The cost of blind revenge? Too often it is very high indeed. As high as Murder � as high as a hangman�s noose...

It was an elegant high rise, one of the most expensive in the city, and the apartment was vast, neat and beautifully appointed.

Martin Cross thought the girl elegant too, very handsome and collected. She used excellent taste in her dress, a plain white pant suit with just the right touch of flare here and there. She looked about twenty-eight. Her name, she had told him over the phone when she had summoned him at 11:10 o�clock this summer Wednesday night, was Geraldine �Gerri� Wagner.

Cross had answered the summons of this stranger because he had been curious about how she knew of him and because she had said there was a dead man at her feet.

The dead man�s name was Andrew Farragut. He probably had been thirty years old. He had been stabbed several times in the back, the murder weapon ripping through a finely tailored suit coat. He had bled profusely. He lay front down in his own blood.

With the exception of the left-hand coat pocket, all of the other pockets in his clothing had been yanked inside out.

Cross stood, feeling relief in his leg muscles. Squatting was for younger men. A faint ache remained in his right ankle. The ache was with him whenever he strained or it rained. The ache was a reminder of his former years with the CIA, a souvenir of the chain flogging administered by Castro henchmen.

The smashed ankle bones had mended, but the ache had been born. The ache was why he had quietly retired from the CIA before the director could put him behind a desk in some obscure corner of earth.

Two opened suitcases were on the carpeting about fifteen feet beyond Farragut�s head. The locks of the suitcases probably had been smashed open with the base of the wrought-iron lamp that lay off to the left. The contents of both suitcases had been strewn and rumpled. If Farragut had been carrying money of anything of value in the suitcases, it too probably had been stolen.

Cross faced Gerri Wagner.

�Thank you for coming,� she said calmly. �I called you because I know of you through a friend of a friend. If you don�t mind names being tossed about, my friend is Tony Street, the attorney, and Mr. Street�s friend is Bennett Mitchell who is in Washington with the Central Intelligence Agency.�

�Mr. Mitchell and I are friends,� Cross conceded.

�I have not talked to Tony Street this evening,� she went on. �Your name and your work, Mr. Cross, have been occasional conversation at social affairs regularly attended by myself, my father and mother, Mr. Street and others.

�In case you are unaware, you are quietly gaining a reputation of being an excellent and expensive confidential investigator. I can afford you. I have been reared in wealth. My father is Carlton Kennedy, the newspaper owner here and in several other cities, and my mother is Alice Terry, who was a film star in the late thirties and early forties.�

Pedigree established, thought Cross.

�Andrew Farragut,� Gerri Wagner continued with a glance at the body, �just this evening returned to the United States from Uruguay. I have known him since childhood. We grew up on bordering estates. Andrew�s parents died in a cruise ship fire off the Florida coast a number of years ago. Andrew and his younger sister, Kathy, were reared next door by their grandfather, H. T. Farragut, the industrialist. Their grandfather died three years ago. Andrew was with him. Kathy was not.

�Kathy had gone off somewhere to become a hippie. She didn�t bother to show up for the funeral. That nonappearance disturbed Andrew more than most people knew. He became restless, out of tune with those around him, bored. Andrew was easily bored. Finally he announced that he was going to Uruguay.

�Andrew was a brilliant young man with an incongruous interest in agriculture. I don�t even pretend to understand how or where his passion for agronomy developed. All I am sure of is he was a graduate student in the field, he had to get away following the death of his grandfather, he was good in his work, and for the past twenty-nine months he had been spreading his intelligence for the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Uruguay. But, true to his nature, he eventually became bored and decided to return here. What he intended to do in the future I do not know, except that he professed an interest in marrying me. But frankly Mr. Cross, I have been undecided about that proposal. Andrew could become � could have become bored with me too. Do you understand?�

Cross understood. But he did not understand why she had summoned him when she should have called the police.

�Just what is it you want from me?� he asked.

She hesitated, then seemed to shrug off the indecision.

�Perhaps I should have called the police right away,� she said. �But when I walked in here, saw Andrew��

�We do have an excellent police department in this city, competent men with access to laboratories and files and��

�I am aware, Mr. Cross.�

�Did you kill Andrew?�

�No.�

�Do you know anyone who might have killed him?�

�I do not.�

�You said that when you arrived you walked in. I assume you mean the front door was not locked.�

�The door was open, Mr. Cross. Not wide open, just a crack. I thought that odd. I pushed it open all the way, and then I saw Andrew.�

�Why did you come here tonight? Did Farragut call you to tell you he had returned to the city?�

�I knew he was coming. He had written a letter. His plane arrived at seven-ten this evening. He telephoned me from the air terminal, asked me to come here at eleven o�clock.�

�What time did he call?�

�It was seven-fifteen exactly. I remember looking at my watch and thinking that the flight had arrived on time. That�s so unusual these days.�

�And over the telephone he asked you to be here at eleven o�clock?�

�Yes.�

�You were punctual?�

�I always am punctual.�

�All right, you arrived, you came up and��

�Not quite. I arrived at exactly eleven o�clock. I drove over in my car. It�s out front, about four cars down the street. But as I walked toward the entrance to this building I saw Kathy, Andrew�s sister, run out of the building. She ran in the opposite direction. We did not pass, and I am sure she was unaware of my presence.�

�Is Kathy still living a hippie life?�

�From her dress tonight, I�d say she is. It was the first time I�ve seen her in months, more than a year.�

He saw the house in the darkness and the woman who waited. Beauty was here, and wealth beyond dreams, and � something else? Something like trackless Murder?

Sam Culp drove through the entrance gates of Harvard Duquesne�s estate, knowing only that the retired financier was gluttonously rich and was missing for the past nine days.

That was all he, or the police of two states, were sure of, other than the fact that Duquesne�s Cadillac sedan had been found six days ago in Vergennes, Vermont, some hundred miles from his New Hampshire home.

It had evidently been abandoned, showed no signs of forcible entry, struggle, or stains, and the only fingerprints were those of Harvard Duquesne, his wife, and a handyman. Nobody had seen the Cadillac enter Vergennes or a man answering Duquesne�s description leaving, and nobody had yet been able to explain what the black car was doing in the small town.

Mrs. Katharine Duquesne had insisted their insurance company send an investigator, one who wouldn�t track mud on her carpets as the police had, but one who would find her husband, as the police hadn�t.

Northeastern Mutual, who held the bulk of Duquesne�s insurance, took one look at the fifty-thousand-dollar double indemnity policy on his life and hired Universal Adjustment Bureau to supply one neat, well-dressed representative to mollify the distressed Mrs. Duquesne while investigating.

Universal Adjustment Bureau, however, assigned Samuel Culp. He was six feet, blue-grey eyed, clean and sober, and that afternoon was wearing his second best suit just back from the cleaners.

He knew his business. Perhaps too well; his features were seamed with the patina of pushing forty, and he had dealt with the wealthy too many times before to automatically extend them humble deference the way a younger operative might.

Culp stopped his car just inside the gravel drive, climbed out to close the massive iron gates. Their hinges squeaked in a subdued, polished manner, as if the sound had been built in to provide authenticity to their ornate 18th Century appearance.

Harvard Duquesne had been a boy wonder of the twenties, making his fortune in the great utility boom, and then with his brother had sidestepped the depression and continued a high-stake shell game of companies. Both brothers were reputed to be tough. One was either with them, in which case they were benevolently despotic, or against them, in which case they were coldly merciless. There was no middle sanctuary of noninvolvement when dealing with them. The younger brother was still active, but Harvard had reputedly become overly obsessed with loyalties, angers, and perfection, and had retired, drinking heavily, before he collapsed.

The estate was literally Duquesne�s retreat, a one-half mountain in the Presidential Range; hundreds of acres of woven lace greenery and crystal blue water. Culp drove along the narrow, meandering drive, wondering if the magnate had ever succeeded in finding any inner peace, now that he had cornered so much of the outer variety. Or whether he had found a more lasting, final peace somewhere out there, or still further out, past the gate and in the imperfect world he had helped to create.

Eventually the drive crested a bluff overlooking a vast, kidney-shaped lake, then it dipped downward steeply, ending beside a brick building and a wooden pier. The building looked as if it had once been a carriage house, recently converted to a two-stall garage with living quarters above. The grounds and building had the appearance of extreme tidiness, an unreal sterility as if every weed or stray bug had been removed.

A lean boy of eighteen or twenty, wearing a faded sweatshirt and blue jeans, was rolling a wheelbarrow of gravel across the clearing. He stopped as Culp pulled up.

�If you�re looking for Bergmann,� he said, wiping his hands on his pants, �he�s down on the dock.�

�Thanks, but I came to see Mrs. Duquesne.�

The boy grinned. �The Duquesnes live on an island. Leave your car in front of the first stall there, and Bergmann will take you across.�

The dock was old, but was free of slime or smell, the wood smooth and glossy as if polished. Tied to one end was a stubby skiff, engineless, oarless, paintless, which seemed strangely out of place. Nearer was a sleek Century inboard-outboard cruiser, canvas covering three-quarters of its length. A heavy-set man with greying hair and mustache and wearing a clean white shirt and ducks stood in its stern. He answered to the name of Bergmann.

�Mr. Culp?� the man said, looking up with a smile. �See you met Kip, my summer helper. Cast off the lines and climb aboard, and I�ll have you across in less than fifteen minutes.�

On the way across the open water, he handed Culp a pair of binoculars and pointed out some of the attractions. The setting sun layered the placid water, only to become fractured gold veins in textured indigo marble when sliced by the boat�s bow. Bergmann waxed as if the lake belonged to him rather than to his employer.

�She�s two and a half by four miles, Mr. Culp, and in parts up to eight hundred feet deep.� He pointed in a port-side direction.

�Bet the fishing�s good,� Culp said. �Landlocked salmon, brown and rainbow trout. Love to take that old skiff out trolling.�

�You sound just like Mr. Duquesne,� Bergmann said. �I�m not one for fishing myself; it�s too messy for my taste.� Culp now knew who was responsible for the landing�s pristine quality, and wasn�t surprised when the caretaker followed up with: �Wish he�d get something besides that skiff. The new fiberglass ones don�t take any upkeep and can be cleaned so easily. That boat�s a scandal.�

Culp smiled to himself and continued using the glasses. He loved it as he did anything unsullied by the stench and offal of urbanity, and thought for the first time there might be an affinity between him and the old man who had come here for solace and then disappeared. Then he caught a thin oil-slick riding the water�s surface, residue from some infernal engine, and the blot ruined the view for him. Sadly he handed the glasses back and rode the rest of the way in silence.

The island was jagged, pyramidal shaped, and the home was built along a promontory overlooking a smaller dock and a cottage Bergmann said he lived in. The house was wild and sprawling, befitting the island, of Georgian brick and small-paneled dormers and a long ivy-clad porch of fluted pilasters. Mrs. Duquesne answered the door, and after cursory introductions, ushered Culp inside.

Katherine Duquesne was a small-breasted, small-boned woman about Culp�s age, dressed mannishly, her dark hair coiled thickly to the nape of her neck. She led the way to a spacious room intricate with Doric cornices and carved bookcases and oil portraits that were age-dulled to a uniform opaqueness.

In one corner was a glass-doored sideboard of golden oak, crowded with elephant miniatures. She reiterated what Culp already knew as she went, in a cool, aloof tone matched by a complete lack of smile. Culp felt as if he was being talked down to by her, as if smiles were only for guests and equals and not for the hired help.

�It�s been a week ago last Tuesday,� she wound up. �And I am not in the least satisfied with the efforts the police have been making.�

�They have been doing all they can, Mrs. Duquesne,� Culp said. �There�s a missing persons alarm out in five states, and both Vermont and New Hampshire have all-points bulletins out with your husband�s description.�

�With luck the police will spot him, but out of the thousands of police, not one is actively searching. That�s what I need, a full-time investigator to devote himself entirely to finding Harvard.�

�I see.� Culp rubbed his forehead, wondering if the headache that was coming on was the result of his long drive from Hartford or Mrs. Duquesne�s attitude. �Now, as I understand it, your husband never told you where he was going or why that Tuesday morning.�

�None whatsoever.�

�And the next thing you knew his car was reported in Vergennes, Vermont almost three days later.�

�I had alerted the police that Harvard was missing before then.�

�And you�re sure he never said anything to you and neither of you know anybody in Vergennes? There is absolutely no reason you can give for him to have left or to have gone there?�

�How many times must I tell you? No.�

Culp realized that they were both becoming irritated with each other; he switched subjects for both their sakes. �Do you have a picture of your husband I could have?�

She walked to a large, gold-framed photograph which was propped up on the drop-leaf of a scrolled parlor desk. �Here, but I�m afraid I must ask for it back as it�s the only one I have. I gave the few others I had to the police.�

Culp studied the tall, impressive, white-haired man in his sixties who stared hawk-like out at him. He was reminded of portraits of World War I British generals and their same air of imperious Victorian dignity. �What mood was your husband in when he left?�

�No different than usual.�

�What is usual?�

�Harvard doesn�t like to leave the estate, not even to go into Webster.� Webster was a small village some seven miles away; Culp had driven through it on the way. �I would say he was reluctant, but not overly so,� she concluded.

�You described him as wearing a grey suit, vest, and red striped tie,� Culp said. �Would he wear that to go to Webster?�

�Harvard dresses impeccably all the time. He feels a man of his station should set an example.�

�Was he carrying anything?�

�I didn�t notice.�

�Had he discussed anything with you in the previous week or so that might indicate his purpose? Was he worried over anything?�

�Harvard never discusses business with me.�

�Oh, then it was business?�

�I don�t know. Really, Mr. Culp, you�re twisting things around.�

�But you said he didn�t like to leave the estate. Would he be willing to go on a social visit, especially without telling you?�

�I have personally checked with all our friends as well as the business acquaintances I can think of, and I gave a list to the police,� she replied stiffly, not answering the question directly.

�Do you have any ideas of your own?�

�I have none.�

�Mrs. Duquesne, was your husband drinking when he left?�

�Is your rudeness necessary, Mr. Culp?� She said it coldly, turning her head to glare like a bust of some Roman patrician being revolved on its pedestal for greater impact.

Culp took one look and placed the picture down on the desk. �I�m afraid I can�t help you, Mrs. Duquesne. I don�t think anybody can.�

�Wh-what do you mean?�

�It�s too vague. Much too vague for me to be able to start an investigation.�

The arched glare faded into concern, and she stood tight-lipped and swaying for a moment. Culp had the feeling that her rigid control was beginning to slip, that he could see a glimmer of the woman beneath, a woman living with torment. She asked unsteadily, �Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Culp?�

�No. I�m saying that with the information you�ve supplied, I don�t have any better chance than the police. Decidedly a worse one, in fact, not having their facilities. I suggest you hope that they are lucky, Mrs. Duquesne, and that your husband hasn�t had an accident, lost his memory, or is too badly injured to talk.�

�He has identification,� she said levelly, but the facade continued to crack, nervousness appearing in her pale eyes, her slender fingers clutching her throat, worrying a choker of pearls.

�Sometimes there�s no identification left.�

�You... you�re just trying to scare me.�

�You�re already scared, Mrs. Duquesne. Why? What are you holding back? Either tell me or have Bergmann taxi me to my car so I can stop wasting both our times.�

�Oh, God,� she said dully and slumped in the nearest chair. She didn�t move then, but Culp had the distinct impression that she was wrestling with herself inside. Finally, in a voice no longer regal, she said, �You�re right. I am afraid. Can I trust you?�

�If it�s legal.�

�And if it isn�t?�

�My license requires I keep the law. I do my best to protect the insurance company�s clients, but there is always some risk.�

There was another long pause before she decided.

�It�s gone far enough,� she told the room. �I have to trust somebody.� She gestured toward the sideboard. �Mr. Culp, as you can see, we collect elephant miniatures. All sorts � ivory, jade, wood, crystal � any that strike our fancy. Some that are quite valuable. The reason Harvard left here that Tuesday was to purchase a very rare stone carving of the Indus Valley Culture at an extremely attractive price.�

�Where was he going?�

�Burlington, Vermont. He learned of the figurine through his brother, Stephan, and he refused to tell me any more than that. But when he left, he was carrying his black attache case, Mr. Culp. It contained twenty-seven thousand dollars in cash.�

�In cash? Mrs. Duquesne, why haven�t you notified the police of this?�

She looked down at her fingers, as though trying to will them to stop trembling. �Sometimes in a large business such as the one my husband and Stephan have, it is necessary to deal with people of � a baser sort. People of unsavory backgrounds, if you know what I mean. I have a suspicion Harvard was to meet just such a man.�

�Mrs. Duquesne, are you trying to tell me your husband was buying stolen property? Is that why he took all that cash with him?�

She winced slightly. �I don�t know. I don�t know if the figurine was stolen or if the man Stephan was to introduce Harvard to was acting legitimately, or if it actually belonged to him. Harvard wouldn�t tell me, and neither would Stephan, but their attitudes lead me to believe there was something secretive and not altogether honorable about the dealings.�

�You�ve talked to your brother-in-law, then?�

�Of course, that very night when Harvard didn�t come home. And quite a few times since then. But Stephan swears he only saw Harvard for a few moments to set up the meeting and that was all. He doesn�t always tell me the truth, though. Stephan never... approved of me, I�m afraid.�

She rose from the chair and went to the picture again, gazing at it softly. �We have a position to maintain, Mr. Culp,� she continued. �I couldn�t chance the police uncovering anything which might embarrass our standing or hurt the companies Stephan manages under the Duquesne name. Yet Harvard�s been retired too long and is no longer emotionally equipped to involve himself in such matters again. He might have run into something he can no longer handle. Something which�� She didn�t finish the sentence, only turned to face Culp again, her eyes gently moist.

There. It was out, like a lanced boil, and Culp liked it just about as much. But he nodded, feeling her eyes on him heavily. �All right, Mrs. Duquesne, I�ll see what I can do. I can�t guarantee anything, but I�ll see.�

�Thank you.�

�Now, Stephan Duquesne is in Burlington. Is that right?�

�Yes. The general offices are still in New York, but it was decided when Harvard retired to move the head office closer.�

�As I recall, Vergennes is close to Burlington.�

�About twenty miles on the other side of it, south on Interstate Seven.� She added unnecessarily, �I�ve gotten to learn quite a bit about that town in the last few days.�

�Was the meeting with this man to take place there?�

�Not according to Stephan. Harvard and the � seller were to meet in Harvard�s motel room. Stephan said they did.�

�Then it would seem that your husband was going somewhere else for another reason,� Culp hazarded.

�Or coming back. As the Cadillac was on a side street, there�s no way of telling in which direction he was heading.�

Culp frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache was stronger, now a product of the assignment itself. �I think I will talk to your brother-in-law, Mrs. Duquesne. I�ll drive to Burlington tomorrow. If I could have his address and phone number.�

�Certainly. I hope you have more success with him than I have been able to.� She took a piece of paper from one of the desk�s pigeon holes and wrote on it with long, flowing script. �He�s a very difficult man to see, however. I suggest letting me call him first.� She handed the paper to Culp, a humorless smile on her lips. �We may not get along, but I�m still his brother�s wife.�

Culp left shortly afterward. Mrs. Duquesne was beside her husband�s picture, looking at it. She seemed to have aged considerably in the last few minutes, crumbled and slumped, her eyes dull. The blank look of a deserted house.

When you�re tarred with the brand of a murder you didn�t commit, two things are left to a man. Give up a hopeless fight � or gamble all to stay alive!

David Breeze stepped off the northbound bus at two o�clock on a sunny June afternoon, glanced both ways and then crossed the nearly deserted street to the one-story brick building that served as the town�s bus terminal.

A sleepy-eyed man glanced up from the counter as he approached, tapped his yellowed teeth with a pencil and asked, �Can I help you, mister?�

Breeze glanced around the deserted waiting room. �I was to meet a man named George here. Did you notice anybody waiting for the bus?�

He chewed on the pencil a moment before replying. �Yeah, I guess there was a guy around. I think he went back to use the phone.�

�Thanks.� David Breeze shifted the suitcase to his left hand and followed the man�s vague gesture to the rear of the waiting room. There he found a corridor running to the back door, lined with more phone booths than the little bus terminal would ever need.

The man he�d come to meet was sitting in the third booth, his head thrown back in an attitude of intent listening. A narrow steel shaft that might have been a knitting needle had been driven through his throat.

David Breeze noted all this in a single instant, then turned and walked back past the sleepy-eyed attendant.

�Find him?�

�No. I guess he got tired of waiting.�

The man nodded sympathetically. �Some days you could die of old age waiting for that bus to come in.�

Outside, the afternoon heat seemed suddenly oppressive.

The house belonged on a high cliff overlooking the pounding ocean. It belonged in somebody�s nightmare, but not his. He hated it the moment he saw it � hated the turreted corners of the roof, the great gray vastness of its sides, the somber sweep of its steep front steps. He hated even the waters of Cape Cod Bay that splashed listlessly onto the long expanse of sandy beach to the rear. Hated then, perhaps, because that cliff was lacking.

The house had been in the Quinn family for more generations than anybody cared to remember. For all its ugliness, it maintained a certain advantage in being anti-New England � anti-architecture, even.

The Quinn family had never been ones to trace anything back to the pilgrims, and if the community occasionally cast scornful remarks at the great house on the beach, it was all to their liking. Now, when war and marriage and death had gradually decimated the clan, the house was occupied only by Ruth Quinn and her mother, with an occasional cleaning lady recruited from town to keep the place looking barely respectable.

It was Ruth who answered the door when Breeze rang. She looked younger than thirty-five and prettier than he last remembered her.

�Dave! Dave Breeze! What are you doing here?�

He stepped across the threshold and gave her his best smile, as if nothing at all had ever happened between them. �Hello, Ruth. How have you been?�

�I� Fine, but��

�But what am I doing here.�

�Well, yes.� Her eyes still held a flicker of mystery, and the curve of her full red lips still promised an unspoken question.

�I was under the impression that you�d sent for me.�

�Sent for you?� She still seemed at a loss for words, but she gestured toward the living room. �Come in, anyway. Mother will be wondering who�s at the door.�

He followed her through a heavy beaded curtain that crackled on contact. He remembered it from his last visit, five years before, remembered thinking it would go better in a Chinese brothel. So would Ruth�s mother, for that matter.

Angela Quinn hadn�t really changed in those five years. She�d only grown a bit more so. More middle-aged, more flashy, more settled into the routine of her days.

Nearly sixty, she still spent an overly large portion of each morning coating her face with too-obvious layers of powder and rouge and eye makeup. Now, seeing her after those years, he was surprised at an addition to the ensemble.

�Good afternoon, Mrs. Quinn.�

�Well. David Breeze, isn�t it?�

�That�s right. I see you�ve taken up knitting.�

The steel needles clashed and dove, catching the occasional sparkle of sunlight from the west window overlooking the water. Somehow they seemed out of place in Angela Quinn�s dubious hands. �Yes, yes. A little embroidery, needlepoint, that sort of thing. Takes my mind off things. You�ve been away a long time.�

�Five years.�

�You�re very pale.�

�There�s not much sunshine in a prison cell.�

�No, I suppose not.� The blackened lids came down over her eyes for a moment, as if she was trying to recall something. Or forget it. �In any event, it�s good to see you back. You young people run along now.� She still thought of them as they�d been so long ago, on the hazy summer vacations when all people were young and nobody thought about things like murder.

�Come on, Dave,� Ruth said, pulling him along. She seemed anxious to be away from her mother.

He followed her to the little private sitting room that had always been Ruth�s very own. With the passage of years it had become like everything else, pale and a bit musty with disuse. He remembered the nights when they had fumbled at lovemaking here, the days when they�d been content to sit cross-legged in the big bay window overlooking the water. They�d been kids together during those years, even when they were already in their mid-twenties and beyond. Good years, ones to remember.

�It�s pretty much the same,� he said, surveying the room with a familiar eye.

�I had no reason to change it.� She sat down opposite him with a strange formality the room had never known. �Now � you said you thought I�d sent for you. Why?�

He took a letter from his pocket and passed it to her. �I received this three days ago.� He knew it now by heart, and his mind ran along the words as she read them.

She finished reading it and looked up sharply. �Why, I don�t know any Mr. George! I never asked anybody to write you!�

He shrugged and took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. �I was suspicious, but I was hoping it was on the level. I guess I just wanted to see you again.�

She ignored the overture and passed the letter back to him. �Was this Mr. George at the bus station to meet you?�

It was the question he�d been fearing. �If he was, he didn�t contact me. The bus was an hour late and maybe he got tired of waiting?� Then, with a casual glance while lighting his cigarette, he asked, �How long has your mother been knitting, anyway?�

�Oh, you know mother. Knitting this week, drinking the next. She goes through phases.�

�With steel needles?�

�She tried the plastic and they kept breaking on her. Why do you ask?�

�No reason. I was just wondering. Could she have sent for me?�

�I�m sure she didn�t write that foolish letter, if that�s what you�re thinking.� She went to the window and stared out at the blue waters of the bay. �Are you still as good a swimmer as ever, Dave?�

�I didn�t get much chance to practice in prison.�

She kept staring toward the water, perhaps watching the breezy ripples or the occasional swooping birds. �You�re bitter, aren�t you?�

�What would you expect?�

�All right. Come on. Let�s go for a swim.�

�I don�t have a suit.�

�We�ll find you one. Come on.�

There was a sparkle in her eyes he didn�t remember, something foreign to those years they�d spent together. Perhaps they�d just grown up, both of them. Perhaps they were different people now.

She called out something to her mother, some casual reassurance from the old days of midnight dates and moonlight swims. As he followed her outdoors, he felt again the soft slither of sand underfoot. And if he listened closely to the Wind off the water he might almost hear again the girlish laughter, the tinkle of ice cubes in tall frosted glasses, the long sigh of summer slipping by. They were different people now, but the place was the same as it had been five years ago. Exactly the same.

�You�re thinking again,� she said at his side.

�I guess I�ve got a lot to think about.�

It had been the climax of the best summer he�d ever known, a summer filled with long days of skin diving with Ruth among the reefs and wrecks of the bay, with long nights of drinking and parties and half-made plans for the future.

Dave was working for his master�s degree and doing some teaching on the side, after an education interrupted by four years in the air force. That summer Was a time for relaxing, and sometimes he relaxed a little too much.

He�d been found dead drunk that night, when Ruth�s little speedboat, riding without lights, had cut through the bow of another craft. He remembered the crunch of metal against wood, the terrifying sound of Ruth�s scream in his right ear, and then the screams of the others, the two early-morning fishermen in the other boat.

After that it was clearer. He remembered the moment of blind panic, remembered his hands spinning the wheel and heading the boat away from the drowning men while all the time Ruth sobbed at his side.

The men had both drowned before help could reach them, and Ruth Quinn had telephoned the police from shore to turn Dave in. She�d testified at his trial that he�d been blind drunk while driving the boat, that they�d both heard the men screaming after the crash, that she�d begged him to turn back but he hadn�t.

During the five years he�d served in prison for manslaughter, she�d visited him only once, at the beginning. He�d asked her that day why she had testified against him, and she�d only said, �I had to live with myself, Dave. I had to live with myself and not with the memory of those two drowning men. I�m sorry.�

But now, walking next to her on the beach once more, feeling the familiar sand beneath his feet, it might never have happened. They might have been back in the dreams of yesterday, where nobody worried about anything except the next drink or the nearest girl.

�Do you think you�ll ever forgive me, Dave?� she asked now, and it was almost all right again.

�I think maybe some day.�

�I�m glad.� And then, �Want to change into a suit? There�s probably an extra one in the bathhouse.�

He nodded and went toward the little shingled structure, somehow standing so incongruous before the great old house. Beyond, linking sand and sea like a rumpled bridge, was the old pier with a low, sleek inboard at its end. Ruth headed out to check the gasoline while he went into the bathhouse and began slipping out of his clothes. The blue trunks he found were tight on him, but they�d have to do.

When he returned to the pier, Ruth was nowhere in sight. After a moment she appeared, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit that showed she still had good legs. Her long blonde hair was unfastened and wild, rippling in the breeze like the waiting waters of the bay.

He helped her into the boat, conscious of her bare thigh brushing against his. She hesitated only a moment and then slid into the right-hand seat, behind the wheel.

�Yes, you drive,� he said, reading her thoughts. �I don�t think I�d want to try it quite yet.�

�That�s foolish after all these years, Dave.�

�The boat�s too much like that other one.�

�Same craft, newer model. It�s got power.� She flipped the starter and the engine rumbled into life. In another moment they were skimming across the water, taking the waves head-on.

�I thought we were going for a swim,� he said.

�We are. I just want to��

They were still in sight of the house, and as Ruth turned the wheel to meet an oncoming wave, she�d caught sight of something.

�What�s the matter?�

�There�s a car pulling up back there.�

�Just a visitor for your mother, I suppose. Or one of your boy friends.�

But she wasn�t joking. �It�s a state police car.�

His heart skipped a beat. They were on his trail already. �How can you be sure at this distance?�

�I am sure. What could they want?�

She�d taken the craft in a slow, wide circle that swept it parallel with the shoreline. He saw at once that she�d been right, recognizing now the big gold shield painted on the car door.

�They�re looking for me.�

�You? But why?�

�You�re sure you don�t know anyone named Mr. George?�

�Of course I�m sure. The only George I know is George Parker.�

�I remember that name.�

�He used to run a health camp, a long time ago.�

�An old man. The one at the bus terminal was younger, not more than, forty, anyway.�

�I thought you said there was no one at the bus terminal.�

�I said no one contacted me. But somebody was there, dead in a phone booth.�

She slowed the boat to a stop and turned off the ignition. �God, Dave! You�re not kidding me, are you? You wouldn�t kid me?�

�I wouldn�t kid you,� he said.

Overhead, a lonesome gull circled and dipped against the breeze.

His words seemed to have decided her. She started the boat and circled aimlessly for a few more moments, watching the distant police car in the drive. When at last it drove off she headed the boat back to shore.

Angela Quinn was waiting for them on the dock as they edged carefully into the mooring. In the slanting shadows of early evening she was still an imposing figure, a mother image for Dave as well as for Ruth. The heavy layers of makeup seemed now not so intense, the facial contortions not quite so demanding. Like many women, she looked better in the shadow.

�Did you hear the news?� she shouted out, while the boat was still some feet from the dock on the suddenly calm waters. �Sam McGill�s been murdered!�

�Not Sam!� Ruth gasped out, though somehow Dave Breeze felt she wasn�t too surprised. Perhaps it was the name she�d expected to hear.

Her mother nodded. �At the bus station, this afternoon. He was stabbed to death in a telephone booth, of all places. Can you imagine?�

Dave Breeze could imagine, quite well. �Who was he? The name�s vaguely familiar, but I can�t quite place it.�

Ruth answered, stooping to tie the craft to its meal moorings. �Sam McGill was a family friend. You never really knew him, but he was the brother of one of those fishermen you killed.�

So here we go, back again. Back in time to that awful night. Sam McGill, brother of a man named Harry McGill, whom he�d never met, but whose death he�d caused in a single blind drunken moment he couldn�t even remember clearly.

Had Sam McGill written him under the name of Mr. George, and if so, why? What message did he have, and who had reached him in that phone booth first.

�Why did the police come here?� Dave asked Angela Quinn.

�He was a family friend, as Ruth told you.�

Ruth Quinn sighed and walked past her mother, heading up the beach toward the big old house. She seemed almost to have forgotten Dave until he fell in step with her as they reached the grass.

�What is it?� he asked. �You�re disturbed.�

�Maybe I just don�t like the thought of the whole town knowing my mother acted like a tramp.�

�With McGill?�

She nodded. �That�s why the police came here. They weren�t looking for you.� And then, �I suppose I should be glad he�s dead.�

�Don�t ever be glad that anyone�s dead,� Breeze said, and he paused to look out at the bay where gulls dipped and played, and the sun was low in the evening sky. It was such a peaceful place.

�Tell me about it,� he said, standing close to her by the window, watching Angela Quinn wandering aimlessly along the beach. �How did it happen with them?�

�I don�t know. How do things like that happen? We�d known him slightly, of course, as we knew most people in the area. After the accident... well, he started coming around. I went out with him a few times, because he was closer to my age than mother�s. But when I began to lose interest he switched to her. Maybe she was flattered, maybe she�d always been waiting for something like that. I don�t know. All I know is that it sickened me.�

Dave Breeze lit a cigarette and continued staring out the window. �I think Sam McGill sent me that letter. If only I knew why.�

�I can�t imagine.�

�It had something to do with the past. Something to do with his dead brother and what happened five years ago. What about the other fisherman who was killed?�

�Ray Winton. He worked up at the health camp.�

�I remember now.� He wondered how he could ever have forgotten either of them, even after five years. �That health camp. You mentioned George Parker before.�

�I said he was the only George I knew.�

�Was he friendly with Sam McGill?�

�They knew each other.�

Dave Breeze ran a damp palm over his forehead. �I want to talk with George Parker.�

�Why? What for?�

�The police didn�t come here looking for me � not yet. But they will. I�m an ex-convict just out of prison and I�ve got any number of twisted reasons for hating the brother of a man I killed five years ago.�

�If you didn�t kill him��

�Do you think I did?�

�No. Of course not!� But her reply was a bit too hasty. He felt like telling her about the steel knitting needle that had been the murder weapon. Perhaps that would have shaken her.

�I just want to see Parker, that�s all.�

�I�ll take you over first thing in the morning. It�s too late now.�

They stayed by the window, watching the sunset across the bay, and he knew he could have kissed her then. But it was too soon. Even after five years it was too soon.

When you deal a crooked hand in the devil�s game, remember � two can play at Murder...

The apartment house was shaped like a C, with the open area, snow-covered at the moment, facing the street. The Cotrell apartment was the right front one facing the courtyard on the first floor.

The front room was enormous, with a living room area at one end and a dining area at the other. Between them was a stone fireplace in which a log was always burning this time of year. Across from the fireplace French doors gave onto the courtyard.

Four people were around the table in the dining area. At the head sat labor king Big Jim Cotrell, national president of the United Truckers� Union of North America. He was a thick-bodied but fatless man in his early fifties with graying hair and the ruthless, yet pleasant, features of a benevolent pirate.

At the other end sat his wife, Glenda, cool and blonde and beautiful and twenty years younger than Big Jim. To her right sat Dr. William Smithers, a tall, sixtyish man with the veined, cadaverous face of an alcoholic. To her left was handsome, thirty-five-year-old Jack Abbot, president of the local United Truckers� Union.

All during dinner Glenda had made a point of not looking at Jack Abbot even once. She was afraid if she did, she would become so moony-eyed her husband would instantly divine that they were carrying on an affair.

Abbot had just expressed worry about the state�s threatened investigation of his local�s financial condition.

Big Jim said, �It�s only a showcase move, Jack. The welfare fund books are the only ones that won�t stand public scrutiny, and the attorney general won�t push to see them, so long as you let him examine everything else. He wouldn�t dare, because I�ve got too many people close to the governor in my pocket.�

�You�ve got everybody in your pocket,� Doc Smithers said sourly.

Big Jim Cotrell glanced at him.

�Not you, you old soak,� he said amiably. �It�s the other way around. You won�t even let me eat what I want.�

�Me either,� Glenda said, forcing a smile at the aging doctor. �He allows me twelve hundred calories a day.�

�You allow yourself that,� the doctor corrected. �Dieting was your idea. I just drew up a menu to meet your specifications. You�re not an ounce overweight and you�re as healthy as an ox. Far as I�m concerned you can go off your diet any time you want.�

�Me too?� Big Jim asked.

Dr. Smithers threw him a sardonic smile. �Sure, chubby, any time your cholesterol count goes down below two-fifty.�

�Blasted tyrant,� Big Jim growled at him.

The doctor turned back to his hostess. �I�m not on a diet, Glenda. When are you going to serve coffee?�

What he meant was when was he going to get the first of the several coffee royals Glenda always surreptitiously fixed for him when he dined at their apartment. As usual he hadn�t touched the wine served with dinner, but he had downed three Manhattans beforehand and would have at least three coffee royals afterward. He rarely drank anything that didn�t have whisky in it.

�Right now,� Glenda said, rising and going into the kitchen.

She didn�t particularly like Doc Smithers, but she had to pretend to because he was one of her husband�s oldest and closest friends. Probably the man would long ago have drunk himself entirely out of the medical profession if Big Jim hadn�t arranged for him to be retained by the local union to make insurance examinations and to appear before the workmen�s compensation board on behalf of union members with claims for on-the-job injuries. He also acted as family physician for a few top union officials, but otherwise had no practice.

Glenda returned with four cups of coffee on a tray, only one of which had whiskey in it. When Doc Smithers dined with them, she always served it that way instead of bringing out the pot, because he was a little sensitive about being the only one drinking. Big Jim knew what was going on, but at least their guests remained unaware of how much the doctor drank.

About eight-thirty, while Doc Smithers was on his third coffee royal, Jack Abbot announced that he had better leave because he had to do some final boning up for a nine o�clock contract negotiation meeting the next morning. Glenda walked to the door with him.

There was a small entry hall that put them out of sight of the men still at the table. Glenda slipped her arms about Abbot�s neck and gave him a quick but passionate kiss.

�When?� she asked in a low voice.

�Tomorrow night about nine?� he inquired.

�I can manage that,� she said. �It�s symphony night, and he�ll be pleased if I offer to go alone.�

Promptly at nine the next evening she arrived at Jack Abbot�s bachelor apartment. The moment the door closed behind her, they fell into each other�s arms. It was considerably later before they got around to having any conversation. When they did, it was the same old subject.

�We�ve got to tell him,� Abbot said. �I can�t stand this sneaking any more.�

She let out a long suffering sigh. �I keep telling you he would ruin you, honey. You don�t know how vindictive he can be. You must realize he�d have you kicked out as president of the local. He might even have both of us killed.�

�Aw, come on.�

Sitting up, she looked down at him. �You don�t think he�d be capable of that? Well, for your information, I�m almost sure he arranged the murder of Barney Quinn when Quinn was running against him for national president two years back.�

Abbot cocked an eyebrow at her. �So what else is new?�

She stared at him. �He did have him killed?�

�How would I know?� he asked. �I�m just agreeing that it was likely. Big Jim didn�t confess anything to me.�

�Oh. Well, furthermore, you know how he�s always talking about having people in his pocket? One of them happens to be Tony Spinelli. Tony owes him plenty for pressuring the D.A. into quashing his investigation of the local loan-shark racket. If Jim asked him to have us killed, I�m sure Tony would oblige.�

�No doubt,� Abbot said dryly. �But Big Jim would never give a hood like Spinelli that kind of hold on him. He arranges his own hits and keeps it in the union family.�

�Hits? You mean there�s been more than one?�

�I don�t really know about any. But I know how to add. I was pretty sure Big Jim had fingered Quinn when it happened, and there have been a couple of other convenient deaths. Ollie Tate, for instance, when he started blabbing to the attorney general about the union�s double set of books. Big Jim used me to get the gun in that case.�

�What do you mean, get the gun?�

�Whenever he�s pulling anything fancy, Big Jim divides up the chores so that nobody knows enough to get him in trouble, even if somebody gets busted by the cops. My only job was to get a gun and leave it in a bus terminal locker. Who picked it up, I haven�t the faintest idea. What it was sapposed to be used for, I wasn�t supposed to know either. I figured that out a couple of days later, when I read about Tate being found in the river.

�The guy who picked it up could not have tied Big Jim to it even if he got busted. And the hit itself was probably arranged through a series of middlemen, none of whom could finger anyone but their immediate contact, and who weren�t the type to talk anyway. Big Jim plays that kind of stuff real cozy.�

She said, �If you know all that about him, what makes you think he wouldn�t have us killed?�

�It�s not the same thing. That was union business. I just don�t think he�d have anybody hit for personal reasons.�

�You don�t think it?� she said on a high note. �Well, for your information, I�m scared silly of him. Up to now I was just afraid he might have us killed. But now that we�ve had this little talk, I�m sure of it.�

�Cut it out,� he said. �You�re talking me into believing it too.�

�I hope so because I know he would have us killed now. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do?�

Abbot made no answer, merely frowning thoughtfully at the ceiling. Finally Glenda lay down again and put her head on his shoulder.

Presently he said, �You�re always talking about what a ruthless guy Big Jim is. He had to be, of course to get where he is. But you don�t get to be president of a local by my age either if you�re soft.�

�I never said you were soft, honey.�

�I know how to play rough too. You really think Jim would have us scragged if he found out?�

�I�m certain of it.�

�Then it seems to me we have only two choices. Break this up or scrag him first.�

Glenda sat up again and looked down at him from widened eyes.

�It would really be self-defense, wouldn�t it?� she breathed. �You couldn�t call it murder.�

�The cops could,� he said sardonically. �But I take it you�re willing to go along.�

�Who could you get to do it? Spinelli would never arrange a hit on Jim.�

Abbot frowned up at her. �Even if he would, I wouldn�t give a hood like Spinelli that kind of hold on me either. I�ll handle it myself.�

�Oh, Jack! How?�

�I haven�t worked that out yet,� he said irritably. �I just decided about five seconds ago. Give me time to think.�

She lay down again and remained quiet while he thought.

Eventually he said. �The first automatic suspect when a husband is murdered is his wife. We�ll have to play it so the cops can�t possibly suspect you.�

�You mean you�ll arrange me an alibi?�

�It has to be better than that. I think I�ll pull it in front of a witness. Then they can�t suspect you of pulling the trigger.�

�How could you do that?� she asked worriedly. �Wouldn�t the witness tell that it was you?�

�I don�t plan to let my face hang out. I�ll wear a stocking mask. Let me think some more.�

There was another long period of silence before Abbot said, �I just had a pretty good idea, but it involves you being present too. Only as a witness. You wouldn�t have to do anything, and the cops couldn�t tie you in even if something went wrong. Are you up to that?�

�You mean I�d have to watch him die?�

�Uh-huh.�

It was her turn to be silent. Finally she said in a low voice, �If it�s necessary. I�ll do anything you want, if it�s going to be safer for you.�

�Good. You have old Doc Smithers for dinner just about every Sunday evening, don�t you?�

�What do you mean, just about? He never misses.�

He gave a satisfied nod. �Do you usually have other guests too?�

�Sometimes, sometimes not. Why?�

�Because, I want to pick a time when he�s the only guest. If I waited until about eight-thirty, he would still be sober enough to make an acceptable witness, but too drunk to give an accurate description of my height and weight. If you described the killer as slim and slight of build, Doc probably would go along, which would put me in the clear.�

�Big Jim�s made enough enemies over the years so that the cops wouldn�t necessarily look my way even if the two of you described me accurately, but it will be safer if they start looking for somebody half my size.�

�You mean you plan to do it right in the apartment?� Glenda asked with a touch of alarm.

�Can you think of a better place? It�s the only place where we can be sure the only witness aside from you will be half drunk.�

�How would you do it?�

�Just step in through the French doors from the courtyard and shoot him. If they�re locked, I�ll break the pane next to the lock with my gun. I can have you all covered before anyone can react enough even to rise from a chair. Afterward I�ll just walk out the front door.�

�If I wear a hat and a topcoat with the collar turned up, and keep my head down, I doubt that anyone who saw me would notice my stocking mask unless he was right in front of me. It wouldn�t much matter anyway, because it will be a heisted car I have parked out front, and even if a witness takes down the license number, it won�t lead the cops anywhere.�

Glenda said, �But there would be a third witness who was able to give a more accurate description of your height and weight.�

After thinking this over, he said, �Witnesses to the same crime often vary tremendously in their descriptions of suspects. Cops are used to that. If there was only one witness who disagreed with you and Doc, they�d be inclined to accept your description.�

�Wouldn�t the sound of the shot make people look out their windows? And even bring them out into the hall? What if a dozen other witnesses saw you?�

Abbot thought some more, frowning at the ceiling. Then his expression cleared. �We can solve that problem by using a silencer.�

�Oh.� After a moment she asked, �Do you have one?�

�Of course not. It�s illegal to own one. I know where to get one, though. I�ll need a gun, too. I have a couple, but I�m not about to use one of my own. We�ll pull this the way the professionals do, with an unregistered gun that goes into the river after the hit.�

�Where will you get it?�

�The same place I bought the gun for your husband that time. A little creep who runs a pawnshop over on Franklin. One of Tony Spinelli�s hoods who I�d done a favor for steered me to him. Arnold Schelp is his name, and he�s at Sixth and Franklin.�

�Will he sell you a silencer too?�

�He�ll sell anything from brass knuckles to Tommy guns, if you can meet his price. And if you know the password, of course.�

�The password?�

�He can�t sell to just anybody who walks in off the street. It might be an undercover cop. When a customer has the password, he knows he was steered there by somebody safe.�

�Oh. What is it?�

�You tell him you were sent by Mr. Moody.�

Neither said anything for a time. Then she said, �Your picture has been in the papers a lot. This Schelp man may recognize you. I don�t suppose he�d tell the police, but what if he passed on to somebody like Tony Spinelli that you had bought a gun and a silencer just before Jim was shot?�

After thinking about this, Abbot said, �Spinelli wouldn�t do anything, but if it got to any of the union officials, I could end up getting hit too. I think we�ll cover by letting you make the buy. He wouldn�t have the slightest idea who you were, and if you wore a black wig and sunglasses, he�d never be able to identify you later.�

�Would he sell to a woman?�

�He�ll sell to anybody with the money and the password. He�ll quote a price that will make your eyes bug out, but he won�t turn you down.�

�What will I ask for? I mean what kind of gun?�

�Get a magnum. I�ll have only one shot, and a magnum packs enough wallop to down an elephant with one.�

�Why will you only have one shot?�

�Because most silencers are only good for one shot, then have to be repacked.�

�Oh,� she said, surprised. �I never knew that.�

�Neither does Hollywood. I saw a TV show the other night where a gangster fired a gun equipped with a silencer three times, and it just went pop, pop, pop. When can you get to the pawnshop?�

�Tomorrow. Jim doesn�t pay any attention to my daytime activities.�

They decided there was no point in discussing when to pull the job until Glenda had obtained the gun and the silencer.

The pawnshop at Sixth and Franklin was a drab, dirty little hole-in-the-wall with dusty glass cases displaying unredeemed items of all sorts. Arnold Schelp turned out to be a drab, dirty little man of about sixty. A bell that tinkled when the door was opened brought him from the back. He looked at Glenda without expression and waited for her to speak.

�I want to buy a gun,� she said.

Silently he pointed to a case displaying a number of handguns, a couple of shotguns and a carbine.

After looking over the collection, she asked, �Any of those magnums?�

He shook his head.

�What I wanted was a magnum,� she said. �Equipped with a silencer.�

Glenda didn�t think it possible, but his face became even more expressionless.

�Silencers are illegal,� he said.

�Mr. Moody sent me,� she told him.

�Oh,� he said, relaxing. �Why didn�t you say so? Then I suppose you want an unregistered gun?�

She nodded.

�I don�t have any unregistered magnums in stock. Or silencers either, for that matter. It will take about a week to get them.�

�That�s all right,� she said.

�You�ll have to pay half down. That�s two hundred dollars.�

She blinked. �You mean the total cost will be four hundred?�

�That�s right,� he said tonelessly. �You can shop elsewhere if you don�t like the price.�

�Oh, it�s fine,� she said hurriedly, opening her purse.

The following Tuesday Glenda returned to the pawnshop, again wearing a black wig and dark sunglasses. She gave the little man the second two hundred dollars and he gave her a long, narrow, paper-wrapped package, heavy for its size.

�The silencer is fixed on it and it�s fully loaded,� he said. �All you got to do is aim it and pull the trigger.�

She locked it in the trunk of her car and delivered it to Jack Abbot�s apartment that evening.

They decided to pull the job the coming Sunday evening, providing Doc Smithers was the only dinner guest. The problem was that Big Jim Cotrell had a habit of inviting guests on short notice, and Glenda never knew in advance how many there would be for dinner.

They solved that by devising a telephone code. When Glenda went to the kitchen to serve dinner, she would dial Abbot�s apartment from the wall phone there. Abbot would not answer, but would merely count the rings. If Glenda let it ring only once, that meant Doc Smithers was the only dinner guest. If it rang three times, then stopped, it meant there were other guests, and plans were postponed until the next Sunday.

On Sunday evening no guests other than Doc Smithers appeared. Glenda served the doctor his third Manhattan and her husband his second exactly at seven, then retired to the kitchen to take the dinner from the oven.

The wall phone was out of view of the front room. Lifting the receiver, Glenda dialed Jack Abbot�s number, let it ring once and hung up. Then she opened the oven and took out the roast.

Glenda was able to force down very little food, but she drank three glasses of wine. Neither of the men seemed to notice her lack of appetite, and fortunately she wasn�t called upon to contribute to the conversation, because her husband and the doctor got on the subject of pro football.

At eight-thirty Doc Smithers was on his third coffee royal when the sound of breaking glass came from the direction of the French doors leading to the courtyard. Everyone looked that way to see a black-gloved hand thrust through the broken pane to unlatch the door.

Big Jim�s reaction was considerably faster than Jack Abbot had prophesied it would be. Bounding to his feet, he ran over to the fireplace and grabbed up the brass fire tongs before the intruder could jerk the door open. A figure in a black raincoat with turned-up collar and a black hat with a wide, turned-down brim stepped into the room. His face was indistinguishable beneath a stocking mask covering his whole head.

Big Jim froze with the fire tongs half raised when the intruder pointed his revolver at him from a dozen feet away. The gun had a long metal tube with holes in it affixed to its end. The man in black pulled the glass-paned door closed behind him and squeezed the trigger.

There was a roar and a blinding flash. The masked man staggered backward against the French doors, then pitched forward on his face.

After a startled pause, Big Jim rushed forward with the tongs upraised. They were unnecessary, though. After warily standing over the motionless figure for some moments with the fire tongs raised to brain him if he moved. Big Jim toed the intruder over on his back.

The man�s right hand was a mangled mess. There was also an oozing hole in the center of his forehead, where a fragment of the exploding gun had lodged.

In a calm voice Big Jim said, �Guess he�s dead, but you better take a look at him anyway, Doc.�

Glenda fainted.

The homicide officer who made the investigation was a tall, sad-looking man who introduced himself as Sergeant Carl Tillman. Glenda had been revived by the time he arrived, but no one had made any attempt to remove the stocking mask from the face of the would-be assassin. When the sergeant pulled it off and the dead face of Jack Abbot was revealed, Doc Smithers and Big Jim both looked astonished.

Glenda fainted again.

When Glenda woke up the second time, coughing at the fumes of spirits of ammonia from a bottle being held to her nose by Doc Smithers, she found herself lying on the sofa.

�You all right?� Big Jim asked solicitously.

�Yes,� she said in a faint voice. �I think I�ll just lie here until you get him out of there, though, if nobody minds.�

�Sure, Mrs. Cotrell,� the sergeant said, also in a solicitous voice. He turned to Big Jim. �I gathered from the general reaction that all of you know who the dead man was.�

Big Jim nodded. �He�s been a guest in this house dozens of times. He was Jack Abbot, president of the United Truckers� local.�

Sergeant Tillman looked surprised. �What do you think the motive was?�

�Isn�t it obvious?� Big Jim asked. �With me out of the way, he was first in line for the national presidency.�

Through her grief at her lover�s death Glenda felt a small surge of relief that at least the real murder motive wasn�t suspected.

There wasn�t a great more to the investigation. Under Sergeant Tillman�s instructions a photographer took pictures of the body from various angles and a crime lab man collected all the bits of the burst gun he could find. Then a morgue wagon came for the body and Sergeant Tillman and his men departed.

The sergeant showed up again the next evening at seven-thirty. When he discovered that the Cotrells were still at the dinner table, he apologized for his timing.

�I ate at five-thirty myself,� he said. �It never occurred to me you would still be eating.�

�It�s all right,� Big Jim assured him. �Sit at the table with us and have a cup of coffee.�

Sergeant Tillman accepted the invitation. There were no other guests that evening, so Big Jim was really the only one eating. Glenda had some food on her plate, but she wasn�t touching it. She poured herself a second glass of wine and sipped at it while the sergeant sipped coffee and Big Jim ate.

�Found a heisted car parked in front of the apartment building,� Sergeant Tillman said. �Also found Abbot�s car in his garage, so he must have left it there. He had this thing planned like a professional.�

�He was an intelligent man, even though he was over-ambitious.� Big Jim said.

�Funny think about that gun. The silencer had a steel slug in its core instead of cotton batting. That�s why it went off like a bomb. Somebody booby-trapped it.�

Glenda stared from the homicide officer to her husband, who went on eating calmly. She downed her whole glass of wine and poured another.

�Any idea where he might have gotten that silencer?� Tillman asked.

Big Jim Cotrell shook his head. �Not the slightest.�

The sergeant didn�t have much more to say. When he finished his coffee, he told Big Jim he would keep him informed of any developments and departed.

Big Jim walked him to the door. When he returned to the table, Glenda asked if he were ready for some more coffee. He said yes and she rose to go to the kitchen. The wine without food had made her dizzy.

She returned with two cups, set one before her husband and resumed her seat. He hadn�t touched his wine, she noted with mild surprise.

�You looked odd when the sergeant said Jack�s gun had been booby-trapped,� he commented.

She glanced at him, but said nothing.

He said negligently, �Just another guy I have in my pocket.�

�Who?� she asked.

�Arnie Schelp.�

She stared at him.

�The way you tried to keep from looking at Jack when he had dinner here made it fairly obvious,� he said. �You�re not much of an actress. So I put a tail on you. When I got the report that you had visited Arnie�s pawnshop, I had a little talk with Arnie. I also had Jack�s apartment bugged, so I knew how you two planned to work it. I couldn�t be sure the exploding gun would kill him, of course, but I knew it would put him out of commission long enough for me to brain him with the fire tongs. Turned out that wasn�t necessary, though.�

After continuing to stare at him for a long time, she whispered, �Are you going to kill me too?�

�I already have.�

�What?�

�I tell him he isn�t, but Doc Smithers is really in my pocket too. He�s already altered his records to show he�s been treating you for the past two years for a serious heart condition. And of course he�ll sign the death certificate.�

Glenda continued to stare at him.

�It was in the wine,� Big Jim said.

Suddenly her cheeks began to feel numb.

The one man who knew his secret was dead. And dead men tell no tales. Or � do they? He shuddered.

Artemus Cutler had four things to make his life complicated: a highly successful contracting business and a respected role as a community leader, a diabetic wife who loved him dearly in spite of his infidelities, a rapacious mistress, and a blackmailing partner.

Any one of these would have commanded his full attention. The combination was a parlay that even the most energetic man might have difficulty in handling. At length he decided that something would have to be done about it. Since, under the carefully developed facade of community leader and gentle spirit, he was as cynical as a Barbary Coast pirate, he eventually thought in terms of erasure.

He would not have used the word �murder,� since this implied a certain degree of drama which he rejected in his life. Instead, Artemus Cutler set out quite methodically to reduce the complications in his life.

The idea first occurred to Cutler on the day the cornerstone of the new city hall was laid. Cutler was sitting in a place of honor next to the mayor, looking out blandly over all of the smiling spectators, while inside he seethed with rage. In the front row sat Leland Bates, who was the other half of Cutler and Bates, General Contractors.

The sight of the slightly oily face of his partner, lips pursed tightly under pencil-thin mustache, brought Cutler�s temper to a boil. It was at this point that the thought came: I shall have to kill you eventually. It may as well be now.

With that came the thought of Doris, who was getting fat and losing the rather cheap beauty that had once appealed to him, Doris, whose constant harping on his getting a divorce and marrying her had become more insistent of late. Why not Doris too? It would make life so simple again.

He was getting older and even the vague presence of Sybil, his wife of twenty years, was becoming more comfortable. No problems there with that colorless, drab woman. How nice, how convenient. But Doris � raucous, rapacious, money-hungry Doris. How nice to be rid of her and to be able to go home untroubled, to the unchallenging sanctuary of his home and family.

Yes, Cutler decided, that was what must happen. For his own peace of mind, which was, after all, the most important thing in the world. The idea was most appealing, and he smiled out benignly on the audience as the mayor became rhapsodic over the new city hall, proclaiming its splendors from the squat Doric columns in the neo-classical facade to the plastic-paneled city council rooms.

Very good, Artemus Cutler thought, as the mayor was handed a trowel and the cornerstone was lowered into place. Very good. It was now already a matter of deciding how to do it. He felt better already.

When the ceremony was over and the crowd was breaking up, he paid his respects to the mayor.

�It�s a fine building,� Cutler said. �You should be proud to have it built during your administration.�

�Thank you, Artemus,� the mayor said with a broad grin. Then he looked furtively around and said softly, �I hope it lasts until I�m out of office.�

Artemus Cutler felt a twinge of annoyance. �Remarks like that aren�t very wise. You never know who�ll overhear.�

�Don�t you lecture me,� the mayor said without losing his grin. �I�ll handle my end. You take care of yours.�

�I always have,� Artemus Cutler said.

�It�s a fine design,� the mayor said loudly as a councilman�s wife turned to him. �A fine design, Artemus.�

�Oh, yes, Mr. Cutler,� the woman gushed. �You must be very proud.�

�I am,� Cutler said. �Believe me, Mrs. Piaseki, this building is going to bring me more pleasure than I thought possible.�

�And more...� the mayor said sotto voce and shepherded Mrs. Piaseki away.

Damned fool, Cutler thought. Trust a windbag like the mayor to say the wrong thing some day.

He made his way through the group on the platform and descended the raw wood steps. As he expected, Leland Bates was waiting at the foot of the stairs for him.

�Not now,� he said.

�You can�t keep avoiding me,� Bates said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose. The weather was hot for a June day and Cutler wondered if anyone ever thought to question Bates about his perpetual cold. But, of course, who could believe that one of the town�s leading business men could�

He dismissed the thought with a shrug and said, �I�m not trying to avoid you. I�ve been pretty busy.�

�I bet you have,� Bates said with a snicker. He touched his partner on the arm and Cutler drew back. He rubbed his sleeve as though it had been soiled.

�The dirt rubs off both ways,� Bates said. �Anyway, I want my money.�

�You�ll get it, damn you,� Artemus Cutler said.

�You see that I do,� Bates said, moving aside. �Or all sorts of dirty little things can happen.�

Cutler passed through the throng of well-wishers and started for his car. The sun was blazing hot and he slowed to a more leisurely pace as the faint pains appeared in his left arm.

No need to tempt another angina attack. They had become more frequent of late and he�d been told to slow his work pace. Not that there was any likelihood of real trouble, Dr. Moore had said, �But the angina is a first warning and we don�t want you to push yourself into a coronary now, do we?�

He drove from the improvised parking lot, skirting a crane bearing a concrete hod which was used to convey ready-mix to the concrete forms about the construction. His ready-mix, Cutler thought wryly, with all that implied.

When he entered Kevin Moore�s office, the nurse said, �Go right in, Mr. Cutler; the doctor�s been expecting you.�

�Artemus,� Moore said, �have you ever, been in time to an appointment in your life?�

�I�m sorry, Kevin,� Cutler said. �I�m only fifteen minutes late.�

�Well, never mind,� Moore said. �Knowing you, I set your appointment back twenty minutes and you are now actually five minutes early. How does that grab you?�

�I�ll remember that,� Artemus Cutler said.

�I was afraid you might,� Moore said. �Well, we can keep playing the game if we have to. Take off your shirt and undershirt.�

While Cutler disrobed, Moore puttered around his desk. He was a florid man, definitely obese. He rubbed at his bald pate constantly and was forever losing things. Artemus Cutler thought him one of the most disorganized men he had ever met and, were it not for their friendship dating from school days, he would probably have chosen another physician.

In spite of Moore�s proclivity for keeping aspirin in discarded seconal bottles and antibiotics in boxes labeled �amyl nitrate,� he was really quite a good doctor. Cutler often wondered why he didn�t poison a few patients, but he always seemed to know where everything was. Right now, however, he was having trouble finding his stethoscope.

�Hah,� he announced at last and secured it from under a pile of papers on his desk.

�It�s a wonder you got my appendix out last year and not my liver,� Cutler said.

�Don�t be flip,� Moore said. �The liver�s much higher up.�

He listened to Cutler�s heart, made him hop around on one foot and then listened again.

�Any more angina?� he asked.

�Some.�

�You ought to take off weight.�

�The pot calling the kettle�� Cutler began.

�Point is, I�m the doctor. Besides,

I like being well-upholstered. Wonderful for these winter nights.�

�It�s summer,� Cutler said.

�Air-conditioned offices,� Moore said. �Now lie down and rest for ten minutes and then we�ll listen again.� He pointed at the couch and Cutler lay down on its cool plastic surface. �I�ll go next door to see Mrs. Simms and then I�ll be right back.�

Artemus Cutler lay, wondering at the tight feeling in his chest. He really should have taken of ten pounds he decided, if for no other reason than to show up Moore, who hadn�t lost a pound in his life. He looked around the cluttered office, itemizing the scatter of opened bills on the desk, the half-open jar of swabs, the desk drawers forming a skewed series of steps.

Finally, when Moore didn�t return, he got up and began to prowl the room. Old magazines... back issues of Science... odds and ends. He looked in the open drawer of the desk and spied a box that said. �Morphine Hydrochloride, U.S.P.� Inside were a number of sterile vials of colorless liquid. He wondered if they were truly morphine. Only one of the bottles had a label. It said, �Morphine Hydrochloride, U.S.P.�

A sudden thought hit him and he quickly grabbed two of the bottles and replaced the cover of the box. Then he returned to the couch. When Moore finally returned Cutler was half-dozing and dreaming of trout fishing in Colorado.

�Silly fool, that woman,� Moore growled. �She thinks she�s pregnant. At her age.� He held up a urine sample. �Probably kill the rabbit from the sheer cussedness in that bitch.�

�I admire the way you cultivate good doctor-patient relationships,� Cutler said wryly.

�It does help make life more gentle and livable,� Moore said.

There was little change in his condition, Moore found. He gave Cutler some Meprobamate and an ampule of amyl nitrite �just in case� and shooed him out of the office.

Artemus Cutler caught a quick lunch at Marty�s Hofbrau and drove back to the city hall construction.

Pete Yaekel, the foreman of the job, said, �You know, you can�t worry the job up, Artemus.�

�Not trying to,� Cutler said. �Just wanted to make sure those beams were in place and out of sight.�

�Don�t worry,� Yaekel said. �Nobody saw them but a bunch of dumb bohunk workers. We�ll start on the facade tomorrow.�

Cutler shuddered. �Damned thing is an abomination. Why in hell does the city council have to have a neoclassical structure?�

�Looks pretty elegant to me,� Yaekel said. �Wait �til we get those columns cast.�

Yaekel gestured at a row of six broad circular fiber forms standing before the construction. These would receive reinforcing rods and then concrete would be cast in them to form the squat Doric columns of the hall facade.

Artemus Cutler shuddered again. �God, what I do for money.�

Yaekel raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Artemus Cutler saw that it was nearly four and gave some final scheduling directions. Then he drove back to his office, breathing deeply in the cold blast of air from the conditioner.

He had barely five minutes to wait when his girl announced that a Sergeant Patience was in the outer office.

The sergeant turned out to be a small man, wearing a brightly flowered sport shirt. He said. �Mr. Cutler?�

�I�m rather busy�� Artemus began.

�I�m Detective Sergeant Patience,� the man said.

Artemus Cutler smiled.

�Yes,� the sergeant said, �it�s a good name for a detective... and a good quality to have.�

�I�m sorry,� Cutler said. �That was bad manners.�

�Not at all. It�s a common enough joke. I�d like to speak with you... in private.�

�Well, I�m late for an appointment now,� Cutler said, consulting his watch.

�It�s about Mr. Bates.�

�Leland? Surely��

Sergeant Patience fidgeted for a second.

�Come on, come on, Sergeant; it can�t be that bad,� Artemus Cutler said.

�Well, sir,� the sergeant said, �it�s a bit awkward.�

�You said this was about my partner?�

�Mr. Bates? Yes, sir.� Patience licked his lips. �Well, we picked up a man last night, a pusher, you know.�

Oh, oh, Cutler thought, here it comes.

�He wasn�t very smart, not a real pro,� Patience said. �He kept a list of his steady customers. Mr. Bates was on the list.�

�Are you sure?� Cutler asked.

�Yes, sir,� Patience said. �Well, my boss wants to find out � discreetly, he said � do you know if Mr. Bates uses the stuff?�

�What are you going to do?� Artemus Cutler asked.

�Well, we don�t like to make waves, especially for somebody like Mr. Bates. The feds aren�t in on this yet and we thought maybe we could head off some trouble. No use having this kind of publicity about the town.�

�What do you want me to do?� Cutler asked.

�Well, we thought you might know if he did use the stuff. Anyway, maybe you can get close to him and explain the problem. If he�s willing to take a vacation � you know, go upstate and take the cure � well, there�s no point in all this ever coming out.�

�What about the pusher?� Cutler asked, savoring the word.

�He won�t give any trouble,� Patience said. �You understand, this isn�t anything unusual, what I�m doing. We do it for a lot of kids around town that get hooked. No use ruining a productive life for something like this if we can get him off the stuff.�

�That�s very fine of you and the chief.� Cutler said, rising. �Very fine indeed.� He extended his hand. �Thank you, Sergeant, for your understanding. I�ll try my best to help.�

�Thank you too, Mr. Cutler,� Patience said, reddening. He left and Artemus sank back in his chair, feeling the sudden excitement possess him. Perfect, a bold stroke of fortune. Only he thought, why the hell does Patience have to wear those gawd-awful sport shirts?

A few minutes later Leland Bates stuck his head in the door and said, �What did the cop want?�

�Nothing. Policeman�s benefit,� Cutler said. He couldn�t keep the distaste out of his voice.

Bates shut the door and leaned against it. �Sure, I love you too, Artie baby,� he said, sniffing.

�I�ve asked you not to call me that,� Cutler said.

�You pay your debts and I�ll call you �King Artemus�,� Bates said. His face looked haggard and grey. He would probably kill himself in another year, Cutler thought.

�How much is that habit costing you?� he asked.

�It�s what it�s costing you, Artie baby,� Bates said. �I want my money or we�ll start digging up a few of those bodies of yours from their shallow graves.�

Artemus Cutler shuddered. �I haven�t got that kind of money here. You know that.�

�You�ve got it at home. I know how much green you keep in that wall safe of yours. Getting ready to take off for Brazil when they blow the whistle on you?�

�No one�s blowing any whistles,� Cutler said.

�I�ll come by this evening,� Bates said. �I got to have the cash tonight.�

�No,� Artemus said. �Not my house. Sybil�s been ill.�

�Tonight, Artie baby,� Bates said. He shivered slightly, even though the room was relatively warm.

�At Doris� apartment,� Cutler said. �Meet me at Doris� at ten.�

�Can you make it earlier?�

�Not before ten,� Cutler said. �I don�t want you showing up one minute before.�

Bates shrugged. �Okay. Just be sure you�ve got it all.�

�You�ll get every bit of it,� Cutler said, �and that�s the last time. Not another cent.�

�Sure, Artie baby,� Bates grinned and turned to the door. �Ten tonight with bells on,� he said and closed the door.

Artemus Cutler found he was shaking in ill-controlled rage. To think he had once liked and trusted the man, trusted him enough to form what had been a lucrative partnership. Then... well, there was the thing with Doris, but he had forgiven even that. Everybody in town had known about it and it was a wonder they�d never connected him and Doris, even to this day.

Then Bates� increasingly erratic behavior, his long absences. The obvious development of the drug habit, only it hadn�t been obvious to Cutler until too late. Then the blackmail for small sums and increasingly larger sums. Bates was gambling, too, he knew. He flew down to Vegas every weekend. That was probably where he�d first picked up the habit.

It was too late in the day to do any constructive work, so he piled several folders into a dispatch case and left for the day. In the Lincoln, he wondered why he had brought work home. He certainly would get nothing done this evening.

Sybil was lying on the chaise lounge in the living room when he entered, her pale face looking unusually drawn against the afternoon light that filtered through the drapes.

�How are you feeling, sweetheart?� he asked.

�I�m fine,� she said, but he knew that she was not.

It pained him to find at this late a date that he was still fond of her and that, within the limits her health now imposed on her, she lived her life for him. It was a pity that they had no children, for that would have made all this complete after tonight.

Just one more day, he thought, one explosion of the old violent energy, and he could come home quietly to her, sit without speaking in the evening, knowing that life was raveling out its thread at a leisurely pace, go to sleep secure in the knowledge that no new menaces would be hatching to endanger his peace of mind with the new dawn. It was the most desirable thing in his life suddenly.

They ate dinner silently, except for an occasional exchange with the maid. She had made him a cherry pie and he ate it with guilty relish, knowing that sweets were forbidden her. She had almost lost a leg last year from gangrene, a common problem with the advanced diabetic, and now she watched her carbohydrate intake with great care.

While the maid cleared the table and Sybil went into the family room to watch television, he went upstairs to the master suite and opened the medicine cabinet. There he secured one of his wife�s disposable hypodermic syringes from a box of twenty. It was a simple plastic device, sealed and pre-sterilized at the factory, so that one needed only to remove it from its package, use it once and then discard it. Then he went upstairs and enjoyed an hour of television with her. Neither of them felt impelled to speak, but Cutler felt a quiet pleasure at the activity.

At eight, he said, �I have to leave on an errand. I�ll be back before eleven.�

�I may be in bed,� she said.

�I�ll try not to wake, you,� he promised and leaned forward to kiss her on the head.

She smiled quietly at him and he left her, sitting in her favorite chair before the set. He drove across town to the small apartment house where Doris lived. He still paid for the rent, but he had not bought her any of those expensive gifts in a long time. She said little about this since she saw a subtle change developing in their relationship. Recently, she had been pressing hard for the divorce they had so often discussed and he knew it was only a matter of time before she became too adamant and would begin to bring other pressures to bear.

She met him at the door, her eyes wide with pleasure.

�Oh, Artie,� she said. �Oh, Artie.�

He kissed her perfunctorily and sat on the couch while she made him a drink. She had been rather pretty when he met her five years ago, but, at thirty-one, her figure was beginning to sag in spite of all sorts of mechanical supports, and she wore the beginning of a double chin.

She was still attractive but � Curtis was ashamed of the thought � the bloom he had prized was gone and there was little in her rather vacant head to compensate for this loss.

After she sat on the couch and played a bit with his thinning hair, he said, �Let�s go to bed.�

�Oh, how nice,� she said. �You haven�t wanted to do it for weeks.�

�I feel in the mood tonight,� he said.

They went into the bedroom and he threw open the window to the night air. With the setting of the sun the air had cooled and now there was a faint chill blowing from the river.

�Can�t we have the window closed?� she asked.

Doris had undressed and was in bed with the covers up to her chin as he had planned. He closed the window and came over to the bed. He lay down and pulled the light blanket up around her neck so that her hands were imprisoned under it.

He caressed her lightly and kissed her. She closed her eyes and he positioned the sheet carefully around her neck. Then, taking great care so that his hands did not touch her except through the sheet, he strangled her.

Her eyes widened in surprise at the first touch and then she realized in horror what he was doing. She tried to struggle but his superior weight and the confining blanket were too much. Thrash about as she might, she could not shake him. After a moment or two, she ceased struggling.

He held the pressure for another three minutes, calling forth all of the strength from his middle-aged fingers. They were fingers toughened with hard construction work in his youth and they served him in good stead now. When he relaxed his hold, she was quite dead.

Cutler rose, donned cotton gloves he had brought for the purpose, secured the whiskey glass from which she had served him, washed it carefully and put it in the dishwasher. While the washer went through its cycle, he circled the living and bedrooms, carefully wiping any surface he might have touched.

From his inner pocket, he brought the lead-weighted leather sack he had secured from his car, put it in his outer coat pocket, and sat down in the living room to wait. He tried to avoid looking into the half-open door of the bedroom.

At ten thirteen, the bell rang. He rose and opened the door for Bates, who came in all grins and nervousness.

�Where�s Doris?� he demanded.

�In the bedroom,� Cutler said.

�You don�t like to waste an evening, do you?� Bates sneered.

�Ask her,� Cutler said.

He followed Bates as he crossed the room to the bedroom door. Halfway through the door, Bates saw her sprawled on the bed and said, �What the hell?�

He said nothing more, for Artemus Cutler hit him carefully with the blackjack, making sure that he did not fracture the skull. Bates went down limply, his arms and legs disjointed appendages that seemed totally unconnected to his body. After that, Cutler worked swiftly.

He managed to drag Bates across the room to the bed and then, taking each of Doris� limp hands, he raked her long nails across Bates� cheeks until livid scratches appeared. Bates moaned at this and Cutler feared for a moment he might be coming out of it. After this, he upended a table by the wall and placed Bates carefully so that it might appear that he had struck his head against the table in falling.

After that, he rolled up Bates� sleeve, and tried to inject the contents of the bottles he had stolen from Moore�s office. This proved somewhat difficult because Bates� upper arm was bruised with several nearly-healed blood clots from bad injections. His veins in the right arm were badly collapsed and Cutler finally had to use the left arm. Even so, the whole operation was rather clumsy.

After it was all over, he leaned back and surveyed his work. He was about to leave when he realized that there would be questions about the lack of fingerprints on Doris� throat. He stripped the cotton gloves from his hands and pulled them over Bates� hands.

By this time, Bates seemed deep in near-coma. He would, Cutler was sure, expire before the two were found. Even if he did not, it would be likely that he would be arrested and convicted of Doris� murder. He surveyed the scene rather sadly before leaving. Still, it had been worth it, he decided, and shut the door.

On the way home, Cutler had to pull to the curb. The sudden reaction hit him and he felt an intense pain traveling up his left arm and joining the one blossoming in his breast. He fumbled for the ampule Moore had given him and crushed it. The odor of the stuff was almost impossible and he began to feel very dizzy. He sat for ten minutes until the dizziness wore off and the pain dissipated.

Finally he started the Lincoln, drove home, entered the bedroom softly so as not to awaken Sybil and undressed. He marveled at the calm and the ease with which he sank into the deep mattress. He was asleep within minutes.

He slept late and didn�t get to the office until ten. There was a message waiting for him from Yaekel. He thought of phoning the foreman, but he decided the drive out after lunch to the construction site would do him good. On the way he savored the morning air without the air conditioner. It was marvelously cool, even at two in the afternoon. For the first time, he realized, he was free, completely free.

He found Yaekel on the scaffolding above the five forms for the Doric columns. Yaekel looked nervous. �I�ve been hearing rumors,� he said.

�What do you mean?� Artemus Cutler asked.

�Friend of mine called me from city hall. There�s a story going around that they�re on to us.�

�Don�t be foolish,� Cutler said. �How could that be?�

�It just takes one loose mouth,� Yaekel said.

A bell jangled briefly and he picked up the field phone roped to the scaffolding.

�It�s for you,� he said and started down the scaffolding.

�Cutler here,� Artemus said. It was the mayor.

�Artemus,� the mayor said. �I think you should know that the police have discovered a great deal of information about our activities.�

�That�s impossible,� he said...

�No, I don�t think so,� the mayor said. �I can�t find out all the details, but it has to do with some papers your partner left in a safe deposit box.�

�Well, how could they�� Artemus Cutler began.

�Damn it, man,� the mayor said. �Haven�t you heard? Bates is dead. Murdered last night.�

�Murdered?� Cutler asked.

�That�s right. I don�t know the details, but the first thing the police did was to get a court order, opening his safe deposit box. They seemed to have a good idea of what they were looking for.�

Cutler�s heart sank. So quickly � and he thought he had pulled it off well. Of course, Bates would have had the papers in a box. That was the sort of thing you might expect from a blackmailer of his caliber. But why had they gone to the box so quickly unless they suspected something?

�I�d advise you to say nothing,� the mayor said. �We can weather this.�

Yes, Artemus Cutler thought, maybe you can weather a malfeasance charge, but that�s not for me. For me it will be�

�I�ll watch myself,� he said. He started to say more when he saw the three police cars draw up in the parking lot.

�I�ll talk with you later,� he told the mayor and replaced the phone.

So soon, he thought sadly. So soon, so soon. He looked to the other side of the scaffolding and saw several uniformed men talking with Yaekel. They hadn�t seen him yet thank God. But where could he go? His retreat was blocked in both directions, he realized.

His heart was paining him with the sudden excitement and dread. His mind raced and then he had a solution. They hadn�t seen him yet, but they thought he was on the scaffolding. If�

It took him but a minute to put the plan into practice. He climbed over the form clumsily. The interior of the form was filled with deformed reinforcing rods, tied together with wire. There was, however, room enough and the wire ties acted as ladder rungs. Carefully he climbed down into the form. It was a tight fit and his body very nearly became wedged several times before he reached bottom. There he rested, his heart pumping furiously.

He heard men�s voices and as they drew near, he recognized Sergeant Patience�s muffled voice through the intervening wall of the form. �He must be up there.�

�No, sir,� another voice said. �Charley�s up there and there�s no sign of him.�

�Well, he can�t get far,� Patience said. �We�ll get him.�

�Did he really do it?� somebody else said. �I find it hard to believe.�

�He did it all right,� Patience said. �The stuff in Bates� safety deposit box gave us the reason.�

�But murder. Are you sure?�

�We almost missed it,� Patience admitted. �The medical examiner got suspicious though. Diaphragm paralysis, not the sort of thing you expect from an overdose of heroin. Then he spotted the pocket in the arm.�

Over the sound of the voices, Cutler heard another sound. For a moment he couldn�t identify it and then he realized that it was the screech of cables on a winch.

�I don�t get it,� the voice said.

Cables? Cutler looked up and against the sky he saw the girdered arm of a crane. The crane rotated across his vision and he saw it was carrying the concrete hod, a bucket filled with ten yards of liquid cement and sand and rock. Oh, God, he thought. He�d have to yell and tell them.

The hod approached.

�He used an insulin needle,� Patience said. �Probably stole it from his wife. She�s a diabetic, I understand.�

The pain hit him then, agonizing pain that would have doubled him up if his body were not so thoroughly imprisoned by the reinforcing rods. He tried to cry out but no sound came.

The hod poised above the opening of the form.

�An insulin needle is too short,� Patience was saying. �You can�t reach a vein with it.�

The flaps of the hod opened and Artemus Cutler, his brain wreathed with pain, saw yard upon yard of wet concrete descending in a grey cascade. He managed one faint cry before the stuff engulfed him, flowing over his head, around his body and filling his open mouth, gasping for air, with unbreathable lime and rock.

�He had so damn much going for him,� Patience was saying.

�Everything,� the other man said. �Wealth, position, a real pillar of the community.�

It was a fitting epitaph.

Gold was waiting for me at noon the next day. He was reading the morning newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. I slipped in beside him.

�Just got your message,� he said, folding the newspaper. �Well?�

That was Gold: never smiling, never a hello or good-by. Just a tall, saturnine man in nondescript clothing.

�I was sent to Podgorny to fumigate the embassy.�

�And?�

�I planted ten bugs for State Security. Andreyev believes the resident, Zabotin, is a traitor.�

�What else?�

�There is to be an intelligence meeting in the safe room there tonight. I placed another three bugs in the room, but on a different frequency. You shouldn�t have any trouble monitoring both series.�

�I�ll get our operatives in Podgorny to set up a mobile receiver immediately.� He looked at me then, hard, perhaps with concern. I couldn�t tell; Gold was not one to show emotion. �Malik, we�ll try to keep what we learn a secret, but even so they�ll find out there was another leak.�

�Security will think it�s Zabotin,� I said. �It won�t matter that nothing will be discovered from the mikes I installed for them. Andreyev is convinced.�

�Perhaps. And if Zabotin is taken away? What then? The leaks will continue, and it will only be a matter of time before they discover you are a double agent. Let me arrange for you to get out. A little money and��

�No!� I stood, cutting him off abruptly. �I must take the risk. A long time ago I had to make that decision, and I haven�t changed my mind. It�s still worth it.�

I hunched my shoulders and walked away from Gold, back out into the cold, snowy day.