunk. Cutter can play rough.”

“Just come up with the address,” Saxon snapped.

“Keep your pants on, pal. I have to look it up in my little black book.”

A full minute passed before the bookmaker came back to the phone. “Apartment 4-C, the Gawain Apartment Hotel,” he said. “That’s on North Delaware.”

“I know the place,” Saxon said. “Thanks.”

At the Gawain Apartment Hotel furnished apartments were rented for two hundred and fifty dollars a month and up. The bigger ones, such as Larry Cutter probably had, brought six hundred a month. A self-service elevator took Saxon to the third floor. He walked along deep-napped carpeting until he came to the door numbered 4-C. He unbuttoned his overcoat and suit jacket and loosened the gun in his holster before ringing the bell.

A couple of minutes passed before the door opened six inches and the face of Farmer Benton peered out. His face was just beginning to form an expression of startled recognition when Saxon’s shoulder hit the door and smashed it wide-open, driving Benton backward several feet. The man recovered his balance and was reaching for his armpit when Saxon swept out his gun and leveled it.

Paling, the buck-toothed gunman hurriedly raised his arms overhead.

Saxon’s glance flickered over the room. It was the front room of the apartment. To the right an archway led to a dining room, and the only other door led to a central hall off which Saxon could see into a bedroom. No one except Farmer Benton was in sight.

Saxon moved forward, dipped his left hand beneath Benton’s coat and drew out his forty-five automatic.

“I don’t know why I bother,” he said. “You can’t hit anything with it anyway.” He tossed it over on the sofa. “Put your hands down. You look silly holding them over your head that way.”

Benton slowly lowered his hands to his sides.

A voice from beyond the dining room called, “Who is it, Farmer?”

Saxon had been about to ask where Larry Cutter was, but this answered his question in advance. Grasping the gunman’s shoulder, he spun him toward the dining room and said, “Move.” Stiffly Benton walked ahead of him through the dining room and to the door of a kitchen.

A powerfully built man of about forty with close-cropped blond hair sat at the kitchen table in bathrobe and pajamas. He had a square, granite-hard face and pale-gray eyes. Across from him sat a vivid, baby-faced blonde in her early twenties. She was wearing a white housecoat over a nightgown. Though it was now past noon, they seemed to be having breakfast. Both had coffee cups before them and were munching sweet rolls.

Saxon shoved Farmer Benton to one side. The gray-eyed man looked up and his eyes narrowed when he saw Saxon’s gun. He threw Benton a bleak glance.

“He caught me off balance,” Benton said apologetically. “I wasn’t expecting nothing, Larry. Nobody’s been gunning for you.”

Larry Cutter turned his attention back to Saxon. The girl gazed at Saxon wide-eyed, her jaws still mechanically chewing a piece of sweet roll.

“Know who I am?” Saxon asked Cutter.

Cutter contemplated him for a moment before saying, “From descriptions I’ve heard, I’d guess you were Ted Saxon.”

Saxon shook his head. “I never even heard of him.” He crooked his left forefinger. “Come here.”

Puzzled, the man warily got to his feet. Rounding the table, he neared to within a couple of feet of Saxon and stopped. Saxon looked him up and down. It wasn’t necessary to search the man to determine he was unarmed. The only place he could have concealed a gun was in his robe pockets, and they were perfectly flat. Saxon holstered his gun.

Larry Cutter gazed at him in astonishment. “I don’t think I understand this.”

“You will,” Saxon said.

His right fist lashed out in a short, powerful hook which caught Cutter flush on the jaw and drove him clear across the room against the sink. For a moment the man groped at the edge of the drainboard for support, then his face turned blank and he toppled forward. He hit the floor with a crash and lay still.

Benton gave Saxon a buck-toothed gawk.

“I decided it was my turn for a change,” Saxon explained.

Tipping his hat to the blonde, he turned, stalked to the front door, and let himself out.

Chapter 19

There was a Thruway service area halfway between Buffalo and Iroquois, where you could gas up or dine without getting off the Thruway. Saxon stopped there for lunch. It was just 1:30 P.M. when he drove back into Iroquois.

Emily having worked until 7 A.M., he knew she would still be asleep. He drove over to Ben Foley’s house and found the former mayor home.

When they were settled with drinks in their hands, Saxon said, “I wouldn’t ask you to perjure yourself on the stand, Ben, but if there’s merely a police inquiry, would you furnish me an alibi for today?”

The plumb lawyer examined him quizzically. “Depends. Who’d you kill?”

“It would only be a forced entry and battery charge. I socked Larry Cutter on the jaw.”

Foley looked pleased. “Did he go down?”

“I knocked him colder than a carp. I suppose it was a childish thing to do, but I suddenly got fed up with him. I thought it was time he got pushed back for the way he’s been pushing me, then ran up against a rigged alibi if he tried to do anything about it.”

“Sounds like poetic justice,” Foley agreed. “I wouldn’t mind telling a white lie, so long as it’s not under oath. Just what happened?”

Saxon told him of the switch of tenants at the girls’ apartment and of the disappearance of Alton Zek from the Fenimore Hotel.

“All at once I saw red,” he concluded. “Here this strutting two-bit hood who doesn’t even know me first deliberately wrecks my career, then orders me killed. By instructing his hired hands in what lies to tell and bribing others to give false evidence, he arranges things so that if I even make a complaint, the police will think I’m having hallucinations. I found out where he lived and went over there. Farmer Benton, one of the goons who took me for a ride, answered the door. I disarmed him at gun-point and made him lead me to Cutter. Then I socked Cutter and left.”

Foley emitted a low whistle. “Forced entry, assault with a deadly weapon, and battery. I guess you do need an alibi.”

“I may not. He may not care to risk having me explain in court why I was mad at him. But just in case his resentment overcomes his judgment, I thought I’d better have one lined up.”

“You had Sunday dinner with Alice and me,” the lawyer said with a disarming grin. “You know, I lay awake half the night thinking about this thing, Ted. And it doesn’t quite make sense to me.”

Saxon raised his eyebrows. “I thought we had the whole plot pretty well figured out.”

“The reason for the rape frame, sure. But why did Cutter suddenly order you killed? From what you told Arn and me last night, I think we can reconstruct what happened something like this: the informer you talked to at the Fenimore Hotel contacted Sergeant Morrison and told him you were en route to see the Lowry woman. Morrison must in turn have got in touch with Larry Cutter. Cutter sent his two gunmen over to get the girls out of the apartment and to wait for you to walk in. Then, as you described it, there was a long wait for instructions. Your two captors didn’t even know what plans for you were until the messenger from Cutter arrived several hours later. Spider Wertz was the messenger’s name, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. From the desk clerk’s description, I think he was also the man who spirited Alton Zek away from the Fenimore.”

Ben Foley rose and began to pace up and down, as if addressing his remarks to a jury. “So we have a picture here of indecision. It looks as if when he first heard from Morrison, Larry Cutter couldn’t decide what action to take. As an expedient, he sent his minions to get the girls out of sight and latch onto you until he could make up his mind. The long delay before the decision to dispose of you permanently suggests he may have been discussing strategy with someone — probably Sergeant Morrison. But why did they finally decide you had to be killed?”

“You’ve got me,” Saxon said. “I suppose a man like this Cutter automatically thinks in terms of murder as the solution to problems.”

Ben Foley looked doubtful. “Cutter’s no dummy. He’s proved that by the beautiful way he planned your frame, and also by the way he managed to cover up for his hired hands’ bungling of your attempted murder. I don’t think he’d order an unnecessary murder. And just what danger were you to him? If he wanted to prevent your pumping Morrison’s girl friend for information, all he had to do was to have her drop out of sight.”

After considering this, Saxon said, “He knew I had linked Morrison to him, because I asked Alton Zek if he knew of any tie between Morrison and Cutter. That sort of gave it away that I knew Cutter was behind my frame. Maybe he was afraid that since I knew why I had been framed, and by whom, I would be able to find evidence to prove it.”

“What evidence was there to find? The supposed rape victim is dead. The only way you could possibly prove that it was a frame would be to get Morrison or Coombs to reverse their stories. But you weren’t attempting to see either of them. You were merely visiting a call girl to whom Morrison was in the habit of steering business.”

Saxon stared up at the lawyer for a long time before carefully setting down his still half-filled glass. He said slowly, “It does seem that they got awfully excited about my seeing that girl. Maybe that’s the answer.”

“You mean she may know the details of the frame? Perhaps Morrison confided in her?”

“I just dredged up an even hotter idea than that,” Saxon said, rising. “I have to run along, Ben. I want to check something.”

The lawyer looked surprised. “What?”

“It’s such a far-out idea, you’d think I was crazy if I told you. I want to check it out first. I’ll either drop back or give you a ring this evening.”

The plump lawyer followed him to the entry hall. “All right, if you want to be mysterious. Here, let me help you with your coat.”

Saxon took the Thruway to Erie, Pennsylvania, making the seventy-some miles in an hour and fifteen minutes. He got off at the State Street exit and drove straight to police headquarters.

A middle-aged sergeant was on the desk. Saxon asked if Detective Everett Cass was on duty.

“Try the Detective Bureau squad room,” the man said.

Saxon walked down the hall to the Detective Bureau. The door opened just before he reached it and a thin, stooped man with a narrow, long-chinned face stepped out into the hall.

“Detective Cass in there?” Saxon asked.

The man said, “I’m Cass.”

Saxon held out his hand. “My name’s Ted Saxon. I talked to you on the phone from Iroquois on New Year’s Day.”

The look of polite inquiry on Everett Cass’s face faded. Examining the outthrust hand with contempt, he made no move to grip it. “Yeah, we read about you in yesterday’s paper,” he said coldly.

Flushing, Saxon let his hand drop to his side. In an equally cold voice he said, “You a cop or a judge, Cass?”

The man stared at him.

“You’ve declared me guilty on the basis of what you read in the paper, have you? Who took you off the force and put you on the bench?”

The detective frowned. “What’s eating you, Saxon?”

“Your attitude. That rape charge was a frame, and the reason I’m here is to get evidence to prove the frame. What right have you to look at me as if I were some kind of dirt when you don’t know one damned thing about the case?”

After gazing at him for a while, Cass said, “Okay, you’ve made your point. What do you want?”

Saxon let himself simmer down. In a more normal tone he said, “I assume that when you picked up Grace Emmet here, she got the usual felony-suspect treatment, didn’t she? Prints and mug shots?”

The detective nodded. “Both. After she was killed in that auto accident, Buffalo called us for her prints to identify the body, and we sent them a set.”

“I know. I’d like to see her mugs.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Is there any rule against it?”

Everett Cass shrugged. “I guess not. Come along to Records.”

At the Records desk he asked for the mug shots of Grace Emmet. After a search, the clerk brought over a double photograph showing both front and profile views of the woman.

Saxon looked at it for a long time The blonde poodle cut was the same and there was a similar roundness to the face and a fullness of lips. But aside from that, the pictures bore no resemblance to the woman Sergeant Harry Morrison had left at the Iroquois jail for an hour.

Saxon had never before in his life seen the woman who was pictured.

“Can I get a copy of this?” he asked.

Detective Cass looked at him. “What for?”

“Because this isn’t the woman I’m accused of raping,” Saxon said. “The Buffalo sergeant who picked up Grace Emmet here rang in a substitute when he got to Iroquois. I told you it was a frame.”

Cass stared at the picture, then back at Saxon. “You mean the Buffalo cop passed off somebody else as Grace Emmet at your jail?”

“You’re beginning to get the picture. How about a copy of the mugs?”

“Sure,” Cass said, his attitude suddenly changing to one of puzzled friendliness. “Why’d he pull a thing like that?”

“To frame me out of my job,” Saxon said. “It’s too long a story to go into. If you’ll get me my copy of the mugs, I’ll get going back to Iroquois.”

They had to wait twenty minutes for a print to be run off from the negative. Saxon got started back toward Iroquois at 4 P.M.

Chapter 20

At five-fifteen Saxon pulled into Ben Foley’s driveway. He rang the bell.

“Hello, Ted,” Foley said. “Come on in.”

Stepping into the entry hall, Saxon removed his hat but made no move to take off his coat. “What time do you eat on Sunday?” he asked.

Foley looked surprised. “Usually not until about seven. Why? You hungry?”

“I just didn’t want to disturb your dinner. Get your coat on and we’ll take a run over to Arn Kettle’s.”

Foley’s eyebrows shot up. “You must have found whatever it was you rushed off after.”

“I certainly did.”

They took Saxon’s car.

Joanne Kettle answered the door and told them her husband was in his study.

“That’s the only quiet place in the house on Sunday afternoons,” she said as she took their coats and hats.

Saxon could see what she meant. The Kettles had two teen-age girls, and apparently both had invited over all their friends. A hi-fi was playing in the front room and a dozen teen-agers were doing some kind of tribal dance in which the partners stood apart from each other, in some cases back to back, and shuffled their feet. It wasn’t the twist, with which Saxon was familiar. This seemed to be some new craze.

He followed Ben Foley down the hall to the study. Arnold Kettle opened the door at Foley’s knock. The noise from the front room followed them inside but abruptly ceased when Kettle closed the door.

“I had this soundproofed,” the district attorney explained. “It was either that or get rid of the kids, and nobody will take the monsters. Cocktail?”

Saxon was too impatient to announce his discovery to be interested in a drink. Foley, as curious as Saxon was impatient, declined too.

“All right,” Kettle said, settling back in his chair. “What’s the big news?”

Saxon laid the front and profile views of Grace Emmet on the desk. Picking it up, the D.A. first read the printing beneath the pictures, then studied the photographs.

He looked up with a puzzled frown. “This says Grace Emmet.”

“I know,” Saxon said. “I just got it from the Erie police. They mugged and printed her when they picked her up.”

“But it isn’t Grace Emmet.”

“Sure it is, Arn. The woman you questioned in jail wasn’t Grace Emmet.”

Kettle stared at him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said slowly. “Who in the devil was she?” He handed the double photograph to Foley. “Look at this.”

After examining it, Foley laid it back on the desk. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. I never saw the woman in jail.”

“That’s right,” Kettle remembered. “But a number of other people did. Jenny Waite, Doc Harmon, Verne Dowling, who was on the desk. We can blow this frame wide apart. Who was she, Ted?”

“I suspect it was Morrison’s friend, Ann Lowry,” Saxon said. “That must be why they got so excited when I got on her trail. If I had ever seen her, the whole plot would founder. Not only would the frame be uncovered, but Sergeant Harry Morrison would be arrested for murder.”

“Of course,” Kettle breathed. “The accident that killed Grace Emmet was rigged. It had to be.”

Saxon said, “One thing I couldn’t understand about the frame from the beginning was how they set it up so quickly. Morrison didn’t know until the previous night that Grace Emmet had been captured in Erie, and didn’t know until that day that she had waived extradition and he was supposed to go after her. They only had a matter of hours to make plans and line Coombs up as a witness. Yet it was the sort of thing that would require careful advance planning and detailed rehearsal by the actors for it to work.”

“I felt that way, too,” Kettle agreed. “That’s why at first I couldn’t see it as a frame.”

“I think it was planned days in advance. Ten days beforehand it was generally known around town that I’d be on duty New Year’s Day. How the news got from Iroquois to Larry Cutter, I don’t know. Possibly from Adam Bennock, if our new mayor is in cahoots with Cutter. At any rate, I think plans were all made and the actors had been thoroughly rehearsed before the Emmet woman was ever captured. I don’t believe she was included in the original plan.”

Ben Foley said frowningly, “I don’t think I follow that.”

“It’s simple enough, Ben. I think the original plan was for Ann Lowry to come to Iroquois and get herself arrested on some charge. Possibly soliciting in one of the local taverns, since that was her normal trade and a check with Buffalo would probably show a previous record of such offenses. They would want an offense that was plausible, yet would not get her into too much trouble. After she was jailed, Sergeant Morrison would drop in on some pretext just in time to be a witness when she yelled rape. Coombs, of course, would already be in a cell as a second witness. But when Morrison learned he had to go to Erie after Grace Emmet that night, he had a brilliant idea. There weren’t any photographs of the Emmet woman, and her features in the composite drawing vaguely resembled Ann Lowry’s. Their hair color and styles were totally different, but that was easily remedied. He had Ann cut her long red hair in the same style Grace Emmet wore hers and dye it blonde. I imagine Ann followed Morrison to Erie in a second car. After picking up his prisoner in Erie, Morrison forced her to change clothes with Ann. You know, I wondered about that at one point New Year’s Eve.”

“About what?” Kettle asked.

“Her clothes. The woman was wearing a mink coat worth several thousand dollars. Her dress was obviously expensive too, yet it didn’t fit. At that time I passed it off by guessing she had lost weight, either as an attempt at disguise or from worry over being a fugitive from justice.”

Foley said, “They had to switch clothes, I suppose, in case someone just happened to check with Erie to ask what Grace Emmet was wearing when the transfer took place. They wouldn’t want their careful plans to fizzle on a small point like that.” Then he rubbed his chin. “But how’d they manage to fool Doc Harmon by getting a positive lab test?”

Both Saxon and Kettle looked at him. Saxon said patiently, “Aren’t you being a little naïve, Ben? Ann Lowry was a call girl and Morrison was her procurer. They pulled off on a side road somewhere on the way back from Erie.”

The plump lawyer turned red. He changed the subject. “Where was Grace Emmet all the time her substitute was in the local jail and Morrison was at the hospital having coffee and cake?”

Saxon said, “Probably bound and gagged in the trunk of either Morrison’s or Ann’s car. When they started on again, Morrison must have had the two women switch back to their own clothing so that Grace would be properly dressed when her body was found in his wrecked car. He took the precaution of making her face unrecognizable before pushing the car over the bank.”

“A hell of a fine representative of law and order he is!” Foley said with disgust.

The district attorney said, “You should be back in office tomorrow, Ted.”

“I’d rather not break it just yet,” Saxon said quickly.

Kettle looked at him as if searching for a hole in his head. “Why not?”

“What will it get us? Harry Morrison on a murder charge, providing we can find Ann Lowry to help prove our case. Ann Lowry for conspiracy — again providing we ever find her, which is doubtful. While the guy who planned the frame-up goes free.”

Kettle said doubtfully, “Morrison might implicate him, once he realized he was in for the rap.”

Saxon shook his head. “His best bet would be to deny the whole thing and make us prove it. Which might be tough if we can’t turn up Ann. Even in the face of four disinterested witnesses who saw the prisoner in her cell and are willing to testify that she wasn’t the woman in this picture, a smart lawyer might be able to establish reasonable doubt if we can’t produce the woman who actually was in the cell. You’ve both seen what a good lawyer can do in the way of discrediting identification in court. In fact, both of you have probably been guilty of it.”

“I know what you mean,” Kettle said glumly. “All he’d have to do is get one witness to admit the mug shots resembled the woman in the cell, then stress to the jury that police photography is notoriously poor. We’ll have to get hold of Ann Lowry in order to build an unbreakable case.”

Saxon said, “Cutter already has her under wraps. She’ll probably end up at the bottom of the lake if we have Morrison arrested.”

“Hmm,” Kettle said. “What do you suggest?”

“Let’s quietly ask the Buffalo police to hunt down Ann Lowry. And just sit on what we have until she’s safely in custody.”

“That sounds sensible,” Ben Foley said.

“All right,” Kettle agreed. “I’ll give the Buffalo police a ring. Temporarily we won’t take any other action.”

Saxon said, “Even if the Buffalo cops manage to pick her up, I wish you’d discuss it with me before you move against Morrison, Arn.”

The district attorney raised his eyebrows. “All right. But why?”

“Even if Morrison breaks and tries to implicate Cutter, I doubt that we could get Cutter on conspiracy to murder in Grace Emmet’s case. He could admit the whole plot to frame me and still deny knowing anything of Morrison’s plan to kill his prisoner after she had served her purpose. I suspect we’d end up, at most, with my getting a civil judgment against him for defamation of character. And I want him in the electric chair for conspiracy to murder.”

“How are you going to get him there? You just argued down your own case.”

“Just so far as Grace Emmet is concerned. You forget that Cutter’s guilty of arranging another murder.”

When Kettle looked at him blankly, Ben Foley said, “Andy, Arn. It’s obvious that Ted’s father was murdered on Cutter’s order.”

Saxon said, “Let’s not settle for the small fry. I’d rather hold off until we can build ironclad cases against everybody who had a part in both crimes. And that means not only Larry Cutter, but the gunman who actually killed my dad.”

Chapter 21

Aside from Ben Foley and the district attorney, Saxon discussed the new evidence he had uncovered with no one except Emily. And he impressed on her the need to keep it to herself.

“Don’t even mention it to Julie,” he said. “You know what a hotbed of gossip the hospital is. She’ll impart it in confidence to one of the other nurses, and in twenty-four hours it will be all over town that we know the woman in jail New Year’s Eve wasn’t really Grace Emmet. The moment Adam Bennock hears it, Larry Cutter will know. And Ann Lowry will probably end up on the bottom of the lake.”

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” she promised.

This conversation took place at her apartment Sunday evening before she went to work. Saxon was nursing a beer and Emily had his overcoat spread across her lap, mending the bullet hole near the lower hem.

“I don’t think it will show unless you look close,” she said, taking a final stitch, breaking the thread and smoothing the cloth. “Is it all right?”

Setting his beer down, he rose from his chair and crossed to the sofa to examine the job. She had stitched it from the inside with blue thread of the same shade as the overcoat and he had to search closely to detect the small dimple in the cloth.

“A professional seamstress couldn’t have done better,” he said, leaning down to kiss her on the nose. “Just for that, I’ll stay long enough to drive you to work.”

“You’ll have to,” she said, dimpling. “When you phoned that you were coming over, I canceled my taxi.”

When he got home at eleven that night, he looked at the mending job again. And suddenly a thought struck him. After he was in bed, he brooded over the thought for a long time.

Monday morning he phoned his insurance agent to report the car accident. Then he drove downtown to police headquarters. Sam Lennox was on the desk.

“Morning, Chief — uh, Ted,” the veteran patrolman said.

“Morning, Sam. Art’s still keeping you on regular day duty, is he?”

“Yeah, he ain’t changed anything yet.” Lennox looked a trifle embarrassed. “I never did have a chance to thank you for what you did last week, Ted.”

“What was that?”

“Covering up for me that day I got drunk.”

Saxon frowned. “I didn’t exactly cover up, Sam. I just didn’t press it. I told you it was the last time I’d put up with it.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Lennox said quickly. “I’m going on the wagon for good.”

Saxon studied the man. The veins in his lined face seemed even redder than they had a week ago and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. If he were going on the wagon, he hadn’t stepped on it yet, for he had all the symptoms of a hang-over from the night before.

“Just stay on it during duty hours and nobody will kick,” Saxon said dryly. “It would be too bad if you got bounced now and had to take a twenty-year retirement, when you can make full retirement if you hold out two more years.”

The door of the chief’s office opened and Art Marks stepped out with a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked a little startled when he saw Saxon.

“How are you, Ted?” he asked with a touch of reserve.

“Fine, Art. Beginning to get the feel of things yet?”

Marks emitted a forced chuckle. “It’s not as easy as it looks from the squad room. As a plain cop, you can forget this place when your duty trick ends. Nobody told me the chief had to take tomorrow’s problems home with him every night.” He handed the sheet to Sam Lennox. “Here’s the new duty roster, Sam. Type it up and get it on the bulletin board.”

Lennox said, “Sure, Chief. Right away.”

Marks regarded Saxon contemplatively for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Want to step in the office a minute, Ted?”

“Sure.”

He followed the acting chief into his private office and closed the door as Marks rounded the desk to sink into the swivel chair. Saxon took a seat in front of the desk.

Marks cleared his throat and looked past Saxon’s left shoulder. “I hope you aren’t sore at me for moving into your job, Ted.”

“Why should I be?” Saxon asked with raised brows. “You didn’t push me out. That female prisoner did.”

With effort Marks looked him in the face. “Was that really a frame, Ted?”

“It was a frame,” Saxon assured him.

“I kept thinking it had to be. I’ve known you since you were a kid, and it just didn’t make sense for you to go off your rocker like that. Do you have any idea what was behind it?”

“Uh-huh. But I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.”

“Oh.” There was a lengthy pause before Marks asked, “Think you’ll ever be able to prove you were framed?”

“I think so.”

Marks looked relieved. “Then you’ll be reinstated as chief, I suppose.”

Saxon studied him curiously. “What’s the matter, Art? Don’t you like the job?”

“I think it’s a little beyond me,” the acting chief said frankly. “I’m no desk cop. But even if I liked it, I think I’d be leaving in a few months. I’ve got a better offer.”

“Oh?” Saxon said in surprise.

“It’s contingent on the race-track deal going through. I’ve been offered the chief security guard spot at ten thousand a year.”

Saxon formed his lips into a silent whistle. “How about your pension?”

“I could take two-thirds. All I’d lose is credit for my last four years’ service. And I could build up another twenty-year retirement credit with the racing association by the time I reached sixty-five.”

Larry Cutter was going to take no chances at all when he moved in to take over Iroquois, Saxon thought. He wasn’t willing to settle for a dumb chief who could be hoodwinked into co-operating with a puppet mayor. He wanted a man in office over whom he had absolute control. Andy Saxon had been murdered, his son framed out of office, now Art Marks was being lured out by the offer of a better job.

He thought about whom that left next in line. The answer was no one. Vic Burns could be put in as chief and would be accepted by the general public simply because he was the only remaining lieutenant on the force. But not being an Iroquois native and having only seven years’ seniority on the local force — less than many of the patrolmen — no one would make an issue of his being bypassed. It would be simple to bring in some outsider with police experience.

Sergeant Harry Morrison, for instance.

“You’ve decided to take the offer?” Saxon asked.

“How could I afford to turn it down?”

Saxon felt a little sorry for the man. He hated to disrupt his rosy dream of the future, but it wouldn’t have been very kind not to let him know there was a distinct possibility the local race track would never develop. He decided to tell Marks as much of the story as Larry Cutter must be aware Saxon knew anyway.

He said, “You know who’s behind this race-track deal, Art?”

“Sure. The Upstate Harness Racing Association.”

“That’s just a front. It’s Larry Cutter’s money.”

Art Marks looked at him blankly. “The guy who was run out of Saratoga Springs?”

“Uh-huh. He’s decided to land here. And he wants his own chief in office. Dad would have tied a can to his tail, so Dad was murdered. I would have done the same thing, so I was framed out of office. You’re too honest a cop to suit his fancy, so you’re offered a better job in order to induce you to resign. Then they bring in an outsider who’s in Cutter’s pocket. Get the picture?”

Marks stared at him with his mouth open. “You mean the offer to me wasn’t serious?”

“Oh, sure. If the track ever opens, no doubt the job will be waiting for you. But don’t count on the track’s opening.” Saxon rose to his feet. “Sorry to throw cold water on your plans, Art, but that’s the way it is. A few of us are making plans to keep Cutter out of Iroquois along with both his legitimate and his illegal operations.”

Art Marks rose, too. The expression on his face suggested he was still trying to absorb what Saxon had just told him. After a time he thrust his hand across the desk.

“Any way it goes, I hope you clear yourself and come back as chief, Ted. I won’t mind going back to lieutenant, if it’s under you. I called you in here mainly to make sure there weren’t any hard feelings between us.”

Outside in the waiting room, Saxon stopped at the desk again. Sam Lennox rose from his chair and came over to the counter.

Saxon said, “I really came in to talk to you, Sam, but Art sidetracked me before I got to the point.”

“What’s on your mind?” Lennox asked.

“I want to ask you something about the night Dad was killed.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“When this man in the stolen car pulled over at your siren, you parked just behind him. That right?”

Lennox nodded. “That’s S.O.P. You always pull in behind instead of in front.”

“I know. Then Dad and Vic got out of the back seat? From opposite sides, I assume.”

“No. There was a snowbank on the right side. The chief was sitting on the left, so he got out first and waited for Vic. Vic slid over and got out the same side. They started for the car together and the guy opened up.”

“How close were they to him?”

Lennox looked thoughtful. “They were about even with me, where I was sitting in the front seat, when he started shooting. The guy was seated in his front seat, so I’d say the range was no more than ten or twelve feet. He could hardly have missed.”

Saxon gazed at him for a long time. “That far? Both of them were that far away when he fired?”

“At least. I told you they were right together. Practically side by side. Why?”

“I just wanted to get the picture straight,” Saxon said. “See you around, Sam.”

“Sure, Ted. See you.”

From police headquarters Saxon drove to the county courthouse. He found District Attorney Kettle in his office. The D.A. waved him to a seat and offered a cigar.

Saxon shook his head. “Have you called Buffalo yet?”

“Last night after you left. No kickback so far.”

“I have a feeling they won’t turn her up,” Saxon said.

“Why not? I didn’t explain the real reason we wanted her. I was afraid some cop might let it drop while questioning her friends, and it would get back to Larry Cutter.”

“What excuse did you give?”

“I told them you claimed you’d been waylaid and taken for a ride when you visited her apartment. That shouldn’t get Cutter excited. He must have expected you to make a complaint.”

“It may not get him excited, but it isn’t going to make him want the cops to get their hands on her. If she isn’t already in Canada or dead, Cutter will probably arrange one or the other.”

Kettle frowned. “It was your idea to handle it this way.”

“I’ve had some second thoughts,” Saxon said. “We’re going to have to throw a block into Cutter fast Arn. I just found out that Art Marks has been offered the job of chief security guard at the new track when it opens.”

“So?” the district attorney asked puzzledly.

“Marks will be the third chief boosted out of office by one means or another. It leaves the way wide open for Adam Bennock to recommend some experienced outsider to the Common Council. Such as Sergeant Harry Morrison.”

After thinking this over, Kettle said slowly, “Yes, I suppose there’s no longer much doubt that our new mayor is in cahoots with Cutter. What are you second thoughts?”

“I’d like to try something that might net us everyone involved, including Larry Cutter, providing it works. Will you be party to a frame?”

“A legal one?” the district attorney asked cautiously.

“I wouldn’t ask you to risk disbarment even to nail my father’s killers. But it’s still a frame.”

“Turnabout’s fair play, I suppose,” Kettle said. “Cutter framed you. Just what do you have in mind?”

Saxon spent fifteen minutes explaining his idea in detail.

Chapter 22

It was still fairly early in the morning when Saxon got back home, only a little after ten. He placed a phone call to Tony Spijak’s home in Buffalo.

He caught the bookmaker just as he was leaving the house. Spijak said, “A minute later you’d have missed me. I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought you’d be full of ice-pick holes by now.”

“The only damage at our meeting was to Cutter,” Saxon said. “And that wasn’t much. Just a bruised jaw.”

“You clipped him? You never had any sense, Ted. You better keep one eye over your shoulder for a while.”

“He isn’t all that tough,” Saxon said. “What I’m calling about is that I want to get in touch with the man, and he isn’t listed in the phone book. I assume he has an unlisted number.”

“Yeah, he has.”

“Think you can get it for me?”

“It’s in my little black book. Hang on.”

A few moments passed, then Spijak said, “Maxwell 7-3204.”

Saxon jotted the number in his notebook. Then he asked curiously, “How do you happen to have his number, Tony?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Are you tied in with Cutter in some way?”

“Nope,” the bookmaker said cheerily.

“It’s kind of important for me to know,” Saxon said. “I was going to ask another favor of you, but I can’t if you’re on Cutter’s team.”

“I’m not on his team. I don’t give a hoot in Hades what happens to the guy.”

“Then how come you’re so friendly with him — you have his unlisted phone number?”

Tony Spijak laughed. “If you have to know, he likes to play the ponies. I’m his bookie.”

“Oh,” Saxon said, surprised that a man whose fortune had been built on the gambling fever of others had a touch of the fever himself.

“What’s the other favor you want?” Spijak asked.

“Later tonight I may want you to phone somebody and deliver a message. It’ll be some time before I’ll know just when I want the call placed, though. Is there any way I can get in touch with you on short notice?”

“Sure. Marie’s my answering service. I’ll be moving from spot to spot, but she always knows where to reach me. Buzz her and you’ll get a call back from me within ten minutes.”

“Fine,” Saxon said. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Any time, old buddy. Keep looking over your shoulder.”

“I will,” Saxon said, and hung up.

His next call was to police headquarters.

When Sam Lennox answered, Saxon said, “This is Ted, Sam. Is Vic Burns on duty?”

“No. He comes on the second trick.”

“On the desk?”

“Nope. Patrol car.”

“Thanks,” Saxon said. “I’ll try his home.”

There was no answer at Burns’s bachelor apartment. Saxon phoned Lennox back.

“Vic isn’t home, Sam,” he said. “Will you ask him to call me this evening? Not before eight, because I’m taking Emily out to dinner and won’t be home before then.”

“Sure, Ted,” Lennox said. “I’ll tell him.”

Saxon spent a good part of the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon practicing a voice imitation. When he got to Emily’s apartment at four o’clock, he tried out the imitation on her.

“Who does this sound like?” he asked in a thin, reedy voice.

She burst out laughing. “It’s pretty close to Adam Bennock.”

“Just pretty close? It has to be better than that. Guess I need some more rehearsing.”

With Emily as a critical audience, he did some more practicing, adjusting his voice up and down at her suggestion until she decided he was perfect.

“You could fool his own mother now,” she said finally. “What’s the purpose of all this?”

“A nasty scheme I’ve dreamed up. Now I have to know if Bennock plans to be home this evening. Have any ideas as to how I could find out and not make him suspicious?”

“That’s simple,” Emily said. “He’s on my list of patrons for the hospital charity ball next month. I’ll phone and ask if I can drop off his ticket and pick up his contribution tonight.”

When she phoned, the mayor assured her he would be home all evening.

There was nothing further Saxon could do to put his plan in operation until that evening. He took Emily out to dinner, and about seven-thirty stopped in front of Adam Bennock’s house long enough for her to run in with his hospital ball ticket. Then he drove her home and got home himself just before 8 P.M.

At exactly eight the phone rang. It was Vic Burns.

“Can you drop over here, Vic?” Saxon asked.

“Sure, Ted. What’s up?”

“I have a little police business for you. Tell you when you get here. Who’s riding with you?”

“Nobody. We’re short-handed tonight, so I’m riding alone. Will this take long?”

“It might. Better tell the desk to phone here if you’re needed.”

“Okay,” Burns said. “See you in about fifteen minutes.”

While waiting, Saxon went upstairs and clipped the holster of his short-barreled Detective Special to his belt beneath the suit coat. He was starting downstairs again when he had another thought. Turning around, he went into the room that had been his father’s and took a similar holstered gun from the top bureau drawer. Removing it from the holster, he replaced the holster in the drawer and carried the gun down to the basement. He was still there when the doorbell rang.

Slipping the second gun into a side pocket, he went upstairs to let in Vic Burns.

It hadn’t snowed now since the Saturday night storm, and the stocky lieutenant wasn’t even wearing rubbers. Saxon took the heavy uniform overcoat and gold-shielded cap and hung them in the entry-hall closet. Then he led the way into the front room and offered Burns a chair.

When the lieutenant was seated, Saxon handed him the mug shots of Grace Emmet.

Burns examined the pictures, read the data printed beneath them, and handed the sheet back. “So that’s the gal who caused all your trouble, eh? Where’d you get the mugs?”

“From the Erie police.”

Burns examined the expectant look on Saxon’s face with puzzlement. “You look as if you thought I should show some kind of reaction.”

“I forgot you’d never seen the woman in jail,” Saxon said. “She wasn’t the woman in these pictures.”

“Huh?” Burns said blankly.

“Sergeant Morrison substituted another woman for Grace Emmet, Vic.” He explained how the frame had been worked and who was behind it.

When he finished, Burns emitted a low whistle. “Larry Cutter, huh? This is big stuff. What do you plan to do?”

“Frame him back. I’ll never be able to prove the frame without getting my hands on Ann Lowry. And even then, I doubt that I could tie Larry Cutter to the frame, or prove any collusion between him and Adam Bennock. But if I can get Cutter, Bennock, Morrison, and the Lowry woman to come together voluntarily for a conference and catch them all together, we’ll have evidence of the conspiracy.”

Burns raised his eyebrows. “How do you plan to do that?”

“You’ll see in a minute. Your part will be to arrange the raiding party. But first let’s see if we can set up the meeting.”

Going over to the phone, he dialed the unlisted number Tony Spijak had given him. A voice he recognized as that of Farmer Benton answered.

In his high-pitched imitation of Adam Bennock, Saxon said, “Mr. Cutter, please.”

A couple of minutes passed before Larry Cutter’s voice said, “Hello, Adam.”

“How did you know it was I calling?” Saxon asked in the same precise, reedy tone. “I didn’t say.”

Cutter laughed. “You have a kind of distinctive voice, Adam. The Farmer recognized it. What’s up?”

“I think we’d better have an immediate meeting. And I think you had better bring along the sergeant and that girl.”

“Why?” Cutter asked, his tone suddenly becoming cautious. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t care to discuss it over the phone. Can’t you guess?”

“Yeah, I guess I can,” Cutter said slowly. “But why do you want me to bring along the girl?”

“I thought we’d meet at my skating rink. It’s right on the beach and the beach is absolutely deserted at this time of year. It seemed a convenient location in the event we have to make a decision.”

After a moment of silence, Cutter said, “You might have a point there. I’ll phone Morrison right now. I happen to know he’s not on duty. Expect us in, say, an hour and a half. It’s almost eighty-thirty now, so we’ll be there at ten. In case I can’t reach Morrison, what’s your number there again?”

“I won’t be here,” Saxon said. “I’ll have to get over to the rink to start the place warming up. The heat has been off since I closed for the winter in November. The phone there is disconnected, so you can’t call me there.”

“Okay. I’ll get hold of Morrison somehow. If I can’t, I’ll just bring the girl. I know where she is. See you at ten.”

When he hung up, Vic Burns was gazing at Saxon in astonishment. “Even sitting here watching you, I’d swear that was Adam Bennock talking,” he said. “I never knew you were such a good mimic.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Saxon said with a grin. “And I’ve been practicing.”

Lifting the phone again, he dialed Tony Spijak’s number. When Marie answered, he asked if she would get in touch with her husband and have him call back.

“Sure, Ted,” she said. “Tony told me to expect your call. You should hear from him in a few minutes.”

It wasn’t more than five minutes before the bookmaker called back.

Saxon said, “I want you to make a phone call to Adam Bennock down here, Tony. Remember him?”

“Sure. Bennock’s Skating Rink. He’s the mayor now, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. It’s Miller 2-3101. Place the call person-to-person so that he knows it’s coming from Buffalo. Tell him you’re phoning to deliver a message from Larry Cutter. Tell him Cutter will be down to see him at the roller rink at ten tonight. You don’t know why. You’re just relaying a message. Don’t phone him until nine-thirty, so that Cutter will already be on his way. I don’t want Bennock to be able to reach him if he decides to check back. Got that?”

“Uh-huh. Suppose he asks who I am?”

“Make up a name. Bennock can’t know all of Cutter’s men. Don’t pick someone who actually works for Cutter, because Bennock may be familiar with the voice.”

“All right,” Spijak said. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“When I see you,” Saxon said. “I really appreciate all the help you’ve been, Tony.”

“What have I done?” the bookmaker asked. “If you feel indebted, you can spring me for a beer next time you hit Buffalo.”

Chapter 23

When Saxon hung up, Vic Burns asked, “Now what do you want me to do, Ted?”

“Get a raiding party organized and ready to move in at ten o’clock. I figure about six men can handle it. Are there two patroling in the other car?”

“Uh-huh. Chaney and Mark Ross.”

“You and I make four. Tell the desk man to call in two off-duty men to report to headquarters at nine-thirty. Chaney and Ross can pick them up there. Meantime you and I will stake out the entrance to Beach Road to make sure everybody’s in the trap before we spring it.”

“Okay,” Burns said. Rising, he went to the entry-hall closet and started putting on his overcoat.

“You can phone the desk from here,” Saxon said.

“I’ll use the car radio.”

“Oh. Wait until I get my coat and hat and I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll be in the car,” Burns said, opening the door and going out.

Saxon went upstairs for his coat and hat. When he got out to the police car, Burns was just hanging up the mike.

“Everything’s set,” the lieutenant said. “The other car will meet us at the entrance to Beach Road with four men at a quarter of ten. Suppose I pick you up at nine-fifteen?”

Saxon slid into the front seat. “That’s only half an hour. I may as well cruise with you until then.”

“Suit yourself,” Burns said with a shrug.

For fifteen minutes they cruised slowly about town. Finally Burns parked in front of a drugstore.

“I need a pack of cigarettes,” he said.

“I’ll get them,” Saxon said, getting out of the car. “What brand?”

Burns was already out the other side. “I’m not crippled, Ted. Stay in the car.” He went into the store.

Saxon pushed the car door closed and walked over to the plate glass window. Inside Burns bought a package of cigarettes at the counter, then headed for the rear of the store. Saxon opened the door and stepped inside.

Burns glanced over his shoulder and his stride slowed. He paused at the magazine rack next to the phone booth and looked over the selection. Then he turned and moved back toward Saxon.

“Guess we’d better get going,” he said. “I thought you’d stay in the car to monitor the radio.”

“It hasn’t been more than thirty seconds,” Saxon said mildly.

Back in the car they cruised for another fifteen minutes. Saxon finally said, “We may as well get to the stake-out point.”

Burns headed the car west toward Beach Road.

Beach Road was only a block long, starting at Lake Shore Drive and ending at the northernmost of the three municipal beaches. A quarter of a block down the street from its entrance, on the opposite side of the street, was a filling station, now closed for the night and with only a single night light burning inside it. When Burns parked behind it and cut his lights, they were shrouded in darkness, yet they could see headlights approaching from either way along Lake Shore Drive. As there was a street lamp at the intersection of Lake Shore and Beach Road, they would also be able to get a clear look at any cars that turned in there.

Saxon drew his father’s Detective Special from his pocket and handed it to Burns butt first.

“Stick this in your overcoat pocket,” he suggested. “Then you won’t have to unbutton your overcoat to get at your service revolver.”

“What are you going to use?” Burns asked.

“I have mine. That’s Dad’s old gun.”

“Oh.” The lieutenant switched on the dome light long enough to break the gun and examine the bases of the shells in the cylinder. All six were filled. Switching off the light again, he flipped the cylinder back in place and shoved the gun in his side pocket.

At a quarter of ten a car came along Lake Shore Drive from the southwest and turned down Beach Road. By the light of the street lamp Saxon got a glimpse of the mayor’s lean face.

“There goes Bennock,” he said.

Burns said nothing.

Five minutes later Saxon said, “Wonder what’s holding up our reinforcements?”

“They’ll be along,” Burns said.

But the other patrol car still hadn’t arrived when, at five minutes to ten, a car came along Lake Shore Drive from the northeast and turned down Beach Road. By the street lamp Saxon could see two men in the front and a woman and man in back.

“There’s Cutter and his group,” Saxon said. “Where the devil are those other four cops?” He picked up the dash mike and pushed the button. “Car Two to Control.”

There was no response from the speaker. Saxon didn’t expect any. He could tell by the sound of his own voice in the microphone that he was speaking into a dead instrument.

“That’s great!” he said, hanging up the mike. “Your radio’s dead. We’ll have to move in alone. They’ll take off in all directions the minute they find out they’ve been tricked.”

Burns immediately shifted into drive and pulled out into the street. Without lights he drove the quarter block to Beach Road and turned into it. Where the road ended and the beach began there was a large parking area. At its near end was a refreshment stand, all boarded up for the winter. At the far end stood the barnlike roller-rink building. Two cars were parked alongside it.

Burns pulled the squad car behind the concealment of the refreshment stand, cut the engine, and got out. Saxon got out the other door. Quickly he started toward the roller rink with the lieutenant right behind him. Snow covered the lot, but it had partly melted, then frozen to form a hard, crunchy surface. Saxon could hear Burns’s footsteps following only a pace behind.

The only windows in the roller rink were high up, and they couldn’t see into the building from outside, but lights shone through the high windows. As they neared the door, Saxon drew his gun. At the same moment he felt a gun muzzle press into his back.

“Drop it, Ted,” Burns said quietly. “Fast, or I’ll shoot.”

Saxon stared over his shoulder. “You gone crazy, Vic?”

“Drop it!” Burns snapped.

Saxon let the gun fall to the snow.

“Open the door and walk in,” Burns ordered.

Saxon pushed the door open. It led into a short hallway where there was a ticket window, then another door. Saxon went past the ticket window and pushed open the second door. Burns crowded right behind him.

The second door led into a huge, barnlike room. To the left was a refreshment counter, to the right a locker room and skate-rental desk. There were several rows of benches before an iron railing, and beyond the railing was the roller rink proper. It was nearly as cold in the building as it was outside.

Five people standing in front of the refreshment counter turned to stare at them as they came in. They were Adam Bennock, Larry Cutter, Sergeant Harry Morrison, Farmer Benton, and the women who had posed as Grace Emmet on New Year’s Eve. All had their coats and hats on against the cold. Morrison and Benton had guns in their hands, but they let the muzzles droop when they saw the gun in Saxon’s back.

“Saxon set this thing up,” Burns announced generally. “It was him talking to you on the phone, Larry, pretending to be Bennock. I couldn’t get to a phone to tip anybody off, because he’s been sticking to me like a leech.”

“Are there more cops out there?” Cutter asked sharply.

Burns shook his head. “Relax. Saxon left it to me to organize the raiding party, and I forgot to do it. I gimmicked my patrol-car radio so he couldn’t check on it.”

Morrison and Benton put away their guns. Saxon looked Adam Bennock up and down. “You’re in pretty fine company, your Honor. How’s it feel to sell out your own town to a bunch of murderers?”

Bennock said nervously, “I’d better get out of here and let you handle this, Cutter. I don’t want to be witness to a murder.”

“Sure, run along home to bed,” Saxon said. “You didn’t mind when your partner, Larry Cutter, planned the murder of my father and of Grace Emmet, but you don’t want to watch a killing, do you?”

Bennock didn’t answer. He merely walked to the door and went out.

Saxon looked at the woman. In place of the mink she had worn New Year’s Eve she wore a cheap dyed-rabbit coat. Her hair was still in a poodle cut, but had been dyed back to its natural red.

“How are you, Ann?” he said casually. “Did you know the reason Cutter brought you down here was so you’d be handy in case they decided to kill you?”

Her eyes widened and she looked at Larry Cutter. He paid no attention to her.

Saxon gazed sorrowfully at Vic Burns. “I hoped you weren’t in on this, Vic, but I was afraid things would turn out like this. You were the one slated to end up in the chief’s job, weren’t you? You killed my father.”

“What do you mean, you were afraid things would turn out like this?” Burns asked with a frown.

“Farmer Benton put a bullet hole in my overcoat last Saturday night. While looking at it, I suddenly remembered the hole in your coat the night Dad was killed. The cloth had been singed. You don’t get a burn like that from a ten- or twelve-foot range. Sam Lennox held the gun close to your arm when he fired, to be sure only to nick you. I suppose you got poor old Sam to go along by threatening to tell Dad he was drunk on duty, and he would be losing his pension. Sam’s wife told me how you had covered for him the day he got drunk on duty.”

Burns said in a tone of disbelief, “If you had all that figured out, why’d you walk into this trap with me?”

“Oh, I’m not in a trap,” Saxon said. “You are. The state cops bugged this place this afternoon so that they could get all the conversation on tape. There are concealed mikes all over the joint. Adam Bennock didn’t go home, incidentally; he walked into the arms of the state cops outside. Their signal to move in was when you and I walked in the front door.”

Farmer Benton and Sergeant Morrison both started to reach for their guns. Saxon took two fast steps and smashed Benton in the jaw. As the man went down, Saxon wheeled toward Morrison. Morrison’s gun was just appearing when a left hook caught him flush on the chin. At the same moment Saxon’s right hand snaked out and plucked the gun from his hand.

A small pop similar to the noise made by a cap pistol sounded, then two more in quick succession. Vic Burns stared down blankly at the gun in his hand, then let it fall to the floor when Saxon covered him with Morrison’s gun. Apparently Larry Cutter was unarmed, for he had made no move to draw a gun.

Saxon said, “I took the bullets and powder out, Vic. Those were just percussion caps going off. Everybody over against the wall with hands against it.” He gestured with the gun.

Slowly Vic Burns walked over to the wall and leaned his hands against it. Cutter followed suit. Morrison and Benton didn’t hear the order because they were stretched out on the floor unconscious.

“Me, too?” Ann Lowry asked in a small voice.

“You, too,” Saxon affirmed.

They were all leaning against the wall when the state police walked in.

Saxon was smiling.

Content

Ellery Queen
The Copper Frame

Cast of Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23